North of Boston (4 page)

“What's your name?” she calls out, as if he's at the other end of an airplane hangar. The vodka's anesthetized the part of her brain that judges distances.

“Larry,” he calls back good-naturedly, joining her in the fun of distant greetings.

“Larry? Larry? You're kidding me!
Larry
rhymes with
marry
!” She's delighted, lets a sly glance sweep across us both. Her drunkenness is so obvious and endearing in its way that she can get away with saying infantile things like this. She points to Max, who's got a rapt face turned toward her trust-fund body, which curves like a nubile dollar sign. “And what do you think of
this
guy, Pirio? He's way cute, isn't he? Max, Max, Max!” she crows.

If you stopped her in this moment and checked to see what's in her brain, you'd probably find a photo of a brilliant white, double-whammy wedding atop the caption
Pirio and Thomasina Find Decent Guys and Settle Down to Happy Lives at Last
.

Max takes her show of enthusiasm as an opportunity to kiss her dramatically on the cheek. She throws her arms around him like he's Daddy home from work. “I can't believe how much I already like you,” she says.

I take a closer look. Max is as quick and trim as a featherweight boxer, with restless eyes, and a dimple that flashes on and off. There's a sense of excited distractibility about him. He's constantly in motion: an eyebrow peaks, his hands speak, his knee bounces. He whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh. I immediately try to gauge how he would treat a child—specifically, an emotionally complex ten-year-old with a genius-level IQ. The thought is too depressing to continue.

Thomasina swats Max playfully for whatever indecency he proposed, then leans across my lap to have a pseudo-intimate talk with our newfound fourth. “Have you ever been in love, Larry?”

“Once or twice,” he admits.

“That's all? Crazy boy! I've been in love a
hundred
times.” She sweeps her arms out as if to embrace the world, then leans forward again cozily. “But never for real. Real, true love. But maybe this guy's the one, huh?” She jabs a cocked thumb at Max, who is looking on with glee. “Stranger things have happened. You meet a guy at your not-husband's funeral. . . . So? Maybe not kosher, you say. But I say, what's wrong with that? You gotta meet him
somewhere
, right?
The funeral-baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage table.
That's Shakespeare, in case you're wondering. I used to know a lot of Shakespeare. And not just
Out, damned spot!
and
My kingdom for a horse
. Hey, you want to know what this guy's totally complete name is?”

Larry produces a look of interest.

“Maxwell Little-Pierce. That's his real, true name. Mr. Maximum, I call him. Max-i-
yum
. Descended from the
Mayflower.
” She rears back and raises her index finger to make her next point professorial. “And
that
was a hell of a boat!” Such a sterling idea requires a long belt of vodka.

Larry, to his credit, doesn't comment, letting Thomasina veer off to other subjects. Johnny has been watching all this silently, occasionally tipping a beer bottle to his mouth. His chair is pulled back a little and cocked at an odd angle to the table in a way that seems both aloof and mildly threatening.

A heavy sadness settles over me as Thomasina continues to rant. Max nuzzles her, she shoves him away, tries to pull him back by balling the front of his sweater in her hand.

“Whoa! Hold on there, lady. You'll stretch it!” he says in mock outrage, and leans in for a kiss.

That turns out to be as much as I can take. I say my good-byes, and Larry pushes back his chair and stands up, apparently ready to leave as well.

In a cold sober voice that travels straight across the table, Johnny says, “Hold on there, Larry. It's Larry, right? You never told us how you knew Ned.”

The question seems to startle Larry. He delays a beat too long, says they went to school together. “A long time ago,” he adds, with a self-mocking laugh, resting the fingers of one hand lightly on the back of his chair.

“Really? Where?” Oyster Man's not going to let him off the hook.

Larry looks around the bar as if trying to get his geographic bearings. “Uh . . . South Boston High.”

The table goes silent.

“What?”
I stare at Larry in disgust.

“Oh, honey,” Thomasina slurs. “My not-husband went to BC High on a basketball scholarship. Even the ducklings on the Common know that.”

The look Johnny is giving Larry right now could make the duck pond freeze.

Larry doesn't deny or try to explain. He follows me to the door.

The coats are a jumbled mess, hanging on hooks and fallen to the floor in the tiny coatroom. I find mine and, while I'm putting it on, Larry says, “I was wondering . . . before you go . . .”

Well, hell-on-a-stick,
I think,
the shameless bastard's going to ask me out.

There's no excuse for what I start thinking now, but there are mitigating factors: I'm lonely, I'm sad, I fear death by drowning, and I've got survivor's guilt. That's probably why I start thinking about love, and how it's escaped me, and how I never believed in it anyway. Friendship, maybe. Eroticism, definitely. Finding those two things in the same person would be more than enough for me. But romantic love,
true
love, the kind of thing Thomasina's gushing about? No, not really. Nothing more than
égoïsm à deux
. The simple fact that it's easier while drunk ought to raise some alarms. Not that I haven't experienced something like it once or twice, been swept away, lost my sense, felt the thatched hut of my heart grow into a palace overnight. But the palace was ransacked every time, the grand halls laid to waste. My latest debacle, with a guy who turned out to be married, is still making me feel like shit. So with cold eyes I look at Liar Larry standing there with his question about to be asked, roll a big fat
No
onto the tip of my tongue, and get ready to deliver it.

But instead of asking me out, he asks what kind of food I like. His is the slow approach.

I tell him I like all kinds. Food is a gift from the gods, and I don't play favorites.

He tells me he cooks Indian. Makes a good chicken korma.

I congratulate him while I button my coat. He better ask fast because I'm about to slip out the door.

“Would you—?”

“No! Because you lied. You didn't go to school with Ned.”

“Elementary school, not high school.”

“No, no, no. You didn't say elementary school. You said South Boston
High
. And you don't have a Boston accent. If you're going to impersonate a townie, you could at least learn to say
cahhhh
.”

He holds his eyes steady. Doesn't reply.

“Are you some kind of ambulance chaser? Personal injury lawyer? Or just a fucked-up party crasher?”

“Look, I was wondering, if you ever want to talk about what happened out there—”

“Out where?”

“On the ocean. If you recall any details—”

“Jesus, you
are
an ambulance chaser, aren't you? What, are you going to give me your card now? What kind of scumbag are you? You come to a
funeral
and do this?”

“I guess I deserve that.” He blinks slowly. Embarrassed, but taking the heat. “Here's my number in case you want to talk later. In case there's anything, anything at all, you want to say.”

His left hand gives me a slip of paper. I notice now that his right hand doesn't move much. It's not like raw meat dangling off the end of his arm; it's more like a small package he's holding close to his side. It's a testament to his subtlety that I didn't notice the paralysis before.

I don't feel sorry for him. Pity is an insult. And I'm royally pissed. I shove the slip of paper in my pocket and go out the door.

A cool, wet night. The neon shamrock above the pub reflects in a sidewalk puddle. At the deserted intersection, a traffic signal blinks to red. I cross the street, walk and breathe, walk and breathe. These days if I'm not hearing strains of bagpipe music or befriending pigeons, I'm angry—at big things, little things, everything. Surviving should make a person grateful to be alive, and I am. But I'm angry also, like some part of myself I really needed was stolen out there on the Atlantic, and now I'm some kind of cripple, too.

At the end of the block, I look over my shoulder. He's standing on the sidewalk, his collar up, his eyeglass lenses glinting. He turns slightly, pretending that he wasn't watching me walk away.

H
ome from work the next evening, I reach absentmindedly for the ringing telephone on the kitchen counter, but when I glance at caller ID, my hand freezes in midair. He's a little late with the condolences, the congratulations for being alive. But then I'm surprised he'd call at all, given the things that were said the last time we saw each other. As he pointed out (always quick with this), he'd never promised
blah, blah, blah
. . . . All he owed me was honesty. I countered with
“Analyze this koan: The cheating husband speaks of honesty.”

I don't pick up the phone, and he starts leaving a message: “Pirio? Pirio? Are you there? I saw the news—sorry I didn't call earlier. Just wanted to check in, make sure you're all right. Don't be mad forever, OK? Don't act like what we had was nothing. It was precious, special. You know it was. I care about you, think about you all the time. At least let me know you're all right—”

His voice feels like dusk in August, when the warm day meets the cool night and they kiss. From the portal of my ear, it spreads into every part of me, ripples along every inch of skin. The mind, they say, is plastic—always dismantling and remaking itself. I am waiting for the day when it dismantles my memory of the thrill and contentment, the illusory
completion
, I felt for a short time with him.

I hit the delete button before he can finish, and for a while I just stand there looking at the mute answering machine on the counter. It lies there flat and black, ugly as roadkill. The familiar ache in my chest begins. I must not call him back.

Desperate for distraction, I turn to the pile of mail that I brought up with me from my mailbox in the foyer, and immediately start thumbing through a home-and-garden catalog. Wistfully, I imagine a life in the country, where I could have a shed, a wheelbarrow, and digging tools such as a bulb planter. It is a short step until I see myself presiding over fields of blooming tulips—flower farming must be a very uplifting career. But soon the glossy pages bore me, and I dump the catalog unceremoniously into the recycle bin. Then stop short.

I'm looking at a white letter-size envelope with an embossed seal in the corner, return address in four lines of dark blue traditional font: Navy Experimental Diving Unit, U.S. Naval Sea Systems Command, U.S. Naval Support Activity, Panama City, FL. My first reaction is paranoia: I did something wrong. My second thought is that they want something from me.

Dear Ms. Kasparov,

Please accept our condolences regarding the tragic loss of Mr. Edward Rizzo, captain of the fishing vessel
Molly Jones
coming out of South Boston, MA.

It has come to our attention that in the course of this disaster you survived ocean temperatures of 42–48 degrees Fahrenheit for a period of four hours.

The Navy Experimental Diving Unit (NEDU) is the most credible and respected research, development, and test and evaluation center for diving, as well as the focal point of leadership for biomedical and bioengineering solutions for undersea military operations.

We are interested in knowing more about the circumstances of your survival and your body's ability to withstand extreme conditions. Our research into this area suggests that there may be distinct biochemical pathways and neurologic functions that contribute to an enhanced physiological response. We are currently in the process of trying to identify these functions to aid in the selection and training of military personnel.

We would appreciate it if you would submit to a complete physical exam, stress test, and DNA screening in our Panama City headquarters. Results will be kept strictly confidential and used for scientific purposes only.

Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to make arrangements. Travel and accommodation will be paid for by the U.S. Navy. We will also be able to offer a small honorarium for your participation in military research.

Thank you for your service to our country.

Yours sincerely,
Commander Audrey Stockwell

I have to read the letter several times. Is this for real? Did I just go from being a lucky local girl on a morning talk show to a potential secret weapon for the USA?

I google Panama City and see photographs of a sparkling bay and sandy beaches, two-story buildings with charming façades, cars devoid of rust, palm trees like sculptures of palm trees, ready to be molded in plastic miniatures and placed on cold northern windowsills as proof of the tropics. Average September temperature: 83 degrees.

I've never been a big fan of the military. Nothing against it, just never wanted to participate in the whole warfare thing. But I'm pretty sure there isn't going to be a comfortable way out of this—duty to my country and so on—and I need to do something to stop myself from picking up the phone when he calls again. At least in Florida there'll be sunshine to keep me warm.

—

Two enormous gray eyes stare at me. The irises are circled by a darker rim, and black liner has been heavily penciled along the upper and lower lids. Together the eyeliner and the irises' dark rim make almost concentric circles around the pupils. The effect is hypnotic. If you look into these eyes long enough, you begin to feel as if you could fall in.

The hair is white blond and cropped all around to about an inch from the skull. On the crown a few cowlicks are standing shock-straight. This is obviously not a conventional woman. She is sitting on a park bench in falling snow, wearing a long bulky coat. The background of the photo is flat and fuzzy, overexposed. You can just make out two rows of dark evergreens stretching into the distance, a white corridor between them, pristine and cold. Tiny snowflakes have settled on the shoulders of the woman's coat and glisten in her hair. The top half of the coat is partway open, showing that she is naked underneath. Her breasts are small, very white, and gently round, the nipples hidden by the coat's lapels.

Scrawled across the bottom of the photograph in a loose, handwritten script like a celebrity's autograph is the caption:
L'Amour du Nord. From Inessa Mark.
This was the ad and the fragrance that brought my mother's fledgling perfume company national attention and, eventually, international success.

The photograph is huge; it occupies an entire wall in the entranceway of Milosa's Beacon Hill town house. I believe that at first he kept it displayed to intimidate his bimbos. He thought that as soon as they saw her famous, haunted beauty, they would realize that no matter how hard they tried, they would never rise to the level of his first and probably only love. I don't think any of them cared. They seemed happy enough to be one-night or weekend guests of Milosa Kasparov, whom they called Mike.

Maureen was different—more intelligent, more ambitious. As the young director of marketing, she was the logical choice to take over the company's day-to-day operations when my mother died. She became Inessa Mark, Inc.'s steady hand as Milosa indulged in several years of depressed debauchery that ended with his marriage to her. She saved the company; she saved him. She clearly deserves more credit than I'm willing to give.

Now she approaches, holding out a long-stemmed glass of white wine. Perfectly chilled, it cools the palm of my hand. Maureen's face is a dainty inverted triangle; her hands are small as a girl's. She stands next to me companionably, her head tilted in casual appraisal of her predecessor. “She certainly was lovely, wasn't she?”

Maureen stretches her words out so long you have no choice but to hang on them. The languid cadence feels slightly southern, even though she was raised in an ordinary suburb of Boston, the kind of place that flattens people with its plotted comforts and unease.

“But those bulky coats were not the most attractive style, don't you agree?” She arches an eyebrow at me as though we're sisters who care about such things.

Style is something that Maureen has spent her adult life trying to set. Style in scent, in furnishings, in dress. At the moment she's wearing a satiny dark green sheath over bare legs, and ballet flats, no doubt donned for dinner. Usually, she goes barefoot in the house, but always in a dress. She must have a hundred dresses in her closet, most of them slightly costumey, like Barbie's. She tends to package herself like a birthday present, with bows and belts and matching thises and thats.

“I like bulky coats,” I say.

My mother's will left her majority share of Inessa Mark, Inc., entirely to her husband, with a few conditions—first, that if I wanted it, her share would come to me on my twenty-first birthday, and, second, that again if I wanted it, full ownership of the company would revert to me upon his death. Of course I wanted it. To me, Inessa Mark, Inc., is my mother, my connection to my mother, and my destiny. It's a sacred trust that's given my life purpose and direction, and saved me from the typical flounderings of my twenty-something peers. After working part-time at the company doing lower-level jobs while I was studying at UMass, I was glad to move to a full-time management position when I got my degree. Milosa set about teaching me the business end of things, and as my skill and confidence increased, he gradually pulled back. It was never the company he loved anyway; it was my mother. These days he comes into the Boylston Street office no more than a few times a week, while Maureen keeps everything running smoothly, just as she's always done. It often strikes me as odd and amazing that three such different individuals, with such complicated webs of tension running among them, nevertheless manage to work together reasonably well.

Jeffrey, our cook and housekeeper, announces that dinner is ready, and Maureen and I move into the dining room. The table is spread with an impressive amount of china, silver, and crystal. There's a small crowd of Wedgwood plates and Waterford glasses at each setting, two lavishly twisting candelabras, a centerpiece of gorgeous white lilies in a cut-glass vase. The walls of the room are painted pea-ish green, an authentically colonial color, and a threadbare oriental rug stretches across the floor. Royal Doulton figurines people the shelves of the Queen Anne sideboard, while gold silk drapes with tasseled swags adorn the two windows that open onto the historic cobblestone street where darkness has fallen. Every time I enter this bastion of stilted tradition, I want to scream. Although he would strenuously deny it, and often acts (pouring on the brio) as if the exact opposite were true, Milosa is deeply ashamed of his impoverished Russian origins. So he out-Cabots the Cabots, out-Brahmins the Brahmins. Beacon Hill never saw a more loyal bastard son than he.

Maureen and I take our places at the table—Maureen at one end, me in the middle. Milosa's place remains unoccupied. He always comes to dinner last: keeping people waiting is his way of establishing dominance. Jeffrey announces the menu: swordfish with sun-dried tomato and black olive paste, garlic risotto, green beans amandine, and rustica from a nearby bakery.

“Jeffrey, the curtains,” Maureen says, wagging her index finger slightly.

He pulls them closed and hurries out of the dining room, the bright tea towel that he uses to wipe his hands flapping from the back pocket of his jeans. In a few seconds he's back, carrying two small plates. Jumbo shrimp on beds of crushed ice next to silver bowls of cocktail sauce and horseradish.

Maureen waves the plates away. “Let's hold off on the appetizers until Mr. Kasparov is seated.”

Jeffrey gives me a look that says
Oh, please.

Milosa's footsteps are audible on the stairs. When he enters the dining room, Jeffrey plunks Maureen's shrimp plate in front of her. Milosa takes his seat, and the three of us shake out our linen napkins and place them in our laps.

“What happened to you is extraordinary,” my father tells me. He speaks with a Russian accent, and he always gets right to the point. I haven't seen him since the accident. It was Maureen, as usual, who arranged this dinner.

He picks up a pink shrimp with his fingers, inspects it, puts it whole into his mouth. He believes the hard tail end of the shrimp that most people leave on the plate is good for one's digestion. His jaws crunch the shell slowly, with a rotating motion like a goat's.

“And of course we're sorry about your friend,” Maureen adds. One of her most cherished delusions is that she and Milosa share a common set of emotions.

“How did you manage to survive?” Milosa asks.

I have to smile. This is always his question:
How?
He'd never think to ask God why there is human suffering. He'd want to know how the universe was made. And he'd pay close attention to the answer because in the back of his mind he'd be wondering if he could do it himself. His pale eyes right now are murderously inquisitive, awaiting my response.

“I have no idea.”

Maureen laughs as though I've said something charming. “You must be a good swimmer.”

“Decent, I guess. I do a mile three times a week at the Y. But you know that.”

“Of course. Silly of me to forget.”