Bulger.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. And I’m even related to one of them. He was just my uncle by marriage. But still.”
Carla emerged from the kitchen and walked over to the end of the table, where Matt was using his left hand to spoon potato salad onto a small plate. He didn’t want to risk taking the Kleenex away from his nose; he thought he’d finished bleeding, but you never could tell.
“How have you been?” she asked. She pulled the spoon from his hand, stuck it into the potato salad, lifted out a big clump and deposited it on his plate. “Want any more?”
“This isn’t what you think,” he told her.
“What’s not?”
“The nosebleed. God knows how that happened. I’m clean, Carla.”
“I know you are.”
He didn’t see how she could, since she’d barely been close enough to even wave at him for at least a couple of years, and he said so.
She pursed her lips like she always did when someone said something stupid. He’d always called it making a duck face, or just making a duck. “You’ve never understood what it means to really know somebody,” she said.
It occurred to him that this might well be true and could account for his failure to get very far with his writing. How could you write about people if you didn’t know them? But what he said was, “I’d like to think I know you.”
“I know you would.” She glanced at the kitchen, then reached up and, as if it were something precious and fragile, took the Kleenex from his hand. She looked at the three or four gobs of blood on it for a moment, then stuck the tissue in her breast pocket and fastened the button.
The critical point at which he would turn from a solid to a permeable substance seemed at hand. He was losing viscosity. Everybody’s body betrays them in the end, and his had gotten the jump on him tonight. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m horribly sorry about what happened to us. What I did to us.”
“I know you are,” she said. “But you’re not dead yet, Matt. You know what I mean? There’s still this thing ahead of you called life.” She picked his plate up and handed it to him. How many times had she done that before? He used to go a day or two without eating anything at all while she tried her best to force-feed him. And what dishes he’d passed up then: braised rabbit cacciatore, potato gnocchi with chanterelles and pancetta, veal piccata, braciole.
Loss was a sickening sensation. And no matter what he gorged on nowadays, he’d never make it go away. That might be the one important thing that he knew and she didn’t.
He set the plate back down just as Andrea came out of the kitchen carrying a chocolate layer cake with flaming candlesforming the numbers 4 and 1. “Okay,” she announced. “Time to sing. Gather around.”
So everybody assembled around the table and sang “Happy Birthday,” and the most surprising thing about it was Dushay’s beautiful tenor voice, which soared operatically above their grating chorus. He sang with his head held high, arms at his sides, as if he were onstage someplace like Jordan Hall and perfectly at peace in such surroundings.
When they finished, Frankie closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked straight at Matt, and in that instant his old friend knew what he’d wished for, that massed hopes were headed toward him, whooshing out over the cake and mixing with a few flecks of spit to extinguish the candles while everyone cheered.
During the opening of gifts, as Frankie feigned outrage at Dushay for giving him a ridiculous male thong with the Pats’ logo on the crotch, Matt slipped away. Broken branches littered the Zizzas’ yard, now more of a marsh, the water two or three inches deep in many places. He picked a path through the downpour to his car. Soggy leaves covered the windshield, so he had to stand there getting drenched while he cleared it.
A light pole, snapped in half, was down in the middle of Montvale Avenue, a team of guys
“Really?”
“Absolutely. And I’m even related to one of them. He was just my uncle by marriage. But still.”
Carla emerged from the kitchen and walked over to the end of the table, where Matt was using his left hand to spoon potato salad onto a small plate. He didn’t want to risk taking the Kleenex away from his nose; he thought he’d finished bleeding, but you never could tell.
“How have you been?” she asked. She pulled the spoon from his hand, stuck it into the potato salad, lifted out a big clump and deposited it on his plate. “Want any more?”
“This isn’t what you think,” he told her.
“What’s not?”
“The nosebleed. God knows how that happened. I’m clean, Carla.”
“I know you are.”
He didn’t see how she could, since she’d barely been close enough to even wave at him for at least a couple of years, and he said so.
She pursed her lips like she always did when someone said something stupid. He’d always called it making a duck face, or just making a duck. “You’ve never understood what it means to really know somebody,” she said.
It occurred to him that this might well be true and could account for his failure to get very far with his writing. How could you write about people if you didn’t know them? But what he said was, “I’d like to think I know you.”
“I know you would.” She glanced at the kitchen, then reached up and, as if it were something precious and fragile, took the Kleenex from his hand. She looked at the three or four gobs of blood on it for a moment, then stuck the tissue in her breast pocket and fastened the button.
The critical point at which he would turn from a solid to a permeable substance seemed at hand. He was losing viscosity. Everybody’s body betrays them in the end, and his had gotten the jump on him tonight. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m horribly sorry about what happened to us. What I did to us.”
“I know you are,” she said. “But you’re not dead yet, Matt. You know what I mean? There’s still this thing ahead of you called life.” She picked his plate up and handed it to him. How many times had she done that before? He used to go a day or two without eating anything at all while she tried her best to force-feed him. And what dishes he’d passed up then: braised rabbit cacciatore, potato gnocchi with chanterelles and pancetta, veal piccata, braciole.
Loss was a sickening sensation. And no matter what he gorged on nowadays, he’d never make it go away. That might be the one important thing that he knew and she didn’t.
He set the plate back down just as Andrea came out of the kitchen carrying a chocolate layer cake with flaming candlesforming the numbers 4 and 1. “Okay,” she announced. “Time to sing. Gather around.”
So everybody assembled around the table and sang “Happy Birthday,” and the most surprising thing about it was Dushay’s beautiful tenor voice, which soared operatically above their grating chorus. He sang with his head held high, arms at his sides, as if he were onstage someplace like Jordan Hall and perfectly at peace in such surroundings.
When they finished, Frankie closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked straight at Matt, and in that instant his old friend knew what he’d wished for, that massed hopes were headed toward him, whooshing out over the cake and mixing with a few flecks of spit to extinguish the candles while everyone cheered.
During the opening of gifts, as Frankie feigned outrage at Dushay for giving him a ridiculous male thong with the Pats’ logo on the crotch, Matt slipped away. Broken branches littered the Zizzas’ yard, now more of a marsh, the water two or three inches deep in many places. He picked a path through the downpour to his car. Soggy leaves covered the windshield, so he had to stand there getting drenched while he cleared it.
A light pole, snapped in half, was down in the middle of Montvale Avenue, a team of guys
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