Man Gone Down (41 page)

“Excuse me?”

“Yes,” she answers in that strangely low voice, peeking around the wall as she does.

“I need to step out for a moment. Is that okay?”

“Sure, honey,” she's squeaky again. “You're not chewin' and screwin', are you?”

“Me, no. I just need to find a phone.”

“No cell phone?” she asks somewhat disbelieving.

“No, sorry.”

She thumbs at the counter. “You can use this one. Ben wouldn't mind.”

“Thanks, but it's long distance.”

“Oh,” she exaggerates. “I think there's a pay phone across the street.”

“Thank you.”

She looks at the scone, crinkles her face, and fakes a pout. “You didn't like it?”

“Oh, no. I haven't started.” I look down at the little menu. “I was thinking that I'd like a sandwich.”

“Really?” she perks up. “So you're saving that for dessert?”

“Yes,” I lie. “I'll have the grilled cheddar.”

“Great. Go make your call.”

I go outside to call Claire—the preemptive strike. I have to go up the avenue a ways to find a working pay phone. I dump a pound of Marco's change in.

“Hello?”

It's Edith. Tight-jawed Edith. I suppose it's good to know that she addresses everyone like this—formal and suspicious. Closed to anything moving or new.

“Hello?” she asks again, raising the tone, perhaps an eyebrow, as well. Someone, I think X, shrieks with pleasure or rage in the background. Edith's growing cross at both of us. I speak.

“Hello, Edith?”

“Oh, it's you. I didn't think anyone was there.”

“Sorry.”

“Quite all right.”

“Hey, is Claire handy?”

“No.”

I don't expect the negative response to a formality. I stumble.

“What's going on there? What's she doing?”

“She's out.” She says it with too much relish—especially for a woman like her: Edith the ghostless; Edith the sexless—no boyfriends—only vague peripheral suitors; Edith of the closed wallet, who, in spite of her only child's pleadings still maintained that public school—something she's never experienced—would be fine for grandchildren.

“Out?”

“Yes, out.” What had she said to her late husband as he prepared another miniature for a sculpture that wouldn't sell? Thank goodness they both had trust funds. He drained his to make art and put his daughter through school. She added the proceeds from his life insurance policy to hers.

“Where'd she go?”

I try to imagine her with faceless people at the Sizzler or Red Lobster out on Route Six.

“Boston.”

“Boston?”

“Yes, she's meeting some of her school friends.”

“When will she be back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No sense in making the trip back late, is there?”

“No. No.” I try to regroup—to keep her from hearing my head winding up, preparing to spin. I don't want it to spin. Not in that way. Hotels. Mojitos—or whatever those murmuring, smarmy, preppy fuckers are into. “We're having drinks with fun names, so that means we're having fun.” Claire would never fall for that shit.

“So she'll call you—when?”

“May I speak to the kids?”

“Which one?”

“Whoever is near.”

“Hold on. I'll see if they want to talk.” She lowers the phone to her hip, in part to keep from having to talk to me, but also to muffle whatever she's saying to the children—what they're saying back to her.
“No, I don't feel like talking.”
Getting kids to talk on the phone is second in difficulty to getting them to perform in public—it's mood based. Edith is censoring my children's response for me. She's not all bad—perhaps not bad at all. Second Avenue, the pale sun is like a yellow bruise, pain spreads dimly from the center. Light on the sky, on the six-story tenement walk-ups. The East Village has changed—Mercedes southbound on the avenue, jackets and ties. Upscale eateries. Strollers and well-groomed young mothers. Where are the squeegee men and the junkies? Where is the shopping cart brigade? The stolen-goods sidewalk sales? Where are the flamboyantly gay boys walking alongside the old Ukrainian women pulling their pushcarts, the bag of rugalach on top? Maybe it's just in this moment that I've chosen to look up that they are gone. The sky is like a fading contusion on white skin; the sun, the center of the blow.

“Daddy,” lisps X. His voice dispels the sky. His face fills the void.

“Hey, kid.”

“I'm not kid. My name is X!”

“Sorry, X.”

“Oh, it's okay, Dad.”

“What are you doing?”

“Playing.”

“Are you playing dinosaur?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I'm playing ancient sea creature.”

“Do you like sea creatures now?”

“Ancient
sea creatures, Dad.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yes!” I hear the jump in his voice and then the thump of his landing.

“Which ancient sea creatures?”

“Oh, I love Archelon.”

“Archelon, who's that?”

“He's a giant sea turtle.”

“Wow.”

“I also love Hybodeth.”

“Hybodus?”

“Yeah, Hybodeth.”

“Who's that?”

“He was one of the first sharks. I love sharks, Dad.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yes. They're cartilaginous.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. But Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who my favorite ancient sea creature is?”

“Who?”

“Megalodon!”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, yes, Dad. His name means giant toof.”

“Giant tooth?”

“Yes!”

“What is he?”

“He's a giant shark. He's like a giant great white shark—as big as a whale.”

“That's amazing.”

“Yeah.”

His focus drifts for a moment—Edith.

“Okay, may I have the phone back, please?”

“But I'm talking to my dad.”

“Yes, and you've talked to him for a long time.”

“But I need to tell him something.” His voice starts to bleed into a whine.

“What do you need to tell him?” she asks. The phone wants more money. I dump a dollar in. Edith tries to talk over the robot voice and X's protests.

“Hello, what's wrong with your phone?”

“Can he finish?” Edith goes silent but doesn't do anything. “Can you put my son back on, please?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. Of course.” She fumbles, regroups, then holds the phone away, but I can still hear. “Your father wants to say good-bye.”

“Bitch,” I mouth.

“Sorry?” She's still there.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, hold on.”

“Dad,” he's calm again. My first thought is to tell him not to yell at his grandmother, that he needs to be polite. Fuck it.

“Yeah, I'm here.”

“Dad, I'm worried.” My guts crash down into my bowels, explode, reform, and spring back up again, but not in their proper places. I fight off the urge to howl.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm worried about Megalodon.”

“Why, it sounds like he can take care of himself.”

“No, Dad—he's dead. All of them are extinct.” Even his breathing is lispy.

“What about the others?”

“They're extinct, too.” His breathing grows heavier, faster, the pitch rising. He's about to crack. “Dad,” he whimpers, as though he's
been punched in the gut. He waits, takes a deep breath, exhales. I know Edith's standing over him, looking down, puzzled, annoyed. Whatever it is, he somehow knows that he can't break in front of her. “I wish they were back.” He squeaks the last word out, then comes the first breath of a sob. He bites down on it, holds it, refuses to let it go. And I can see him—man-jaw clenched, squaring it even more, every muscle flexed, and those eyes, searching around and around for an answer to this rush of feeling.

I hate the telephone.

“I wish they were here, too.”

He exhales again—I didn't think he had any more breath in him. “Do you love those guys, too?”

“Oh yes, of course. Megalodon must have been so big.”

“Oh yes—he was so big!”

“You're so big, too.”

“Oh yes, and I'm a good swimmer, too.” He chuckles. I can see him, ready to jump again.

“Okay, kid, I'll see you soon.”

“X!”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay, Dad.”

“I love you, X.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Bye.”

“Bye-eye, Daddy.” He hands the phone to Edith and goes thumping away.

“Hello?” she's ready to hang up.

“Hi. Where's everyone else?”

“Well, I sent Cecil to the beach with the Crumwells and their boys—they're nice boys. And Edith, little Edy, is taking a nap.”

“The Crumwells?”

“Yes. You know them.”

“Yeah.”

“They're having fun, I'm sure.”

“I thought you were away.”

“Well, I was supposed to be, but I'm not.”

“When are they bringing him back?”

“We're meeting them for supper at the farm.”

“Really?”

She ignores that. “Now, I'm supposed to get information from you—your arrival.” For a moment I don't know what she's talking about. She takes the opportunity to be condescending with me, too. “Tomorrow night, are you coming?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

I lie. “Nine.”

“Nine p.m. sharp?”

“Nine . . .” I pretend to consult a schedule. “Nine-fourteen.”

“Oh, nine-fourteen. That doesn't fit well with bedtime. Is there another?”

“No.”

“No more trains?”

“It's a bus.”

“Oh.”

“Providence. Smithfield Road. Nine-fourteen.”

“Well, we can arrange something with the kids . . . perhaps . . . Nick Weed's son is coming for the weekend from Brown . . . Perhaps . . .”

“Claire can come. She can bring the kids.”

“It's late for them.”

“They can sleep in the car.”

“Well, fine then,” she breathes coldly. “Nine-fourteen. Friday. The bus. Someone will be there.” She hangs up before I can counter.

Ben is back in front of the shop, cleaning the door with Windex and paper towels. I almost call out to him from across the street as if he's an old friend, but I stop myself and watch him work while I wait for the light to change.

Someone else is watching him, too, waiting at the bus stop leaning against the M15 sign. He's older, stout, light-skinned. He's so focused on Ben that he doesn't see another man, perhaps in his twenties, sneak up behind Ben and grab him. Ben doesn't seem surprised. He turns to face this new man, drops the towels and the sprayer, presses his palms firmly on his cheeks and kisses him lightly on the lips. The two of them laugh and then take each other by the hips and turn in profile to me. This new man is handsome in a romance-novel-cover sort of way—rugged, olive complexioned, short, straight dark hair. Ben mutters something, but his friend doesn't seem to notice. He's focused on the man waiting for the bus who stares at them, his face contorted in an ugly pucker. He coughs up phlegm, loud enough for me to hear, and spits into the gutter. Ben turns, finds the man, and stares back, never moving his hands from his companion's hips. And for a moment it looks as though he may say something. He doesn't. Still staring, he pulls the man to him—belly to belly and kisses him again, defiantly this time. The traffic stops, allowing the kiss to continue uninterrupted. And then the M15 runs the light. Someone honks. The bus blocks the scene. When it pulls away, only Ben is left. He sees me. I can tell he's scrambling in his head for damage control—to explain. I want to tell him it's okay. I fumble for a sign. All I can offer is a short wave. He waves back, bends quickly to gather his things, and hustles to get inside before I reach him.

Inside there's a cold grilled cheese waiting for me, cold coffee, too, but Ben and Joy are gone. I sit down and look at the limp sandwich. The bread looks to have gone soft again and the cheese, hard—condensed vapor on the plate. No more Marley, just some strange, computerized dub playing.

I want to pay and go, wander downtown until it's time to go to the other job—
the other job.
I kind of shudder when I think about it, about her. At first I think I shouldn't, but then I sit down, lean into the cushion, and dare myself to re-create her—that little
faux-English accent, the various hues in hair loops, and those strange brown eyes that didn't seem to belong to her. In my head, she's still not whole, only parts, long limbs, a little chuckle I imagine she has. Feeney's pug nose invades the frame for a moment. I wonder if I broke it.

Joy materializes beside the table and slips the check onto it. I look up at her, and she frowns.

“You didn't even try it,” she squeaks.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I just got back.”

“Well, it's ruined.” She slowly reaches for the plate, but I stop her attempt by softly pinning her hand against the table. It feels like the sandwich would. She pulls it away with a discreet revulsion, as if it was my touch that made her hand go clammy.

I hide my hand in my lap. “I'm going to start on it right now. I promise.” I try to deliver it with gentle conviction, to her eyes, but she's looking out to the gray day, the passersby. Perhaps to the end of her shift—home—where she can hold her pained lip in any way she wants.

She leaves me without speaking and I look at the bill—two cups of coffee, a scone, and a cold old sandwich—sixteen dollars. I take out my fold and leave a twenty—then twenty-one.
What the fuck is Claire doing in Boston?
The question, along with the grilled cheese sitting in its sweat, twists my stomach. Then it straightens out again and I wonder why it did so quickly. I feel the pulse of my whole body—my hands atop my thighs, my legs against the seat, my back against the rest. I fight back a yawn, finish the coffee, and wait for my stomach to twist again. Nothing happens—just another yawn.