quickly. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to, smart lady. Life treating you okay?”
“Yes. Well, you know I’m still working for—”
“Marcia, you’re talking abc’s to me. Come on. The real stuff. Is Morrissey making you happy?”
I swallowed noisily, a little stunned that Lyle had been interested enough to keep track of me. “How did you know about me and—?” I began.
“Are you kidding? Jerry Morrissey’s an important guy. But you know that. Half the city owes him. Meantime, you didn’t answer my question.” He smiled. Lyle’s lips were heavy, the sort unimaginatively referred to as sensuous, and when he smiled his lips did not flatten entirely, but remained a little loose. Were he to have jumped and smiled at the same time, his lips would have jiggled.
“What was your question?” I asked, gazing at his mouth.
“Is the old mick treating you okay?” Lyle was good. He got in a good dig about Jerry’s age, thus spotlighting his own comparative youth; Lyle must have been a couple of years younger than I, maybe thirty-two or-three. And the question also showed how urbane he was by using the pejorative “mick” that the Irish sometimes use with each other and that anyone else but a very close friend is careful to avoid.
“Yes, thanks. We’re managing pretty well.”
“Pretty well?”
“Very well, Lyle.” He raised one eyebrow, skeptically, as though he had studied Charles Boyer movies. “Really.”
“Good. I’m glad.” We smiled at each other. I shot my eyes over his shoulder to see if I could spot a familiar face to rescue me. “He’s one hell of a guy,” Lyle said. I let my hand glide over my throat, nervously smoothing my skin. “One terrific mick,” he added, watching my hand.
I’m not sure why the Italians have it in for the Irish. Maybe it has something to do with the preponderance of Irish priests and nuns who do something to incur the wrath of small Italian children. Maybe it’s a resentment of the acceptance of the Irish. All men wear emerald bow ties on St. Paddy’s Day, but who besides the Italians breaks out the fettucini on October 12? Maybe it’s because the Irish, of all ethnic groups, look so American: they appear clean even before their showers, and they generally have neither shaky lips nor shiny black moles.
“I’d better go find my table,” I said, still smiling cheerily.
“Okay. Great,” said Lyle, smiling broadly at a point someplace behind me. He had obviously caught sight of an individual worthy of a display of intense charm.
“Bye. See you,” I said. I gave my dress a sturdy tug just below my hips, preparatory to walking away from him. But Lyle hadn’t finished with me; I felt his hand on my back.
“Marcia,” he said. As I turned back to him, I saw him wink and hold up an index finger to Larry Woodward, attorney for the diocese of Brooklyn, signaling that he would be with him after a few more words to this broad. Woodward waited for Lyle, a small smile on his mottled pig face as he watched Lyle put his arm around my shoulder, draw me tight beside him, and whisper. “Listen, Marcia, you and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other.” Anticipating my stiffening, he continued quickly, “I’ll probably be giving Bill some help on the campaign. Now I know you might feel awkward about it. You know what I mean. Because you and I have—well, let’s call it a past.”
Sweat began to form. I felt it particularly under my arms but sensed it behind my knees, under my breasts, along my back. I was terrified for Jerry. Paterno had not merely lied to him, he—
“Don’t worry,” soothed Lyle, sensing my panic, “you can rely on me not to say a word about what went on between us. I wouldn’t hurt you or Jer for the world.” I forced myself into casualness, lifting my shoulders in a shrug, glancing around. Woodward, having witnessed this prolonged consultation, had let his smile broaden into a leer. “And listen, Marcia, I’m sure we
“Yes. Well, you know I’m still working for—”
“Marcia, you’re talking abc’s to me. Come on. The real stuff. Is Morrissey making you happy?”
I swallowed noisily, a little stunned that Lyle had been interested enough to keep track of me. “How did you know about me and—?” I began.
“Are you kidding? Jerry Morrissey’s an important guy. But you know that. Half the city owes him. Meantime, you didn’t answer my question.” He smiled. Lyle’s lips were heavy, the sort unimaginatively referred to as sensuous, and when he smiled his lips did not flatten entirely, but remained a little loose. Were he to have jumped and smiled at the same time, his lips would have jiggled.
“What was your question?” I asked, gazing at his mouth.
“Is the old mick treating you okay?” Lyle was good. He got in a good dig about Jerry’s age, thus spotlighting his own comparative youth; Lyle must have been a couple of years younger than I, maybe thirty-two or-three. And the question also showed how urbane he was by using the pejorative “mick” that the Irish sometimes use with each other and that anyone else but a very close friend is careful to avoid.
“Yes, thanks. We’re managing pretty well.”
“Pretty well?”
“Very well, Lyle.” He raised one eyebrow, skeptically, as though he had studied Charles Boyer movies. “Really.”
“Good. I’m glad.” We smiled at each other. I shot my eyes over his shoulder to see if I could spot a familiar face to rescue me. “He’s one hell of a guy,” Lyle said. I let my hand glide over my throat, nervously smoothing my skin. “One terrific mick,” he added, watching my hand.
I’m not sure why the Italians have it in for the Irish. Maybe it has something to do with the preponderance of Irish priests and nuns who do something to incur the wrath of small Italian children. Maybe it’s a resentment of the acceptance of the Irish. All men wear emerald bow ties on St. Paddy’s Day, but who besides the Italians breaks out the fettucini on October 12? Maybe it’s because the Irish, of all ethnic groups, look so American: they appear clean even before their showers, and they generally have neither shaky lips nor shiny black moles.
“I’d better go find my table,” I said, still smiling cheerily.
“Okay. Great,” said Lyle, smiling broadly at a point someplace behind me. He had obviously caught sight of an individual worthy of a display of intense charm.
“Bye. See you,” I said. I gave my dress a sturdy tug just below my hips, preparatory to walking away from him. But Lyle hadn’t finished with me; I felt his hand on my back.
“Marcia,” he said. As I turned back to him, I saw him wink and hold up an index finger to Larry Woodward, attorney for the diocese of Brooklyn, signaling that he would be with him after a few more words to this broad. Woodward waited for Lyle, a small smile on his mottled pig face as he watched Lyle put his arm around my shoulder, draw me tight beside him, and whisper. “Listen, Marcia, you and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other.” Anticipating my stiffening, he continued quickly, “I’ll probably be giving Bill some help on the campaign. Now I know you might feel awkward about it. You know what I mean. Because you and I have—well, let’s call it a past.”
Sweat began to form. I felt it particularly under my arms but sensed it behind my knees, under my breasts, along my back. I was terrified for Jerry. Paterno had not merely lied to him, he—
“Don’t worry,” soothed Lyle, sensing my panic, “you can rely on me not to say a word about what went on between us. I wouldn’t hurt you or Jer for the world.” I forced myself into casualness, lifting my shoulders in a shrug, glancing around. Woodward, having witnessed this prolonged consultation, had let his smile broaden into a leer. “And listen, Marcia, I’m sure we
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