“I’ll talk to her.”
“Therapy 101. You can’t control what people think.”
“Lawyering 101. Yes, you can.”
He laughs. “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”
I close my eyes and concentrate on the gentle kneading motion of his fingers on my shoulders.
“Let your head relax. Let it fall forward.”
So I do, like a rag doll, as his hands work their way to my neck. He takes it slow, inch by inch. It reminds me of the way he made love to me, in the darkness. He didn’t rush anything. He felt it, that’s why.
“Everything’s gonna be all right, Mary,” he says quietly.
I almost believe him.
19
That evening, I’m sitting between my parents and Ned at Brent’s memorial service. It’s at the Philadelphia Art Alliance, an elegant old building on Rittenhouse Square, not six blocks from where Brent was killed. Some of Brent’s friends put flowers on the sidewalk in front of the bank today, and his death was all over the news. They called it a “hit-and-run accident,” which to me is a contradiction in terms. But it doesn’t matter what the TV says. The only thing that matters is what the police say. I wonder if Lombardo will be here tonight.
I look around at the crowd, which appears to be growing larger by the minute, but I don’t see Lombardo. The service is full of friends from the nonintersecting circles of Brent’s life. There are his gay friends, the biggest group by far, as well as his fellow voice students, and a contingent from Stalling. Judy’s here with Kurt, and so are most of the secretaries from the office, sitting together in a teary clump that includes Delia, Annie Zirilli, and Stella. Even Stalling’s personnel manager is here, the one who gave Brent such a hard time about the tray. She eyes the gay men with contempt. Her expression says, I knew it.
Watching her, I remember what Brent said just last week. When I die, I want my ashes ground into the carpet at Stalling amp; Webb. He wasn’t kidding.
I look down at the program with his picture on the front. A smiling face in a black shirt, surrounded by a skinny black border. This should not be. He’s not supposed to die; he’s too young to be inside a skinny black border. He would have said, What’s wrong with this picture?
My mother touches my hand, and I give hers a perfunctory squeeze. I don’t want to feel anything tonight. I want to be numb.
The eulogies begin, and Brent’s voice coach is the first to speak. She’s a bosomy brunette, middle-aged and wearing lipstick that’s theatrically red. Brent once described her to me as robust; actually he said robusty. But she doesn’t look robust tonight: She looks broken. Her speaking voice, which has a remarkable timbre, sounds so grief-stricken I can’t bear to listen. I look around the room and spot Lombardo, sitting alone on one of the folding chairs against the wall. His hair is slicked down with water and he wears an ill-fitting black raincoat. He looks like an overgrown altar boy, not somebody smart enough to catch Brent’s killer. And maybe Mike’s.
“He had a fine voice, mind you,” the singing coach is saying. Her head is held high, her posture almost a dancer’s. “But Brent was never ambitious in music. He never entered any of the competitions I told him to, even when I got him the forms. He refused to do it. ‘I won’t go onStar Search, Margaret,’ he said to me. ‘Dance Fever,maybe. ButStar Search, never.’”
There’s laughter at this, and quiet sniffles.
“Brent studied because he loved music with all his heart. He sang because he loved to sing. It was an end in itself for him. I used to try to instill that in all my students, but I stopped after I met Brent. That was the lesson Brent taught me. You can’t teach joy.” She faces the audience in a dignified way, then steps away from the podium.
There is utter silence.
I try not to think about what she said.
Two young men appear on the dais. One is almost emaciated, obviously very sick, and is being physically supported by the other. Both wear red ribbons, which on them means more than it does on all the Shannen Dohertys put together.
I know I cannot hear this.
I screen it all out.
I go somewhere else in my mind.
I think about what Judy said before the service started. How she apologized for being sharp with me on the phone. How she really doesn’t trust Ned. Nothing I said could change her mind. It was the closest we’ve come to a fight, and at the end she backed off. Her nerves were frayed, she said. I look over at her, weeping quietly, with Kurt at her side. She loved Brent too. That’s why she’s acting so crazy.
The eulogies are almost over, and someone’s introducing the final speaker.
Mr. Samuel Berkowitz.
I look up in amazement.
Sure enough, itis Berkowitz, lumbering up to the flower-filled podium in a dark suit. He adjusts a microphone barely camouflaged by Easter lilies and clears his throat. “I didn’t know Brent Polk very well, but as I listen to you all here today, I wish I had. What I do know about Brent is that he was an intelligent young man, a fine secretary, and a good and loyal friend to many people. Also, that he broke every rule my stuffy old law firm holds dear.”
There’s laughter at this, and renewed sniffles. I smile myself, and feel so proud of Berkowitz for being here. He has more class than any of them put together. I squeeze Ned’s hand, but he’s not smiling. Neither are my parents; they look somber and upset. They must be thinking of Mike. They hardly knew Brent.
“In addition, I would like to announce a donation in Brent’s name, which has been authorized by my partners at Stalling and Webb. Tomorrow we give ten thousand dollars on Brent Polk’s behalf to Pennsylvanians Against Drunk Driving. It is our sincere hope that we can help prevent what happened to Brent from happening to other fine young men and women. Thank you.” Applause breaks out as Berkowitz steps down and disappears into the crowd.
“What are they talking about?” I whisper to Ned, over the din.
“I don’t know.” He looks grim.
“Drunk driver, my ass!”
My mother nudges me. Don’t talk in church, says the nudge.
I wheel around and look at Lombardo. His dull eyes warn me to relax. Drunk driver? I mouth to him.
He puts a finger to his lips.
Christ! I can barely contain myself. Brent is murdered in cold blood, and they’re going to say it was drunk driving? It’s all I can do after the service not to pound directly over to him, but I have to take care of my parents first. Ned and I help them down the steps of the Art Alliance and wait with them for a cab. My mother’s eyes are smudged and teary behind her glasses; my father looks crestfallen.
“I don’t like that man from your office, Maria,” she says. “The big one. You know which one I mean? The big one?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“No. I don’t like that man at all.” She shakes her head, and her heavy glasses slip down.
“Why not, Mrs. DiNunzio?” Ned asks, with a faint smile.
She holds up a finger, mysteriously. “Thin lips. You can’t even find the man’s lips. Like pencil lines, they are.”
“Ma. His lips aren’t thin. It’s just your eyes.”
“Don’t be fresh, I saw them. He’s got the thin lips. Mark my words.”
Ned seems amused by this. “He’s the boss, Mrs. DiNunzio.”
She drills her index finger into the hand-stitched lapel of Ned’s coat. “I don’t care who he is. I don’t like him.”
“Don’t give the kids no trouble, Vita,” says my father. “They got enough trouble right now. A world of trouble.”
“I’m not giving them trouble, Matty. I’m taking care of Maria!” People leaving the service look over, startled at the loudness of her voice. “That’s what mothers are for! That’s a mother’s job, Matty.”
A yellow cab stops at the light, and I wave it down.
“Look at Maria, Veet,” says my father, momentarily cheered. “Just like a big city girl.” My mother looks at me proudly. I’ve hailed a cab,mirabile dictu.