The Anniversary Man (4 page)

 

And John Costello turned sideways and lay for a while beneath the covers of his bed. It was six days after the night he′d stayed over with Nadia.

He glanced at the clock beside his bed: four minutes to five. Any moment his father would hammer on the door and shout his name. Beneath the covers he was warm, but when he edged his foot out from beneath the blanket, he felt the chill of the room. He relished those few minutes before the day began, lying there aware that life had changed more than ever he could have imagined.

Three minutes past five and he rose and opened his bedroom door a handful of inches to let his father know he was up.

Bread to make. Bacon to fry, sausage, pancakes, hash browns; and bucketfuls of coffee beans to grind.

Could hear the run of water from the bathroom. Erskine Costello still used a straight razor, gave it an edge on a leather strop, whipped that thing back and forth without a second thought and then shaved with cold water and a froth of coal tar. Old school. A regular guy.

The day ran as any other. Breakfast eased seamlessly into lunch, from there into mid-afternoon sandwiches, flasks of coffee and slices of apple pie to ferry over to the lumber crew in McKinnon′s Yard. Darkness started somewhere around four, and it was less than an hour until it filled up the spaces between things and hung shadows around the lights.

He saw her as she crossed Delancey Street. It was something past seven. She had on a pair of jeans, a red flower embroidered on the hip, flat shoes, a suede windbreaker. Her hair was tied up on one side, and she wore a diamante barrette like a butterfly.

He opened the door and went out onto the sidewalk.

′Hey,′ she said. Reached out her hand, touched his arm.

′Hey.′ Wanted to kiss her but there were customers.

′Time you done?′

′Nine, maybe nine-thirty.′

′Meet me down on Carlisle at nine-thirty. Have something to tell you.′

′What?′

Nadia McGowan glanced at her watch. ′Two hours . . . you can wait two hours.′

′Tell me now.′

She shook her head, kind of laughed. ′Nine-thirty, the bench on the corner of Carlisle, okay?′

′You hungry?′

′No . . . why?′

′Got some cinnamon Danish . . . made it myself.′

′I′m good, Johnny, I′m good.′

She reached out, touched his cheek with the back of her hand, and then she turned and walked away, reached the corner before she looked back over her shoulder once more.

He raised his hand and he saw her smile . . .

 

 

And then she was gone.

Used up two hours waiting. Dragged like a heavy thing, and John forever glancing at the clock by the mirror, the hands weighted, running slow.

Erskine was back and forth, saw the frustration in his son′s face. ′Get away early why don′t you?′ he asked.

′Not meeting her ′til after nine,′ John replied.

′So go out back and clean the enamels. Time′ll fly if you′re doing something.′

He did as his father asked, hosing down pots and pans, a box of salt on the side with which to scrub them.

Eight-thirty came and went in a heartbeat. John cleaned himself up, changed his shirt, combed his hair.

Carlisle Street was no more than a five-minute walk, but he left The Connemara at ten past nine.

 

 

He sat down on the bench, and pulled his windbreaker around him. He looked out toward Machin, the direction from which Nadia would come. Pools of sodium yellow beneath the streetlights. The sound of a dog howling for something only a dog would understand. The distant hum of cars on Newark Avenue. Skywards there were the faraway lights of planes heading out of Irvington and Springfield. It was a cold night, but it was a good night.

John Costello zipped up his jacket, dug his hands into his pockets, and waited . . .

 

 

And started walking toward her, and she raised her hand as if to slow him down. She was smiling, and there was something anticipatory about that moment, as if he knew something was coming, and there was every possibility that it was something good.

′Hey,′ he said as she reached the corner of Carlisle.

′Hey back,′ she replied, and she walked toward him, reaching out her hands.

′What′s up?′ he asked.

′Let′s sit down,′ she said. Looked at him, and then glanced away, a sudden flash in her eyes that told him that maybe the something wasn′t so good.

And had he known that she would never tell him, that he would learn of it from a stranger in a hospital room, and had he understood why such a truth would be denied in that moment, he would have pressed his finger to her lips, stayed her words, taken her hand and hurried her away to safety.

But hindsight arrives after the fact, never before, and the irony was that after her death, after the terrible thing that happened, the foresight - the intuitive shift that he felt for such things - would have been so useful.

The shift would have told him to run back home, to take her with him, to let it be someone else′s night to die.

But it wasn′t.

Always the way of such things.

It was Nadia McGowan′s time to die, and there was nothing that John Costello could have done about it.

 

 

And Nadia was startled, a little afraid of the sound, and she sort of fell against John and he grabbed her arm and pulled her close, and she laughed at herself for being scared of something so silly.

′You all right?′ John said.

She nodded, she smiled, she let go of his arm and walked toward the bench.

John followed her, sat beside her, and she leaned against him and he felt the weight and warmth of her body.

′What is it you wanted to tell me?′ he said.

She turned and looked up at him. ′You love me?′

′Of course I love you.′

′How much do you love me?′

′I don′t know. How much is it possible to love someone?′

She held her arms wide like a fisherman telling tales. ′This much,′ she said.

′Five times that,′ John replied. ′Ten even.′

She looked away, and John followed her line of sight, all the way down to the end of Carlisle and across toward Pearl Street and Harbor-side.

′Nadia?′

She turned back toward him . . .

 

 

And she took his hand, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

′I′ve been thinking,′ she said, and her voice was almost a whisper.

′About what?′

′About what we talked about before . . . what I said that time—′

The pigeons had returned. A crowd of them around the base of a tree no more than five yards from the bench. Old women sometimes came and sat; they brought breadcrumbs, had for years, and the pigeons congregated in anticipation for when they would return.

′What time?′

A breeze, back and to the left of John, and . . .