"Now that you are sophisticated and no longer shy with girls, I assume you understand that she was asking you if you were going to ask her to the dance, and was telling you that if you were, she would turn your friend down and go with you."
"I now understand that," I said. "But consider if I had been different.
What if I had not panted after the sweet sorrow of renunciation? What if
I'd gone to the dance with her, and we'd become lovers and married and lived happily ever after? What would have become of you?"
"I don't know," Susan said. "I guess I'd have wandered the world tragically, wearing my polka dot panties, looking for Mister Right, never knowing that Mister Right had married his high school sweetheart."
Paul put his hands over his ears.
"Polka dot panties?" he said.
Susan smiled. She transferred the refreshed couscous from the bowl to a cook pot. Neither Paul nor I asked her why she had not refreshed it in the cook pot in the first place. She put the cook pot on thestove and put a lid on it and turned the flame on low.
I rested my hand on Pearl's head. "I think," I said, "that even had Dale and I gone to the dance and lived happily ever after, we wouldn't have lived happily ever after. Any more than you were able to stay with your first husband."
"Because we'd have been looking for each other?"
I nodded.
"That's what you think, isn't it?" Susan said. She was no longer teasing me.
"Yes," I said. "That's what I think. I think your marriage broke up because you weren't married to me. I think neither one of us could be happy with anyone else because we would always be looking for each other, without even knowing it, without knowing who each other was or even knowing there was an each other."
"Do you think that's true of love in general?"
"No," I said. "I only believe that about us."
"Isn't that kind of exclusionary?" Paul said.
"Yes," I said. "Embarrassingly so."
The room was silent now, not the light and airy silence of contentment, but the weighty silence of intensity.
Paul was choosing his words very carefully. It took him a little time.
"But you're not saying I couldn't feel that way?"
"No," I said. "I'm not."
Paul nodded. I could see him thinking some more. "Do you feel that way?" I said.
"I don't know," he said. "And I feel like I ought to, because you do."
"No need to be like me," I said.
"Who else, then?" he said. "Who would I be like? My father? Who did I learn to be me from?"
"You're right," I said. "I was glib. But you know as well as I do that you can't spend your life feeling as I do, and thinking what I think. You don't now."
"The way you love her makes me feel inadequate," Paul said. "I don't think
I can love anyone like that."
Susan was chopping fresh mint on the marble countertop.
"One love at a time," she said.
"Which means what?" Paul said. "My mother?"
Susan smiled her Freudian smile. "We shrinks always imply more than we say."
"There's nothing necessarily bizarre in wanting to find my mother."
"Of course not, and when you do it will help clarify things, maybe."
"Maybe," Paul said.
I sipped a little more of my Catamount Gold and thought about Dale Carter, whom I hadn't seen in so long. It wasn't the first time I'd thought about her. I looked at Susan. She smiled at me, a wholly non-Freudian smile.
"We'd have found each other," she said.
"In fact," I said, "we did it twice."
CHAPTER 13
HAWK, wearing white satin sweatpants and no shirt, was hanging upside down in gravity boots in the Harbor Health Club, doing sit-ups. He curled his body up parallel with the floor and eased it back vertical without any apparent effort. The abdominus rictus tightened and relaxed under his shiny black skin. He had his hands clasped loosely behind his head, and the skin over his biceps seemed too tight. Around him men and women in bright spandex were working out with varying success. All of them and two of the three trainers that Henry Cimoli employed were glancing covertly at Hawk. His upper body and his shaved head were shiny with sweat. But his breath was easy and there was no other indication that what he was doing might be hard.
I said, "You stuck on that apparatus, boy?"
Hawk grinned upside down and did another situp.
"Damn," he said. "Can't seem to reach my feet." He put out his hand upside down and I gave him an understated low five.
"When you get through struggling with that thing," I said, "I'll buy you breakfast."
"Sure," Hawk said.
We worked out for maybe an hour and a half, and took a little steam afterwards. Then, showered and dressed and fragrant with the cheap after-shave that Henry put out in the men's locker room, we strolled out across Atlantic Avenue toward Quincy Market. It was still early in the day, only 9:30, and the autumn sun was mild as it slanted down at us, only a few degrees up over the harbor, and made our shadows long and angular ahead of us.
"Market's nice this time of day," Hawk said.
"Yeah," I said. "Hasn't turned into a five-acre dating bar yet."
"Get a chance to meet a lot of interesting people from Des Moines," Hawk said. "After lunch."
"And some dandy teenagers in from the subs," I said.
We sat at the counter in the nearly quiet central market building. I had some blueberry pancakes. Hawk had four scrambled eggs and toast. We each ordered coffee.
"I thought you quit coffee," Hawk said.
"I changed my mind," I said.
"Couldn't do it, huh?"
"Decided not to," I said and put a spoonful of sugar in and stirred and drank some carefully. Life began again. Behind us along the central aisle thefood stalls prepared for the day. One would never starve to death in Quincy
Market. Behind us was a shop selling roast goose sandwiches. To our right was an oyster bar. A few tourists strolled through early, wearing cameras, and new Red Sox hats made of plastic mesh that fit badly. Mixed in was an occasional secretary on coffee break, and now and then, resplendently garbed, and moving with great alacrity, were young brokers from the financial district picking up a special blend coffee for the big meeting.
"You have any information on what Gerry Broz is doing these days?" I said.
"No," Hawk said. "You?"
"No, but it involves a guy named Rich Beaumont, who is Patty Giacomin's current squeeze."
"Anything Gerry involved in is not a good thing."
"This is true," I said. "She's missing. Paul wants to find her."
"How 'bout Beaumont?"
"Missing too," I said.
"Un huh."
"Exactly," I said. "You tribal types are so wise."
"We close to nature," Hawk said. The counterman came by and refilled our coffee cups. I managed to stay calm.
"You talk to Vinnie?" Hawk said.
"He talked to me. Wants to be sure we don't get in each other's way."
"He tell you what Gerry doing?"
"No."
"Vinnie can't stand him any more than you or me. .›
"I know," I said. "But he's Joe's kid."
Hawk drank some coffee. Like everything else he did, it seemed easier for him. The coffee was not too hot. He seemed to drink it the way it had been drawn up, perfectly, without any effort. I'd seen him kill people the same way.
"Joe's damn near as bad as the kid," Hawk said. "Vinnie's what keeps the outfit together."
"Vinnie'd be better off without him," I said.
"Vinnie don't think so," Hawk said.
"I know."
"He been with Joe a long time. Since he been a kid."
"Yeah."
A woman with too much blonde hair went past us wearing stretch jeans and very high heels that caused her hips to sway when she walked. Hawk and I watched her all the way down the length of the market until she turn
ed aside in the rotunda and we lost her.
"Stretch fabric is a good thing," I said.
"We going to talk with Gerry?" Hawk said.
"I thought we might," I said.
Hawk nodded and pushed the last of his scrambled eggs onto his fork with the last of his toast. He put the eggs very delicately into his mouth and followed with the toast. He chewed carefully and swallowed and picked up his cup and drank some coffee. He put the cup down, picked up his napkin, and patted his lips.
"Don't sound like you got anybody else to talk to," he said.
"Nope."
"Paul worried about her?"
"Yes."
He nodded. "Want me to see I can arrange it?" he said.
I drank more of my second cup. "Soon as I finish my coffee," I said.
CHAPTER 14
PAUL and I went back to see Martinelli. He wasn't there and the shop was closed. We went back to see his sister Caitlin. She wasn't there. And she wasn't there the next day when we called, nor that evening, nor the next morning. And neither was Martinelli. We went back to the real estate women at Chez Vous. They had nothing to add. They didn't know anyone else who would have anything to add. They seemed to know less than when I'd spoken to them first. We talked with three other people we'd tracked down through the answering machine. They didn't know who Rich Beaumont was. They didn't know where Patty might be. At least two sort of hinted that they also didn't care. We called every travel agent in the Yellow Pages and every major airline without success. There was no business listing for Rich Beaumont in the Yellow Pages. The Secretary of State's office had no listing of any com pany with that name in its title. Nobody at either North or South Station could help us. Nobody at either bus terminal could help us. I got Beaumont's registration number, make, and model from the Registry. There was no car that fit the plate or description parked in the garage of the Revere Beach condo or anywhere around. None had been towed by either Boston or MDC police. "It looks like they disappeared on purpose," Paul said.
We were walking Pearl along the river, past the lagoon, west of the Hatch
Shell. Some ducks were cruising the lagoon, and when Pearl spotted them she got lower and longer and sucked in her stomach and froze in a quivering point. Paul and I stopped and let her point for a moment.
"Yeah, but it doesn't have to mean that. They could simply have gotten in his car and driven off in full innocence. We'd have come up with same zero."
Pearl edged a step closer to the ducks. Her complete self was invested in them. I picked up a small rock and tossed it at them. They rose from the water and swept out toward the river. I said, "Bang," and Pearl broke the point and glanced at me for a moment and then forgot about it and proceeded on, her nose close to the ground, tracking the elusive candy wrapper.
"What about the fact that we can't find either of the two people who had anything useful to tell us?" Paul said.
"Not encouraging," I said.
"Do you think anything happened to them?"
"Probably not," I said. "Probably they were told to go away for a while and they did."
"Joe Broz?"
I shrugged.
"The son, whatsisname?"
"Gerry," I said. "No way to know yet."
"So now what do we do?" Paul said. "A tearful plea on the noon news?"
"Let's hold off a little on that," I said. "Let's go out to Lexington and collect your mother's mail."
"Can you do that?"
"You can," I said. "Just tell them your mother wanted you to pick it up for her. If some postal clerk is really zealous you can prove you're her son."
We finished Pearl's walk, in which she pointed a flock of pigeons, and tracked down the wrapper to a Zagnut Bar, and went back to my place and loaded her into the car and headed out to Lexington.
The postal clerk was the same woman with the teased pink hair that I'd talked with before, though she didn't seem to remember me.
"You talk to your mother's friend?" she said when Paul presented himself.
"No," he said.
"Oh. I figured when we couldn't give him the mail he got hold of you."
"No, my mother didn't mention it," Paul said.
"I hate regulations, too," the clerk said. "But they're there. You can't just hand the mail out to anyone who asks."
"Sure," Paul said. "It's a good rule."
"Yeah." She shrugged. "Well, some people get pretty mean about it, but I don't make the rules, you know?"
"I know, you did the right thing."
"But since you're her son, no problem."
Paul nodded encouragingly.
"We should tell him we've got the mail," I said to Paul.
He nodded. I looked at the clerk.
"You wouldn't know who he was, would you?"
"Gee, I have no idea," she said. "Sort of a short guy, lot of hair, combed up in front, like Elvis. Only he's real dark, like a dago or a Frenchman."
I looked at Paul. "Sounds like Uncle Nick," I said.
"Yeah, Nicky's really excitable."
"Well, I don't care if he's your uncle or not. He was mean as hell. He had some ID, he should have shown it to me."
"He's not really my uncle," Paul said. "Just an old friend of my mother's.
We call him Uncle Nick."
"Well, he's a mean one," the clerk said.
There were four or five people forming in line behind us at the single window. One of them said something about "social hour" to his line mate.
The clerk ignored them.
"We don't get paid enough to take abuse, you know what I'm saying."
"I hear you," Paul said with a straight face.
Behind us the line was shuffling and clearing its various throats. Paul glanced at his watch.
"Wow," he said. "It's late. I didn't realize. We better stop wasting this lady's time."
"Hey," the clerk said. "No problem. We're here every day, serving the public. You're not wasting my time."
Someone in the line said something about "my time."
"Well, thanks," Paul said. "I really appreciate it. We better just grab the mail and get rolling." He looked at his watch again and shook his head,
Where does the time go? The clerk nodded understandingly and strolled slowly back of the partition and was gone maybe two minutes and returned with a bundle of mail held together by large rubber bands. She handed it to
Paul. He smiled. I smiled. The clerk smiled. The rest of the line shuffled a little more and shifted its feet. We took the mail and left.
Pearl was sitting in the driver's seat, as she always was when left alone.
She insinuated herself into the backseat the minute she saw us coming, and was in perfect position to lap me behind the ear when I got in the car.
"Brilliant," I said to Paul. "Brilliantly charming, and no hint of eagerness. Masterful."
"I am, after all, a performer," Paul said. "I assume the guy that came asking was that short one we saw in Revere, the one with the huge fat pal, the ones with Vinnie Morris."
"I assume," I said. "Means Vinnie is getting nowhere too."
Paul had the mail in his lap. He handed it to me.
"I don't feel right reading her mail," he said. "What if there's letters there with stuff in them I don't want to see?"
"Love letters?"
"Yeah, explicit stuff. You know? `I'm still thinking about when I bleeped your bleep.' You want to read stuff like that about your mother?"
"Remember," I said, "I never had one."
"Yes, I forget that sometimes."
We were quiet for a while.
"Mothers are never only mothers," I said.
"I know," Paul said. "Christ, do I know. I've had ten years of psychotherapy. I know shit like that better than I want to. I still don't want to read about my mother boinking some jerk."
I nodded.
"I don't know why I should worry about reading it," Paul said. "She's probably been doing it since puberty."
I nodded again. I al
ways thought people had the right to boink who they wanted, even a jerk, if they needed to. But that probably wasn't really
Paul's issue and shutting up never seemed to do much harm.
"I'll read the mail," I said.
Most of it could be dispensed with unread: catalogues, magazines, direct mail advertising. Paul took the batch and walked across the parking lot and dumped it in a trash barrel. The rest were bills, no boinking. The bills produced nothing much, except finally, the very last entry on her American
Express bill, a clothing store in Lenox. I turned to the individual receipts and located it. Tailored Lady, Lenox, Massachusetts, Lingerie. It was datedafter her mail had been put on hold. I handed it to Paul.
"Know anything about this?"
"No," he said. "All I know about Lenox is the Berkshires, Tanglewood. I don't think I've ever been there."
"That your mother's signature?" I said.
"Looks like her writing. I rarely see her signature. When I got money it was usually a check from my father. But it looks like her writing."
"So," I said. "She was probably in Lenox ten days ago.
"Should we go out there?"
"Yes," I said. "We should. But first Hawk and I want to speak with Gerry
Broz."
"About my mother?"
"Yeah."
"Both of you?"
"It's always nice to have backup when you talk with Gerry."
"For god's sake what is she mixed up in when even you need backup to talk to people about her?"
"Doesn't need to be awful," I said. "She probably doesn't even know Gerry."
"Well, it sounds awful and everything we learn about it makes it sound worse."
"We'll find out," I said. "In a while we'll know whatever there is to know."
"I'm getting scared," Paul said. "Scared for her."
"Sure you are," I said. "I would if I were you."
"I don't like being scared."
"Nobody does," I said.
"But everybody is," Paul said. "At one time or another," I said. "You?"
"Sure." "Hawk?" I paused. "I don't know," I said. "You never can be sure with Hawk."
CHAPTER 15
PEARL looked painfully resentful as Susan and I left her. Susan had left the television tuned to CNN. "She likes to watch Catherine Crier," Susan said.
Pastime Page 6