Bereavements (25 page)

On the other (and somewhat less dramatic, self-pitying and literary) hand, Martin, rightfully so, was not at all concerned about his physical appearance.

He was handsome—exceptionally so, if in a somewhat “ordinary” way, with “regular” features and the usual assortment of characteristics so many women consider “beautiful:” perfect teeth, thick dark hair that he could, straight or curled, wear in any style he chose, and frequently did; eyes that mixed a subtle green along with blue, and, above all, a lean, hard, finely-proportioned body he kept in excellent shape.

But if the truth will out, and out it finally did (somewhere below Martin’s navel and well-above his knees) he was counting on the susceptibility of his healthy if still deeply grieved Lady Chatterly to the fine if not exactly superlative attributes of his most laudable John Thomas. Once exposed to and experiencing its full, functioning power and beauty, he’d often had trouble getting rid of the women in his life when his interests (usually another woman) turned elsewhere.

One odd thing; or, rather, two:

The wealthier the woman was, and the more prominent her social status, as well as the luxuriousness of her surroundings, the more probable, though never certain, his own sexual interest.

The second odd thing concerned the theater: applause was erotic, the best of aphrodisiacs.

But he was not alone in this; he had heard other performers speak of it. (Indeed, he had read that Nijinsky had always kept a lover waiting—not in his dressing room, but in the wings, within sight—into whose arms he could instantly fly the moment his performance was over.)

There were a thousand Riveras in the telephone directory, and although Mrs. Evans’ finger searching for Angel’s address slowly touched every one, she was unable to find an “Aurelio.” Next, she checked each number in an effort to find the one she’d been calling, but with no success either. Apparently, for whatever reasons, the man was unlisted.

The telephone company, of course, has the morals or at least the confidentiality of a priest or a psychoanalyst. But to the wealthy, few doors remain closed, and no secret is kept for long. In less than eight hours, a private detective had not only provided her with Aurelio Carlos Rivera’s address, but where he worked, what he did, his age, birthplace, social security number, the fact that he had a deceased wife, and a son, fourteen, by the name of Angel Laureano who attended (not St. Agnes—the only useless clue she’d had) but the annex of Holy Trinity.

So equipped with information she knew had little value, she nevertheless considered what to do.

She could send Dori. Or Rose. She could go herself. Where? To whom? to what? To his home? His church? His school? Every confrontation she imagined—father, priest, principal, teacher—was a disaster. Particularly Angel himself. Could she kidnap the boy? Each approach, every gesture on her part would be futile and useless. He had to come to her. And if he came at all, it had to be freewilled, because he wanted it. She couldn’t
take
him. He had to
give
himself up. So the thing to do was nothing. She’d wait. Fill in her time with . . . anything. Bruno, if necessary. Martin, perhaps. The theatre, a film or two. Yes. Do nothing.

Wait.

How is it then, that the very next day she took to searching the city. Each afternoon about two, she’d have Dori drive her slowly through the littered street where Angel lived: three times, four. Then past the annex at Holy Trinity, more insane asylum than school at three when children poured from the building in a rampant river, a flood after the dam has burst: all indisputably manic!—screaming, falling, spilling books, bruising knees, skinning elbows . . .

They drove past the school. “Slow! Dori, slow—but don’t stop; not for an instant! And don’t
look
as if you’re looking. We don’t want him to think we’re looking . . . just passing, passing through—an accident of—fate.”

Around the block, then past the school once more in time for the stragglers and the left-behinds; then two blocks north to St. Agnes, “the red church” where Dori first picked him up. Next, the local playgrounds, the basket ball courts, just in case . . .

Just in case.

But nowhere. Angel Laureano Rivera couldn’t be found, he didn’t exist.

The monotony, the boredom, the weariness of each day’s fruitless, snail’s pace drive, put a strain on Dori’s face and a patient hurt look in his eyes.

“Tomorrow’s the last day.” That was her promise.

But tomorrow is always tomorrow, and on the next day, as usual, at two, she was ready, now bundled in furs because the weather had again turned sharply cold and the morning’s rain to sleet.

“The last day; the very last day, Dori. Truly.”

And it was.

But only because they found him.
Found
him? . . .
please fine me!?
(The mystery, the ambiguity of the word had confused her from the beginning.)
Saw
him, at least: waiting for a green light, bundled against the cold, and sleet that had changed to snow, a plaid scarf around his throat, the black sphere of his Afro hair a perfect eclipse, the wind at his back having frozen a sun’s halo.

A wave of a hand wasn’t seen, a cry behind glass wasn’t heard.

“Dori!”—as if a child were drowning within her sight.

The chauffeur swung the car around and pulled up beside the boy just as the light changed and he was about to cross. Mrs. Evans opened the door, and the next moment Angel was in her arms.

She was remarkable controlled, straining not to discomfort or embarrass him with expected explanations. But halting, mumbled “reasons-why” were forthcoming nonetheless.

He’d been sick; but she knew that. (“Yes.”) An’ it took a long time to get better. (“Sometimes it does, it does.”) An’ after that—he’d been so busy—” (“of course”) “—so much school had been missed, so much to make up for. Also— Well—

There were countless reasons—all good, all sensible, all believable, all . . . unsatisfactory, to him. So, after a silence, looking up at a her, really wanting her to help—“I didn’t call you, or visit, because . . .” (a shrug, a frown, a tic or two) “ . . . I don’t know. I ’wanted to, I guess, but—”

She waited.

“For one thing, my father—he was awfully good to me. Really. Probably if it hadn’t been for him, if he hadn’t taken care of me, I’d’a died. I mean, I was that sick.

Some of this was inexplicable to Mrs. Evans. She cupped his chin.

“So? Fathers, lots of fathers, are good to their sons, take care of them, sick or well. Do you feel profoundly, I mean, very much obligated, now that you’re well . . . I mean . . . ”

What did she mean? But he had alrady abandoned the thought.

“Another thing—”

“Yes.”

“I want you to know I really had a good time on Long Island, swimmin’ an’ all.”

“Yes.”

“And the food . . . ”

“Yes.”

“Well, I liked everything that happened that day.”

“Except . . . ? When you got ill on your way home, of course!”

“Oh! That! Yes. No one likes to throw up.” He laughed. “I made a pig of myself.”

She laughed with him. “No. I’m guilty. I made a pig of you. Or Delia, with her insidious concoctions. But—later—you felt better; you felt fine. I mean—by the time we reached New York.”

“Well . . . ?” He was doubtful, then quite definite. “No; I felt strange, like I wasn’t in my own body. It must have been the beginning of what I got later; you don’t get flu all at once, y’know. The doctor says it ‘incubates’—whatever that means. I mean, I know what it means, but what
does
it mean—exactly?”

Mrs. Evans was suddenly pale, her forehead lined. For some reason she looked at Dori who, all this while, had been swung around in the front seat, looking at both of them, though, unless he had the sound system on, he couldn’t hear.

“It means . . . that whatever it is—in your case the flu—it takes a while; it doesn’t happen all at once, just as you said.”

“Oh.” Angel nodded, satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

But Mrs. Evans seemed to be after something other than the flu.

“I know how things are when you have a high fever, when you’re delirious, but—what did you mean—not in your own body? Did you ever—feel that way before?”

Angel shook his head.

“But when, when did you feel it?” (He was surprised at her seriousness, her insistence.) “Before you were car sick; or after we got out . . . ?”

“No. In the tunnel. Maybe it was the sound—being down, I mean under the river, that’s where we were—and that does something t’your ears, y’know. I kept swallowing like you’re ’asposed to but I still couldn’t hear good. I couldn’t get the deadness out of my head. Everything seemed muffled and far away. Then I imagined, or maybe I fell asleep and dreamed it, that I was in the river—floating, but very still, not movin’ at all, an’ then . . . ”

“I don’t want to hear more!”

She hadn’t meant to be sharp, but she had, and Dori looked at her strangely. He
was
listening.

“I’m sorry” (to the boy). “It’s just . . . My nerves today. I’ve been barking at Rose”—which wasn’t true—“all morning. And Cook, too. And Dori.”

Angel shrugged.

“It’s okay. Anyway—What I tol’ you was jus’ dumb; it’s not important at all.”

She held the boy’s eyes with hers. “Tell me, then tell me what is important, and—” (she had to say it finally; it was impossible not to) “—and why I haven’t seen you.”