Promises

new fiction by Catherine Durkin Robinson

Photo by Hoseung Han on Unsplash

Promises

Katie got out of the car and shivered, surprised at how cold it was. An October rain in Tampa wasn’t supposed to feel like ice pellets shooting down from the sky. Her taxi drove away as she opened her umbrella and stared at the restaurant. Katie looked down at the red dress she was wearing. It felt inappropriate for such a damp, dreary night.

One of the straps fell off her shoulder. She softly cursed.

That hadn’t happened in the dressing room. Katie remembered walking in front of the mirror for several minutes. Sitting down, standing up, smiling, and taking selfies. The dress seemed to fit perfectly.

Katie lifted the shoulder strap and firmly returned it to its place.

“Now stay,” she said, and walked across the street to the restaurant.

Stewart sat at the bar with one eye on the door, so he’d know when she arrived. Katie didn’t see him at first; she was too busy shaking the rain off her umbrella and saying hello to the hostess.

“A double shot of Jameson,” he told the bartender. “Neat.”

He went back to watching her. The dress, which he recognized from the selfies she sent him, showed off her slim shoulders and toned legs. Katie’s long, curly auburn hair was pulled back. It brought out her blue eyes.

“Well done, doll,” he said.

The bartender brought him the drink, but he didn’t touch it. He was happy to wait. Watching her. A newspaper reporter approached her first.

“I know who you are, Alan,” Katie said, before the reporter could fully introduce himself.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” He pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. “It promises to be an interesting night.”

“Gimme a minute.”

Katie walked across the restaurant, smiling at some familiar faces and looking past others. A few attendees dressed nicely, like Katie, but most chose the Florida Casual look: Khakis and collared short-sleeved shirts. The kind you’d find at Target, she thought. Katie noticed all the television screens that normally showed football and baseball games were tuned to the local news channels instead.

She scanned the back of the room and saw Julie holding court with old high school classmates. Katie wasn’t up for that. But she was happy to see Julie wearing a similar dress, only blue. Her light brown hair was blown out and pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. Tall and slender, Julie looked lovely. Katie would talk to her later.

She noticed Stewart and made her way to the bar. Katie let her smile show how happy she was to see him. They locked eyes and, for a moment, felt like the only two people in the place. He looked good. Dark jeans, black boots, and a long-sleeved, black, snap-buttoned-down shirt. Katie wondered what those snap buttons sounded like coming undone.

“You’re alone.” Stewart gave her the drink and a kiss on the cheek.

Katie nodded, lifting the glass to her lips.

“How’s Marc?”

“My husband is well,” Katie replied after a long sip. “On a date tonight with his girlfriend. So…better than well, I guess. And your wife?”

“Nancy doesn’t like Tampa. You know that. She prefers to stay in New York.”

“Cathy isn’t coming either.” Julie interrupted them with the force of a hurricane. She grabbed Katie’s glass and drank from it. “Look at us, girlfriend. The only two women here who know how to dress.”

Julie ignored Stewart.

“Cathy called me last night.” Katie took back her glass. “Go easy on her. She doesn’t want to be here reliving every second of it.”

Katie didn’t want to be there reliving every second of it either. But a promise was a promise.

They watched Alan, the reporter, mingling with people in the crowd. Stewart looked at Katie and wondered what she was thinking. Julie stuck her face in front of his.

“Why can’t you just ask her?”

Julie walked away before he could answer. Katie didn’t notice this exchange. She was too busy scowling at her shoulder. Then she lifted her fallen strap and put it back where it belonged.

“Might as well get this over with.” She took her drink and walked toward Alan. They sat down at a nearby booth. Katie was careful not to put her elbows on the table where several puddles of spilled beer remained from whoever had sat there before them.

“This is a big night.” Alan groomed his beard and mustache with fingers from his free hand. “When the governor begins his press conference, we’re expecting him to announce he’s signed the death warrant for Otto Roy Benson. Finally.”

Katie slowly nodded. “That’s the hope.”

“I hear it’s thanks to you.”

She shook her head. “Look around this room. Stephanie’s family, friends…even the State Attorney’s office. They’ve been working on this for years.”

“Sure.” Alan followed her gaze and wrote something in his pad. “But none of them have the governor on speed dial.”

Katie instinctively reached for her purse, wondering if she still had her phone. Did Alan know Governor Simpson had just left her a voicemail? No. How could he know that? Katie sipped her drink and looked up at the television sets. They were back to showing a football game. For now.

“Alan,” she said, “what are we doing?”

“Just making sure I have background.”

He smiled, and Katie noticed, with disdain, that he had food in his front teeth.

“You know the background.” Katie found it easier to talk to him if she looked away. “A young girl was murdered in 1986. They convicted the killer, and we’re all hoping the governor puts an end to this. So that next year, almost thirty years after the crime was committed, justice will finally be served.”

“No.” Alan shook his head. “The real background is how one of our state’s most progressive activists, a columnist who’s been against the death penalty in theory, supports it when avenging the murder of her friend. An activist who’s been working aggressively with her political enemies to make it happen. That’s the interesting part.”

“I’m not the story this time.” Katie got up and walked into the ladies’ room. She went inside one of the stalls, shut the door, and stood there for a moment. Breathe, she told herself. Katie tried not to touch anything. Graffiti all over the walls, she noticed someone had written NOT SAVED by the toilet paper dispenser.

After Katie had written about this case and urged the governor to sign Benson’s death warrant, she had indeed gotten calls from him. Governor Simpson didn’t do anything because it was the right thing to do. He expected something in return.

He wasn’t the only one who reached out. She’d gotten calls from lawyers and cops who lived all over the country. Off-the-record calls. They told her that Otto Roy Benson had murdered women in Texas, Alabama, New England, and Florida. Investigators believed they had the best chance for a conviction by focusing on Florida, but this guy had been a national menace. A serial killer. They told Katie stories that kept her up at night. Many of them were also against the death penalty, and yet hoped that Benson would soon be lethally injected. That’s how bad he was.

Katie left the stall and stood in front of a row of mirrors. She washed her hands, thinking about the other calls she got. Threatening calls. From readers who were angry about state-sanctioned murder, as they called it. Death threats from death penalty opponents. Katie chuckled at the irony.

She applied some lip balm and suddenly felt thirsty. Damn. She had left her drink with Alan.

Katie walked out of the bathroom and headed back to the bar. She sat down, hoping the bartender would look her way. Someone gently pushed a fresh drink in front of her.

A double shot of Jameson. Neat.

Katie turned and smiled at Stewart. His slightly crooked grin and square jaw, so wicked, so familiar. She felt instantly at ease and aroused at the same time. She’d been seduced by that grin often over the last thirty years, but it had been six or seven months since she’d last seen it in person.

Stewart’s short blonde hair, greying at the sides, framed his slender face perfectly. Pale blue eyes, so icy when looking at others, were warm with her. Katie instinctively sucked in her stomach, sat up a little straighter, and straightened her dress.

Including the strap that kept falling.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked.

Stewart nodded and looked out over the gathering. “I love unofficial reunions. Telling old stories. Laughing at old jokes.”

“I forgot.” Katie kept her back to the crowd. “You like these people.”

“Some more than others.”

Whenever he spoke out of the side of his mouth like that, as if sharing a secret with only her, Katie wanted to kiss him. She didn’t know where to look, his eyes or his lips. Control yourself, she thought while wondering if there was an empty room in the back they could use. He leaned in, put his arm around her shoulder, and softly whispered, “He’s gonna sign that death warrant. Isn’t he?”

Katie and Stewart laughed together. They both knew she had expected him to whisper something else.

“We’ll see,” she said.

Katie stared into her drink as if the swirling brown and beige colors could tell her future. She slightly leaned into Stewart. He smelled like cigarettes and Acqua di Gio. Her favorite mix. She didn’t need whiskey to tell her where this was going. They’d connect a few more times, a couple of treasured moments, and then that would be it for them.

Maybe that’s why she loved him. The intense part-time nature of their long-term love affair suited her.

Stewart loved her for different reasons. He admired her strength. Clarity of purpose. Activism and integrity. He often told his friends that just knowing her made him a better man. Plus, Katie was the only person in his life whose love didn’t come with financial or emotional strings attached. He cherished that about her. That and her legs.

Katie closed her eyes. Stewart checked his phone.

Julie watched from across the bar. She didn’t understand either of them. From her vantage point, Katie was and would always be too good for Stewart. Julie ordered another drink.

Every year on his birthday, Katie sent a card and something special. Maybe a care package from his favorite restaurant. Or a signed copy of Billy Idol’s autobiography. Stewart never remembered Katie’s birthday. When Katie traveled overseas, she made it a point to send him a souvenir: foreign versions of his favorite movies or some chocolates. Stewart never sent Katie anything from his trips. Katie went to see his artwork whenever a gallery tour came to Tampa. Stewart never read her columns, not even the ones he could get online.

Every once in a while, he did something nice. If Katie posted a picture of herself on Instagram, posing with her running or cycling group, he could tell when she needed a new accessory or updated equipment. About a week later, she’d get a package in the mail.

Most women want flowers or jewelry, Julie thought. Katie gets excited about bicycle socks.

Julie sipped her rum and Coke and continued staring at these two lifelong friends across the bar from her. She knew it went deeper than a mutual appreciation for exercise. They had a history. Stewart had been good to Katie when they were young. Protective and kind. A good guy was hard to come by back then, at new wave clubs and punk shows.

Julie also knew that this relationship, this thing they were doing, was the only part of Katie’s life where she wasn’t completely in charge. She could let go of the reins with him and just enjoy the ride.

But it was too unequal for Julie’s taste. She furrowed her brow. Katie opened her eyes and looked across the bar. Don’t worry about me, Jules, she wanted to say out loud. Julie shrugged her shoulders as if she heard and walked away, returning to the unofficial reunion happening all around them.

Katie sighed.

She knew her relationship with Stewart didn’t make sense. It lasted as long as it did because they only saw each other four or five times a year. His wife, Nancy, wasn’t polyamorous and didn’t know that their decades-long friendship had grown to be so much more.

Katie didn’t like the dishonesty, but didn’t push him to change it. She liked their dynamic. Her pulse quickened whenever they planned to be in the same town at the same time. She’d be high for weeks on the anticipation alone. They’d meet up, go out for sushi and drinks, talk about old and new adventures, and eventually, he would seduce her with a wink and a smile.

Katie never felt guilt. She wasn’t a threat to Nancy or to their marriage.

The other reason why their relationship worked was that Katie had a loving, compatible primary partner. She didn’t need Stewart to love her in ways that made sense; she had Marc. For over twenty years, Katie and Marc had built a stable family and a happy life together. They made sense, so nothing else had to.

That foundation of unconditional love with Marc allowed her to love Stewart and accept him for what and who he was. She closed her eyes again and breathed him in. Stewart leaned into her, too. They stayed that way for a few moments.

“Do you remember Katie?” Julie interrupted them again. “She ran the Boston Marathon last year.”

Katie turned around on her barstool and cringed. Julie had dragged over several middle-aged women, but didn’t seem to be reading their faces or body language. Katie recognized the eye-rolls. They didn’t want to hear about a woman their age doing anything interesting.

“Hi.” Katie tried to smile at the six or seven unfriendly faces. But when she saw herself in the mirror behind their backs, she realized she looked constipated rather than happy.

They stared at her, stone-faced, as Julie reintroduced them all, ignoring Stewart.

“I remember you,” one of them said.

Katie found the woman’s face slightly familiar, but couldn’t place it. She had long, grey hair braided down her back and wore extra-large cargo shorts and Crocs, of course. Katie stared at her vintage Clearwater Beach tank top. She could be any one of a million people from her past.

“Chamberlain High?” Katie asked. “Class of ’87?”

“Nope. We went to USF together. You used to show up at parties with petitions.”

Katie nodded. “Sounds like me.”

“Some of the petitions were real. Like the ones for ACT-UP. But others were fake.” She looked at another woman who scowled with her. Same Crocs. “Remember when Katie passed around a petition that said meat was murder and we should all eat Morrissey instead?”

Stewart chuckled. He was the only one.

“That was my attempt at humor,” Katie said. Mostly to him.

“Your liberal columns now are about as funny,” another woman mumbled.

“She ran a marathon, people.” Julie beamed. “Let’s focus on that!”

Julie was proud of Katie. She could never understand why others didn’t share her enthusiasm.

“Katie woke up the day after the Boston bombing and decided to run the next year as a big fuck you to terrorists,” Julie continued, a little too loud. “I watched every livestreaming moment of that race. One of the best days of my life.”

Julie made Katie feel like a superstar. But none of the women were impressed.

“I’m not the only runner here.” Katie changed the subject. She knew what these women would like to hear. “Stewart’s done Ironmans.”

They suddenly came to life when Katie mentioned Stewart’s name. All smiles and giggles.

“Stewart Palmer,” one cooed. “You look fantastic.”

“You look like Sting,” another said, inching closer to him.

Katie took Julie by the arm, leading her away.

“Go ahead, get reacquainted.” Katie pretended not to hear Stewart mumble a sarcastic, “Thanks.”

She and Julie walked to a quiet part of the restaurant. The televisions were still playing football games, and Julie took out her phone.

“Lay off Cathy,” Katie told her. “I can see you texting someone every few minutes. Leave her alone.”

“Fuck off,” Julie said, only half-serious. “Cathy should be here. It’d help her get past this, once and for all.”

“She was the last person to see Stephanie alive. She knows what’s best for her mental health, and this ‘party’ ain’t it. Why did you invite so many people anyway?”

“To support Stephanie’s family. To let them know we didn’t forget her.”

Katie paused and smiled at her best friend. “What am I going to do with you?”

A bright light shone on Julie’s face, and Katie shielded her eyes. After a second, she realized what was happening. Someone tapped her shoulder, and Katie noticed her dress strap had fallen again. She fixed it, took a deep breath, and turned around.

“Hi there,” a television reporter said, “can I ask you a few questions? We’re live.”

What if she said no? Katie noticed several people gathering around them. A crowd of looky-loos who wanted to be on television. Why didn’t the reporter ask one of them? Before Katie had a chance to construct a thought, she spoke.

“Are you anticipating that Governor Simpson will announce the date for Otto Roy Benson’s execution tonight?”

A few replies came to mind:

“If he knows what’s good for him.” Too threatening.

“I hope not because it goes against everything I stand for.” Too self-absorbed.

“I hope so because Benson is one sick fuck.” Too vulgar.

“Yes, because this man has murdered dozens of unnamed women, and their families all deserve some justice, even if they don’t know it, even if it means I will owe a favor to the worst Governor in Florida’s history, even if it means my career.” Too truthful.

Katie placed her shaking hands behind her back. “I’m just here to support the family. No matter what the governor decides.”

The reporter nodded as if she understood. Then she asked another question, but Katie didn’t hear her. It was something about violence, women, and death penalty statistics. Katie knew her face was getting red. The crowd grew bigger, and she felt suffocated.

Someone stood close behind her, placed their hands inside hers, and gave a little squeeze. At first, it startled her. But then she felt bracelets, the ones he got from his daughter, and the wedding ring he got from his wife. Stewart.

Katie felt calm again. She stared at the reporter and realized they knew each other. The woman holding the microphone to her face had been the beat reporter when Stephanie first went missing. She was older now, but there’s no mistaking the platinum blonde hair and vacant eyes.

Katie pretended to be contemplating the question. Then she gently squeezed Stewart’s hands, still in hers, and said, “It’s been a minute, but I recognize you. You’re Kim Ring.”

Kim nodded and proudly smiled into the camera. Fame. Kim’s drug of choice. The corners of her mouth cracked, smearing her bright red lipstick into the corners. Kim turned back to Katie.

“You covered this story back in ’86,” Katie continued. Slowly. Deliberately. “Somehow, you got into our school and into Stephanie’s locker. You gathered all of us together and asked about her sex life. Wondered if she was still a virgin. She was seventeen. We all were. You acted as if Stephanie were somehow responsible for her own abduction.”

Kim froze with her smile intact. The microphone didn’t move. She looked like a zombie in a horror film.

“I’m not sure what dungeon they dragged you out of to do this story,” Katie said. “But maybe you should crawl back into it. We don’t want you here.”

Katie let go of Stewart’s hand and walked away, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. This time, she didn’t forget her drink. As she made her way across the room, Katie heard Julie cheering and clapping. Others joined in. Katie paused in front of Alan, who was eating nachos off an abandoned plate.

“If you cover this story from a different angle, you won’t regret it.”

He looked up and swallowed his food.

“Leave me out of it,” Katie looked away again, “and I’ll make sure you’re the first reporter to hear about what comes next. You have my word.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said.

Katie walked away and mumbled, “I know.”

“Well done, doll,” Stewart said, as she passed him. “About fifty people back there want to buy you a drink.”

“Everyone’s a fan until I say something they disagree with.” Katie walked into the bathroom. Alone. Again. This time, she stayed in the stall for a few moments. Checked her phone. Replied to a message from Marc.

“Doing all right?” he texted.

“Yes,” she texted back. “All good.”

She’d talk to him about it tomorrow, no matter what the Governor said. She didn’t keep secrets from Marc. Someone banged on the door to her stall.

“Remember that time at Hooters when you fell in the middle of the restaurant?” Julie said through the door, a little too loud. “Then hid in the bathroom until everyone left? Get your skinny ass out here.”

Katie opened the stall door, and they stared at each other. Julie’s blue almond-shaped eyes sparkled.

“A-plus-plus girlfriend.” Julie opened the door back into the restaurant for her. “Go get some praise.”

“After you.” Katie motioned for her to go first.

They walked into the hallway, and Katie nodded at a few people giving her a thumbs-up.

“If he signs the warrant, will we go to Starke and support Steph’s family through the execution?” Julie asked.

“Of course.” Katie wished she had some Pepto Bismol for her stomach. “A promise is a promise.”

Julie walked back into the crowd. Katie watched her talking with old friends and making everyone feel good, a ray of sunshine on a cold night. A sad night. That was her gift. Julie hugged everyone she saw, asking about their dogs or kids, listening to them complain about their backs or their blood pressure. All the while, she moved among them with grace and compassion.

People truly loved Julie, and Katie understood why. She made them feel like someone, somewhere, understood what they were going through.

No one in attendance that night, except for Julie, loved Katie. Not really. Except…

Katie strained her neck, finding Stewart back at the bar talking to the bartender.

She looked around. The press was gone. Televisions muted. Someone had commandeered the DJ table, playing A Flock of Seagulls. Soft Cell. Talking Heads. Katie’s own head started swimming. Most people found their memories triggered unexpectedly by food or a familiar scent. For Katie, it was music.

She could be in the grocery store, gym, or behind the wheel of a car. If a certain song came on, she’d find herself transported to another time. A time of shoulder pads and big hair. Patchouli oil and clove cigarettes. Katie connected songs to specific events. She had a playlist for every occasion and holiday.

These trips down memory lane felt involuntary. They happened without her consent. Whether the memory was good or bad, she often had to pause and collect herself. That night, in a restaurant and bar filled with at least a hundred old acquaintances, forever united by the collective grief they felt over a murdered friend, with 80s music blaring from the speakers, she stood on the edge of the action and let the songs wash over her.

Our Lips Are Sealed by The Go-Go’s: Katie’s first slumber party. She dipped a girl’s bra in ice water and stuck it in the freezer. Ahh, 1982. Katie was never invited back.

Drive by The Cars: That’s the summer she turned 14. And learned how to apply eye shadow.

Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat: Cathy and Katie smuggled hairspray bottles filled with rum into Julie’s sweet sixteen party. But they didn’t do a good job of washing out all the hairspray first, so the rum tasted like poison.

Rain in the Summertime by The Alarm.

When that song began, Katie opened her eyes and looked around the room. She knew when she was being summoned. A few people danced while others just milled about. Stewart appeared out of nowhere, holding out his hand to her. Like always, she took it.

Technically, they didn’t dance. Instead, they swayed slowly while he lightly held on to her waist, and she put her arms around his neck. Katie rested her head on his shoulder and, for the first time that night, didn’t care about her fallen dress strap.

The last time they were together had been contentious. It was at a Mexican restaurant near Santa Cruz. Both were working for a spell in California, so they met for lunch. Katie couldn’t even remember what their argument had been about. She just remembered feeling exhausted.

“I’m tired, Stewart,” she remembered saying, nearly in tears. “Trying to decipher how you’re doing through text messages across different time zones is draining me. I know we make jokes about monogamy not being natural, but it sure makes things less complicated.”

Stewart didn’t want to agree, but he felt himself nodding along. He could barely manage his own emotions, much less the feelings of both a wife and a girlfriend in two separate states.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Relationships choose you.”

Katie disagreed. She was in charge of her life, not fate. Maybe that had been their argument.

“Remember when we were kids, and you said you never wanted to be anyone’s first love?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “You remember that?”

“Of course. Do you have any idea how many girls I had to console?” They laughed a little. “You said it was too much pressure. That’s fine. But just know that you’re somebody’s last. I won’t be in another relationship after we say goodbye. This is it for me.”

Stewart didn’t believe her. And that’s how they left it.

Their song ended, and another began. Stewart and Katie kept swaying/dancing. Like everyone else in that room, they stayed connected despite growing apart. Stewart and his two buddies had befriended Katie in drama class. In 1984, with their punk rock clothes and long hair, spiked at the top, Katie thought they looked as cool as the guys in Duran Duran.

Cooler.

Because Duran Duran didn’t live two streets over and teach her how to drive a car. Duran Duran didn’t take her canoeing down the Hillsborough River or keep her safe in dance clubs. She loved Stewart. Trusted him. Wanted him. In that order. And no matter what, she suspected that she always would. Someone put on Strangelove. Katie snapped out of her daze and stopped dancing.

They walked together to the bar. Stewart ordered Katie’s usual for her and a margarita for himself.

“Cheers,” he said, and they clinked glasses.

The restaurant suddenly grew quiet. Katie followed the crowd’s gaze to the television sets. The bartender turned down the music so everyone could hear what was happening. Katie squinted to see the screens. Governor Simpson appeared in front of some flags and a few attorneys. He began to speak.

Katie and Stewart were too far away to hear every word. Katie swished the whiskey around in her glass and adjusted her dress strap. She felt like a jumper hanging off the side of a bridge, half praying for a strong gust of wind to finish her off and half praying for someone to reach out and pull her to safety.

The crowd roared with delight. The son of a bitch did it. He signed the death warrant.

Katie felt her purse vibrate. She reached inside and looked at her phone. The governor’s office was calling. And Alan had sent a text message. “Wasting no time,” she said, putting her phone back in her purse.

She motioned to the bartender. He leaned over as she whispered in his ear. He nodded, and she handed him her purse. He put it in a locked cabinet under the expensive scotch. Katie looked at Stewart without any sort of expression on her face. He did the same. Someone started playing Come Undone by Duran Duran.

She got up and walked toward the back of the bar. Everyone was crying and hugging and texting people. No one noticed her. No one except Julie. They didn’t make eye contact. But Katie knew she was shaking her head.

Katie walked through the door marked “Employees Only.” She walked up the stairs and into the back area through offices where local lawmakers and journalists played poker on weekends. Offices supposedly haunted by hookers who’d lived and worked there in the 1920s. That night, the rooms were empty. Katie found the one she liked, with walls filled with books about Tampa gangsters and bootleggers. She ran her fingers over the book covers, stretching her arms in each direction as far as they would go.

Stewart came up behind her. He slowly and deliberately lifted the skirt of her red dress.

When he kissed the back of her neck, she let her head drop against his shoulder. He squeezed the inside of her thighs and pulled her into him. After a few moments, Katie turned around. He gently kissed her, and she kissed him back, playfully biting his lip.

He lowered the dress strap off her shoulder. She looked away, smiled, and closed her eyes.

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Catherine is a death doula and activist, living in Chicago.