"He's my only kid," Joe said.
"Kid doesn't belong in this business, Joe," I said.
"I thought he could learn," Joe said. "If he doesn't take it, who does?"
"Get him into something else, Joe. Landscaping, chorus girls, something. If he takes over the business, he won't last a month."
"Vinnie's gone," Joe said.
"I know."
"Vinnie coulda run it."
"I know."
Gerry moaned. "It's starting to hurt, Papa," he said. "It's starting to hurt like a bastard."
Joe, hunched on his knees, bent awkwardly over with the stiffness of age, and pressed his face against Gerry's.
"It's gonna be okay," he said.
"I came for him, Pa," Gerry said. "I wasn't afraid of him."
"I know," Joe said. "I know."
The sirens were right on us now, and the first prowl car came swerving up the walkway and halted beside us. The two cops in it got out with guns drawn but not leveled. Behind them came another one. On Arlington Street, near the entrance to the Public Gardens a big yellow and white ambulance parked, its lights flashing as an unmarked police car swung out around it and came in behind the two prowl cars.
"He's not a shooter, Joe," I said.
"He ain't like me," Joe said. "He's like his mother."
"Let him be, Joe. If he comes after me again I might have to kill him. If it's not me, it'll be somebody else. He's not a shooter, Joe. Let him try to be something else. Keep him alive."
"Yes," Joe said and kept his face pressed against Gerry's until the EMTs showed up.
CHAPTER 36
THE ambulance took Gerry to the hospital. Joe and two detectives went with him. I knew one of the detectives who stayed with me, a guy named J. Clay Lawson, who was once a cop in Las Vegas before he got serious. He let me take Pearl home and then he and I spent the day with Quirk and Belson and a guy from the DA's office in the homicide squad room.
When they were through discussing my failings, albeit temporarily, I went home and had dinner with Susan, which I cooked, even though she'd wanted to, because I needed to do something.
"You're all right," Susan said.
"Yes."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
We ate chili and corn bread in front of the fire in my apartment and drank beer with it. Even Susan drank beer with chili, though she didn't drink much.
"Paige called me today," she said. "She said Paul seems-how did she put it?-`remote,' since he came back to New York."
I nodded, staring at the fire.
"Finding his mother made it more complicated, not less. He thought it would make it less."
"You probably can't help him with that," Susan said.
"I know."
Pearl lay in front of the fire, looking back frequently to check the status of chili and corn bread. Susan ate a small forkful of chili and nibbled the edge of a small piece of corn bread. With the chili and corn bread we had some corn relish that Susan and I had made as an experiment last Labor Day.
Outside it had begun to rain again. The sunny morning had been an illusion.
"You told me how you started to cook," Susan said. "You never have said why you like it."
"I like to make things," I said. "I've spent a lot of my time alone, and I have learned to treat myself as if I were a family. I give myself dinner at night. I give myself breakfast in the morning. I like the process of deciding what to eat and putting it together and seeing how it works, and
I like to experiment, and I like to eat. There's nothing lonelier than some guy alone in the kitchen eating Chinese food out of the carton."
"But cooking yourself a meal," Susan said, "andsitting down to eat it with the table set, and maybe a fire in the fireplace…"
"And a ball game on…"
"And a half bottle of wine, perhaps."
I nodded.
Susan smiled, the way she does when her face seems to get brighter.
"You are the most self-sufficient man I have ever known," she said.
"Except maybe Hawk," I said. "Hawk's so selfsufficient he doesn't need to eat."
"Perhaps," Susan said.
"It's like carpentry," I said. "I get pleasure out of making things."
"But not in groups," Susan said.
I thought about that for a moment.
"True," I said.
"You like to read," Susan said. "You like to cook, you like to lift weights, and jog, and do carpentry, and watch ball games. Do you like to go to the ballpark?"
"I like to go to the park sometimes, keep in touch with the roots of the game, I suppose. But mostly I prefer to watch it on television at home."
"Alone?"
"Yes. Unless you develop an interest."
Susan didn't even bother to comment on that possibility.
"See what I mean?" she said.
"Autonomy?" I said.
"Yes. You only like things you can do alone." "There are exceptions," I said.
"Yes. And I know the one you're thinking of. Me excepted, your interests are single."
"True," I said.
"You couldn't stand being a member of the police force."
"No. I hate being told what to do."
"You certainly do," Susan said.
"I'm cute though."
"You're more than cute," Susan said. "You're probably peerless, there's a kind of purity you maintain. Everything is inner-directed."
"Except the part about you," I said.
"Except that."
"That's a large part."
"I know that. Sometimes I'm sort of startled at the, ah, honor I'm the one you let in."
"Might be something of a burden sometimes, being the only one."
"No," Susan said. "It's never a burden. It is to be taken seriously, but it is never burdensome."
"You are the woman in my life," I said.
"Surely not the first."
"No, not in that sense," I said. "But remember how I grew up."
Susan nodded. "All men."
"Yeah, all men. It seemed right. Even looking back it seems right. It doesn't seem as if anything was missing. I knew women and had girlfriends, and so did my father and my uncles; but home was male."
Susan looked around the apartment. Pearl made a small snuffing sound in front of the fire and lazed over onto her side.
"And that is still the case," Susan said.
"No," I said, "no more. This is where I live. But home is where you are."
Susan smiled at me. "Yes," she said. "We are home."
We put plates down for Pearl, and cleared the table and put the pre-lapped dishes in the dishwasher.
"I need dessert," I said.
"You certainly do," Susan said.
"There's nothing here," I said.
"What would you like?"
"Pie?"
"Where is the closest source?" Susan said
Which is how we ended up walking close together underneath a multicolored golf umbrella along Arlington Street and into the Public Gardens where, so lately, I had been with the Broz family.
"Place near the Colonial Theater," I said, "will sell you pie and coffee almost any time of the day or night."
"Mark of an advanced civilization," Susan said.
She had her arm through mine and her head against my shoulder as we walked through the rain, sheltered by the umbrella. She had her cobalt raincoat on, the collar turned up around her black hair. The lining of the raincoat was chartreuse, and where the collar was up and open at the neck it showed in gleaming contrast under the streetlights. We walked past the statue of
Washington, facing 327
up the Commonwealth Avenue Mall across Arlington Street. If there were bloodstains on the sidewalk, the rain had washed them away, or masked them with its gleaming reflections. The garden was empty on a rainy night, and still, except for the sound of the rain. There was light from the lampposts.
And the ambient city noise made the silence of the garden seem more complete. In the Swan Boat Pond the ducks were huddled under their feathers among the rocks along the shore of the lagoon.
The Common was ahead, across Charles Street, where once the inner harbor had washed against the foot of Beacon Hill, before they dumped in all the landfill and created the Back Bay and pushed the sea back into the harbor and the basin of the Charles River. Once it had really been a back bay, a mix of river water and ocean into which the oldest part of Boston had pushed like the bulge in a balloon.