Father Reginald felt out of sorts. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with Father Manuel’s cold. He stared at the silver casket and tried to focus his mind. When Mrs. Fini’s son had died, he’d offered the grieving woman counsel. He’d shown kindness, without sacrificing honesty in regard to the Church’s view on suicide. He’d even given a nice little Mass for the disturbed young man.
But ever since then, Father Reginald had felt a chill from Florence. Of course, she’d continued to come to Mass every Sunday, listening attentively to his sermons as she sat beside her little albinoid grandson. It was a tragic family in so many ways.
“Let us pray.”
He was rushing a bit; he knew that. He was also nervous. It was assumed the daughter-in-law would give a eulogy of some sort. In her absence, Father Reginald felt compelled to offer a little more than the standard fare—something more heartfelt and personal. Though, with his throat already aching, he felt less than inspired. Perhaps he’d simply read the poem printed on the back of Florence’s prayer card—though, one had to admit, it was rather juvenile. Well, Florence Fini was not a literate woman. Not long ago, she’d sent a note to St. Margaret’s regarding the donation of a piano, and her handwriting and grammar had been atrocious. Still, she deserved respect for a life of piety in the face of suffering.
“Bore her struggles with a stony grace,” Father Reginald said at one point, rather pleased with the phrase, which he’d come up with extemporaneously. Of course, the Fini woman hadn’t been a stone the day of her son’s funeral. In lieu of a coffin there’d been a large photograph of the young man, surrounded by a profusion of roses that, considering the circumstances of the boy’s death, seemed excessive. But the Italians were like that—the poor ones, especially. At one point during her son’s Mass, right after Communion, Florence Fini had collapsed in front of the photograph, wailing. Her husband had had to practically carry her back to her seat.
“Florence Fini was a devoted wife, a fiercely loving mother and grandmother, a lesson, in many ways, to all of us. How does one manage to hold Christ in his heart after—ha-ha-ha…”
The small crowd waited. Toni-Ann Hefti leaned back in her seat, grimacing at what appeared to be an approaching tsunami.
“Ha-choo!”
Father Reginald clenched his fists. Unforgivable, the way Father Manuel never covered his mouth when he coughed.
“Excuse me. A lesson to all of us. A woman who kept Christ in her heart, and through His good influence led a quiet humble life, impoverished perhaps by worldly standards, but rich in the glory of the Spirit.”
Dominic Sparra groaned. At his wife’s funeral, a different priest had said nearly the exact same things, meaningless nonsense that had little to do with the complicated reality that had been Mary—and now Florence. Dominic had an urge to make his way to the podium and tell everyone about the girl in the flowered bathing suit, the girl who grew red-faced from two sips of wine and played “Clair de lune” like an angel. If some shred of her spirit was still hovering nearby, listening, someone should have the decency to say something that mattered.
“I think, in many ways, the simplicity of Florence’s spirit can be summed up with the charming prayer on the back of her remembrance card. I’m told that she chose the poem herself. Apparently, she’d made her final arrangements in advance—wishing to spare her family any added hardship. A real trouper, we might say.” Father Reginald lifted the prayer card from the podium. “If I may…”
You have come to my heart, dearest Jesus,
I am holding you close to my breast.
I’m telling You over and over,
You are welcome, Little White Guest.
And when I shall meet You in Heaven,
My soul then will lean on your breast;
And You will recall our fond meetings,
When You were my Little White Guest.
The priest tilted his head, bewildered suddenly by the poem and its odd central metaphor. Was it a reference to the Holy Ghost? The confusion was contagious. It moved quietly through the room until Toni-Ann released it.
“Ed-guh,” she sobbed. At which point, Netty Schlip lost it and collapsed into a fit of tears worthy of the heart of the deceased.
Florence paid none of it any mind. She had nearly reached the place of infinite rest when a distraction far worse than the tears of shopkeepers harnessed her attention. There was a small white light, trapped, it seemed, in the confines of an airless green box. The little boy—something wasn’t right. And though she had no idea what she could do about it, her consciousness snagged like a drifting weed caught in the roots of a riverbank.
All around her life went on. Even those close to death pretended otherwise. After the service, Honey Fasinga stopped Dominic Sparra on the sidewalk. “Excuse me, but I believe we had a moment once, many years ago.” She lifted her veil.
Dominic’s face remained blank for several seconds before his mouth fell open. “Well, I’ll be damned. Honey?”
“On the money,” Honey replied, tapping her cane firmly against the cement.
20
Kev
The child was asleep, the sun shining on the unnaturally pale face. The man pulled around to the back of a supermarket and parked in a nearly deserted lot by the delivery bay. Turning off the engine seemed an act of commitment, encouraging him to reach out and brush a flop of hair from the child’s eyes. The delicate skin had already started to pink. When the man lowered the sun visor, a shadow fell, cutting the tiny face in half.
The kid looked a bit like the other one. The same green eyes (hiding now), the same stoically perturbed lips—endearing in one whose sufferings were no doubt slight. This child was smaller, though—younger. And the other had had dark hair. Maybe this one didn’t look anything at all like the other one.
At this point, the man wasn’t even certain if he was in the company of a boy or a girl. What he knew, though, was that this was the right one.
He’d understood this immediately when he’d first seen the child, weeks ago, in front of the market. The hesitancy; the self-doubt apparent in every one of the kid’s gestures; the genuine innocence of the gaze, as if nothing in the world had yet been named; the silent consternation; the titanic gentleness; all these things had drawn the man’s blinkered attention and encouraged him. The child seemed to be giving him permission.
The little bandaged finger was a sign, as well. Also a warning. The white gauze showed a spot of red—probably from the fat boy’s assault. Something old turned in the man’s stomach. With Kevin, there’d been a lot of blood.
The child moaned, achy but agreeable, as the man repositioned him to lie along the seat. “I just need to get you out of the sun.” The child was breathing, right there below him. That people breathed seemed the most remarkable thing. The man put his hand by the kid’s mouth to feel the living current.
* * *
Before he opened his eyes, Edgar returned to the world with his nose. He smelled grease, dog, dirty laundry, and something sweetly spicy, like oranges mixed with cinnamon. When his lids fluttered open, he saw a blue-jeaned knee and a shadowy recess with three black pedals. Turning his head slightly, he saw the wheel.
The man could feel the child tense. “Don’t worry. It’s okay.”
Edgar’s exhaustion pressed down upon his fear. He closed his eyes, but when he remembered the not-nice dream he’d been having, he opened them again. With his brain still swamped by Percocet, his thoughts arrived in parcels that took a long time to unwrap.
“Here, let me help you up,” the man said.
“You can’t touch me,” protested Edgar.
“Okay, okay,” the man said. “I’m not touching you.”
The boy leaned his back against the passenger-side door, as far away from the man as possible. Abruptly sitting up had given him a rush of vertigo. Through the windshield, he could see the snout of the rusty green truck extending before him. It was as strange as waking up in his closet after a visit from Jack. When he
glanced at the man again, he took in the blue eyes, the beard. As far as he could remember, though, Jack had never had a beard.
“Why am I in here?” Edgar said, confused.
“You passed out. You don’t remember?”
Edgar shook his head.
The man scratched his chin. “I thought you’d be safer in here.”
“I know you,” said Edgar.
The boy had said it without sentiment, only in vague recognition; but the man took it to mean something more. “I know you, too,” he replied.
Edgar knew he had to get out of the car. He tried the door, but it was locked.
“Let me drive you home,” the man said quickly.
“I’m not allowed,” said Edgar
“Not allowed to what?” asked the man.
“Get into a car with a stranger.”
“But you’re already here.”
Edgar felt like he was going to cry. “I’m not allowed.”
“But you said you know me, right? So I’m not a stranger. Right?” The man was desperate that the child not take back what he’d said. “I took care of that kid for you. That Thomas fellow.” The man looked out the window, scanning the lot. “He’s probably still out there.”
Edgar looked out the window, too. Not very far away, a large truck was backing up to an open delivery bay like it had to go to the bathroom. Everything looked strange—and smelled even stranger. “Do you have a dog?” asked Edgar.
“I do,” the man said. “How did you know?”
Edgar shrugged. It would be rude to say that he could smell the animal, a scent like crackers mixed with sweat. “I just guessed,” he said quietly.
The man smiled. “You like dogs?”
“I don’t have one,” said Edgar.
“But do you like them?”
“I don’t really know any.”
The man pulled at his damp shirt, releasing more of the orange-cinnamon of his deodorant.
“I like all animals, pretty much,” Edgar said shyly, holding his bandaged finger protectively against his chest. “I have to go home.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the man.
Edgar looked down at the corn dog of his finger. “I’m not sure.”
“Did Thomas do that to you?”
Edgar shook his head. His brain felt funny. “I have to put my medicine on.”
“Take your medicine, you mean?”
“I’m not supposed to go in the sun without it.” Edgar had started to feel the burn on his skin. He’d left the house without putting on his cream. Outside the truck, the day blazed like a sea full of sharks. “Can you drive me home?”
“Of course.” The man put his hand on the ignition key without turning it. “I’m sorry, I just … you’re a boy, right?”
Edgar blushed and said, “Yes.”
* * *
As they drove, the man made an effort to keep his chatter to a minimum. The silence was broken mostly by the child, saying when to turn left and when to turn right. After ten minutes, the boy seemed sleepy again, his little head lolling as if he were drunk.
“You can put your seat back,” the man said. “You want to?”
The child made no reply. His unresponsiveness excited the man, who wondered what else he might say to the boy. Silence, of course, guaranteed the greatest safety—but the man gambled against it.
“You always liked playing with that seat—sliding it back and forth.”
And then he took a larger risk.
“You nearly broke it that one time. You remember that, Kev?”
The boy made a small, vague sound.
Perhaps the child could be swayed. Children believed in so little; or they believed in too much. Either way, they ended up confused. It was the responsibility of their caretakers to provide a clear accounting of the truth; to tell the tiny creatures who they were and where they’d come from. Sometimes, for the sake of kindness, the truth needed to be knitted from tiny lies, like the strings of a net. One had to capture a child’s imagination gently, like a butterfly.
“Stop,” the boy said—and the man felt a prick of shame, as if his thoughts had been overheard.
“Stop,” repeated Edgar. “I live here.”
The man pulled over, gripping the wheel to keep his hands from shaking. “This one here?”—gesturing with his head toward a blue house on his right.
“No. That one.” The boy pointed at a white house on the opposite side of the street. The air around the property was hazy, especially near an open window on the second floor.
As the boy unlocked the door of the truck, the man touched his arm. “You said you know me, right?” It was difficult to restrain himself. He wanted to grab the child—but what if he screamed? Everything they’d built together would dissolve.
“Let me just give you something, okay?”
But it was too late. Sirens disturbed the air.
“They’re coming,” said Edgar.
“Yes,” said the man. “I know.”
21
Superslut
As the fire truck clamored to a stop before 21 Cressida Drive, Edgar stood dazed across the street. The green pickup had pulled away only moments before.
It had been Toni-Ann Hefti, waiting for her special bus, who’d returned to the kitchen of 19 Cressida Drive to inform her mother that the Finis were on fire. Now, the Hefti women stood outside their door, watching the commotion. Mrs. Hefti smoked, flicking ashes onto the lawn, while Toni-Ann shook her hands anxiously, as if trying to dry nail polish. Neither saw Edgar, whose thin frame was blocked by the trunk of an adolescent poplar.
One fireman pounded on the door, and when no one answered it, another of the monstrously cloaked men proceeded to charge against it with a battering ram.
“No,” cried Edgar, rushing toward the house.
A third fireman held him back. “Is anyone in there?”
“Yes. But don’t hurt the door.”
It was too late. The white oak cracked as it swung open.
“Who’s in there?” the fireman asked. “How many people?”
“Two,” said Edgar. “Let go of me!”
“Easy does it, bruiser.”
Adrenaline had brought the boy back to life. He extricated himself from the grip of the fat-mitted fireman and sped toward the open door.
“Edgar!”
The voice stopped him. He turned to see his mother rising from her little red car.
“Get over here!” she yelled.
He was relieved to see that she hadn’t been burnt to a crisp. Still, he ignored her and turned back to the house. From upstairs came the voices of men and the ticking and mewling of the floorboards under their insensitive boots. The smoke smelled like cigarettes and hot dogs—horrible.
“What the hell’s going on?” Lucy clicked up the path in heels. Her sunglasses and trench coat, combined with haywire hair (she’d driven here at high speed with the windows down) made her look like some harried Fellini heroine.
“Fire, ma’am. Step back, please.”
“There’s no fire.”
“We’re checking things out.”
“I just told you,” Lucy said, flattening her hair, “there’s no fire. I already put it out.” She lit a cigarette. “It’s just smoke.”
“Things have a tendency to reignite,” said the man.
“I didn’t even call. Who called you guys?”
“Must have been a neighbor.”
Lucy glanced over at the Heftis’ property. Mrs. Hefti raised her chin in a meaningless gesture, while Toni-Ann waved fervently. Lucy turned back to the fireman. “And who’s gonna pay for the door?”
“Yeah, sorry about that. They don’t usually crack.”
Lucy huffed and removed her sunglasses.
The fireman tilted his head and smiled. “Lucy?”
She pulled back her face and scowled, as if her name were bad breath coming from the man’s mouth. “Do I know you?”
He took off his helmet and goggles and off
ered a more prominent smile. “William.”
She couldn’t place him.
At which point, he leaned in and offered, sotto voce, what he hoped might jog her memory. “Will-yummy?” His eyebrows lifted like a puppet’s.
Lucy felt nauseous again.
“Nicky’s Tavern?” he continued. “Like six months ago? I mean, it was just that one time but, wow, how are you?”
“I’ve had better days.”
“Is that your son?” the man whispered, pointing at Edgar’s back.
Lucy smiled tensely. “I didn’t know you were a fireman.”
“Just volunteer.”
Lucy took a final drag from her cigarette before tossing it onto the lawn.
“Step on it,” said Edgar.
“You really should always extinguish them,” Will-yummy concurred.
“Excuse me a minute, would you?” she said, pulling Edgar aside. Decency required more distance between her son and her dimly remembered hookup.
The man held an imaginary phone to his ear and did the puppet eyebrows again. Lucy nodded vaguely. As if she still had his friggin’ number!
No one had stepped on the smoldering cigarette yet, and so Edgar did it.
“Why are you wearing slippers?” Lucy said, kneeling on the grass in front of her son. “And where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
“You were sleeping,” said Edgar.
She touched his flushed face. “Come on, we need to get you out of the sun. Can we go inside now?” she asked the fireman.
“Let me see what’s going on,” he said, trotting away.
Edgar kicked the flattened cigarette toward his mother. “Were you smoking in the house?”
“No, of course not. Why—you think this is my fault?”
Edgar shrugged and looked up at the open window of his grandmother’s bedroom. He had a vague recollection of standing before the Virgin Mary with a match in his hand. “I didn’t do it, either,” he insisted.
Lucy followed the boy’s gaze to Florence’s window. A puff of smoke, the size of a person, lingered there.
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