The Refrain (The Bridge Series) (13 page)

November 13, 2003

N
ATALIE’S
A
BSTINENCE
C
HECKLIST:

One beer (because it was the only thing to drink after that tub of really spicy hummus.)

Zero sex (but if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve thought about different scenarios with almost every guy I’ve met, even the poor husband planning a birthday party for his bitchy wife.)

Two cigarettes (because smoking is healthier than jumping off a ledge.)

Three tiny white lies (but I don’t really count the time I told Mom I was excited about her plans for American Thanksgiving, so only two lies.)

Zero drama (which is frightening – the calm before the storm and what not.)

Chloe and I never talk about Adam. We don’t really talk about Zach. And we refuse to talk about how shitty we both feel. She smiles, I smile. I laugh, she laughs – and every Thursday night we order pizza and watch
Friends
. Boring perfection.

I close the checklist on my computer screen as Molly approaches my desk. “Natalie, I’m going to Jersey to look at a warehouse for that Goldberg wedding. Do you want to tag along?” She’s been so sympathetic lately, allowing me to focus on Zach’s party instead of actually doing my job.

“Oh Molly, you make it sound so tempting. But I’m actually meeting Chloe for drinks.” I lie. Add it to the checklist.

“Fun! Oh, to be young and single in Manhattan. Enjoy it!”

Yep, pure joy.

“Totally. It’s the life we’ve dreamed of since we were teenagers.” Except our teenaged delusions painted a much different picture . . . Chloe was going to be a rock star and I was supposed to be the actress hiring event planners.

Molly fastens her burgundy swing coat and pulls on gray leather gloves. Just one day in her closet, that’s all I want. “I’m off to the Garden State . . . wish me luck.”

“Have fun.”

I finish up an invoice for a client and then read over my emails. Mostly junk mail, and by that I mean correspondence from Mom. She’s determined to give me every single detail for the upcoming LeGrange Family Thanksgiving.

Ding
. An email from Peter Fuchs appears in my inbox. Is this Pete? Shit, did I not even know his last name when I pulled his boxers down with my teeth . . .

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:

Hey Natalie,

I have two tickets to a taping of The View if you’re interested. I can mail them to you today.

Your friend,

Pete

Fantastic! I quickly respond.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Tickets

We’ll take them. Thanks and Happy Thanksgiving.

Natalie

I shut off my computer and pack up for the night. It’s only 4:45 p.m., but it’s completely dark outside my window and my brain seems to think it’s time for bed. How do people live in Alaska during a month of darkness? I want to swing by the guitar store and see Chloe in action before we grab our Thursday Pie Special of pepperoni, mushrooms and a sprinkle of self-pity.

I take the elevator alone.

I wave goodbye to the little old man in suspenders that works the evening shift.

I chat with the family of tourists and give them directions to the
real
Broadway.

I do a little window shopping at Anthropolgie.

I purchase a lace t-shirt from said window of Anthropolgie.

I wander down Bleecker with a million thoughts swirling in my head.

I walk into the guitar store and strum a fancy banjo.

I knock over a display of books and laugh hysterically.

I’m asked to wait outside.

“Hey, my boss was pretty pissed that you destroyed his neatly arranged pyramid of books. But – thanks for the laugh!” Chloe wraps her paisley scarf around her neck and nudges my side.

“I’m sorry, but if you have a fucking banjo just sitting there, I’m gonna play it. Are you in trouble?” I ask.

The wind is starting to pick up as we walk back to our apartment. Native New Yorkers know to keep their heads down when fighting a blistering wind and angry pedestrians, but Chloe and I have a different approach. We stroll through the city we love.

“Simon is like the nicest man I know, he just gets his knickers in a wad over certain things . . . maybe don’t touch the five-thousand dollar instruments next time?” She chuckles.

“Holy shit. Who pays that kind of money for a banjo?”

“Lots of people, collectors mostly. That’s actually one of the perks of this job – vintage guitars are like diamonds to me.”

“Really? You would rather have a guitar than a diamond ring?” I ask.

“Possibly. Hey, can we get Chinese? I had pizza for lunch.”

We approach the corner of our building and run across the street. Our neighborhood is lucky enough to have a decent Chinese restaurant that hasn’t closed or changed names in twenty years, and we like to think our weekly business is what’s keeping them afloat.

“As long as we get the vegetable dumplings. And I really don’t like the brown rice,” I add.

We walk into the brightly lit restaurant that advertises its dine-in or take-out options, but there’s only one table and one chair, so clearly, they want customers to get the fuck out.

“Hello girls, what’ll it be?” Calvin is a few years older than us and the next in line to inherit the Golden Palace. He spent five years at Berkeley studying some weird art movement and then reluctantly, came back to New York to run the kitchen. And his parents named him after Calvin Klein, which is all sorts of awesome.

“Egg drop soup, vegetable dumplings . . . chicken or steak, Nat?” Chloe grabs one of the paper menus and scans the entrees.

Sadly, I have them memorized. “The Imperial Treasure, it has steak and chicken.”

Chloe nods in agreement and asks, “Are there mushrooms?”

“Tell me what vegetables you want and I’ll throw them in,” Calvin answers.

“Carrots, mushrooms, string beans, broccoli,” I list, holding up my fingers.

“Ten minutes.” Calvin takes the order back to the kitchen while Chloe and I hop on the table like unwelcomed teenagers.

Chloe slaps my leg. “This woman came into the store today looking for a Gibson electric. She seemed familiar but then again, everyone in New York looks oddly familiar.”

“I know, right? I swear, the secretary in my office building that looks like Shannon Doherty,” I say.

“Ha! And you probably think she’s a bitch, right?”

“Of course! It’s a known phenomenon, like doppelgangers – you have a person that resembles someone you hate so by association, you dislike all guilty parties. You know, I always hated Brenda,” I add.

“Yeah right, you hated Brenda so much you dressed like her in those awful high-waist jeans . . . you even cut your own bangs!” Chloe rolls her eyes. “And you loved her in
Mallrats
. So anyway . . . this familiar face comes into the store. Her hair had streaks of purple and her clothes were torn and wrinkled. We started talking about CBGB and how awesome it would’ve been to go there during the eighties . . . do you know who it was?”

“Courtney Love!”

“What? No.”

“Veruca Salt?”

“Wow – that’s random. It was Shirley Manson from Garbage.”

“Cool. Did you get her autograph?”

“I’m not a creep, Nat. But, I did keep her signed receipt.” Chloe whips out the small paper from her bag and waves it in front of me.

“We should decoupage it on the coffee table,” I suggest.

“Yeah, we could start an entire collection of decoupage furniture. You’re such a crafty genius, Nat. She’s crafty . . . she gets around,” Chloe sings.

I know this song better than the Canadian national anthem. “She’s crafty . . . she’s always down,” I add.

“Ready. I put in some extra duck sauce and you didn’t even have to ask. That’ll be eighteen-fifty.” Calvin smiles brightly as we hop off the table. Chloe pays for dinner and I promise to buy her a case of Diet Snapple in the deli next door.

“Thanks Calvin, tell your mom hello,” Chloe says.

We take our smiley face shopping bag full of sodium goodness and head to Upmarket Delicatessen. Most delis in Manhattan have a buffet line of overpriced salmonella, but our deli is like a specialty store with imported swank. We can even get Lay’s Ketchup Chips.

“How’s that surprise birthday party coming along?” Chloe asks.

“Oh God, the wife is such a bitch. Can you believe she actually gave her husband a detailed list of instructions? Like, no yellow decorations and only crystal glassware. Please . . . that poor husband should do everything wrong out of spite.”

“Or maybe you could send yellow invitations.” Chloe smiles like a fat cat. I love her.

“That’s just the sort of mistake I’m willing to make.”

We go to the nearest register with a case of Diet Peach Snapple and a bag of M&M’s. The cashier is a young guy, skinny and tattooed – he takes my money while staring overtly at Chloe. She’s so clueless sometimes to the amount of attention she gets. I roll my eyes and nudge her in the side.

“Thanks so much, Fabian,” I say, reading his nametag.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Have a great night,” he replies.

The street is rather quiet for six o’clock, but it’s on nights like this when the City feels like a fictional movie set – like this perfect setting waiting for
action
.

“When are your parents getting here?” I ask as we enter our building.

“Next Saturday – good news is they’re going straight to Connecticut for Thanksgiving festivities. Did you take the twenty-eighth off – what is Black Friday anyway?”

“It’s a day when you can buy shit you don’t need for a low price.”

“Sounds lovely. I’m always in the market for shit I don’t need,” Chloe says.

We take the elevator up to our floor with Ms. Pratt from 5A. She’s nice enough, but I don’t think she really agrees with our lifestyle – she’s old school and believes women should cook all their meals in order to snatch that perfect man.

Ms. Pratt frowns at our bag of Chinese. “Good night, ladies. Enjoy your dinner.”

“You, too!” We say in unison. Yep, we’re those girls.

After we deposit our dinner on the counter and the tea in the refrigerator, Chloe and I head straight to the bedroom to change into our finest loungewear. I accidentally pull out Pete’s sweatpants and nervously stuff them deeper into my dresser. I should really get rid of them.

“You look marvelous darling,” Chloe says, pointing to my purple leggings and Ziggy t-shirt from a decade ago.

“And I love what you’ve done with your hair, mademoiselle!”

“Shall we dine?” Chloe asks.

She turns on the television while I grab the plates, napkins and Snapple. We settle on the couch and tear open the smiley face bag. Calvin put in like twenty containers of duck sauce – maybe he was being clever or maybe he feels sorry for the two old maids that always . . .

“WNBC News at Six, New York’s number one news source. Breaking news. A roadside bomb exploded near the Pakistani border earlier today. Of the three confirmed dead, two Marines are reported to have been residents of the Tri-state area. Lt. John Fender of Bayonne, New Jersey and Lt. Zacharie Parker of New York City. We will continue to bring you updates as more information becomes available. Now stay tuned for the . . .”

I clutch my necklace . . . the star burning a hole right through my soul.

November 21, 2003

Z
ACHARIE
P
ASCALE
P
ARKER
was a hero.

His journey ended on a dirt road near a goat farm just two weeks shy of his furlough. What started as a routine sweep through the countryside, tragically ended with an IED explosion planted by the cowardly face of the Taliban. Three Marines of the fire team were killed and all three Marines were brought home. Zach’s journey ended in Afghanistan – but his salvation remains eternally present among the stars.

Zach’s body was transported with distinction and respect to the United States Air Force base in Dover, Delaware. Upon arrival, the body was transferred by guarded hearse to the Dover Air Force Mortuary. Our hero was dressed in full Marine Corps blues, shoes polished, nails trimmed, and short hair combed with care. The articles found on the person were catalogued and photographed as well as the footlocker and personal belongings of our hero. The closed coffin was adorned with an American flag and flown with two honor guards to JFK International Airport. The hero was welcomed by military officials and an honor guard, dignifying his return with the ceremonial attention and salute. Zach’s body was then driven by military hearse to McMillan’s Funeral Home in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Home.

Friends and family gather inside the funeral home to remember the valiant life of our fallen hero. Several approach the podium to speak of his legacy and his ultimate sacrifice. They all end with the same sentiments of admiration – a remembrance of the tiny impact humans are capable of leaving behind. Zacharie Parker will be remembered as the boy with the crooked smile and floppy mess of sandy hair, the student with a love for science and philosophy
,
the fraternity brother with the charismatic charm, the Marine lieutenant with an amazing lay-up, the son with honorable determination and unwavering integrity, and the prince . . .

Natalie stands slowly with the help of Chloe and walks impassively to the podium. She’s been here before, this same room, less than a year ago – but it will never be a place of familiarity. She glides her fingers over the framed picture of Zach and gives him a wink. It was Aunt Patty’s suggestion to have Natalie speak – it was Aunt Patty’s intention to have Natalie heal. But healing a damaged soul is much harder than healing a broken heart.

She stands behind the microphone and angles her body toward the casket. Natalie is speaking to Zach, and everyone else is just here to listen.

“One day, not too long ago, I was lost. And then you found me. To say our love was instant is a little crazy, but for two crazy dreamers, we made perfect sense. Because all men have stars.” Natalie pauses, closing her eyes and inhaling her pain.

“La vie est un interlude au salut. Life is an interlude to salvation. Tu es mon salut. I am your interlude. Mais sans toi, je n’ai rien . . . I have nothing.” She’s lost without her prince. Tears cascade down her cheeks, but she smiles with grace and affection. “I loved you. I love you. I will faithfully love you, and I abso-fucking-lutely, regret nothing!”

The room is silent. Natalie’s words may seem crass to those that don’t understand, but to those who knew of their magical relationship, her words are poetry. Judy and Chloe hug each other tightly. Aunt Patty dabs her eyes with a lace hanky. Raymond Parker lowers his head and whimpers in agony. A few rows back, Molly leans into Mr. Ross and sobs uncontrollably. Several older ladies wail in response to the other’s reactions and several older men, bow their heads in respect. And way in the back, standing in a reclusive corner near the door, with his body limp and deeply affected – Adam closes his eyes.

Natalie returns to her seat as the minister eloquently gives the closing remarks about the soul’s eternal existence after the body’s non-existence. People nod in hopeful agreement, because fear of death forces people to nod in hopeful agreement. The ceremony closes with a lovely alto singing Amazing Grace and the grieving lining up to pay their respects to the Parker family.

Six members of the honor guard carefully carry the casket to the hearse to then be driven to the private cemetery of the Parker lineage. A procession of cars follows behind the hearse through the quaint village of Greenwich, Connecticut.

This is Zach’s home. That’s the park where he played basketball and attempted the death ramp on his skateboard. Over there, behind the bank, Zach smoked his first cigarette. His private school, off to the left, still displays his photo in the hall of class presidents. And up there, in his favorite spot to gaze upon the stars, was to be the location for his proposal to Natalie.

The procession parks one by one along the rocky perimeter of the cemetery. Mourners exit their cars to congregate around the burial site. Family members, including Natalie, are seated in a row near the covered vault. The honor guard marches the casket to the site with cadence and precision, respecting the final steps of our hero’s sacrificial service. The six guards then place the coffin on the covered burial vault and slowly, with military accuracy, lift the American flag and pull it taut. The seven-member firing party shoots three volleys into the cloudy November sky and with each shot, Natalie mouths:

“I.”
Fire.

“Love.”
Fire.

“You.”
Fire.

Chloe places her hand on Natalie’s shoulder and Aunt Patty takes Natalie’s shaking hand. The silence echoes through the damp air – beautiful and frightening, but for Natalie, it sounds like nothing.

The honor guard folds the flag with care and precision – they are experts in ceremonial traditions. A bugler plays the solemn notes of Taps, while the Marine captain standing in attention at the foot of the casket slowly salutes our hero.

Once the flag is folded, the captain carries the symbol of national gratitude and kneels before Raymond Parker. “Please accept this flag in appreciation of Lieutenant Zacharie Parker’s faithful service to the United States Marine Corps. Semper Fidelis.”

Raymond Parker nods in acceptance and places the flag in his lap. The captain rises to his feet and returns to the foot of the casket. In unison, the honor guard slowly salutes Zach’s coffin as it is lowered into the desert of tears.

Salute.

Le Salut.

Zacharie Pascale Parker has found his salvation.