Shannon knelt in front of him, put his hand on the kid's shoulder. "Hey, hey, hey," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
But the minute he said it, he felt something dark open inside him. Because it was a lie, wasn't it? He was a fraud-a fugitive fraud with a murder rap hanging over his head. And with this bald guy after him, this new life of his was sure to fall apart at some point. And then he would be going somewhere, maybe forever.
The little boy snuffled against his mother's leg, looking at him through his tears, waiting to be told that everything was okay. That's when it hit Shannon full force: if his new life did fall apart-or, all right, when it fell apart-it wouldn't just fall apart for him now but for this boy, too, maybe for Teresa, too, if she gave a damn, but for this boy more than anyone.
Kneeling there with his hand on the poor kid's shoulder, Shannon lifted his eyes. He saw Teresa looking down at him, and he understood that she was thinking pretty much the same thing.
By the time he took them home to the old rectory, it was late, dark. Teresa sent the boy inside to his grandfather and stood alone with Shannon at the front door.
"Thank you, Henry. That was a nice day," she said.
He could see clearly enough what she was going to say next, and he was desperate to stop her. So he stepped close and took her face in one hand and kissed her. It was no good. It was all wrong, because of the desperation and because he was just doing it to shut her up. Still, she let him do it, and for a few moments he had the drunken sense of what it might've been like, the feel of her mouth giving way and her hair tangling in his fingers and the sweetness of the thing starting up between them, not just the kiss, but the whole thing.
She must've felt some of it, too, because, at first, her hand lifted as if she wanted to take hold of him. But she didn't. It was all wrong, and she didn't touch him. After a while, her hand sank down again. Shannon broke the kiss off and stepped away.
"Oh… Listen, Henry…" she began-because he hadn't stopped her from saying what she was going to say, he'd just delayed it.
"I know, I know," he said. "Look…"
"No, I just have to be sure, you know? It's different when you have a kid. I can't pretend I'm just some girl again and he isn't there."
"No, no, you're his mother, I understand that."
"I can't have people come and then leave. Guys, I mean. I can't just start up with them and let him care about them and then have them leave. I can't let him go through something like that again."
What about us? He wanted to argue with her. What about you and me-wanting this, wanting each other? Don't we get anything? But he was embarrassed to sound selfish in front of her. "Look," he said, "about what happened at the carnival…" But he floundered, because what could he say that wouldn't be a lie?
She smiled her screwy, comical smile and silenced him by putting her hand on his arm, shaking her head. "Oh, you know, do me a favor, Henry… I mean, it's not just Michael. I'm not that steady myself. So do me a favor and don't tell me unless I need to know. It's just-if you're leaving, you know, say so. And if you're not, say so. And if you're not sure, then just say that and I'll wait till you know. I will. I mean it. But I can't just start up and have you leave and let him go through that again. I don't think I can go through it again, either. So do me a favor, okay? Just…"
He wanted to say something, to answer her, but he couldn't think of a single thing worth saying, not one thing that wouldn't be a lie and make matters worse in the end. So he just had to stand there and take it, stand there knowing that this was good-bye between them, that he was going to lose her. It was a crushing weight of sadness inside him-he wouldn't have believed how bad it felt. As good as it felt to hold her hand at the carousel, that's how bad this felt now. Man, he could've killed that bald-headed bastard for showing up like that. It had ruined everything. Who the hell was he? Why the hell couldn't he just leave him alone?
"Okay," he said thickly. It was all he could say.
Her hand dropped from his arm. She nodded, still smiling but her eyes damp. He stood there another moment. He wanted to tell her how he felt about her, how crazy he was about her and that he loved her-really loved her-but so what? What good was that to either of them? In a way, that would be the worst thing he could say, the worst of all.
He just turned finally-turned with the crushing weight inside him-and walked back up the path to his car. HE PARKED THE Civic down the street from his brownstone. He shut the car off and sat in it a while, just sort of weighing the car keys in his hand and staring through the windshield.
Though it was not even ten, the area was eerily quiet. It was like that around here, no street life after dark. There were a lot of reasons for that. The worst of the wreckage was right nearby and the gangs of boys might come around prowling, those flood-punks who would kill you for a dime. None of the local nightspots had survived the disaster, so the neighborhood's young people had to drive far afield to find a bar or a club-and the old people weren't much for going out anyway. Plus it was Sunday, the work week beginning tomorrow. So it was quiet.
Shannon sat and weighed the keys in his hand and stared. He was down, way down. Heartbroken, to put it plainly. He wished none of this had ever happened. He wished he'd never come to this city, never carved the angel, never met Teresa-that most of all. He had always known deep down this new life couldn't be real, couldn't last. The bald guy-the cops-someone-he had always known someone would turn up sooner or later and expose him. But it wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't met Teresa. He couldn't put it into words exactly, but it was like, when he was with her, he could see the life he was supposed to have lived, the shape of the life he was meant for, like a beautiful city in the far distance, a beautiful crystal city in the mist. To find her and then lose her-to have the mist close over that city again just as he'd seemed about to break through to it-that was a real piece of mean luck, cruel, as if the gods were tantalizing him, entertaining themselves with his emotional torture.
He stared out the windshield. Slowly, his left hand went to his right arm and he massaged the spot where the old scars had been. He had a hint in him of that old feeling, that crawly feeling that told him he had to get out, had to do something, find some action, anything, fast. He thought for a moment maybe he'd go somewhere, drive somewhere, some bar where he could get a girl maybe. But he was too down for that, too down in the dumps. He just wanted to go home. It hurt to think about Teresa, but that was all he wanted to do, just go home and lie on his bed and think about her.
He sighed heavily and got out of the car. He walked heavily down the silent sidewalk, his sneakers padding, the only footsteps in the night. There were sirens in the distance. There were always sirens. And when he glanced up, he could see the pale yellow glow of fire on the dark horizon. Something was always burning somewhere in this city. He reached the brownstone's stoop and heavily climbed.
His apartment was on the third floor, three long flights. The decaying wooden banister. The peeling yellow walls. The faded runners beneath his feet. Then he was on the landing. Then down the hall to the wooden door, the keys in his hand.
He stepped over the threshold into the dark apartment. He reached for the light switch as the door swung shut.
He didn't see the man who hit him, never knew the blow was coming. That made it much worse. Before he had a clue, a fist like concrete drove into his belly. He wasn't tensed for it, so it just drove deep. The breath was forced out of him and he doubled over, dropping his keys, clutching his gut, stumbling once in the dark and falling, his knee cracking on the wooden floor, his shoulder hitting the side of the bed as he went down.