sniffing the cork. Jeanne swirled a little in both our glasses before draining what she’d swirled into a third glass. After we tasted the wine, Jeanne poured for us, reciting specials like spinach and herb dumplings in broth, porcini gnocchi, and roast pork with braised fennel.
When we were alone again, Nancy raised her glass and said, “To your once and future knee.”
“Not funny, Nance.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be a recognition.”
“Of what?”
“Of your mortality, John.”
“Terrific.”
“No, face it. You’re being pissy with me, and you’re never like that. At least, you haven’t been with me.”
“I’m not being pissy.”
“And if you are, it isn’t because of your knee.”
“Right.”
“Great reasoning path, but I’m not what you’d call convinced.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, John. I’ve seen you after you’ve been beaten up, chased by cars, even shot.”
“Twice.”
A creeping smile. “Twice. Once with me, if you’ll remember.”
“I’ll never forget, or forgive myself for—”
“Not why I brought it up. What I mean is, I’ve seen you when you’ve had every reason to be down or depressed, after you’ve killed people, for God’s sake, and you’ve never been petulant before.”
“I thought I was being pissy.”
The smile crept further. “Take your pick. You’re such a good man, but such a little boy, too.”
“And the little boy’s afraid of something.”
“Yes. Afraid that his time as an athlete or whatever is drawing to a close.”
“That’s not it, Nance.”
“That’s part of it.”
“Maybe. But it’s more …”
“More what, John?”
“More that—I don’t know, if I’d stayed with law school, it wouldn’t matter whether my knee’s a little shaky or my arm won’t work right. It—”
“Your arm?” She looked at me. “What do you mean, your arm won’t work?”
“Nance, I could barely pull my jacket on this morning.”
“From last night, too?”
“That’s right. It’s something with the shoulder, but the doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong, and she won’t without some more high-tech X-rays.”
Nancy paused. “So what’s the worst case?”
“Worst case?”
“Yeah. The worst case, you need surgery, and you do end up suing me.”
“Nancy, I’m not going to sue you.”
“I’d rather that then see you be so pissy.”
“I like petulant better.”
The hand that wasn’t holding the wine glass reached across the table again. “John, look at this objectively, okay? You’re a little like a professional ballplayer. To a certain extent, you make your living with your body, and for the first time, after all it’s been through, parts of it are starting to fail. Not in a big way—”
“Ask me after the next time I have to block a punch.”
“Or scramble up a ladder or break down a door. John, at some point, all that has to stop. But chances are that point’s a ways off, because this doctor can probably tell what’s wrong with you and fix it.”
“She certainly spent enough time manipulating me today.”
“Manipulating you.”
My turn to pause. “Well, more a diagnostic massage, I guess.”
“She attractive?”
“Stunning.”
Nancy’s hand left mine. “Did you tell her you’re already spoken for?”
“Kind of.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told her my heart belongs to another—”
“Good.”
“—but that the other organs are up for grabs.”
“Maybe she can do a radical circumcision.” Nancy opened the menu. “I think I’ll order for you.”
“What am I having?”
“The fillet of jerk strikes just the right note.”
“Does it come on a bed of sour grapes and crow?”
Nancy lowered the menu enough to let me see the smile creep all the way across her face. “I’ll speak to the chef.”
Nine
T HE NEXT DAY WAS the thirtieth of June, one of those clear, bright mornings that make you believe that enduring another New England winter was worth it after all.
When we were alone again, Nancy raised her glass and said, “To your once and future knee.”
“Not funny, Nance.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be a recognition.”
“Of what?”
“Of your mortality, John.”
“Terrific.”
“No, face it. You’re being pissy with me, and you’re never like that. At least, you haven’t been with me.”
“I’m not being pissy.”
“And if you are, it isn’t because of your knee.”
“Right.”
“Great reasoning path, but I’m not what you’d call convinced.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, John. I’ve seen you after you’ve been beaten up, chased by cars, even shot.”
“Twice.”
A creeping smile. “Twice. Once with me, if you’ll remember.”
“I’ll never forget, or forgive myself for—”
“Not why I brought it up. What I mean is, I’ve seen you when you’ve had every reason to be down or depressed, after you’ve killed people, for God’s sake, and you’ve never been petulant before.”
“I thought I was being pissy.”
The smile crept further. “Take your pick. You’re such a good man, but such a little boy, too.”
“And the little boy’s afraid of something.”
“Yes. Afraid that his time as an athlete or whatever is drawing to a close.”
“That’s not it, Nance.”
“That’s part of it.”
“Maybe. But it’s more …”
“More what, John?”
“More that—I don’t know, if I’d stayed with law school, it wouldn’t matter whether my knee’s a little shaky or my arm won’t work right. It—”
“Your arm?” She looked at me. “What do you mean, your arm won’t work?”
“Nance, I could barely pull my jacket on this morning.”
“From last night, too?”
“That’s right. It’s something with the shoulder, but the doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong, and she won’t without some more high-tech X-rays.”
Nancy paused. “So what’s the worst case?”
“Worst case?”
“Yeah. The worst case, you need surgery, and you do end up suing me.”
“Nancy, I’m not going to sue you.”
“I’d rather that then see you be so pissy.”
“I like petulant better.”
The hand that wasn’t holding the wine glass reached across the table again. “John, look at this objectively, okay? You’re a little like a professional ballplayer. To a certain extent, you make your living with your body, and for the first time, after all it’s been through, parts of it are starting to fail. Not in a big way—”
“Ask me after the next time I have to block a punch.”
“Or scramble up a ladder or break down a door. John, at some point, all that has to stop. But chances are that point’s a ways off, because this doctor can probably tell what’s wrong with you and fix it.”
“She certainly spent enough time manipulating me today.”
“Manipulating you.”
My turn to pause. “Well, more a diagnostic massage, I guess.”
“She attractive?”
“Stunning.”
Nancy’s hand left mine. “Did you tell her you’re already spoken for?”
“Kind of.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told her my heart belongs to another—”
“Good.”
“—but that the other organs are up for grabs.”
“Maybe she can do a radical circumcision.” Nancy opened the menu. “I think I’ll order for you.”
“What am I having?”
“The fillet of jerk strikes just the right note.”
“Does it come on a bed of sour grapes and crow?”
Nancy lowered the menu enough to let me see the smile creep all the way across her face. “I’ll speak to the chef.”
Nine
T HE NEXT DAY WAS the thirtieth of June, one of those clear, bright mornings that make you believe that enduring another New England winter was worth it after all.
Similar Books
