Right. Of course.
Which leaves me to pick up money—not enough, mind you, because like I said, my father was broke—and drive around the ghetto looking for the Miami jail.
So his little sister bailed him out of jail?
Tré. It was like $5,000. Doris—no, Doris’s mother—bailed him out. She used her house for collateral.
No shit?
Well, you know Doris. She and Albert are like you and—who’s the guy you’ve known since you were twelve? Came to your wedding? Came out for Albert’s funeral?
Tony Papa.
Exactly. So Doris and her mother put up collateral and I pick him up. Then, as we’re walking to my car, I ask him where his jacket is? Don’t ask how I knew he had a jacket—must’ve been cold in Miami that day—but he tells me that a drunk in the holding cell took it from him.
What?
The Alberto I knew would never let some inebriated asshole steal his jacket. Or let parking tickets turn into a warrant.
But this was Alberto before I met him.
This was nineteen sloppy years ago.
Still.
The stolen jacket.
It brings me to tears.
At this moment, I finally understand why my mom still chokes up about my brother being bullied in grammar school: she wishes she could-have-would-have stopped it.
But it wasn’t about stopping a bully.
It for her—really—was about stopping Phil’s car crash.
And it for me ain’t about stopping a drunk from taking Alberto’s jacket.
It’s about stopping his heart attack.
* * *
I can admit it: I sleep with a stuffed monkey every night.
When I make the bed each morning, I set him atop the duvet and position his limbs and head at a playful angle. When I leave the apartment, I wave good-bye. I pack him into my suitcase on trips—even if it means checking oversized luggage.
The stuffed monkey was a gift from Barby three mornings after It Happened.
She and Hilda had come to the apartment and when we settled in the living room, Barby mentioned the christening of her daughter, Teresa.
Remember how you and Albert came back to the house after the reception?
Yes.
Well, Albert got rather attached to Teresa’s stuffed monkey that day.
I laugh.
He actually threatened to leave with it. But I told him he wasn’t allowed to steal his own goddaughter’s toys.
But, Hilda interrupts, Barby went to the same store—Macy’s, I think—and bought the exact same monkey for Albert.
Really?
I was gonna send it to Albert’s office, Barby explains, along with a note supposedly written by Teresa:
Dear Uncle Albert,
Get your own damn monkey!
Love,
Your Favorite Goddaughter
That’s adorable, I say.
Barby shoots me a silencing look.
I never should have put it off, she shakes her head. It sat in a shopping bag last week and—
But where’s the monkey now, I interrupt.
She has it here! Hilda shouts, her ice-blue eyes sparkling.
I perk up as Barby returns from the foyer with a latté-colored monkey.
I’m on my feet as soon as I see it.
Its face.
Looks.
Like.
Alberto’s.
Same amused smile. Same dimples that only emerge when he’s either really happy or really not.
And that silly, stuffed monkey?
It’s the only reason I’ve been able to sleep for the last four months.
* * *
Nothing like a Times Square cabaret to drive you to tears.
Luckily, it’s too dark for anyone to notice, because explaining to Alberto’s employees and business partner why I’m crying through a song about an air conditioner would be awkward. The air-conditioner song is being performed by Kerri, the PR director, and I’m so floored by her retro voice and shameless stage presence that I can’t help wishing Alberto was seeing this show.
But I have no doubt that he would show his approval by interfering with her performance. At the office, he’d dump Kerri’s yogurt onto her keyboard. Lick her water glass. Send her handwritten hate mail just for fun. One of his other female employees told me she’d once gone into the office bathroom and on the mirror, someone with handwriting just like Alberto’s had written: For a good time, call 646-248-4802.
This was her actual phone number.
And she got a call from some guy in the office.
* * *
I’ve seen better nights.
This one finds me opening drawers in pursuit of a pill—any pill—that will make me feel better.
An Oxycontin lifted from Alberto’s vitamin bottle looks promising. He’s not here to explain this pill—from his ear surgery? knee surgery?—and I’ve never tried oxy, so I take only half the pill.
I swallow it without water, start closing the drawer, and notice my silver Rolex.
The one Alberto put on my wrist in D.C., as a token of his intention.
I don’t recall wearing it since he died . . . has it been in a drawer all this time?
The oyster perpetual date on the watch reads MAR 15.
It stopped . . . the same day he died?
What time?
6:47am.
Was. This. The. Exact. Moment?
Last time I saw him alive was 6:42am.
I remember the degree of lividity he already had at 8:21am.
Actual time of death?
6:47am?
He was dying while I was drifting off to sleep?
As the pill kicks in, I stare at the clock face.
Can’t move it.
Can’t wear it.
The motion-activated battery will start ticking.
Time will start again.
The Cruelest Month
Because, really, there’s nothing like hyperventilating
on a 12-story fire escape & stepping back inside
to finish your expense report.
(August 24, 8:51pm via Twitter)
* * *
After spending an afternoon at Soho House pool, I stop in the empty billiard room on my way out to draft a Facebook message to Alberto:
I’m here with my cigarette, in the room where I fell in love with
your laugh, listening to the sound memories make. How have I
done so many Saturday nights without you?
I hit send and realize I’m not alone.
A rugged, thirty-something guy in Ugg boots has begun a rather intense game of solo pool behind me. I’ve already put my phone away and slipped on my sandals when he asks if I want to join him.
His Australian accent is charming, but the heat of my sunburn—and the sacredness of this room—compels me to shake my head.
Thanks, really, I say, but I was just leaving.
So stay a while, he says. And have a drink, he nods at a bottle of champagne on ice.
A glass is placed in my hand and a pool cue in the other.
I don’t—play, I say.
Yes you do, he smiles.
I don’t play anymore.
And why the hell not, he asks.
You want the made-for-TV answer, I ask, or the real one?
I want, he says, whichever version you think I’m worthy of, and shoots the 8-ball into a center pocket.
Four hours, five drinks, and one upstairs elevator ride later, I decide which version he’s worthy of. And this scruffy banker who lives in London is smart enough to skip the sympathy: he smiles, flirts, and eventually asks if he can kiss me. Notices my empty glass and raids the mini bar in his suite to refill it.
Asks me psychologist questions—if you could be any animal, what would it be and why?—and teaches me poker at dawn, claiming sleepiness when I gleefully win all his chips.
The adventure doesn’t come with an orgasm for me, but over the next thirty-six hours, we order room service twice, misplace my bikini bottoms permanently, and trash the room like a couple of rolling stones. I leave Soho House at 7:30 on Monday morning minus a pearl earring, my nose ring, and one very vital undergarment.
I’m still smiling two hours later when I slide into the office for the weekly team meeting.
* * *
The Aussie momentarily filled the void like only a foreigner staying for the weekend could: with the accent and eagerness of a stranger to experiment on every surface of his hotel room. Now he’s on a plane back to Heathrow and I’m lying in bed, guilty of thinking about someone who’s not Alberto.
* * *
It’s a few days into August, and I’m panicky about my lack of travel reservations for the rough weekends ahead. I’ve been considering Miami for Alberto’s birthday, so I call his mother and ask if she has plans on August 14th.
Just evening mass, she says.
Want to catch some sun and have dinner at Mr. Chow’s?
I would love it, she says.
I book my flight and two rooms at W South Beach and send the reservation number to Tony Papa.
Since Maggie and I decided on the Bahamas for my anniversary, I find an early flight and reserve a suite with a view at The Cove.
I’ve officially handled August when Tony Papa replies.
I’m sorry, but I can’t do Miami, he writes. Gotta have emergency oral surgery.
I’m sorry, I reply. Feel better, man.
So it will just be me and Hilda.
As it should be.
* * *
Despite my dread of August birthdays and anniversaries, today has not been hostile. Maybe it was last night’s travel bookings or that I managed to shine in a meeting today. Or that I skipped the cab and walked home to our clean, well-lit apartment. Whatever the reason, tonight just feels like an ice-cream-kind-of-night.
I turn on the TV and go to the kitchen, approaching the freezer like it doesn’t scare me. I ignore Alberto’s pork chops and frozen waffles and pull out the same pint of coconut ice cream we shared in early March. I do not linger over the crystallization around his scoop marks. I microwave it like he always did, transfer into a glass—ice-cream soup!—and find a long-necked spoon. I step into the living room, where the list of our DVR-d shows is onscreen.
I scroll past House MD.
Lie to Me.
Bones.
Private Practice.
These are all his shows.
Where are my stupid shows?
My Nat Geo Disaster recordings?
My Rob & Big reruns?
My PBS docs?
I put down the ice-cream spoon.
Scroll faster.
When I see Friday Night Lights, I shut off the TV.
Carry the untouched ice-cream soup to the kitchen.
Dump it down the drain.
Proceed to bedroom.
I climb into bed in my work clothes and shut my eyes against a world where even ice cream and television have gotten complicated.
* * *
Usually the background music at my favorite manicure place is badly orchestrated classical.
Tonight it’s all standards.
When I hear Ella singing “Just One of Those Things,” I lower my head and try to focus on a Vanity Fair article. Which works until I hear the first few bars of Nat’s “Unforgettable.” My tears are falling on the magazine like an isolated thunderstorm and when I accidentally release a sniffle, Mona the Manicurist responds by reaching for a paper towel.
You need tissue? she says, handing it to me. She meets my eyes and blinks when she realizes it’s not allergies: I’m on the verge of a meltdown at her station.
When the opening chorus of “Cheek to Cheek” by Fred Astaire starts, I’m no longer on the verge. The sobs are reverberating from my chest to my hands, which no doubt sucks for the person manicuring you.
But God bless Mona, who squeezes my hands and whispers that tears are like a gift from God.
Let it out, she nods, go ahead.
Mona continues massaging my hands until my sobs become deep, dry breaths.
* * *
Today is Alberto’s forty-first birthday, and I’m on a Miami balcony, writing him a card.
I’m also wondering how to affix it to the helium balloons that Hilda and I will release before spreading his ashes in the ocean. If I’d been thinking clearly in New York, I’d have brought a single-hole punch so I could string the balloon ribbons through a hole in the envelope corner. Hell, if I’d been thinking clearly in New York, I wouldn’t have forgotten toothpaste, my iPod charger, and bronzer.
In my hotel bathroom, I cut stems off flowers, dropping the buds into a Ziploc bag. Since the New Hampshire ceremony, I’ve decided that whenever I let his ashes go, I’m scattering flowers too: the surface of the water is just too sad without color.
I checklist my props before heading downstairs: Got the balloons? Bag of flowers? Box of ashes?
Go.
In the crowded elevator, a Midwesterner asks if it’s someone’s birthday.
I wince, but nod.
Well, he says, happy birthday!
I avoid his eyes and take a mental note to refrain from making perky remarks to people holding flowers or balloons.
Seriously.
You don’t know where they’re off to.
A grave, a hospital, an ocean.
* * *
Despite the emotions leading up to tonight—and the thunderstorms predicted for today—his birthday has been peaceful, the weather sunny.
After spreading ashes and flowers—hey, the water looks happy, Hilda had said—we change clothes upstairs and drive to her church in Coral Gables. At the sound of her son’s name read aloud during evening mass, Hilda shakes her head and looks skyward. I reach for her hand and she keeps it until we reach her convertible VW Beetle.
I love this car, she says, pressing the top down button.
It suits you, I agree.
And if it weren’t for Albert, I never would’ve bought this car.
Even though I know the story, I pretend I’ve forgotten.
How so?
I was deciding between this convertible and some boring car, and Albert said, “if it makes you happy, Mumu, go for it.”
I smile at the approaching punch line.
So I went for it.
By the time we reach South Beach, Hilda has shaken off the somber mass and found her usual childlike enthusiasm for new things.
I’m excited, she says, as we walk into the restaurant. I’ve never been to Mr. Chow.
But you’ve been to the original one in New York?
Never.
Sucks that her first Mr. Chow experience is without him, and it especially sucks because he knew what I liked and always ordered for both of us. I’ve never seen a menu at the New York location, but one is placed in my hands tonight. Is it the sea bass that I love? Or the other fish? And where’s the fried seaweed (or whatever that green stuff was)?
Fuck it.
I know Alberto liked the squab lettuce wrap and we always shared the scallion pancakes and vegetable rice. I order these for the table and ask the waiter to come back for our entrée order. When he does, I surprise-order something with tofu and ask for another Kir Royale. Hilda orders the sea bass.
I have a taste from her plate.
It’s what I should’ve ordered.
* * *
It’s the five-month-iversary and the sky has shifted from sun to storm in a matter of minutes. When the wind starts hurling
seat cushions and glass lanterns into the pool, I dash indoors with the other guests. From inside the hotel bar, I witness my first monsoon, and watch eagerly for something dramatic to happen.
Ten minutes later, Hilda happens.
Rain-soaked, windblown Hilda.
We hug and order drinks—hers with just a splash of Cachaça because she’s taking medication. The Wellbutrin she’s been taking since It Happened keeps her, as she puts it, even keel. I order mine with more than a splash because my issues may be long and many, but I do grief the old-fashioned way: with a drink in my hand and a song in my heart.
* * *
Miami’s weather follows me back to New York, where the August humidity gathers into an early evening downpour.
Sprinting the two blocks between the train and my building, I remember a night two years ago, when a thunderstorm like this actually rewrote Romeo and Juliet.
It was June 2007, opening night of Shakespeare in the Park.
A downpour in the play’s second act had forced Lauren Ambrose, Camryn Manheim, and the entire audience out of Central Park’s open-air theatre and under the eaves. Everyone’s hair is soaked and all heels are off. Publicists are scrambling to position umbrellas around the likes of Marcia Gay Harden, Debra Messing, and Cynthia Nixon, whose dresses have become see-through.
Tonight I am not one of those scrambling publicists, so the rain has me laughing and huddling with Alberto under an empty concession stand. He recognizes an acquaintance from Palm Bay—the corporate sponsor of the Shakespeare series—and she pulls a bottle of wine from a picnic basket. I’m sipping a glass of Santa Rita when a man’s voice comes over the P.A. system.
Ladies and gentlemen, God has decreed it: Romeo & Juliet shall LIVE. Please join us at Belvedere Castle for the afterparty.
I drop my drink.
I’ve seen this play performed twenty times and the first time I see it with Alberto, it has a happy ending?
I can only speak in half-sentences: Did—did he just say? That they’ll—live? Do you realize how—?
Alberto silences me with a kiss, presses his body against mine. He lifts me and my sundress onto the counter of the concession stand and pulls my legs around his torso. Amid the mad dash of footsteps and fabric around us, we share a movie-kiss moment.
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