The Last Night Out

by Catherine O'Connell

  ‘It sure is,’ I replied. That was the honest truth. The last months had flown past. I thought about all the wedding gifts piled in my childhood bedroom. The place looked like a bazaar.

  ‘You know, Mags, one of the best days of my life was the day I met you,’ Flynn said as we pulled off at Tower Road and headed east through the forest preserve, the overhead trees in full bloom. ‘I’ve never told you this, but from the beginning the thing I liked best about you, aside from your stellar personality, of course, was you weren’t one of those predatory women out there for money. You have real substance.

  ‘And you made me laugh. You really made me laugh. Promise to keep making me laugh after we’re married?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I answered, wondering if he’d heard the joke about the bachelorette party where the bride … Another unwanted image popped into my mind, the carpenter smiling at me on the dance floor like he’d known me forever. I admonished myself, wondering where these thoughts were coming from.

  And even worse, how could I be thinking them on the way to a friend’s funeral?

  SIXTEEN

  Vince

  All alone in Suzanne’s apartment, Vince thought about the spell she cast on him. How everything she did left an impression. He pictured her squaring her shoulders as she walked out the door on her way to the funeral, standing tall like a soldier readying for combat. The image tugged his heart in a way he had never experienced. He remembered how confidently tall she stood the first time he saw her on one of his construction sites. But this time it was a different tall. Her rigid posture was braced against the pull of sadness. He wished more than anything that he could have gone to the service with her – been there to fold her in his arms, to lend her a shoulder to cry on.

  Less than a week had passed since he’d last seen her, but it felt like a lunar year. He was glad he decided to stop in this morning unannounced, and gladder still when she welcomed him with open arms. They had made quick, torrid love. He thought with satisfaction of watching her slip the bracelet he had given her onto her slim wrist. God, he had missed her so wildly these past days.

  Rolling back onto the bed, he pushed his face into the sheets and breathed deeply of her scent, etching it into his olfactory sense for later enjoyment. Then he showered and dressed for the second time that day. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror knotting his tie with the image of her bedroom reflected through the open door. As to be expected, the room had real style, from the Frette linens to the Biedermeier sleigh bed to the Japanese prints adorning the walls. Suzanne had class, something his wife could never have, something all the money in the world couldn’t buy. In Vince’s mind, Suzanne was pure perfection. His obsession with her made him crazy with fear that she didn’t feel as strongly about him as he did about her. When he asked her about her past relationships, she told him the few boyfriends she’d had were so inconsequential they’d left no imprint. But certainly it wasn’t possible that someone as beautiful, as perfect as Suzanne, had never had a love affair. There had to have been some great passion in her life.

  Vince had noticed that there were very few personal photos displayed in Suzanne’s apartment. Surely she had mementos somewhere, pictures of her earlier life, life before him. Suddenly, he was struck with an idea that so violated her privacy he hated himself for even thinking it. But at the same time he knew he would act on it. He zeroed in on her walk-in closet, hesitating only briefly before stepping inside. Like the rest of the apartment, it was orderly beyond imagination, the clothes organized by color like paint chips from lightest to darkest. He started randomly opening drawers, lingerie, hosiery, T-shirts, silk scarves, finding a glimpse of her in each one. Moreover, every drawer held a lilac-scented sachet, the smell he associated with her in those exquisite moments between dress and undress.

  After exhausting all the drawers without finding anything of a personal nature, his search turned to the overhead shelves. They were lined with handbag filled sacks and boxes of shoes labeled in black marker. Black Ferragamo pumps. Gold Gucci sandals. His eyes travelled past the shoes to the corner of the closet, and it was there he claimed his victory. Wedged between the last shoebox and the wall were three tired-looking photo albums. He reached up and took one down.

  The photos inside appeared to be from Suzanne’s teen-aged years. There were shots at the beach, in a school auditorium, lounging in a park. He assumed the girls often posing in the pictures with her were the friends she talked about all the time; the plump redhead was the one getting married, the dark haired one with the large bust the dead girl. He put the first album back and took down the second. These were clearly college photos. Scenes of a leafy campus. Crowded parties with men and women drinking beer and smoking. He was relieved to find there was no photo of Suzanne arm in arm with a special someone, no one on the receiving end of that personal smile that so knocked his socks off.

  The third album was a cracked leather-bound folio, much older than the others. The first page held an aged Polaroid of a little girl staring at a newborn in a crib. A second photo on the same page was a family photo of a little blond boy and a slightly older blond girl and two blond adults, sitting next to a stream on a blanket with a picnic basket in the center. Their smiling faces radiated happiness. The family matured over the next pages, Suzanne evolving into a stunningly beautiful young woman, the boy into a handsome young man. There were pictures of her father setting up a Christmas tree. Her mother taking a turkey from the oven. There were First Communions and graduations and birthdays. The entire album was inhabited by the small family: Suzanne, the boy and the two adults.

  The last page held a yellowed news clipping.

  Local Man Killed in Hit and Run

  John Anders Lundgren, 22, of Winnetka, was killed in an early morning crash on Green Bay Road when the vehicle he was driving was forced off the road by another vehicle that apparently swerved into his lane. A witness to the crash said that the driver of the other car, a black Cadillac, had been driving erratically and appeared to be drunk. The witness was unable to get the license plates of the vehicle because he stopped to assist at the accident. Lundgren was taken to Evanston Hospital where he was declared dead on arrival.

  Lundgren was returning from Chicago after taking his sister home following a family birthday party.

  He is survived by his parents, Lars and Inga, and sister, Suzanne.

  Vince slid the album back into place feeling he had just peeked into Pandora’s box. Though Suzanne spoke about her parents occasionally, she had never mentioned a brother, much less a dead one. Now he understood why she was taking Angie’s death so especially hard.

  He knew he should be ashamed of himself for invading her privacy, intruding into her private world. But he was so obsessed with her that he couldn’t help himself. And this intrusion was small compared to his previous one. The previous intrusion was something far more invasive than rummaging through a closet. If she ever learned about it, she would most certainly hate him. But she would never learn about it, because he couldn’t bear to live if she hated him.

  SEVENTEEN

  Flynn’s hand was an alien claw escorting me into Donovan Brothers Funeral Home. We walked into the mortuary to a service so large that several salons had been combined and the room was still packed to the gills. The front half was filled with family alone. Angie was, after all, Italian. So many floral arrangements lined the walls, the place could have passed for a nursery. To either side of the closed casket stood easels with collages following the arc of Angie’s life: childhood, high school and college. The glaring void was the absence of wedding pictures, almost as if the marriage had never occurred.

  Ida Lupino stood in front of her daughter’s sealed remains sobbing loudly, her huge bosom heaving. Beside her stood Angie’s father, stoically patting her shoulder, his bronzed face somber beneath his thick head of silver hair, his face wearing the grief of a parent when the natural order is reversed. He bore little resemblance to the sartorial man who had walked hi
s beaming daughter down the aisle behind her eight bridesmaids not so many years ago. Angie’s three older brothers completed the picture, wearing grim black suits, their handsome faces pulled downwards, their wives alongside them looking helpless.

  I spotted Kelly sitting next to Arthur and Natasha in the center of the room, her thick hair laced into a tight braid. Like nearly everyone else in attendance, she was dressed in black. Natasha looked elegant in an expensive black suit. Arthur’s pinched face looked peeved, as if he would rather be anyplace else. Carol Anne and Michael were seated behind them holding three places. I gave Flynn the nod and we worked our way over to them and took two of the open chairs. Flynn fell into conversation with Arthur in front of him while I talked to Carol Anne.

  ‘Suzanne’s not here?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I hope she’s all right. She was really having a tough time at the wake last night. You know, déjà vu all over again. How’s the family holding up?’

  ‘I think that scene speaks for itself.’ My gaze turned toward the front of the room where Mrs Lupino’s sons were practically carrying her to her front row seat in preparation for the services. Angie’s sisters-in-law circled around their mother-in-law trying to console her. My heart clutched in agony.

  ‘And you?’ Carol Anne whispered. ‘How are you holding up?’

  ‘Not too well.’ I turned toward the back of the room to search for Suzanne and spotted Albert Evans standing among the latecomers congregated in the rear. Albert had been Angie’s assistant manager and one of her boon companions, a total pillar during her separation. I had spent many a pre-Flynn cocktail hour sipping wine with Angie and Albert, suffering through the finer points of retail. Impeccably dressed in a slim Italian suit, Albert looked more like he belonged at a fashion shoot than a funeral. But he wore the expression of a child who had just been told his dog was hit by a car. We locked eyes and I gave him an ironic smile. He acknowledged it by raising his handkerchief to his eyes, soaking up a sincere tear with pressed Irish linen. His partner, Julian, stood beside him giving support while looking somewhere between appropriately mournful and bored.

  It was then Suzanne walked in, looking far too beautiful for the occasion. I waved her over and we shared hushed hellos, as the tall balding priest stepped up to the podium. Father Carroll was a longtime friend of the Lupino family and had presided at Angie’s wedding. Now he would bury her.

  ‘All rise,’ he said, and we assembled as told. He recited the Catholic prayers for the dead, prayers I first heard at my grandmother’s funeral when I was eight, his monotone chant punctuated by an occasional sob from Mrs Lupino. After finishing the ritual prayers, the priest sprinkled the casket with holy water and invited the mourners to pay their last respects before leaving for the funeral Mass.

  The chairs emptied and a line formed as people shuffled to the front of the room to pass before Angie’s remains. Carol Anne stopped to touch brush the casket with her hand. Michael nodded respectfully. Kelly touched the casket too, as did Suzanne, whose shoulders heaved with a choked-back sob. Arthur steered a dry-eyed Natasha past and then it was my turn.

  Angie’s high school graduation picture was perched on the casket lid, her face angelic beneath the black cap. I recalled the drunken pact the six of us had signed that graduation night, a solemn agreement that if any one of us died prematurely, there was to be no mourning. Instead, we were to throw a party and prop the corpse up in a corner with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. I thought of the rosary beads Ida Lupino had most likely laced through her daughter’s stiff fingers and thought about how much better they would serve Angie than a beer and a joint.

  ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ I whispered, touching the casket, tears clinging to my eyelashes. Flynn gently prodded me, and I stepped away from the casket, wiping my eyes with my fingertips. This time Flynn’s reassuring hand felt like it belonged.

  When we stepped into the lobby I was surprised to see Harvey hunkered down in the far corner like a pariah, his curly head bent in apology. I hadn’t seen him since he and Angie had separated and he looked terrible. His face was mottled in pain and dark rings encircled his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for some time. Certainly he must be thinking if only he and Angie had stayed together, this travesty wouldn’t have happened. Too late now, Harvey. No rewrite of history could change this outcome. He looked up just then and saw me. I gave him a sympathetic nod as Flynn and I walked past him and out the door. I wanted to reach out and touch his hand and say how sorry I was, but I didn’t.

  Moving out of the dim lights in the funeral home into the sunlight was blinding. But even with my eyes frozen in a sun-blocking squint, they couldn’t miss Detectives O’Reilly and Kozlowski stationed in the parking lot. Wearing suits instead of shirtsleeves, they were trying to look unobtrusive as their eyes addressed each person who walked from the funeral home. A chord of fear passed through me. They were two people I never wanted to see again. I cozied up to Flynn, more for their benefit than my own, hoping seeing me with my fiancé would deflect any future unwelcome questions.

  ‘See those two men over there? They’re the cops on Angie’s case,’ I said in a low voice.

  ‘You mean the two bad suits? I thought they were relatives from Cicero,’ said Flynn.

  I hushed him and checked to make sure none of Angie’s family was in earshot. ‘What do you suppose they’re doing at the funeral?’

  Flynn gave me a look usually reserved for someone he considered stupid beyond belief. ‘They’re checking out the crowd. Standard for this sort of thing, I’m sure. You know. Criminals returning to the scene of the crime.’ He donned his Ray-Bans and accepted an orange FUNERAL sticker from one of the Donovan brothers. We got in the car and Flynn put the sticker in the lower left windshield, careful not to press so hard it would leave adhesive on the glass.

  While we sat in the car with the air conditioning running, waiting for the procession to the church to start, I thought about what Flynn had said about criminals returning to the scene of the crime. I couldn’t see how anyone here could have had anything to do with Angie’s death.

  EIGHTEEN

  The mourners were invited back to the family home after the services. By the time Flynn and I arrived, the streets were so filled we had to park five blocks away. Walking alongside a ravine beneath oak trees dense with summer foliage, I was reminded of the hundreds of times I had walked this street in my youth. Whether it was crunching on autumn leaves or watching snow fall between the denuded branches, this street always held a particular sweetness. That sweetness was gone now.

  The sting deepened when we reached the house. The modest four-bedroom Colonial of my first visit had grown over the years to a sprawling giant, numerous additions taking it to the boundaries of the heavily wooded lot. Angie’s father seemed to add a new wing with each major business deal. Or maybe it was with each new girlfriend, as a way to keep his wife occupied. It was no secret that Mr Lupino was a philanderer. Angie had known from sophomore year that her dad was a cheater. She had cried when she told us. But if Mrs Lupino knew about his dalliances, she never let on. They were Italian after all, and no matter how late her husband got home, he was lord and master of the manor and dinner was always waiting for him. Ironically, he was a true family man and a devout Catholic who gave generously to the church. Every Sunday found him in the front pew with his wife and children, the best-dressed man in the place.

  Dozens of children were playing in the front yard, Angie’s nieces and nephews and young cousins finally set free after a grueling morning of good behavior. Children were revered by the Lupinos, making it all the more tragic that Angie hadn’t been able to have any of her own. It seemed there was always a small army of children on the premises, especially on the weekends when the Cicero relatives came to visit. When I was growing up, the chaos of Angie’s house was so inviting and vibrant compared to the quiet reserve of my own that I loved spending time my free time there. My few cousins lived out of state and
were practically strangers, so large family gatherings were totally foreign to me, making the Lupino gatherings seem even more enjoyable than they probably were.

  Flynn and I squeezed into the house and worked our way down a crowded hall into the kitchen. With all the equipment and activity in the room, it looked more like a restaurant than a residence. Several large-breasted women labored over gas ranges with boiling vats of pasta and open grills of sizzling sausages. Long stretches of countertop were heaped with bowls of penne and meatballs, platters of fried chicken, trays of antipasto, baskets of crusty bread. A round table in the bay window was covered with sweets, cookies, cakes, and ricotta-stuffed cannolis, sabotage to every diet I had ever started. It was no mystery that I maintained much of my former weight by gorging myself at the Lupino table, world’s away from my mother’s table where one protein, one starch and one vegetable were the rule.

  A woman with arms the size of my thighs and a mound of gray hair pinned atop her head stood in front of the range stirring a pot. Upon seeing me, she put down her spoon and came rushing over, her ample body moving with surprising grace. She wrapped her huge arms around me, and hugged me so close I could barely breathe.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, who could ever believe a day like this could happen?’ she said, shaking her head in answer to her own question. She released me and turned her attention on Flynn who looked frightened she might hug him too. ‘Does he belong to you?’

  ‘This is Flynn Hamilton, my fiancé. Flynn, this is Rose, Angie’s aunt.’

  ‘Handsome, but too skinny,’ Rose said, managing a feeble smile. ‘You too,’ she said, eyeing me up and down. ‘You’re wasting away to nothing.’ Relieved to have a crusade, she piled two plates high with food and thrust them at us. ‘Here now, go outside and eat. Mangia, mangia.’ Her mission accomplished, she turned her energy back to the pots bubbling on the six-burner range.