JL04 - Mortal Sin by Paul Levine Page B

stationery. A rose on top and the initials
GMF.
It struck me that I didn’t know her middle name. Of course, even if I did, it could have changed over the years.
    It wasn’t a “Dear Jake” letter after all. More like “Dearest Jake,” written in the same up-and-down handwriting with very round O’s and curlicues on the G’s.
     
Dearest Jake,
You are so very special and have been for so very long, and that only makes this more difficult. I know how you feel about me, even though you really don’t say it.
I
have hurt you in the past, and I should not keep coming back to you. I care for you and hope for the best for you, but I will never leave Nicky. He loves me and is good to me, and
I
want to be just as good to him. So finally, dearest Jake, it is over.

    With deep affection, Gina
     
    Good-bye lover. Hello heartbreak.
    I wondered if Rick Gondolier received a similar letter. And maybe a third and fourth guy, too. If Gina had a word processor, she could avoid writer’s cramp. But something wasn’t making sense. “I didn’t ask you to leave Nicky.”
    “I know you, Jake. You always hoped—”
    “Ah, you’re a mind reader now, in addition to your other talents, most of which are accomplished on your back.” I don’t know why I said that. Petty. Stupid. Cruel.
    If my words had stung, Gina didn’t show it. She just studied me, her deep blue eyes betraying no emotion. “Go ahead and insult me, Jake, if it makes you feel better.”
    “Hey, what’s the big deal? Easy come, easy go. Hey, it’s like you always said to me: ‘Maybe I’ll see you later, and maybe I won’t.’”
    “Jake, why can’t you grow up and express your feelings?”
    “What feelings? Look, all of this was your idea. You’re the one who always got the ball rolling. You’re the one who showed up at my house, or here, or at the beach. My only mistake was not kicking you out of bed.”
    She reached into the black leather purse and grabbed a pack of Winstons. She tapped out one cigarette and placed it between her pursed lips. If she was waiting for me to light it, she had a long wait. She reached back into the purse, found a gold lighter, struck it, and craned her long neck as she inhaled. “Don’t be like that, Jake. It always happens.”
    “
Always?
With all men? Or always with me?”
    She exhaled a long plume of smoke that drifted to the ceiling. “With you, Jake. You either retreat into a shell or strike out. Show no pain, isn’t that your motto?”
    “Play with pain is the way the coach always put it.”
    “It would be better to acknowledge the pain, talk about it, deal with it.”
    “Now you’re a therapist, too.”
    “I’ve been there, Jake. I’ve been hurt, and I’ve dealt with it.”
    “Forget it. I’m a big boy. I can take a hit.”
    Sure I can. I’m a former varsity member of the AFC Eastern Division All-Star Party Team. In the old days, I led the league in broken curfews and broken hearts. I could find an after-hours club in Buffalo during a power outage in December. Buffalo! But I retired. The stewardesses, secretaries, and models have come and gone. An endless variety of sameness. Names, faces, legs, all merge into a creamy blur. The same idle chatter, the same sweet deceptions, the same empty morning-afters.
    “Do you understand why I’m doing this?” she asked me.
    “Maybe you feel guilty, and you’ve decided to stay home afternoons and bake apple pies. Maybe you’re joining a convent.” I put an edge on my voice. “Maybe you found someone else.”
    Now I studied her.
    “There’s no one else, Jake.”
    She lies so much better than I do. Maybe all those marriages were good training.
    “I’m doing it for Nicky,” she said softly, “but I’m doing it for you, too.”
    “Gee, thanks, and on behalf of Nicky, double thanks.”
    What was in those eyes now? A touch of sadness. “This is better for you, Jake. Why do you suppose you’ve never gotten married, never even lived with anyone?”
    “I