childlike.
Joe had never encountered a ghost. Hadn’t much expected to, either. After Graciela died, he’d expected—even prayed—that she’d return to him in some form. But most nights she’d even refused to find his dreams. When he did dream of her, the dreams were invariably banal. Most took place on the boat they’d taken from Havana the day she died. Tomas had just turned a rambunctious two. Joe had spent the trip chasing him all over the boat because Graciela had been seasick. She’d vomited once. The rest of the trip, she took shallow breaths and kept a damp towel pressed to her forehead. As the nubs of the Tampa skyline crept above the border where swollen sky met the Florida Straits, Joe brought Graciela another damp towel, but she waved him off. “I changed my mind. Two is enough.”
In the dreams, the other damp towels were usually strewn all over the deck, hanging from the rails, strung from the flagpoles. Damp towels and dry ones, white ones and red, some as small as pocket squares, some as large as mattresses.
In reality, to the best of Joe’s recollection, he hadn’t seen another towel, just the one on her forehead.
Within the hour, Graciela would lie bleeding to death on the pier, her killer crushed under the wheels of a coal truck. Joe couldn’t even recall how long he’d remained on his knees by her. Tomas squirmed, and at times, squealed in his arms, and the light took flight from his wife’s eyes. He watched her cross whatever transom led to whatever world or void lay beyond this one. In the final thirty seconds of her life, her eyelids fluttered nine times. And then never again.
He was still on his knees when the police arrived. Still there when the ambulance driver placed a stethoscope to his wife’s chestand then looked over at the lead detective and shook his head. By the time the coroner arrived, Joe stood a few feet from her corpse and those of Seppe Carbone and Enrico Pozzetta, answering the questions of Detective Poston and his partner.
When it came time to remove her body, the coroner, a disheveled young man with pale, yellowish skin and lank dark hair, approached Joe.
“I’m Dr. Jefferts,” he said softly. “I’d like to transport your wife, Mr. Coughlin, but I’m concerned it could be difficult for your son to see that.”
Tomas had wrapped himself around Joe’s leg and remained there throughout the detectives’ questions.
Joe looked at the young man and his wrinkled suit. His shirt and tie were spotted with flecks of dried soup, and Joe thought at first that it was unprofessional for such a messy man to be placed in charge of his wife’s autopsy. But another look in the man’s eyes, at the compassion that lived there for a small boy he’d never met and that boy’s grieving father, and Joe nodded his thanks.
Joe detached his son from his leg and lifted him to his chest, held him there. Tomas propped his chin on Joe’s shoulder. He still hadn’t wept. He’d simply repeated the word Mama , in a kind of breathless mantra. He’d fall silent for a while, and then it would start again. “Ma-ma, Ma-ma, Ma-ma . . .”
Dr. Jefferts said, “We’ll treat her with respect, Mr. Coughlin. You have my word.”
Joe shook his hand, not trusting himself to speak, and then carried his son off the pier.
And now, seven years removed from that shittiest of shitty days, he rarely dreamed of her at all.
The last time had been four or five months ago. In that dream, instead of bringing her a wet towel, he had brought her a grapefruit.She looked up at him from her deck chair, her face too thin, almost skeletal, and said the same thing. “I changed my mind. Two is enough.”
He’d looked around her chair and the deck and couldn’t see any grapefruit. “But you don’t even have one.”
She gave him a look of confusion so total it bordered on contempt. “Some things you shouldn’t joke about.”
And the blood bloomed on her dress and her eyelids fluttered and then
Joe had never encountered a ghost. Hadn’t much expected to, either. After Graciela died, he’d expected—even prayed—that she’d return to him in some form. But most nights she’d even refused to find his dreams. When he did dream of her, the dreams were invariably banal. Most took place on the boat they’d taken from Havana the day she died. Tomas had just turned a rambunctious two. Joe had spent the trip chasing him all over the boat because Graciela had been seasick. She’d vomited once. The rest of the trip, she took shallow breaths and kept a damp towel pressed to her forehead. As the nubs of the Tampa skyline crept above the border where swollen sky met the Florida Straits, Joe brought Graciela another damp towel, but she waved him off. “I changed my mind. Two is enough.”
In the dreams, the other damp towels were usually strewn all over the deck, hanging from the rails, strung from the flagpoles. Damp towels and dry ones, white ones and red, some as small as pocket squares, some as large as mattresses.
In reality, to the best of Joe’s recollection, he hadn’t seen another towel, just the one on her forehead.
Within the hour, Graciela would lie bleeding to death on the pier, her killer crushed under the wheels of a coal truck. Joe couldn’t even recall how long he’d remained on his knees by her. Tomas squirmed, and at times, squealed in his arms, and the light took flight from his wife’s eyes. He watched her cross whatever transom led to whatever world or void lay beyond this one. In the final thirty seconds of her life, her eyelids fluttered nine times. And then never again.
He was still on his knees when the police arrived. Still there when the ambulance driver placed a stethoscope to his wife’s chestand then looked over at the lead detective and shook his head. By the time the coroner arrived, Joe stood a few feet from her corpse and those of Seppe Carbone and Enrico Pozzetta, answering the questions of Detective Poston and his partner.
When it came time to remove her body, the coroner, a disheveled young man with pale, yellowish skin and lank dark hair, approached Joe.
“I’m Dr. Jefferts,” he said softly. “I’d like to transport your wife, Mr. Coughlin, but I’m concerned it could be difficult for your son to see that.”
Tomas had wrapped himself around Joe’s leg and remained there throughout the detectives’ questions.
Joe looked at the young man and his wrinkled suit. His shirt and tie were spotted with flecks of dried soup, and Joe thought at first that it was unprofessional for such a messy man to be placed in charge of his wife’s autopsy. But another look in the man’s eyes, at the compassion that lived there for a small boy he’d never met and that boy’s grieving father, and Joe nodded his thanks.
Joe detached his son from his leg and lifted him to his chest, held him there. Tomas propped his chin on Joe’s shoulder. He still hadn’t wept. He’d simply repeated the word Mama , in a kind of breathless mantra. He’d fall silent for a while, and then it would start again. “Ma-ma, Ma-ma, Ma-ma . . .”
Dr. Jefferts said, “We’ll treat her with respect, Mr. Coughlin. You have my word.”
Joe shook his hand, not trusting himself to speak, and then carried his son off the pier.
And now, seven years removed from that shittiest of shitty days, he rarely dreamed of her at all.
The last time had been four or five months ago. In that dream, instead of bringing her a wet towel, he had brought her a grapefruit.She looked up at him from her deck chair, her face too thin, almost skeletal, and said the same thing. “I changed my mind. Two is enough.”
He’d looked around her chair and the deck and couldn’t see any grapefruit. “But you don’t even have one.”
She gave him a look of confusion so total it bordered on contempt. “Some things you shouldn’t joke about.”
And the blood bloomed on her dress and her eyelids fluttered and then
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