Something About Ann

When he heard footsteps, he turned to observe Ann walking stiffly down the corridor. “What happened?” he asked as they left the station.

She folded her arms, looking behind her before speaking. “I fought John.”

“You?” Bankston stopped to stare down at her. “What about the other man?”

“There was no other man.”

Bankston looked at her, cocking his head. “How? Why?” he asked as they walked up Marloes Avenue toward her car.

“He was going to kill you. I saw it in his eyes. I know these things.”

“But how did you...?”

“I kicked him. I hit him. Then I took his club and beat him with it.”

Bankston leaned against her car, his eyes widened in bewilderment, while Ann spoke in monotone, as if ordering a pizza. He was hearing, but unable to comprehend. Bourdain stood over six feet tall and was at least 225 pounds; he had to weigh twice as much as Ann.

He continued to gape at Ann, waiting for more answers, but sensed there would be none. For the short time Bankston had known her, there seemed something enigmatic about Ann. As he listened and looked into her eyes, it almost seemed another person had emerged.

“The police didn’t believe me.”

“Believe what?”

“That there was someone else involved.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

Ann took a deep breath as they stood facing each other. She glanced around, then reached for him as a light rain continued, hugging him, before kissing him passionately, and then clinging to him fiercely.

“I must go, now, Clarence,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

“Where? How can I reach you?” he said, holding her hands.

“I must go.”

Bankston rubbed his brow. As he watched Ann get into her car and drive off, he wondered when—or if—he’d ever see her again. Something about the way she had kissed him, something about the way she had held him, something about the flowing tears, something about those last few moments made his heart ache as her car turned the corner.