Bereavements (6 page)

Now . . . The large manila envelope . . . The one carefully lettered PHOTO DO NOT BEND, so ruthlessly bent by postal employees, it was sitting before her at a ninety-degree angle. She reversed the fold over the edge of her desk, flattening it as best she could.

Several of the letters she noticed were so plastered with scotch tape, one expected them to be stamped
Top Secret,
or better, in the peculiar governmental language of the day,
Eyes Only.
The sender of PHOTO DO NOT BEND, however, had not even bothered to wet the glue on the flap, merely spreading the metal two-pronged clasp that closed it.

It contained, somewhat warped and semi-creased down the center, an eight-by-ten glossy photo of a boy. No, not a boy at all: a young man, or, as she leaned closer, pushing her eyeglasses more snugly against the bridge of her nose, one not so young, since the face that confronted her had that peculiar lifeless quality of having been carefully retouched.

The eyes, however, told the truth: they’d lived much longer than the air-brushed cheeks and forehead, and they weren’t twins, exactly—the left one slightly narrowed, cunning, hinting a telltale hardness.

But how unfair she was! A self-styled physiognomist who knew nothing about the subject whatsoever. She held the photo at arm’s length, determined to be kind. A handsome face, really; secretly a sad one, but to her empty. No, this “boy”—
man
—didn’t attract her. Here was a mask, a studied maleness. Surely the teeth were tightly clenched to create that strong, square jaw, and the long, casual, somewhat messy hair seemed on consideration less messy than artful, with its skillful carelessness.

There was no letter or note; nothing at all, but on the back of the photo, clearly printed by letterpress or offset, and like the answers to questions required by a detailed application form, was this legend:

Name: Nicholas (“Nicky”) Fabrizzi

Address: 346 West 47 Street, New York, N.Y. 10038

Telephone: (212) KL5-8643

Age: 29

Race: Irish, French, Italian; parents American born

Birth-sign: Taurus

Education: B.A., English (Brooklyn College)

Health: Excellent

Height: 5 11

Weight: 165

Hair: Dark

Eyes: Hazel

Neck: 15

Chest: 36

Arm (length) 34

Wrist: 7

Biceps: 12

Forearm: 10

Waist: 29

Hips: 32

Penis: (normal) 5×1½ (erect) 7×2

Sexual character: hetero, bi (couples), homo (male-active), group, mild S/M

Thigh: 24

Calf: 14

Ankle: 9

Foot: (shoe) 8½ EE

Head: (hat) 7¼

Jacket: 38 regular

Leg: (inseam) 34

Wardrobe: adequate (including evening)

Languages: English, Italian (restaurant French, Hungarian)

Work: carte blanche

Availability: pre-arranged mutual agreement

Mrs. Evans turned the photo over for another now-slightly-more fascinated look at the astonishing Mr. Fabrizzi before placing it to one side. She possessed an extraordinary memory, one which while bordering on the photogenic, was thoroughly obsessive and uncontrolled, tending often to torture her in the manner of a nagging tune one cannot stop humming or whistling. Regrettably, this young man’s dimensions would probably haunt her for days, intruding at their pleasure regardless of situation or time. She pictured herself brushing her teeth, thinking,
Leg (inseam) 34
. . .Combing her hair,
Penis (erect) 7×2
. . . Sipping her cocoa,
Biceps: 12 . . .Calf: 14 . . .

The next letter, postmarked the Bronx, was from one Paulo Passannante. Mrs. Evans laughed, perceiving a penchant for attracting Italians with (at least) beautiful names.—
Nicholas Fabrizzi.
She liked that. And now
Paulo Passannante.
But then, her sweet
Angel
was undoubtedly Spanish, with no last name at all—not yet.

The letter was badly, atrociously typewritten on manila paper; five, no six pages long, triple-spaced, looking as if it had been laboriously pecked out with two fingers. It began:

“Hi-yah, Mom! — — ”

With so spirited a salutation, Mrs. Evans paused to adjust her glasses as well as her frame of mind.

“I lost your add but rmemered waht it said abd wrot ti it down the box number on a envelop sos I wouldnt forget and wrher to send it/ Adds are the best way to gget to knjow a lot of innerestting people and have real good times. Bet they dont alwaysmean what they say
U Imus
I mean i guessyou know thath because you got be to be
eful
careful what you say in public print— —so thats wh
a
y i try to read between the lines. like your ad -holy smok!!!! i din dknow wht the fuck it was - all this here shita bout your “lost” son bussiness. then I figgued out that youwas on to somethin real good wwith your “son” - meaning gyou had some real yong
g
y guy— —right? did i guess right????? and then it broke up for some
resn
reason (maube he got V.D.-- joke, ha, ha!) and now your looking to swing itwith some other real young
g
y guy.meb like me. im real goodlooking,noshit. and that anint no fuckin lie. im 22 but evryone says i look 18 tops. nice and slim. hard muscels and lits of
thinl
thick hair like you want to put your
i
hands into.thats what the girsl say. and on my chest to and belly like some
d
godamn forest. and if its meat your after-lady yousure come to the best
super
market in town (joke, ha! ha!--get it)--eight (ate--ha,ha) fucking inches. you love it up for me real nice and ill screw you into tomorrow, and the day aftre that Lady - you want to be bangged croseyed? then you ask Paulo, hear.? you say nicelike Paulo - i want that jesus-sweet beautifull giantsize supremarket dick of yours. you say -Paulo - I want. . .”

Breathless, pained, Mrs. Evans turned her eyes from the page. She was shaking: not from dismay or the slightest distress at the sexual intent and quality of the letter or the obvious delight Mr.—what?—who?—
Passannante
derived from exposing his strong sexual needs and fantasies to a woman he’d created in his head, but the bewildering unexpected reality of its connection with Jamie. Had her son’s dying breath placed, eleven months later, six pages of illiterate pornography in her trembling hands?

Paulo Passannante!

im real goodlooking,noshit.

She was able to tear the letter to shreds, every page . . .

and that anint no fuckin lie.

. . . but not the words.

(maube he got V.D.—joke, ha, ha!) and now your looking to swing itwith some other real young
gy
guy.meb like me . . .

Angel in the safe, the tape in the desk drawer, Messrs. Passannante and Fabrizzi a cheerless New Year’s Eve celebration all over her beautiful carpeted floor . . .

Rose would “tsk, tsk” to be sure, wielding her vacuum nozzle like the voracious snout of an ant-eater, gulping down the confetti she’d made of “Nicky” and “Paulo.”

you want to be bangged croseyed . . .?

She stared at the remaining two letters, tempted not to open them, to throw them, indeed everything, all of it, away.

Only the thought of Angel stayed her.

Please fine me . . .

One thing, however—be sure of that—no more letters. These would be all. These seven. No more.

“Dear Madam:”

Well!
That
seemed civilized, if a bit formal. Under the circumstances of her ad, probably it was the best one could do, or say (though the penmanship was painfully self-conscious, slanted to the left in a fine, meticulous script).

“I read your advertisement with sympathy and wonder. With puzzlement, I must add. With unsatisfied curiosity. But also, initially, with a concluding shrug of indifference. One sees so many odd, even ridiculous ads in The Village Voice.

“I had no thought of answering, of writing a reply of some sort, or inquiry. Yet later, days later, I found myself remembering your few strange words; perhaps not so much ‘remembering,’ as ‘unable to forget’ since this, the latter, has a haunting quality the former does not possess.

“And finally, after three false starts, I find myself writing to you again, and (who knows?) this time I may actually find the courage to send the letter.

“It is now, at this moment I write, well after midnight, but I have promised myself . . .”

Mrs. Evans paused in her reading, staring up at nothing in particular for a moment’s blank thought, vaguely puzzled, the reason for it not yet clear. She went on—

“. . . I have promised myself to seal, address and stamp the envelope, then take it to my corner mailbox, which is just a block away.

“There I reserve my final options. I may, with good sense, tear up the letter, or, with equal good sense, irrevocably mail it—‘good sense’ in this instance being
intuition,
since in this matter I am truly gifted.

“One danger: loneliness, sheer loneliness may prompt me to stretch out my hand to open that metal maw, desperate. . .” (Mrs. Evans paused, taking a second to realize that “metal maw” meant “mailbox”) “. . . desperate to ease my psychic isolation.