Walking the Perfect Square

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Over a glass of champagne we discussed the usual things brothers and sisters talk about. Yes, she was tired. Yes, she was looking forward to the end of Ronnie’s internship. Yes, she was sick of his hours and of being poor. Yes, our niece and nephews were the prettiest, most handsome, smartest, most gifted children God had ever created. Yes, Aaron’s wife Cindy still made her crazy. Yes, she remembered Daddy’s memorial candle. Omitting certain details, I talked about how I’d gotten involved with Patrick Maloney and how this party came to be.

  “How is Rico, that foxy old friend of yours?” Miriam’s bad girl persona came out of hiding.

  “Very married.” Her attraction to Rico had always made me uncomfortable. Now it was up a few notches from just uncomfortable.

  Miriam moved on, “So where’s this person you—”

  “Coming through the door,” I said. “Listen, Mir, her name is Katy. Go over and introduce yourself. I’ve got to get something from downstairs.”

  Bringing the bouquet of roses back upstairs, I wondered if springing my sister on Katy like that had been a good idea. Miriam could be a little overprotective and jealous where her big brothers were involved. After ten years in the family, Cindy had yet to gain Miriam’s full blessing.

  Visions of Katy and Miriam involved in a bloody saloon brawl gave me pause. But listening at the top of the stairs, I heard only music, chatter and laughter, no bar stools breaking. Someone had pumped quarters into the jukebox.

  With “Mony Mony” blasting, Ronnie was dancing the Pony with Pete’s wife. Apparently her ulna nerve wasn’t terminal. At the bar Katy and Miriam were giggling like little girls. When they saw me, they tried very hard but unsuccessfully to stop themselves. I think maybe I would have preferred a brawl.

  “Marry this woman,” Miriam suggested, pushing Katy forward. “She thinks my stories are funny.” I didn’t want to know what embarrassing childhood story Miriam had shared and was careful not to ask.

  I handed Katy the roses: “These are for you. Happy Valen—”

  She covered my mouth with hers, swallowing my words. “I missed you, Moe.”

  “Uh oh!” Miriam wagged her finger. “He’s got it bad, Katy. I’ve never seen him look at a woman like he looks at you. I think I’m going to steal my husband back and see if he still looks at me that way.”

  Before Miriam could get away, Pete Parson bunched us together for a picture. I think both Katy and Miriam made donkey ears behind my head.

  “Never mind my sister,” I said, swatting Miriam on the behind as she walked toward Ronnie. “She’s a pain.”

  “I like her,” Katy said. “She’s devoted to you, you know.”

  The burly barman poured us two champagnes. We toasted the day and found a booth so we could talk. Her mom was better, if you considered numb preferable to distraught. Her father, however, was starting to show signs of wear. He was quick-tempered, impatient and loud. He was never a screamer, Katy said, but we always knew he meant business.

  “He even yelled at my mother. He never yells at my mother.”

  I kept my mouth shut, though I knew exactly why Katy’s old man was beginning to lose it. I wasn’t going to ruin our first Valentine’s Day together. Without any specifics, I told her I thought I might finally be making some progress on locating Patrick.

  “I don’t know what it is exactly,” I said. “Optimism isn’t usually my forte. I think you might have something to do with that.”

  Pete manned the door, taking snapshots of everyone who entered. Some of the regulars shuffled in. Next came Misty and Kosta. Ronnie was a little drunk by then. He kept telling me he thought Misty was awfully cute. If my sister hadn’t said the same thing about Kosta, I might’ve gotten pissed off at my brother-in-law. The introductions seemed endless and by the time Jack strolled in, we all just gave up.

  Neither Katy nor I could believe our eyes when we saw our new buddy Jack. He had eschewed his loose black turtleneck, painter’s pants and earth shoes for an impeccably tailored, blue, pin-striped business suit, white shirt, red silk tie and black wingtips. But before we could comment, my brother Aaron walked through the door. Something was wrong. I could see Ronnie and Miriam had the same reaction.

  “Will you guys calm down?” he whispered sternly. “Everything’s fine. Cindy told me I should come. She said I should be here for you.”

  “But it’s Valentine’s Day,” Miriam scolded.

  “You’ll see,” Aaron predicted. “After ten years of marriage and two kids, Valentine’s Day loses a little of its ambiance. Besides, Cindy already got her roses. We had dinner and the kids are asleep.”

  To ease the tension or maybe because he was drunk, Ronnie asked what wine they had shared for dinner.

  “We didn’t have wine.”

  “You didn’t have wine?” Miriam was incredulous. “You always have wine with—”

  “What’s going on here?” I too was suspicious. “Are you and Cindy fighting?”

  Aaron couldn’t hold it in: “Ronnie, wasn’t it you who told me pregnant women shouldn’t—”

  Miriam started: “You son of a—”

  “Mazel tov! ” I shouted. “I’m gonna be an uncle again.”

  Now it was a party. I don’t know what it is exactly, but news of a coming birth elicits this sort of joyous tribal response. Despite our big brains and layers of denial, humans are not so far removed from timber wolves or lions or ring-tailed lemurs. Complete strangers were hugging Aaron, shaking his hand, trying to give cash donations towards baby furniture. Even the undertaker smiled. Pete Parson’s wife began listing boys’ and girls’ names she thought Aaron should consider. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was traditional for Jews to name their children after the respected dead.

  Miriam, struck by the emotion of the moment, confessed to me she had always resented Cindy for taking Aaron away from home.

  I hugged her and whispered: “Listen, Mir, it says on her death certificate that cancer killed Mom. But it wasn’t cancer, it was resentment. It’ll eat you up. Don’t let it.”

  “It was pretty generous of Cindy to make Aaron come tonight,” Miriam said as much to herself as to me. “I’ll try, Moses.”

  After a round or two of toasts, someone pulled the jukebox plug. Pete handed the camera over to the bartender. There were a few speeches by the partners: Pete, Mr. Potato Head and the money man. I had saved them from financial ruin and I was the best thing to come down the pike since the rotary engine. I kept watching Katy’s face. I think it was killing her not to confess her heritage and unwitting role in all of this, but mainly she rolled her eyes and looked contrite.

  Next, Jack took center stage. For the uninitiated, he recounted the night of the Bruce Springsteen marathon and how, after Katy and I had already left, he threatened to shoot anyone in the bar who was either from New Jersey or even considered playing Springsteen or Southside Johnny. After the laughter died down, the presentation of gifts began. Jack went to the front door and made a sign to someone waiting outside. A man walked in carrying what appeared to be a round, gift-wrapped tabletop. Placing that against the bar, he went out and returned with several smaller, but no less beautifully wrapped, gift boxes. Jack tipped him a five-dollar bill.

  When the front door was relocked, Jack called Katy and me up to where he was standing.

  He pointed to the tabletop and asked that we both undo the wrapping. I don’t know where he got it, but it was a giant vinyl facsimile of Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run. Pete Parson nearly keeled over with laughter. The other boxes contained his and hers Rutgers sweatshirts, I Love New Jersey key chains and Garden State vanity license plates. One of the plates read: “THE BOSS.” The other read: “IS GOD.” Funny, I thought Eric Clapton was. The final package contained a complete set of ABBA albums. The barman posed Jack and me as bookends around Katy, the three of us displaying the gag gifts.

  The laughter having died down some, Pete Parson wheeled in a strawberry shortcake covered in red jelly hearts. He made Katy an
d me go through the cake-cutting thing.

  Miriam shouted out: “Just do it. It’s good practice.”

  Someone plugged the juke back in and we were serenaded by Frank Sinatra singing “The Summer Wind” while we ate our cake. Pete Parson called me and Katy over behind the bar.

  “I just wanted to say thanks again. My partners could afford to lose this place, but not me. To get my stake, I borrowed from relatives against my pension. When the shit hit the fan, I thought I’d end up as one a those guys that cleans the seats for ya at Shea Stadium. Here,” he said, shoving a big gift-wrapped box into my hands, “take this and open it up later when ya get home, okay?”

  I agreed.

  By 2:00 most everyone was gone. Miriam, Ronnie and I had sent Aaron packing at midnight. How dare he, we kidded, abandon his pregnant wife at home on Valentine’s Day? Before leaving, Aaron pulled me aside to tell me how much he liked Katy and how well we seemed to fit together.

  “Katy, huh?” He raised his brow. “Not too many Jewish girls named Katy. Listen, I just want you to know that if she makes you happy, being with her is the right thing.”

  Unless you know my brother, I don’t think you can appreciate how difficult it was for him to utter those words. In his awkward way, he was actually trying to play matchmaker. When I hugged him a little too long for his comfort, Aaron pointed at Katy. “Her, putz, not me!”

  Miriam and Ronnie left around 1:00. Misty and Kosta nearly followed them out the door, but I asked Katy to stall them until I could retrieve their gift from Pete’s office. The champagne, I told them, was a token of my appreciation for their help.

  “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t’ve gotten you a thing,” I winked, “but my sore ribs insisted.”

  “Champagne!” Kosta feigned surprise. “Tuna salesmen must make a nice living.”

  Pete’s partners and their escorts had long since headed home, taking Pete’s wife with them. At 1:45, Pete gave last call to the inevitable stragglers. Katy, having hours ago changed into her Rutgers sweatshirt, was half drunk and mostly asleep at one of the booths. After Pete and Jack carried the last “guest” out the front door, Pete handed the bartender $75 cash and bid him a good night.

  I went back downstairs and returned with two more gift bottles. Pete’s was a bottle of champagne much like the one I’d given to Misty and Kosta. We did the usual It’s-not-necessary-but-I-insist cha-cha. It was a stupid dance because we both knew he was going to keep the damn champagne. But rituals are like that, I guess. Pete excused himself. He had to change clothes. Sneering at Jack, he said: “Somebody’s gotta clean this place up.”

  When Pete turned his back, Jack gave him the finger. Jack loosened his tie, peeled off his suit jacket and ducked down behind the bar. When his resurfaced, he showed me a bottle of what looked like scotch.

  “You like good scotch?” he asked knowingly and poured a dram for the both of us. “It’s a single malt, Cragganmore. Very unusual flavor.”

  “Cheers!” We clinked glasses.

  Jack knew his stuff. The scotch was smooth as polished ice and smelled of heather and highland peat. We shared one more Cragganmore before doing taste comparisons with every other scotch in the joint.

  In my pre-hangover haze, I asked: “What was with the suit tonight?”

  “I felt like dressing down,” he joked. “No, I just get tired of the playwright uniform, the angry young man thing. Besides, I just got this shirt as a gift,” he said, tugging at the gold cufflinks, “and wanted to let the world see it.”

  “It’s a great shirt, classic. Here, this is for you,” I handed Jack his bottle of ’68 French cabernet.

  “This is awfully generous of you,” Jack’s voice cracked slightly. “Why?”

  “Pete told me you were in charge of buying the gifts, so I figured it was only right to get you something. Also, I think it’s a way of apologizing. The first two times we met, I pretty much thought you were an asshole. You know, just too cool. But now Katy and I agree, you’re a good man. And even if you’re not, you’re pretty fucking funny.”

  Shaking my hand and nodding at Katy, Jack wondered: “How’s she holding up?”

  “Holding up?” I puzzled, the alcohol starting to take its toll.

  “With her brother missing and all. How’s she—”

  “Oh, sorry, sorry. I’m sorta out of it. Katy’s all right, I think. She’s pretty tough. But her family’s losing it.”

  “Thanks for the passes you left me,” he quickly changed subjects, as Katy shifted in the booth. “Visiting Dirt Lounge is like visiting Disneyland or Auschwitz; everybody should do it at least once.”

  I recounted for him Katy’s experiences in the Dirt Lounge bathroom. Jack offered a final toast in her honor. In spite of what he’d said about only darkening its door once, I assured Jack I could probably get him as many passes to Dirt Lounge as he wanted. I took his long-winded response to mean: Thanks, but no thanks.

  Katy was stirring to consciousness. I thanked Jack again, excused myself and headed down to the office to bid Pete Parson farewell. He was dead asleep in his chair. Rather than trying to rouse him, I wrote him a note.

  “Pete’s sleeping,” I informed Jack as I reemerged from the basement.

  Jack told me he’d take care of it. There was a cot and bedding downstairs. Given Pete’s alcohol intake, Jack and I agreed it was probably best he not drive back to Long Island tonight. I took my own advice, packing the semiconscious Katy and our gifts into a cab.

  I left her to sleep in the cab while I hauled everything upstairs to her loft. When I shook her shoulder that it was time to come with me, she whispered “Happy Valentine’s Day” and kissed me softly. “I love you, Moe.”

  At that, my heart should have soared. Drunk or not, she had mouthed the words I’d secretly hoped to someday hear her say. Yet in spite of her proclamation of love, in spite of Aaron’s joyous news, in spite of the party, the gifts, in spite of it all, my heart was anchored to the street. What it was exactly that robbed me of my pleasure, I could not say. The swirl of the alcohol left me unsure of my footing.

  February 15th, 1978

  I HAD DONE it. I found him. He was somewhere just beyond this door, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hand or maybe still in bed, his lover’s arms wrapped protectively around him. Brought into the case not to find Patrick, but to play the fool, I’d accomplished what all the Sullys in the world stacked end to end and all the high-priced talent had failed to do. Today I could hold my head up high, for though the city bureaucracy and a misplaced piece of carbon paper had reduced me to a lame ex-patrolman, I felt I’d earned the gold shield I would never have the opportunity to carry. Why then, after my finger touched the bell, did my heart fill with regret? Why did I want to run and not look back, ever?

  I can’t point to the moment it hit me. There was no bolt of lightning, no epiphany. Somewhere in my fitful drunken sleep, the random lines and incomplete trails had woven themselves into a road map. I simply woke up knowing all I needed to do was take a last few steps.

  Katy was still heavy with sleep when I crept out of her bed. My head ached, my breath and sweat stank of scotch. I hesitated at the foot of the bed, listening for ambient sounds that might let me know whether Misty and Kosta were also still asleep, if in the loft at all. I did not want to explain myself to anyone until I had proof of what I believed to be the truth. In Manhattan it’s impossible to hear nothing unless you’re stone deaf. Even then, I’m not so sure. But after a minute or so, I decided either Misty and Kosta were still out of it or over at Kosta’s place. I showered as quietly as I could. Figuring she had an emergency set, I borrowed Katy’s house keys before I left.

  From a pay phone on Hudson Street I dialed Pooty’s number. I let it ring ten times before hanging up. I repeated the process, hoping I’d dialed the wrong number on my first try. On the eighth ring, someone picked up. Well, they didn’t really pick up, they sort of dropped the phone on the floor. I waited.

 
“Christ, Louise, I’ll be home in a few hours.” Pete Parson’s voice was thick with sleep and alcohol.

  “It’s not Louise, Pete,” I said. “It’s me, Moe Prager. I’m down the block from you at a pay phone. Do me a favor, go upstairs and let me in. I’ll explain when I get there.”

  I hung up and walked half a block to the bar. I had maybe a minute to whip up a bowl of bullshit Pete would swallow like blueberries and cream.

  “Hey, I’m really sorry about this,” I begged his pardon, “but it couldn’t wait.”

  “It’s 7:30 in the freakin’ A.M. What couldn’t wait?”

  “Can I have the film from your camera?” I asked, handing him a cup of black coffee.

  “Thanks, I need this. My head feels like lead. So,” he said, going around the bar to get some milk and sugar, “why’s the film so important ya hadda interrupt my hangover?”

  “There’s this picture you took last night of Katy that I thought maybe I could get a rush job on . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Just lemme finish this coffee and I’ll go downstairs and—”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll be right back up.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  After a quick peek around and with film in hand, I was back up in the bar within two minutes. I thanked Pete again for the party and for being so understanding about the film. I vowed to make a set of copies for him.

  “Ya know,” he called to me as I headed out the door, “I ain’t been off the job so long that I can’t smell bullshit when I step in it. Whatever ya want with that film is okay with me, but I just want ya to know I’m not fooled.”

  I didn’t bother trying to defend my lie: “Sorry, Pete. You’re right, I should’ve just asked.”

  Calling from the same phone on Hudson Street, it took me almost half an hour to find a photographer willing to develop the film. Desperation and the Yellow Pages came through in the end. Along with actors, dancers, writers, painters and musicians, there are plenty of starving photographers living in Manhattan. The problem was finding one desperate enough to do darkroom duty at 8:00 A.M. Saturday.