Goldilocks (28 page)

“I just want you to look at it.” He swayed into the room as if the motions of a boat dictated his step. “I think it’s looking better, don’t you?”

It looked neither better nor worse to her. She said, “Yes, it looks better.”

“And I got less pain in my arm. That’s a good sign, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Now get out.”

He stared at her with a dismay that turned to anger when she resumed straightening the sheets. “You’re not going to bed, are you, for Christ’s sake? It’s only six-thirty.”

“I need my sleep.”

“You get too much,” he said, aggrieved. “I’m up all damn night. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“But you got problems, Mrs. Goss. You got bills piling up. I’d write the checks out for you, but I can’t on account of my hand.” When she said nothing, he hung his face out. “You don’t care if they cut the power off? You going to sit here in the dark?” He raced his good hand through his shaggy hair. His jaws were stubbly. “We got no food in the house. We were supposed to go shopping, remember?”

“Go yourself,” she said softly.

“You got to do something. The house is dirty, starting to stink, you know that?”

She fluffed a pillow.

“You don’t give a shit, do you?” Something went out of him. “You don’t care, why should I?”

She revealed no feelings. Her trick was in pretending she had none.

“My hand gets better, I’ll leave,” he said.

She turned her back on him. “You’re never going to leave, I know that.”

He swayed from the room with the same sailor step with which he had entered. She closed the door without clicking it shut, for she knew the sound would rouse him, possible incite him. He did not want to be shut out any more than he was. With a light and almost carefree step, she returned to the bed and gazed down at it, pretending it was smaller, not this bed at all but her childhood bed. She yearned for her pigtails, Girl Scout shoes, innocence. She wanted her coloring book, her cutout dolls, her bedroom with animals on the wallpaper and the sweetness of a cleaner air blowing in on her. She wanted her diary, every page pure. She wanted to split open her Donald Duck bank and rake her fingers through a wealth of pennies, some Indian heads, gifts from her grandfather, who had served in the Spanish-American War and was photographed on a horse. Henry called through the door.

“I’m going for pizza. You want some?”

“No,” she said in a clear voice.

Undressing, she heard him back the car out of the garage and pictured him battling the wheel with one hand while protecting the other. In bed she nestled well under the covers and listened to a stiff breeze that mimicked the rush of her breathing, as if there were a connection. For a long while she did her best to remember the name of the tousle-haired teacher who had been so kind to her. It was on the tip of her tongue when she fell asleep and dreamed she was watching a man disrobe in a kind of bathhouse. He made a neat pile of the garments and then took off his legs, shook away his arms, and smiled. The head stays on, he told her. Queer dream. Senseless, she told herself while dreaming it, ridiculous, and woke up. Henry was staring down at her.

“The pain’s come back,” he said.

She paid no attention and drifted into another dream that made less sense than the first. The nicest part was knowing unequivocally that none of this was real, that should she choose she could easily float away. She woke again, gradually, her head turning. Henry had crawled into bed and lay against her. She pressed a foot against him, but he would not move. “You don’t belong here,” she said.

He hung his hand near her face and moaned, “Kiss it and make it better, Mrs. Goss.”

“Then will you go?”

“Yes,” he promised.

• • •

Barney Cole spent the afternoon with Arnold Ackerman in Boston, box seats in Fenway Park, a makeup game between the Sox and the Tigers. Five dollars rode on it. Cole had the Sox and lost, which he could not understand. “Clemens pitching, I should’ve won.”

“He’s won too many games,” Arnold said, accepting the five as if it had been his from the first throw of the game. “Law of averages was pressing on him. It’s like ragweed in August. You can’t escape it.”

Though the hard chairs hurt their haunches, they stayed seated while the crowds pushed toward the exits. Crews were already on the field smoothing down torn turf, erasing every trace of the contest. Arnold wrinkled his brow from too much sun on his semibald head and loosened his lizard-skin belt: too many hot dogs from a vendor who had borne a startling resemblance to one of the Three Stooges, Moe.

“Looking out at the field, Barney, I remember all the times your father and I sat here, maybe even these same seats. A big game for us was when the Yankees came to town. Williams against DiMaggio, that’s the way we saw it. Your father couldn’t understand how I could root for the New York Italian over Williams. He thought it was perverse.”

“Actually DiMaggio was from San Francisco.”

“I’m talking about the team, Barney, not where the hell he was born.”

“Excuse me.”

“Not your fault. You don’t know better. We took your mother to a couple of games, but she didn’t enjoy herself, and to be truthful we didn’t like having her there. It was like we had to entertain her. But they were close, your mother and father. It was no surprise she passed on so soon after he did.”

“No surprise at all,” Cole said, “but still a shock.” They rose from their chairs, Arnold furling his souvenir program and then pausing to rub his legs. Cole said, “As I remember, you and my father never took me to a game.”

“Course not. We didn’t figure baseball was for kids.”

They followed the last of the crowd out of the park and trekked across Kenmore Square to the lot where Cole had left the Cutlass. A fresh dent in the driver’s door was impossible to miss, but Cole ignored it. He opened the door and unlatched Arnold’s side.

“We should’ve taken my car,” Arnold said. “I smelled oil all the way from Lawrence.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Figured you knew.” Arnold anchored himself down with a seat belt and lowered his window for air. Cole failed to start the engine with the first try but succeeded with the second. Arnold said, “You don’t take care of a car. Your father didn’t either.”

The air in Kenmore Square was gritty. Arnold raised the window. On Storrow Drive the traffic was a river of noise. On the up-ramp to Interstate
93
Cole said, “There’s something I never asked my father. I’d like to ask you, Arnold. Why did he put himself on the take? It wasn’t like him.”

“Don’t judge him, Barney.”

“I’m not. I’m just asking.”

“It was expected of him,” Arnold said flatly. “You know how Lawrence works. A few phantom jobs in a department, a modest kickback from a contractor, that’s all considered legitimate. If your old man hadn’t done it, no one would’ve trusted him. They’d have shunned him. And let’s face it, he wasn’t the sort to rock the boat. So he went along. That answer your question?”

Cole had an unsavory image of his father floating among city hall officials habited in dark overcoats collared with ratty strips of fake fur. “He wasn’t very smart about it. Long after he quit taking, the state cops came in and got enough so the D.A. could’ve indicted.”

“That’s the irony, Barney. He was never greedy, never brought attention to himself. It was the flagrant guys the cops came after, and when those guys got caught they started finking on everybody. That’s how your father got swept into it. If it wasn’t for you getting help from Louise, he’d have died a broken man.”

“I did what I had to.”

“You were his son. What else could you do?”

“When I got married he bought me a house. I knew the money was dirty. I’m still living in it.”

“That bothers you?”

“It didn’t at the time.”

“You had to take it. Otherwise you’d have made him feel lower than he already felt.” Arnold dropped the window an inch and enjoyed the breeze, his eye on faster-moving cars that fishtailed into other lanes. “You work at it hard enough, Barney, there’s always a way to justify everything you do.”

“That’s what bothers me the most, Arnold.”

Arnold scooched down in his seat, the belt buckle riding up on him. “Do what I do, Barney. Act like the whole world is perfect.” He closed his eyes. “Don’t mind, do you? I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Two or three minutes later Cole pressed down on the accelerator and switched lanes. He thought Arnold was asleep but soon felt a touch on his arm.

“Take your time getting me home, Barney. All I got waiting is a can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti.”

Cole made himself a sandwich and plucked a bottle of dark German beer from the refrigerator. In the sun room he flicked on the small television set and, with his feet up, watched highlights of the Red Sox loss on the six o’clock news. When the camera panned the stands he looked for himself and Arnold, but the movement was too swift. During the weather report he thought he heard a car pull into the drive but moments later detected the sound of one puttering away. Then the telephone rang. Taking his bottle of beer with him, he answered it in the kitchen. The caller was Marge, working late, reminding him that he had an early court case in the morning. “Go home,” he told her.

“Easy for you to say. A Mr. Cruickshank called, wouldn’t tell me what he wanted, said he’d call back sometime.”

“I’m sure he will. By the way, Marge, put yourself down for a ten-percent raise, effective next paycheck.”

“What? Why?”

“You deserve it. After you do that, go home.”

He finished his beer and set the bottle in the sink. He was peeling pages of the calendar, wondering when he and Kit Fletcher might coordinate a vacation, when the phone rang again. He picked it up with a smile, thinking it was Marge with something she had forgotten to tell him.

“It’s me.” The voice was Louise Baker’s. “I’m back.”

“I heard you were,” he said. “Why?”

“My mother still needs me.”

The reply did not entirely wash. Mrs. Leone had always struck him as an independent person even in times of calamity and tragedy. He said, “You’re a good daughter.”

“Family’s important. Friends are too.”

“You sound different.”

“I am,” she said. “I’ve come to a decision about the rest of my life, nothing I can tell you about on the phone, but I think you’ll like it.”

He guessed what it was and said, “Tired of working?”

“Yes, Barney. That’s it exactly. Time I was the real lady of the manor. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

“I thought you would. Now I want you to do me a favor — and don’t argue, just do it. Go look out your front door, then come back and tell me what you see.”

On his way he checked the time, for he wanted to watch the network news at seven. Opening the door, he saw nothing extraordinary until he shifted his gaze. Sitting in the driveway was a brand-new Cutlass Supreme much like the one West Street Motors had briefly lent him, except this one had a roof rack and fancier hubcaps. He returned to the phone.

“Whose is it?”

“Yours, Barney. From me to you. A gift, an apology, call it what you want, just don’t refuse it.”

“Are you crazy?”

She spoke passionately. “It’s a token of what I owe you, and I do owe you, Barney, I really do. You’re always there for me. You don’t know what that means to me.”

“The answer’s no, Lou. Definitely no.”

“You drive a junk, for God’s sake. A man your age should drive something better. So let me do this, OK?”

“No,” he said with an excruciating feeling that there was something more he should be doing, that there was some significant precaution he should be taking against her. The feeling haunted him.

She said, “Keep it for a few days. Drive it around, see how it goes. If you still don’t want it, I’ll take it back. I promise.”

“I like my own car, Lou. When I want a new one, I’ll buy it myself.”

“But you won’t. You’ll drive what you’ve got into the ground. I know you, Barney. So do this for me.”

“How do you think the feds will look at it? Use your head, Lou.”

“With you, Barney, it’s my heart. Are you alone?”

“No,” he lied.

“Can you get away?”

“Impossible.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’d never want to mess up your life. But keep the car, Barney. Please.”

“No way,” he said, but she had already rung off.

He went outside, a tremor of anger tripping his legs. The car in the drive glimmered in a fanciful way, as if breathing its own life. The windows were slightly lowered, and the driver’s door opened with a touch, exuding in scent and polish the newness of the interior. He suffered throes of regret when his shoe sullied the paper mat shielding the real one. The seat was a woman’s lap. He skimmed the heel of his hand down a slope of leather and experimentally flicked the ignition key into the first notch. Points of fire streaked across the digital panels like the spitting tongues of snakes. Ownership papers carrying his name lay beside him, along with a small vellum envelope, which he opened. The notepaper was scented, the script was Louise’s. “You were my first.” A lie, but so what? The car started up with all the force and none of the noise of a modern weapon. Then, with scarcely a nudge, it taxied toward the empty half of his garage.

• • •

Daisy Shea had a hundred dollars in his pocket, the price he’d gotten for the furniture in his minuscule office, twin file cabinets included. Depression had gripped him when he closed up the office for the last time, but later, downtown, a haircut and shoeshine made him feel right again. He began strolling Essex Street. It was a lovely afternoon, none nicer that he could remember, the sort of day that reinforced his theory that diseases in all stages were negotiable and his own sickness curable with a simple swallow of medicine, the trick being to find the right one.

Plate glass mirrored him and the growing crust of traffic beyond him. The hour was not as early as he would have liked, but nothing in life, he reasoned, was truly perfect. From a women’s store lilac-eyed mannequins flirted with him. Pausing, he flirted back. His stomach felt fine, and his barbered white hair gave him, he mused, a distinguished look tainted only by the stain on his tie. Behind him an elderly Hispanic woman dropped a package, which delighted him, a chance to do a good deed, perform a service. He swooped it up with a flourish and was thanked in overwhelming Spanish. Several stores down, he went into Kap’s and bought a tie.