He cries so hard he can't catch his breath, kicking his feet into the car's maroon carpeting, using his left turn signal and checking his speed as a police car whizzes by, late for a bigger emergency. He pulls into the driveway, all wood beams and marigolds blooming under the hot streaks of bay windows. Here is the life he has built. Katherine runs across the front lawn, sprinting toward his door in her yellow cords and black barrettes. He pretends to gather papers in the backseat while wiping his face. She races to attack him, her legs winding around his knee and her fingers holding on to his belt loops, already too old and heavy for this ritual ride.
He shuffles up the walkway with his daughter strapped to his leg. He is thirty-one and healthy.
Â
THOMAS DIES AT
Christ Hospital four days before a snowy Thanksgiving in 1958. He was admitted a week earlier, complaining of chest pains and numbness in his fingers. When his heart finally bursts, the night nurses on duty say that he made no noise, no twist of the face or groan heard all the way to the station desk. But Thomas knows he is going. He knows this like he knows a train is coming down the tracks. The amount of money that Christine receives from his multiple life insurance policies astounds even a protection expert like her father. She feels guilty when she accepts the reduced widow-clause membership at the country club.
Their marriage was imperfect. There was little worry when Katherine ran into their bedroom in the middle of the night that they would be having sex or even sharing the same bed. They fought, usually about stupid grievances, a tactless comment at a cocktail party or his lending money to the wrong sort. If Christine ever suspected that Thomas betrayed his own brother to marry her, she couldn't understand where that kind of passion went. She buries him in the same cemetery that holds his father and brother, although a hundred feet away, near a row of leafless oaks. She loved him but not romantically. She misses him nonetheless. Her response is to keep moving. She runs for president of the Neighborhood Watch and secretary for the Woman's Catholic Association. She attends luncheons, arranges golfing lessons, organizes fund drives,
plays marathon bridge, and visits Aurelia, now Clorox white from hair tip to toenail, once a week out of obligation, sitting in the quiet kitchen with all of the lights off. When John F. Kennedy runs for office, Christine switches parties and registers as a Catholic Democrat.
Somewhere a teenager with acne and crooked teeth hides in a bedroom painted yellow, smoking cigarettes that turn her nails the color of the walls. There is no heaven above the speckled canopy of her four poster bed, of this she is sure, but when it's late and her eyes won't close, or it's Sunday and the radio counts songs up the chart, she talks to her father.
You left so quickly. I remember so much about you that I'm worried I'll forget. I can remember your smellâgreasy coins in laundered pant pocketsâbut I haven't smelled it in so long I'm not sure I'd recognize it. We still keep your chair at the dinner table. It sits there between us while Mom continues on with her perfect-family trip by making every recipe she clips from her perfect-family magazines. It's weird without you, like one of us is missing. I had a dream last night that power lines fell on the house, and Mom and I could only walk through the rooms trying not to touch anything metalânot the doorknobs or the drawer handles or even the telephone because the electricity would climb through the wires and electrocute us. We had to stay locked in here forever, looking like any other house on the street except one wrong touch and we'd be fried. At the end of the dream, I just couldn't stand it anymore and I finally went to open the door. Mom pleaded, “Please, honey, don't touch. Please, you can't, Katherine.” The worst part of the dream was when I put my fingers on the knob for the first time in all the months that we had been trapped inside. Nothing happened. The door opened. Maybe that's what it felt like when you left.
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JOSEPH WOKE TO the sunlight. It poured through the window grates and created a diamond pattern across his bed. He woke with a jolt like he was diving forward, and now his body fell back with the heaviness of a fever. He fought the quick convulsions of his stomach. His fingers shook as he pulled the sheet off his legs, and his feet shot over the mattress, numb when they met the floor. Soon Joseph was on his back shivering again. He heard water running in the bathroom and called for Del, but the answering footsteps were too heavy to belong to his wife. It was William who walked into the bedroom
freshly shaven and dressed in one of Joseph's polo shirts still creased from the folds of the laundry.
Joseph wished, as he closed his eyes, for a full pardon from having to deal with William. His friend had never been especially adept at sticking to the background, and he knew too much precious energy would have to be spared to keep him at a distance.
Why did William have to show up now?
he thought. But when he opened his eyes, there William was, even with his washed, uncharacteristic cleanliness, looking rough and obstinate as furniture. The tight, wide smile and, above it, two brown eyes staring in a farsighted squint, barely hid the exhaustion swelling underneath. William was trying to appear easy and light,
trying and failing
âthat was what amplified the uneasiness, hard and dark. He held a glass of water and jerked it forward, as if he could not establish the proper rhythm of a gentle offering.
“Surprised to see me?” he asked, too light, too easy. Joseph reached for the glass.
“Yeah, I am. What are you doing here?” He drank the water down, feeling the liquid mix with the acid in his gut. “Aren't you supposed to be in California?”
William shook his head, as if that provided enough of an answer, and slapped his palm over Joseph's forehead in the task of amateur temperature reading.
“You shouldn't worry about me right now, you should worry about yourself. We need to get you to a doctor.”
“Get me a bucket.”
William returned with the trashcan from the bathroom, placing it under Joseph's chin in time for him to puke up pulpy, yellow fluid in four convulsive heaves. When his stomach settled, Joseph turned over on his side and rested his cheek on the pillow. But then he pushed himself up to make another attempt at getting out of bed.
“Maybe you should stay put,” William advised. “Del snuck out at dawn. But I'm here. I'll nurse you back.” William's eyes tried to engage Joseph in a show of concern, but Joseph couldn't shake the sense that a threat lay under that promise of nursing duties. To be honest, he couldn't imagine a worse fate for an ailing patient. Perhaps his reaction was simply the residue of the last time he had
seen William, spitting drunken insults at his party. “Do you want me to run to the pharmacy to get you something? You can't take these kinds of illnesses too lightly. Trying to burn yourself out is going to put you in the hospital.”
“What are you doing here?” he repeated, sitting on the edge of the bed as he gritted his teeth in preparation for standing. “I thought you were gone.”
“Not yet,” William laughed, bending down to cup Joseph's chin. “I changed my plans. While you were asleep, Del invited me to stay on your couch for a few days. Is that all right with you?”
Joseph refused to believe Del had offered that hospitality on her own free will. William walked over to the dresser to toy with the lid of Del's cedar jewelry box. He picked up a silver locket and inspected it before chucking it back into the box. If William was trying to demonstrate his ease in their apartment, he was doing so at the risk of uninvited familiarity. Sometimes it was difficult not to take intimacy as a threat. Joseph searched for the proper response to get William out of their apartment while still preserving some semblance of kindness. The truth was, Joseph hated the fact that William had set up camp in their home. He had hoped for time alone with Del. Only in the last few nights had they begun speaking to each other with the same warmth they had shared before Madi's death.
“It's just bad timing because of what's happened,” he started to explain. “And now Del quit her job, and I'm really sick. Maybe you'd be happier in a hotel.”
William crossed his arms and glared at him.
“You know I figured you'd say something like that. Actually I thought you'd find a more eloquent way of putting it. Maybe ask Del to get rid of me while you were a few blocks away having lunch.”
Joseph saw the hostility forming on William's lips, and he waved his hands to clear the air.
“That's not it,” he said with a sigh, exhausted from the need to provide an explanation. “This place is just tiny, that's all. Del and I already trip over each other when we're here alone. I just thought you'd be more comfortableâ”
“I
am
comfortable,” William yelled. “I don't take up much space.
Look, I only need a few days, just to get everything sorted. Then I'll be out of your hair, and you and Del can fuck and hold hands and try on each other's clothes all you want to. Is this really how you treat a friend who's taken so many bad bullets the last couple weeks?”
“William, you're
always
taking bad bullets,” he replied. He gathered his strength and began to ascend on shaky legs.
He steadied his hand against the doorframe and stumbled into the living room. William followed behind, watching the skinny body shuffle in front of him with skin as pale as crane paper. Joseph headed down the hallway to the front door without another word, expecting his friend to be right behind him. But when he turned, he found William standing in the living room with his tongue digging into his cheek. William jerked his head back, his eyes searching for something underneath the bed. Joseph knew William was the kind of person who would take liberties to search through other people's possessions, and it frightened him to think what William might find under that bed. He pictured the metal box wrapped in a towel that was shoved under there. That fact almost convinced Joseph to open the door and to wave him out. But he turned into the kitchen, rifled through a drawer, and reappeared with a set of keys hooked around his finger.
“Here's our spare,” he said. “I'm not walking too well. If you aren't doing anything for the next hour, will you help me get somewhere?”
William hesitated in the living room, as if he anticipated that the offer might suddenly be withdrawn.
“You want to go to the doctor?” he guessed.
“No, I've already been to doctors.” Joseph weighed whether a confession could be trusted on William. If he felt a single degree healthier, he wouldn't have risked it, but already his muscles ached, his lungs burned with air, and he wanted to go back to bed and pull the covers over him. “I have to go to the Carlyle. Only you've got to promise you won't tell Del.”
William stepped forward and took the keys from Joseph's finger.
“I'd be happy to help,” he said, cracking his lips in the sweetest smile that his training as an actor provided. “Your secret's safe with me.”
It took an hour to get out of the apartment. William helped Joseph out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his hips, and held on to him as he stepped into a pair of pants and slid a sweater over his head. The sweater was too thick for the mercury of August but warm enough to control his shivering. “Come on,” William said encouragingly, as he steadied his friend by the waist and led him down the stairs to the sidewalk.
“I can walk on my own.” Joseph pushed away William's hands. He stopped for a minute to lean against a neighboring rail post. “I'm just dizzy.”
“Of course you are,” William agreed, refusing orders and returning his hands to his friend's waist to keep him moving. “You'll be okay in a few days.”
Joseph didn't respond, he just nodded and continued down the sidewalk toward Park Avenue. They were walking so slowly, people stepped into the street to bypass them. William waved his arm on the corner and caught the first cab. He ushered Joseph into the back seat so gently, even racing around to the other side of the car so he didn't have to climb across the seat, that Joseph was glad he hadn't disappointed him by asking him to leave. They were still friends. Their love for each other still mattered.
“Carlyle,” William yelled through the glass divider. “You want me to wait for you outside? I don't mind.”
“No, don't wait,” Joseph whispered. “You have the keys.”
“Why are you going to the Carlyle? Is it for an acting job?” William kept his tone light to prevent any trace of anger that could be detected in his voice.
“No. I have to meet a friend up there.”
“A woman?” William asked.
“A friend,” Joseph repeated. “I don't want Del to know because she doesn't need to be bothered right now.” Joseph cleared his throat to change the subject. His eyes widened to punctuate the sincerity of his next words.
“William, I want you to know that you can still ask me for help if you need it. I mean that. I realize things have been tough for you lately. If there's anything I can do . . . ”
William ignored the hand unclenching on the seat between them, opening like a vulnerable offering. He turned his head to look out the window as the cab accelerated through midtown.
“Too late for that,” he replied.
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ON THE SEVENTH floor hallway of the Carlyle, the pain in his stomach was already receding, and his chest eased its tight grip. Health, some last warm jet of it, was returning to him now. He had kept tears from his eyes the entire cab ride up to the hotel, but now they were quickly spilling out. Aleksandra opened the door wearing a cream silk dress that amplified the birthmark on her neck. Her dry, washed hair waved down her cheeks, and she pierced her lips at the sight of him as if forming a contracted
W
â
what, who, why
.