gone.
Benson ran his fingers up through his slick black hair as he returned to his table. “Hey, forget it, Frankie,” he called toward the cage. “The guy’s an asshole.” He shook his head, sitting down, muttering, “Everybody wants to get in on the action, you know.”
Frank nodded. His temple pulsed as he fought for control. He crushed out his cigarette, pressing down hard to drive the energy out of his trembling hand. He dragged the back of his fist across his lips to dry them and, as he did, he looked across the cell at the clock. It was twelve-thirty. Thirty minutes to the visiting hour. And he felt as if he were choking. Just as he’d feared. Now that his anger was subsiding, there was a powerful urge to release the rest of it, all of it, everything. A great pressure of anguish rose up in himand Frank wanted to tear himself open to let it out. He wanted to stand and howl and sob and cry to heaven, and beat his hands against the bars, against the air.
It wasn’t right. He hadn’t
done it. It wasn’t fair
. And a pernicious inner whisper told him: No one could blame you. It’s what anyone would do.
Frank shut his eyes. His lips moving silently, he appealed to that ever-watching God of his. He conjured Bonnie’s face and Gail’s. If they came in now—if they saw him—raging helplessly against his fate, weeping over the unfairness of it all—boo-hoo, boo-hoo—Christ, how that would torture them—in their beds at night—they would see him like that—forever after—husband and father—impotent and sobbing—their bitterness and pain—it would haunt them their whole lives long. He clenched his fist and rapped it lightly on the tabletop, nearly chanting in his mind: If you would give me strength, if you would give me the appearance of strength, the appearance of strength for them to remember, if you would give me the appearance of strength …
“Ach,” he said. He opened his eyes, annoyed, snarling all his passion back into its corner. He pulled a cigarette from the pack on the table and shoved it in his mouth and struck a match angrily. He sat at his table behind the bars of his cage and his long, sad face was still. The smoke trailed up from the cigarette in his hand. Expressionless, he waited for his wife and daughter to arrive.
This, after all, he told himself, is what a man does.
6
I n my youth, I was a racer of cars. A dragster, I mean. The teenage terror of Long Island’s byways. Well, I’d seen it in old movies and it was as good a form of rebellion as any. My parents—my adopted parents—were softspoken, thoughtful and humorless attorneys, pater for a firm of environmental activists, and mater for a planning group that fought for housing for the poor. I could think of no better way to irritate them both than mindlessly vroom-vrooming jalops up and down the Guyland boulevards, pistons at the limit. My parents and I, we don’t speak much anymore, so I guess it must’ve worked.
I mention this only because the habit stuck. I drove a floppy-gutted Tempo these days. A slumping blue sad sack of a car. It could jump from zero to fifty in a generation, if you had the time. And still, I had managed to beat the bejesus out of it. Working it up to impossible speeds, screeching round corners, tatting through traffic like a lacemaker’s needle. I never had time to tune the poor machine, or wash it even. It was ratty with grime. It sputtered and popped and whined in its exertions. But I showed it no mercy, and I made it run.
I gunned it now out of the
News
parking lot, lanced it through a gap in the noonday stream of cars and joined the race along the boulevard. It was still twenty minutes before twelve o’clock noon. I’d promised my wife to be home by the hour, and it wasn’t going to be a problem, not the way Idrove. Getting home in time seemed like a pretty good idea to me. I had a notion that this day was not going to end before word of my latest indiscretion reached Barbara’s
Benson ran his fingers up through his slick black hair as he returned to his table. “Hey, forget it, Frankie,” he called toward the cage. “The guy’s an asshole.” He shook his head, sitting down, muttering, “Everybody wants to get in on the action, you know.”
Frank nodded. His temple pulsed as he fought for control. He crushed out his cigarette, pressing down hard to drive the energy out of his trembling hand. He dragged the back of his fist across his lips to dry them and, as he did, he looked across the cell at the clock. It was twelve-thirty. Thirty minutes to the visiting hour. And he felt as if he were choking. Just as he’d feared. Now that his anger was subsiding, there was a powerful urge to release the rest of it, all of it, everything. A great pressure of anguish rose up in himand Frank wanted to tear himself open to let it out. He wanted to stand and howl and sob and cry to heaven, and beat his hands against the bars, against the air.
It wasn’t right. He hadn’t
done it. It wasn’t fair
. And a pernicious inner whisper told him: No one could blame you. It’s what anyone would do.
Frank shut his eyes. His lips moving silently, he appealed to that ever-watching God of his. He conjured Bonnie’s face and Gail’s. If they came in now—if they saw him—raging helplessly against his fate, weeping over the unfairness of it all—boo-hoo, boo-hoo—Christ, how that would torture them—in their beds at night—they would see him like that—forever after—husband and father—impotent and sobbing—their bitterness and pain—it would haunt them their whole lives long. He clenched his fist and rapped it lightly on the tabletop, nearly chanting in his mind: If you would give me strength, if you would give me the appearance of strength, the appearance of strength for them to remember, if you would give me the appearance of strength …
“Ach,” he said. He opened his eyes, annoyed, snarling all his passion back into its corner. He pulled a cigarette from the pack on the table and shoved it in his mouth and struck a match angrily. He sat at his table behind the bars of his cage and his long, sad face was still. The smoke trailed up from the cigarette in his hand. Expressionless, he waited for his wife and daughter to arrive.
This, after all, he told himself, is what a man does.
6
I n my youth, I was a racer of cars. A dragster, I mean. The teenage terror of Long Island’s byways. Well, I’d seen it in old movies and it was as good a form of rebellion as any. My parents—my adopted parents—were softspoken, thoughtful and humorless attorneys, pater for a firm of environmental activists, and mater for a planning group that fought for housing for the poor. I could think of no better way to irritate them both than mindlessly vroom-vrooming jalops up and down the Guyland boulevards, pistons at the limit. My parents and I, we don’t speak much anymore, so I guess it must’ve worked.
I mention this only because the habit stuck. I drove a floppy-gutted Tempo these days. A slumping blue sad sack of a car. It could jump from zero to fifty in a generation, if you had the time. And still, I had managed to beat the bejesus out of it. Working it up to impossible speeds, screeching round corners, tatting through traffic like a lacemaker’s needle. I never had time to tune the poor machine, or wash it even. It was ratty with grime. It sputtered and popped and whined in its exertions. But I showed it no mercy, and I made it run.
I gunned it now out of the
News
parking lot, lanced it through a gap in the noonday stream of cars and joined the race along the boulevard. It was still twenty minutes before twelve o’clock noon. I’d promised my wife to be home by the hour, and it wasn’t going to be a problem, not the way Idrove. Getting home in time seemed like a pretty good idea to me. I had a notion that this day was not going to end before word of my latest indiscretion reached Barbara’s
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