Read The Day Trader for Free Online

would rise from the table without a word and go back to his bedroom, shoulders stooped, slippers shuffling across our bare hardwood floors. I say “his” bedroom because from the time I was eleven, my mother and father slept in separate rooms. They thought I didn’t understand, but I did, and that’s hard on a kid. Hard to think that they didn’t really care about each other anymore. That maybe everything was somehow my fault. I promised myself that my marriage would never come to be like that—but it did.
    My father died in his sleep last October of a heart attack, and I never had a chance to say good-bye to him. I always held out hope that we’d connect with each other someday, but it didn’t work out that way. I guess we were destined never to know each other.
    I look up from the lectern and see Melanie’s coworker sitting to my left, a vacant chair between her and Melanie’s family. She gazes at me sadly, tears in her eyes. I don’t know her name—she just showed up at the funeral. I don’t remember her from any of Frank Taylor’s Christmas parties, but what was I going to say? She seems nice—and genuinely grieving. I’m not going to deprive her of her chance to say a final good-bye to Melanie.
    My eyes flicker to Melanie’s parents. Her mother is sobbing softly while her father sits stoically, his lips forming a tight, straight line. They were always kind to me and they helped us financially whenever they could. But, like my parents, they didn’t have much to give.
    I’m not an eloquent man. When I’m speaking in front of people, my breathing quickly becomes choppy and loud, making the audience as uncomfortable as I am. So today I keep my remarks short. I tell them how wonderful Melanie was. How she always took care of me. How much I’ll miss her. How shocked I am at the terrible act of violence that stole her from the world, and how some things just don’t make sense. And I tell them that she’s gone to a better place because there is no way a woman as sweet as she could be kept from the glory of heaven. As I look out at their honest, sympathetic faces, it occurs to me that these people have no clue that Melanie asked me for a divorce the night before her death, and I won’t tell them. There’s no last word to be had here, no victory to be won. She’s gone and the only important thing now is that Melanie’s mother and father are left with fond memories of their daughter. When I’m finished, I bow my head and whisper, “Good-bye, Mel.”

 
    CHAPTER 4
    In the days following Melanie’s memorial service I remain mostly inside the house—except for one solitary day trip to the mountains—occasionally making halfhearted attempts at packing her things into brown cardboard boxes. The same boxes I might have used to pack my possessions. I don’t get very far though, managing only to remove some of the clothes from her closet.
    One afternoon Father Dale stops by unexpectedly to offer words of encouragement. He’s a small man with thinning white hair, ruddy cheeks, dark eyes, and a compassionate manner. He says that he always liked seeing Melanie at Mass, and that I’m welcome to drop by his church anytime to talk. His visit lasts only a few minutes and, thankfully, he doesn’t bring up the fact that she stopped attending his Sunday services so abruptly.
    The second Monday following the funeral is different. I wake up early, shower, shave, and dress in business casual—not the old jeans and T-shirts I’ve been living in for the past ten days. Over a full breakfast of coffee, eggs, and bacon I read the Washington Post from cover to cover for the first time in weeks.
    Then, at nine sharp, I drive to the day trading firm of Bedford & Associates. It’s located in McLean, Virginia, fifteen miles west of downtown Washington and about a thirty-minute drive from my house. McLean is the center of the technology boom that has gripped northern Virginia since the mid-nineties.
    Over the past six months