“Oh yeah?” Carla smiled. She turned away from the open water. “I had a fight with Manny.” She shivered and squinted at the wind’s force.
“You’re too cold,” Max said. They went inside, bought coffees, and sat on a bench. The hot coffees were in thin Styrofoam cups; holding them hurt. Max burned his tongue on the first sip.
“What did you fight with your wife about?” Carla asked. She was hunched over her coffee, bracing the cup between her knees, warming her hands with its steam.
“I told her I’m in love with you.”
Carla sat up straight and turned to look at him full in the face. Her circular eyebrows raised; up there they made an even rounder shape. “You’re crazy.”
“That’s what she thinks.”
“Well, she’s right. Jesus,” Carla turned away and shook her head.
“It’s what I feel. I’m not going to lie about what I feel.”
“There are some things you’re supposed to lie about,” Carla said energetically, looking at him again. “You gotta stop doing that to people.”
“You want me to start lying to you?” Max argued. “You want me to tell you you’re safe when you go out? You want me to tell you Bubble’s up there looking down at us wearing little wings?”
She slapped his arm with the back of her right hand. “Shut up,” she said casually and shook her head again. “I’m talking about them.” She smiled slyly. “The living.” She nodded at the window, at the water and sloppy landscape of Staten Island. “They can’t take it. You have to give the rest of them a break. I’m as crazy as you are — you can’t go by me.”
“What did you fight with Manny about?” Max edged closer to her until he felt her coat against him, up and down his side. He noticed her ear — it was little and had the ideal shape of a prototype.
“I told him after my mother left I was going to sleep in Bubble’s room. I went in there and started to pack things up. They had kept everything in his room the way it was because they were afraid I would go crazy if they changed anything. And I’m glad they left it so I could do it. I went in yesterday after I saw you and I started packing his little things. I was crying like crazy. But I didn’t mind crying and I was getting it done. My mother goes and hides in the kitchen. She was yelling at me from there. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Then Manny comes in and tells me to stop. I told him to leave me alone, to leave me alone for good. He said it was your fault. He said you were a bad influence.” She laughed mirthlessly for a moment. “A bad influence. You know, like I’m a teenager and he’s my pop. ‘You’re running around with the wrong crowd,’ ” she imitated a deep, rough-voiced man.
Max smiled. He felt sorry for Manny. Manny had had a wife and a son when he put them on that plane and now both were lost to him. “I am a bad influence from his point of view,” Max said.
“He’s got no right to talk about who’s bad.” She darkened. Her high cheeks and deep-set eyes seemed to become shields; behind them, still visible to Max, she thought something black.
Max was quiet. Staten Island’s dock, a dull brown nest, limited their view. He felt better, vindicated in his feelings toward her. He could say the worst to her and she accepted him. The uneasy feeling he had moments ago — that he had been mistaken about Carla — was gone. “Let’s get in the car,” he said.
This time, when Carla strapped herself in she did it slowly and sadly. “I’m gonna tell you something nobody knows,” she said quietly as they drove off the ferry. Max had studied a map at the Carlyle. He turned right aiming to stay along the water if he could, hoping to find the famous shipyard. He wasn’t sure if the street allowed a view. “Just before the crash,” Carla continued. “Do you remember? We could see the runway. It looked like we were gonna be okay?” Her voice was tremulous, as if she were weeping in her throat. Her eyes were dry. She said shakily, “I let go of Bubble.”
Max had never heard a voice in so much pain. He stopped the car immediately, right after a curve. He parked beside a white seawall, tall enough to block the view of the harbor. He shut off the engine and faced her. Carla was staring ahead, through the windshield. Her hands and arms were out forming a circle, holding something invisible in her lap.
“Do you remember? Or am I crazy? Wasn’t it safe? Didn’t it look like we were gonna make it?” She stared through the windshield, focused on nothing. Her questions could have been spoken to anyone, to God or her dead child.
Max answered. “Yes. Everyone thought it was going to be okay. I read in the papers that even the pilot thought we were going to make it.” But I knew, Max thought. I knew otherwise.
“Then didn’t the wheels hit the ground? Didn’t you think we had landed?” She was urgent, scared he might contradict her.
“Yes.” Max undid his seat belt and shifted to be closer to her. She didn’t turn in his direction — he was near to the smooth skin around her lips, to her full pouting mouth. He felt sorry for her and he wanted to make love to her. He agreed softly, “Everything — for one second — seemed okay.”
“I—” she announced herself loudly and then her lips trembled.
“You…?” Max whispered encouragingly to her transfixed profile.
“I had Bubble in my lap. I had crossed my arms over him like a seat belt, I had the fingers crossed — like this—” she locked her hands together in a fist, like a child praying, the skin turning white and the nails red from the pressure. “And I let go to clap,” she did it now, tears coming to her eyes, although her voice was enraged. “I clapped.” She released the fingers, put the tips together gently — demure pats, polite applause. “Then we hit and I lost him. My hands were open. There was nothing holding on to him.” She whispered in horror, “I was safe in my belt and he wasn’t.” Tears were flooding her eyes but she wasn’t sobbing. She stared ahead at her memory.
“I see,” Max said. “So it was your fault.”
She snapped her head toward him. He had her full attention. The tears stopped. Carla’s mouth sagged open; her eyes were wild and scared. She opened her lips in a mute plea.
“It wasn’t that the accident killed your baby,” Max said into her horrified look. “You did it.”
“I wasn’t holding him!” she whispered, terrified, as if the words damned her.
“You killed your baby,” Max continued, fascinated by the inexorable, inarguable logic of her guilt.
“His seat belt didn’t work — I was supposed to hold him — did they tell you that?”
“Yes, my lawyer told me about your seat belt. He’s your lawyer too and he told me about your case.”
“I didn’t tell him the truth. I didn’t tell him I let go.” Carla’s head got erect. Her deep-set eyes stared out at Max, scared. “Manny wants all this money and I have to talk in court.”
“I understand,” Max said. “You’re a liar also.” She not only had killed her child, she was going to collect for it, compounding neglect with greed.
“I’m very weak,” she said and her body no longer fought against her terror. She dropped her head and shut her eyes. She locked her fingers together, pressed the double fist against her lips and whispered furiously, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” She repeated the prayer over and over without pause, until the words came so fast and quiet that they were no better than the frightened moans of a child.
“Carla,” Max said. He touched her shoulder and shook it gently to rouse her.
She was oblivious. She keened in the seat, her seat belt swishing along with the whispering words of terror and longing: “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”