The Lonely Witness

by William Boyle

  “How about one more hug for the road?” Fred says.

  They embrace. Fred walks out, gazing back at her once before he closes the door behind him.

  That really happened, she thinks. Her father was in her little apartment, and now he’s gone. Her father. She had just been thinking about him at Mrs. Epifanio’s because of the popcorn ceiling in the bedroom. She’d long ago figured him for dead.

  She latches the dead bolt and goes back to the bed, curling up again and trying to empty her mind, wanting to hide.

  As she lies there, Amy finds it impossible not to think about her mother, Barbara. How she did everything for her growing up. Fred off at the bars, off with other women—just off. Barbara deserved better. After Fred finally disappeared for good, Barbara fought like hell to have the marriage annulled, and Amy prayed that her mother would find someone better. Someone with a job. Someone who would come home after work and stay home. Play cards with them. Share meals. Know how to be kind.

  Barbara had one date that Amy remembers. Guy’s name was Terry De Santis. Worked over at a cabstand in Ozone Park. He showed up in a nice, new-looking suit with a short, stubby red tie. He opened the door of his Lincoln Continental for Barbara and took her to Don Peppe’s. Amy stayed with her grandparents and couldn’t relax until Barbara got home and told her what a wonderful time she’d had, what a gentleman Terry had been. Amy was happy and hopeful. The next week, Barbara was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Terry never came around again.

  The visit to her doctor had merely been a routine checkup. Barbara seemed totally fine one day, then deteriorated quickly. She lost a lot of weight, and her skin turned yellow. She was gone in fewer than eight months. Amy’s grandparents hunted for her father, to no avail. They didn’t have to do that. They knew they would take responsibility for her. But they thought Fred deserved the right to have some stake in her life. Amy got mad. She turned her back on God. She tried not to think about her father. She tried not to give her grandparents too much trouble. They only knew that she went to school and got good grades. She lied to them about going to church. They believed her, for some reason. They never caught on about the smoking. They didn’t know Bob Tully except to say hi to him. He’d only moved in next door a couple of years before her mother died. Her grandparents never knew what she’d seen. They never could’ve guessed that Amy was following him every chance she got.

  Now, having returned to God, Amy’s being asked to give her father a shot? She’s not sure she can. She’s not sure she has that kind of strength.

  Her father didn’t beat her. He didn’t beat Barbara. He was a drunk, no more and no less. His absence from her life didn’t make her who she is. Her mother and grandparents made her who she is. She wishes Fred had the guts to stay away. This isn’t for her—it’s for him. She knows the story.

  She gets up and takes off her clothes. In the little bathroom, she runs a shower. The water pressure is great. She turns the hot water all the way up— Mr. Pezzolanti has just adjusted the knob on the water heater, and she has more hot water than ever. The bathroom is a pocket of steam. Staying under the water soothes her. The noise of the shower drowns out everything else. She closes her eyes. She’s being wasteful, and she knows it. She stays in the shower until the water starts to turn cold; then she twists the knobs off and reaches for a towel. She dries herself. She walks naked to her plastic bin, her arms crossed over her chest, and picks out fresh clothes. A purple T-shirt, jeans, a black hoodie, and her black Converse. She’s decided she will go to Liu’s Shanghai. She makes sure she has her phone, in case Mrs. Epifanio calls. It’s in her pocket, the ringer on vibrate.

  Outside, Mr. Pezzolanti is standing by the gate. He seems to have been waiting for her. He notices her hair is wet. “That hot water’s really blasting now, isn’t it?” he says.

  She touches her hair. “I’m sorry I took such a long shower.”

  “Oh, no sweat. That was really your old man, huh?”

  “It was.”

  “Doesn’t look much like you.”

  “I take after my mom.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mr. Pezzolanti nods. “Say no more. I don’t mean to pry.” He leans against the gate, looks up at the telephone wires. “I wasn’t always the best as an old man. I’ve got regrets.”

  “You were around.”

  “Chris was only a kid. We had a few falling-outs. I’m in no position to give you advice. But your father’s your father. Blood’s tough.”

  “It is.”

  Part of Amy wants to invite Mr. Pezzolanti along to Liu’s Shanghai or at least ask him if he wants anything for takeout. But she beats back that desire to be kind. She wants to be alone. She wants to sit with her fried wontons and scallop soup dumplings and steal glances at Xiùlán. She says good-bye to Mr. Pezzolanti, telling him she’ll see him later. He gives her a salute.

  Eighty-Sixth Street is full of late-afternoon action. She must’ve stayed in her apartment even longer than she thought after Fred left; she hasn’t looked at a clock. The fruit markets are bustling, and trains come and go overhead. Commuters pour out at the Bay Parkway station. Double-parked cars are lined up at the curb. Garbage is ribboned around telephone poles. Dirty puddles have collected in the crosswalks. Squashed cigarette boxes, newspapers, and food wrappers dot the ground. Kids pass with bubble tea. The Chinese markets have laid out wild displays of dried mushrooms, dried shrimp, dried everything. Chicken and duck carcasses hang in the windows of Chinese restaurants; crowded fish tanks fill other windows. An old lady sits on an overturned orange crate outside one of the Russian grocery stores with a folded shopping cart at her feet and a wilted yellow tulip in her hand. Amy remembers Alessandra’s story of a guy with a guitar who used to stand on the corner of Bay Parkway and serenade everyone as they passed by. She remembers Alessandra pointing out where Sam Goody once was, how she bought her first Pixies tape there.

  Liu’s is fairly far away, on the corner of Nineteenth Avenue and Bath Avenue, technically in Bath Beach, thirteen blocks past where she turned off earlier for Diane’s apartment. Amy continues along Eighty-Sixth Street now. She prefers walking under the El. The avenue is crowded and alive, but it seems to be dying at the same time. Closed riot gates full of rust and graffiti. Battered El columns in the street spidering along endlessly. People tossing away their garbage as they walk—abandoned scratch-offs, beer cans in brown paper bags, pages from a child’s coloring book. Halfhearted new construction projects all around, paired with a roof caving in here, a broken window there. Graffiti over a beautiful half-hidden old shoe store sign. Everything feeling partly poisonous. Or poisoned. Here are men with decaying teeth, with decaying smiles, and women trudging along with their shoulders hunched. A bike without wheels is chained to a lamppost.

  Most days, Amy isn’t sure if she likes one single thing about the neighborhood. She’s never liked anything about it, really. Alessandra hated it, so she’d seen it first through that lens, and that impression stuck. But not liking it had led her to want to stay. She felt like she could disappear, at first. Then she felt like she could live among the forgotten and bring some light to them. Maybe I’m being overdramatic, she thinks. Sometimes the dreariness hits her full force.

  At Nineteenth Avenue, she makes a left and then continues straight, crossing Benson. Liu’s appears, an unassuming white awning wrapping around the corner, the name of the restaurant and some Chinese characters in green and red, along with two Shanghai shadow skylines. From the outside, it could be like any of the other Chinese dive joints in the neighborhood, serving up musty egg drop soup and bad fried rice. What had drawn her in first was a review she read somewhere. She can’t quite remember where. Maybe New York magazine. The review sang of the soup dumplings, of the vegetarian duck, of the fish-head casserole, and of the braised lion’s-head meatballs. She’d started simple with Shanghai-style lo mein and worked her way up to more adventurous stuff.

  People have been
catching on over the last year, coming from other neighborhoods to eat there—even coming from the city. It’s a small restaurant, and it’s usually crowded from dinner until close. She’s hoping that it’s early enough now that she’ll get there before the rush.

  When she enters, she’s surprised that the place is almost completely empty. She sits at a table by the window. Xiùlán comes out of the kitchen and waves, then goes over to the phone on the counter, picks it up, and says something in Chinese. She’s short, probably about five two, and her hair is black. She wears a pink cap with little fox ears sewn onto it, a black blouse, and jeans ripped at the knees. She finishes the call and comes over.

  “How are you?” she asks, her voice soft.

  “Same,” Amy says. “You?”

  Xiùlán shrugs. “Annoying phone call.”

  “I hope you’re not getting sick of me. I come in every day now.”

  A smile. “Never. What can I get you?”

  Amy doesn’t need to look at the menu. She orders her two favorite things: A1 and A3. Scallop soup dumplings and fried wontons. The fried wontons come in a peanut and hot sauce. She’s not even that hungry. Her stomach is unsettled because of Vincent and Fred. She thinks how strange it is that days can just go to these unexpected places. Her routine unaltered for the last couple of years, and then this.

  Xiùlán brings the order into the kitchen. She comes out and goes back behind the counter to fetch Amy’s ginger ale, which is free with the meal. She doesn’t even need to ask what Amy wants to drink, and that makes Amy happy. “Here you go,” she says, setting down the can in front of Amy.

  Amy says thanks as Xiùlán joins her at the table. They talk about how nice it is out for this time of year, how they can’t believe it’s February already, and about the state of things in the world. How scary it is. This guy as president—an absolute idiot. The immigration ban. Xiùlán telling stories of what some of her family members have been going through, their fears and worries, how hard they’ve worked to get here and how it all seems to be collapsing. Amy shakes her head and says how sad that is. She can’t wait for it to be over. Xiùlán expresses doubt that it’ll be over any time soon.

  They switch gears. Xiùlán asks if Amy heard about the double murder on Bay Twenty-Third, the woman who killed her husband and son. Terrible. Amy asks how the woman did it. Xiùlán makes a gun with her hand. “Shot them both,” she says. “Bullet went through the floor and almost killed the old man in the apartment downstairs, too.”

  Amy wonders if she should tell Xiùlán about Vincent and Fred. It seems stupid and selfish. She decides not to. The food comes, and Xiùlán leaves her to eat.

  Amy gets hungry as she smells the food in front of her. The first scallop soup dumpling bursts in her mouth, perfect. She picks up a wonton with her chopsticks. Spicy. Also perfect. She plows through the food, thinking about how good it tastes, trying not to think about having to get lunch or coffee or whatever with Fred. She won’t bring him here. She’ll bring him somewhere dumb and unimportant, like Starbucks, somewhere that could be anywhere. She washes down the food with her ginger ale. Xiùlán comes to check on her. Amy lets her know how good everything is, as usual.

  Amy walks up to the counter and pays. The food isn’t expensive. Her total comes to just over seventeen dollars. She gives Xiùlán the exact amount and leaves five bucks as a tip. Xiùlán says it was nice seeing her again. Amy says, “It’s always nice seeing you,” and then she worries that she’s being too forward. Nothing registers in Xiùlán’s face.

  As Amy leaves Liu’s Shanghai, her phone rumbles in her pocket. She takes it out and flips it open. “Vincent’s back,” Mrs. Epifanio says. “He’s pounding on my kitchen door right now.”

  5

  Now it’s getting dark out. Amy runs the first half of the way and fast-walks the second, once she’s short of breath. She’s not sure what she’ll find at Mrs. Epifanio’s. Vincent, having given up, slumped at the door? But maybe he’s not just some neighborhood weirdo after all. Maybe he’ll have broken down the door and gotten inside and strangled Mrs. Epifanio to death. Or maybe Mrs. Epifanio will have called the cops, and Amy will merely be an ornament on the edges of disorder.

  It takes her fifteen minutes to get there, maybe a little longer. The front door is open when she arrives. She goes inside. There’s no sign of Vincent. The kitchen door is closed. She tries the knob. Locked. She knocks.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Epifanio says from the other side.

  “It’s Amy, Mrs. E. Is he gone?”

  “I guess so.” Mrs. Epifanio sighs and opens the door. She looks tired and uneasy. “He just stood out there and pounded on the door. He called me an old bitch, said he was gonna break the door in. I’m so glad you told me to put the slide lock on.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. Just he needed to get in.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “I called you.”

  “I’m not the police. What could I have done?”

  “I know. Come in. Have some coffee.”

  “I can’t, Mrs. E. I’m sorry.” She’s not sure why her impulse is to say no.

  She technically has nowhere to be. Wouldn’t this be part of what she considers her work? To help calm down Mrs. Epifanio, to tell her everything’s going to be okay, to call the police for her and file a report? But instead, it’s a clipped no. Her old self is coming through again.

  “I understand,” Mrs. Epifanio says.

  “Just keep that slide lock on,” Amy says.

  Mrs. Epifanio nods and closes the door, still distressed and now disappointed. She was probably taking for granted that Amy would stay for a little while, nice girl like her.

  Amy locks the front door from the inside and then pulls it shut behind her. She looks for some sign of Vincent. She’s thinking he was so harried that maybe he dropped something. He had the key out and maybe he dropped his vape pen or his phone, left some trace of himself. But there’s nothing that she can see.

  She’s down the stoop and out the gate. She wants to follow him again. That same impulse from before. She’s got only two leads. He either went to Diane’s or to Homestretch. If he’s not at one of those places, there’s no following him. This time, she thinks, she wants to confront him. She wants to ask him a couple of questions. She never had the guts to confront Bob Tully. She guesses Homestretch and heads in that direction.

  So much walking. Her feet still sore. When she gets to Homestretch, she stands outside and peers in through the window. The Budweiser sign casts a red glow over the small crowd inside. She doesn’t see Vincent. She goes in and takes the only empty stool at the bar, down by the end. The bartender looks like a plumber. He wears a gold chain over a T-shirt with the Italian flag on it. He’s got a mustache, and he’s eating a folded slice of pizza.

  “What can I get you?” he asks.

  “Just a club soda, thanks,” Amy says.

  Bar like this, he doesn’t laugh. He probably suspects she’s an alcoholic who just wants to be around it all. Maybe she looks like that in her plain clothes. Unassuming. Like someone running from her past.

  He brings her back a club soda on the rocks in a pint glass with a lime wedge on the rim and puts it on a coaster in front of her. She leaves three singles for him. He takes one. She pushes the other two forward to indicate that it’s a tip. He nods and says, “Thanks, sweetie.”

  Homestretch on the inside is pretty much just as she remembers it. The TVs are on, playing MSG. Football’s over. Baseball hasn’t started yet. The hockey fans are waiting for the Rangers to come on. She grabs a straw from a dispenser on the bar, rips off the paper, and pushes it into her glass. She takes a long sip.

  She isn’t surprised when Vincent comes out of the bathroom and sits at the other end of the bar. He doesn’t see her. He’s got a Bud Light there waiting for him. He seems to be alone. She puts one elbow up on the bar, shifts her bottom on the stool, and covers her face with her hand as b
est she can.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Vincent drawing on his vape pen. A bluish cloud of smoke rises around him. Some of the old-timers lined up at the bar look at him like he’s dissecting a frog right on his cocktail napkin.

  “I told you to knock that shit off,” the bartender says to him.

  “Bernie, come on,” Vincent says. “It’s okay to do it inside.”

  “That’s not the point. You’re making yourself look like an idiot. You’re making us all look like idiots. You’re gonna do it, go outside.”

  Vincent sighs. “I’ve seen people in here racing cockroaches on the bar top and you’re gonna give me shit for vaping?”

  “Even the name,” Bernie the bartender says. “Vaping. What is that? Just go get a pack of cigarettes.”

  Vincent swigs what’s left of his beer and goes outside. He sits heavily on the bench. Amy puts down her hand and readjusts on her stool. She can see only the top of Vincent’s head in the corner of the window. She can go out there and talk to him, if that’s what she wants. Now is ideal. She imagines what she might say to him. She’d want it to be good. Something like, “Mrs. Epifanio sends her best.” He’d look up and smile.

  And what if he’s truly dangerous, like Bob Tully? What if he lashes out at her? That can’t be what she’s after. But maybe the mystery of whether he could be capable of what Bob Tully was capable of is what’s driving her. She’s embraced another kind of mystery, but it’s been so dull.

  She knows she should’ve just stayed with Mrs. Epifanio and called the police and given them Vincent’s description and told the officers she was worried about Diane.

  Through the window, there’s only the dark patch of his hair and the smoke rising over it and lights from passing cars. Someone walks up to him. A man wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Not a light hoodie like hers but puffier, fuller, with the hood cinched tight around his face. It could be the same man from earlier, just dressed differently. The man sits next to Vincent on the bench. More smoke.