by Ray Daniel
The problem with security theater is that it relies upon the bad guy to be honest. You ask me if I have a phone with a camera on it, and I hand over a phone. But if I’m a bad guy, I keep a camera in my back pocket.
I handed over my Droid, silencing it so that its ghostly Droid voice wouldn’t scare anybody.
Agnes took my driver’s license and put it into a machine that printed a temporary badge with an indecipherable little black-and-white copy of my license picture. She put the badge into a plastic holder with a clip on it.
“You need to wear this on your shirt front,” she said. “Be sure to return it before you go. Have a nice visit!”
Uncle Walt and I entered the GDS labyrinth. I slipped back to a time when my dad had walked me through these same halls. I had just started at MIT and had enrolled in computer science. Dad was upset. He told me that I was smart enough to be a “real” engineer, and he had taken me on a tour of GDS to show me what “real” engineers could accomplish.
The place hadn’t changed in all these years. The long hallways were painted a generic gray, a color that complemented the thin maroon carpet. Murals adorned the walls, successors to my first-grade drawing. They showed planes, ships, and tanks communicating within a web of network lines.
We reached an intersection where a large photograph showed a soldier in full battle gear. It was mounted under a sign that said, Serving those who protect us. Quality is Job 1! Next to the picture was a wall of military headshots. They were the adult children of GDS employees, a reminder of who would die if GDS’s products didn’t work.
The quasi-shrine made me feel as inadequate today as it had when my dad pointed it out years ago. While I was messing around with viruses and security software, real engineers like my dad and, apparently, John Tucker had been designing real hardware with a real purpose. We walked past the shrine without comment.
We bought coffee and sat against a window in the empty cafeteria. Breakfast was over, and the lunch rush was an hour away.
Uncle Walt said, “You know, your dad and I used to get coffee here every day. He’d sit right in that chair. It’s nice here. Private.”
“You guys talk about much that needed privacy?”
“Hell, Tucker, every man needs some privacy. Speaking of which, what’s on your mind? I haven’t see you in years.”
I looked out at the trees. The leaves were a dark, tired green. It was almost time for them to turn orange and die. “Remember when Agnes called my father ‘our John Tucker’?”
“Yeah. That was strange.”
“Well, last night I saw the other John Tucker.”
“Who is he?”
“He was a GDS employee who got murdered in front of my house last night.”
“Holy crap. You mean he was mugged?”
“I don’t think so. He was holding a drawing from the Paladin. The cover art.”
“You mean that picture you drew for your dad when you were a kid?”
“My dad showed you that?”
“Yeah, before he used it on the Paladin. After that it was classified.”
“This guy, John Tucker, had a copy of it. He had circled my name on the picture and written ‘My brother’ next to it. So the police think this guy was my brother.”
“This guy was named John Tucker?”
“Yeah, from Pittsfield. You’ve never heard of him?”
“I never get out to Pittsfield. It’s a hundred miles away. Your dad got to drive back and forth, but I was stuck here. Janitors don’t travel.”
I looked around at the little nook. Walt and I were wedged in the corner of the cafeteria, far away from everyone. It was time to ask the question.
“You were Dad’s best friend. He’d have told you if he’d had another son. So I’m asking you. Do I have a brother?”
“No.”
“My dad is dead now. You don’t need to protect him.”
Walt drank his coffee despite its burnt flavor. Maybe he liked it. I had given up on mine after smelling it.
He said, “It’s not like your father didn’t want to give you a brother—or a sister. Your mother put the kibosh on that. You don’t have a brother, as far as I know.”
“As far as you know.”
Walt spread his hands. “What more can I say? There were lots of things your dad wouldn’t tell me. The man worked at GDS. He knew how to keep a secret.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” I said. “It was weird, though. I bumped into John Tucker’s mother at the police station. She was really familiar. Maybe I should ask her.”
Walt stood. I followed him back toward the front desk. “Doesn’t make sense to me. If your dad was screwing around, he wouldn’t have brought the girl around the house. If your mother got a whiff of anything, she’d have given that girl concrete galoshes.”
“Come on, Walt. That’s silly.”
“Silly? Your mother and all those Rizzos are nuts. I’ll tell you this, I told your Dad to stay away from your mother.” He pointed two fingers toward his face and waggled them. “She had the crazy eyes.”
I was silent.
Walt stopped walking. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, Tucker. I shouldn’t have talked that way about her. She’s your mother. I apologize.”
“That’s okay, Walt.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Fine, I guess.”
We started walking again. “You should go see her. She’s right around the corner.”
Guilt shot through me and I frowned. “Yeah. I should.”
Walt raised his hands. “None of my business. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
We were silent until I reached the front desk and Agnes handed me my phone. I’d missed a call. I’d check it later.
I said to Walt, “You know, you’re right. I should go visit my mother, and I shouldn’t let this thing with her keep me from reconnecting with my cousins in the city.”
Walt shook my hand. “Reconnect all you want, but I wouldn’t mention this thing about John Tucker to your cousin Sal, or to any of the Rizzos. They scare the shit out of me.” Walt put a finger aside his nose. La Cosa Nostra. He turned and walked back into GDS.
I shook my head. Walt came from an older generation who believed that all Italians were in the Mafia and all Irishmen were drunks. My generation was full of mutts like me. We didn’t buy the generalities. People were people.
I headed back to my car, fiddling with my Droid. The missed call came from a 413 area code.
Pittsfield.
Eight
Bostonians have a simple view of the world. Looking west from Boston Harbor there’s Downtown Crossing, Fenway Park, Route 128, some indiscriminate wasteland, then California. Pittsfield was part of the indiscriminate wasteland. I didn’t know anyone in Pittsfield.
Or maybe I did.
I touched the 413 number on my Droid. Across the state, a phone rang. One simulated ringing sound, two simulated ringing sounds, three simulated ringing sounds. A woman’s voice.
“Hello?” The voice was tentative, trailing up at the end, converting the greeting to a question.
I was stuck in that awkward moment when you blindly return a call. Mavens of etiquette frown upon “Who is this?” as a greeting.
I said, “Hi, this is Tucker. You called my cell, and I’m calling you back.”
“Oh,” said a quiet voice. “I’m sorry. That was a mistake.”
“A wrong number?”
“A bad idea.”
The pieces fell into place.
I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Silence.
“Are you still there?” I asked, testing the connection.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“Technically, I don’t know that it’s you because I don’t know your name.�
��
“I’m Cathy Byrd,” she said. “John Tucker’s mother. But you knew that part.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Lieutenant Lee gave it to me. He said we should talk.”
I had no idea what to say next. There are no guidelines for this kind of conversation, no appropriate questions. The only question worth asking hung between us like my father’s ghost.
It was Cathy’s turn to test the line. “Are you there?” she asked.
I asked the question. “Is he my brother?”
“He isn’t anyone’s brother. He’s dead.”
“Was he my brother?”
A second of silence, and then a sob. I felt like a jerk.
Cathy spoke through her tears. “Why did you call me?”
“I’m sorry. I just have to know.”
I heard the receiver clatter to the table. A landline. Then, faintly, the sound of Cathy blowing her nose, and a skittering sound as she returned to the call. “This is a terrible idea. You shouldn’t have called. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Then why did you answer?”
“I thought you were the funeral parlor.”
I had forgotten her generation didn’t use caller ID.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
“I suppose I should invite you to the funeral.”
Talk about bad ideas.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I said. “I didn’t know him.”
“Still, it’s only right, ironic even. He’d always wanted to meet you, ever since—”
“Ever since what?”
“I can’t do this over the phone. Please come to my house tomorrow. Noon, for lunch. I’ll explain then.”
What could I do? “Okay, I’ll be there,” I said.
Cathy gave me her address and hung up before I could back out.
Nine
I dropped my Zipcar in the Hilton’s parking garage and wandered onto Dalton Street. Took a right and headed down Dalton for my house. I didn’t make it. The rippled waters of the Christian Science Church reflecting pool caught my eye and drew me in. I sat on a bench and watched the reflection of the First Church shimmer on the water.
The church’s dome arched into a light blue September sky. Cumulus clouds drifted behind the church. A pigeon with a clubfoot clomped about with its mates, pecking at the ground for nonexistent food.
I’d had a brother, and the only thing we’d possibly do together was attend his funeral.
I pulled out my Droid and took a picture of the First Church with the brilliant blue sky behind it. Tweeted the picture:
A good spot for contemplating life’s sense of humor.
It was becoming pointless to resist the notion that John Tucker had been my brother, regardless of what Uncle Walt had said. Still, I grasped at alternative explanations. Cathy had refused to answer a simple question: Was he my brother? Maybe he was a distant cousin.
The Droid was heavy in my hand. I futzed with it and dialed.
“Buenos dias, Señor Tucker,” said Lucy.
“Buenos dias, yourself,” I said. “I see the police got you home okay.”
“They were great. They even dropped me off around the corner so my parents wouldn’t see me getting out of a police car.”
“I still can’t get over the idea that you live with your parents.”
“I don’t live with my parents. They live in the downstairs apartment and I live upstairs. Still, they keep an eye out for me.”
“Is it nice? Being watched over?”
“Tucker, what’s wrong? Was that guy your brother?”
“Who knows. I’ve been invited to lunch with his mother tomorrow.”
“And you’re going?”
“Sure. Why not? It seems like the only way I’m going to know the truth.”
“Do you really need that? The truth?”
Clubby the pigeon launched himself and flew away with his flock, heading for a little kid with an overflowing bag of popcorn. The kid saw the incoming swarm of birds and fled back to his father. He stood under his father’s legs and peeked out at the flock. The dad took a handful of popcorn and tossed it into the mass of birds. The kid got the idea and tossed some, laughing as the birds pecked around their feet. Did I ever do that with my dad? Who else would remember him?
“Actually, I had another reason for calling,” I said. “I feel bad that last night got screwed up. I’d like to make it up to you. Would you like to come over to my house for dinner tonight? I’ll make us ratatouille with some fresh vegetables from Haymarket.”
“Just the two of us at your house. Sounds like fun. Do you think my virtue would be safe with you?”
“Your virtue? What about my virtue?” I said. “I’ve heard that women today can be quite aggressive.”
“I’ll be good,” said Lucy. “I promise.”
“Me too,” I said. “Let’s have dinner at six and be done by eight. I wouldn’t want your parents to worry.”
“Okay. Dinner at six.”
We broke the connection. I followed the reflecting pool to Mass Ave and crossed the street to Symphony Hall station. The train would take me to Haymarket, right by the North End of Boston.
I made a call before I descended into the tunnel. The phone got picked up on the first ring.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Sal, it’s your cousin Tucker.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
That’s some good family bonding right there.
Ten
People say that Boston was planned by cows, whose random tracks were paved to make streets. This is grossly unfair, as much of the city is laid out in a logical Cartesian grid with alphabetical street names (Boston’s planners having more imagination than those of certain other grid-like cities, who numbered their streets).
However, the cow-path theory of urban planning holds when it comes to the North End. The North End has been here from the beginning, its streets a warren of tight paths better suited to horses than automobiles. The neighborhood fills a rough semicircle that stretches along the waterfront from Christopher Columbus Park to the Charlestown Bridge. The straight border of the semicircle is a green park that was once an elevated highway. Hanover Street cuts through the neighborhood from the waterfront to the park, and Prince Street cuts the other way.
My mother was raised here, in a Honeymooners-style apartment on Prince Street with the rest of her Italian family: the Rizzos. I grew up visiting the North End to see my grandmother, celebrate holidays, and gorge on fried dough and quahogs at the feasts—annual street parties that celebrate the patron saints of Italian towns.
There was no feast on Hanover Street today, just the usual jostling of a busy community. It was three o’clock and even though it wasn’t yet dinnertime, tourists blocked the sidewalks meandering down the Freedom Trail. They’d swing over to North Street to see Paul Revere’s house, then past his statue, and on to the Old North Church. I dodged around them until I reached Cafe Vittoria, the self-proclaimed “Oldest Cafe in the North End.”
The narrow cafe had a granite entryway, a raised white floor, and small chrome tables. A cappuccino bar ran along the one side, and tables ran down the other. One of the tables was tucked up against the window next to the entryway.
Sitting in the window, sipping coffee from a tiny cup, was my cousin Sal. He was alone and had a cashmere greatcoat draped over a chrome chair next to him. Sal saw me, frowned, and beckoned me inside.
Sal dressed like a classy undertaker, in a black suit with a blue striped shirt and a paisley tie. He was big in the way that a silverback gorilla is big—exhibiting an innate largeness that said keep your distance. He had always been bigger than me. He was the firstborn of my generation, sixteen by the time I arrived. He’s been an adult for as long as I can remember.
&n
bsp; Sal said nothing. He gestured for me to join him and then motioned to the barista, holding up two fingers and pointing at his biscotti as I pulled up a chair. He watched me sit and said, “I should kick your ass. You move back to the city and you go to the fucking South End with the fucking hippies, instead of to the North End where you got family. How come you never come around here?”
I never come around here because I don’t want to be harangued about how I never come around here.
I said, “And how are things with you?”
“They’re the fucking same.”
“How is Auntie Rosa?”
Sal raised his hand shook his head, “Don’t get me started. She’s like all old people. She’s got nothing to do till she dies except make everybody miserable. How’s your ma?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“You guess? When was the last time you saw her?”
I didn’t want to talk about my mother. I hadn’t seen her in six months, and I didn’t want to get an earful from Sal. I was saved by the barista, who had gotten the message and brought us espresso and biscotti. I bit into a cookie rather than answer the question.
Sal drank his espresso and looked out the window at his world. Two guys in Bruins jackets walked past the window and nodded their hellos to Sal. He nodded back. I wasn’t sure what Sal did for a living. He never talked about his work, and I never asked. But a lot of people treated him with respect.
I said, “There was a dead guy outside my house last night.”
Sal said, “No shit. I guess the South End isn’t as great as you think.”
“I mean right outside my house. On my front stoop.”
“You know the guy?”
“No. But his name was John Tucker. The police think he was my brother.”
Sal grimaced and took a bite of his biscotti, slurped his espresso and said, “That’s bullshit. Did you tell them that your ma had one kid and that was enough for her?”