Bridge of Sighs (14 page)

That’s what it felt like, though. Since leaving the West End, we’d never once returned there to visit anyone, and the only reason Bobby would have for returning from the Borough to our neighborhood was me, and I was beginning to understand that I wasn’t reason enough.

B
UT MY MOTHER
was right about life moving on. I had just that last week of August to mope around and feel sorry for myself, after which school started again. Such, at least, is my recollection.

What my mother recalls is the worst autumn of my young life, that after the Marconis left I remained militantly inconsolable. I also had several spells in September and October, and they lasted longer than the ones I’d had over the summer, leaving me both exhausted and despondent. The buoyant optimism and sense of empowerment that had accompanied that first one in the trunk were missing from these latest ones, which left me dull witted and lethargic for days. According to my mother, as soon as I felt better, I’d hop on my bike and ride through the Borough streets looking for the Marconis’ new home, determined to renew my friendship with Bobby. She even recalls getting a frightened phone call from Mrs. Marconi telling her that her husband was getting angry. Every time he looked out their front window, there I’d be, sitting on my bike and staring dejectedly at their house.

This last part simply cannot have been true. For one thing, had I indulged in any such behavior, I’d be unlikely to forget it, but for another, I didn’t learn until the following spring exactly where the Marconis had moved because, as I feared, Bobby never called with his phone number and address. It’s true I did ride my bike through the Borough that last week in August and early September, hoping I’d “accidentally” run into him or see him playing outside, perhaps with his new friends, so I suppose it’s possible that Mr. Marconi may have looked out his front window one afternoon and been surprised to see me ride by, but the idea that I haunted them that autumn is ludicrous.

What my mother may be remembering is one Saturday afternoon when I was out riding. My own very vague memory was that I’d been visiting Gabriel Mock, and the most direct route home from Whitcombe Park was through the Borough. At any rate when I came around a corner I was surprised to see my father’s milk truck pull up alongside. Since he would’ve finished his collections late that morning, my first panicky thought was that something must be wrong—either he was inexplicably angry with me or something had happened to my mother and he’d come to fetch me home. I must have appeared frightened, because when he stepped out of the truck, he looked as if in his mind he’d arrived in the nick of time.

“Louie?” he said—awkwardly, I thought, his voice not falling quite right, as if there were some other boy here in the Borough who was a dead ringer for his East End kid, and he didn’t want to commit to anything until he was sure who I was. “Whatcha doin’ way over here?”

I shrugged. Why
shouldn’t
I be here?

“You want to ride home with me?” He opened up the back of the truck, and we lifted my bike inside, where I leaned it up against the tied-off crates.

As I said, milk trucks in those days had no passenger seats. Usually, if I was alone with my father in the truck, I’d tip a couple crates upside down and perch myself on top, to the right of the big stick shift that stuck out of a hole in the floor. That day, though, when I started to grab a crate, my father patted his seat cushion, and when I balanced myself on its edge he put his arm around my shoulder, and I felt good for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

“You know who lives in all these houses?” he said.

When I admitted I had no idea, he put the truck in gear and took me on a slow tour of the Borough streets that until recently Bobby and I had surfed on Saturday morning, pointing out houses on either side of the street and telling me what doctor lived here, what lawyer there, which one belonged to the owner of the Bijou Theater and where the Beverlys, who owned the tannery, lived. This was
his
route, the best route in town, and I could tell how proud he was to know all this. He said many of these people had so much money they didn’t have to work anymore if they didn’t want to, though I found this hard to believe. A few Borough residents waved to my father as we passed, which clearly pleased him. Others, though, failed to return his wave, didn’t even appear to see us as we inched by, going slow, so he could keep his arm around me and not have to shift gears.

“Thing is, people are the same everywheres,” he said, as if to explain the ones who didn’t wave back. “They’re just the way they are, and you can’t do nothin’ about it either.” Was he thinking about Mr. Marconi, too?

I nodded.

“You know how some folks in our neighborhood don’t like it when people from the West End come around?”

I knew what he was talking about, of course. The Spinnarkle sisters in particular were adamant in their disapproval of visitors who didn’t belong there.

“People are the same way here. They see somebody who don’t live in the Borough, and they say,
What’s he doin’ here?
Even if you ain’t botherin’ nobody. You understand?”

“I shouldn’t ride my bike over here?” I said, thinking this was what he was trying to tell me.

“It ain’t that exactly,” he said, reluctant now. “This is America. You got a right to go wherever you want. Anybody ever tells you that you don’t belong somewheres, you just remind them what country they’re in.”

I nodded, confused.

“Except sometimes it’s better not to upset people. If they think you don’t belong, the hell with ’em, is how I look at it. I mean, it’s nice where we are too, right? Third Street?”

I said I thought Third Street was fine.

“Same with friends,” he went on. “Better to be friends with people who want to be friends with you.”

“Bobby wants to be friends,” I said, knowing what he was getting at. “It’s just his dad won’t let him.”

We’d come to the end of the Borough now, and my father turned left into the East End, our part of town. It occurred to me that in our leisurely tour we must have driven right by the Marconis’ new house. It was on his route, after all, so he had to know which one it was. He no doubt put quart bottles of milk in their tin container twice a week, collected the money they left there and made change. Had they spoken to him, or he to them? Did Mrs. Marconi cower inside when he knocked on their door? Had he tried to get invited inside for a look? I’d been so absorbed in my own disappointment that it hadn’t occurred to me to imagine the effect their leaving had on him. He could no longer think of himself as being in competition with “Mr. Macaroni.” If it had been a contest, he’d lost. And he’d accepted the fact; that’s what he was trying to tell me now.

“Them spells you get,” he said, catching me by surprise. “Are you thinking about Bobby when they come on?”

I told him no, that I could be thinking about anything or nothing. My spells always began with things getting so fuzzy and remote that I felt almost sleepy. It wasn’t a bad feeling, really. I wasn’t scared. It was more like I was outside myself, an observer, like I was light enough to just float away. Actually, that part felt kind of good, as if I’d been released from something.

I’ll never forget the look on his face when I explained this. “You wouldn’t do that, would you, Louie? Just let yourself float away?”

I told him I wouldn’t.

“Not ever?”

“Never,” I promised, and this seemed to reassure us both. Because even though the sensation of floating away did feel good, so did returning. In fact, driving back to our East End neighborhood that afternoon in my father’s milk truck felt a little like returning from one of my spells. Our house looked pretty small after our tour of the Borough, but for some reason, when we pulled up at the curb, it looked just right for us, for who we were. I
did
like our street, with Ikey Lubin’s store at one end and Tommy Flynn’s at the other. I liked living next door to the Spinnarkle sisters, even if they were quick to turn off the television when I visited. Only one thing bothered me.

“I just wish he’d do like he said,” I told my father. “He said he’d call and give me his new phone number.”

“They probably just kept their old number,” he said, surprising me again. I’d thought that you always got a new number when you moved, and that whoever moved into the Marconis’ apartment above the Spinnarkles would inherit their old one.

I didn’t get a chance until later that evening, after my mother finished doing the dishes and joined my father and me out on the porch, where a cool breeze had sprung up. Once they both looked settled I went inside—to use the bathroom, I told them—and quickly dialed the number I still knew by heart. Bobby himself answered on the third ring, but I hadn’t thought things through. He must have said hello half a dozen times while I stood there, frozen, mute, trying to think of something to say. But how could I ask if his wrist had completely healed, if the cast had come off? Or say I was sorry I hadn’t called the turn and that I wanted him and his family to move back to Third Street and for things to be the way they were. That this new arrangement might be okay for them, but not for me.

Only when Mr. Marconi took the phone from him and barked “Who the hell is this?” did I gently return the receiver to its cradle.

A SHOT TO THE HEART

H
EY
,” Evangeline said. She was poking Noonan as one would a dangerous animal that looked dead but might not be. Fully dressed and standing next to the bed, she was clearly prepared to run should the need arise. “Talk to me, Noonan.”

“About what?” he said groggily, rising up on his elbows. At the sound of his voice, modulated and sane, she visibly relaxed. Flight wouldn’t be necessary after all.

So far she was the only person to witness one of his night terrors. This was now over a month ago, but the experience was still fresh in her mind. Half an hour after falling asleep, he’d awakened in a paroxysm of rage. When she made the mistake of trying to calm him down, he lashed out, not even recognizing her, really, and punched her in the face, hard. The resulting black eye had been hard to explain to her husband, and since then they’d agreed not to risk a repetition. They’d continued their sporadic, desultory sex, but when it was over either she or Noonan went home before postcoital sleepiness could descend. The last thing she’d done tonight before drifting off was ask him if he felt sleepy. He’d said no, thinking he’d be able to stay awake, but then fell asleep anyway.

“I suppose you could tell me what you’re sorry about.”

“I was talking in my sleep?”

She sat on the edge of the bed now, holding the back of her hand gently to his cheek. “You kept saying how sorry you were. Didn’t sound like you at all.”

“It didn’t sound like my voice?”

“No, it was your voice, all right. Just not the sort of thing that comes out of your mouth, if you know what I mean. Sort of like Hugh Morgan saying
I don’t know.
Anyway, I accept your apology, even if it was meant for someone else.”

Noonan swung his feet out of bed. “I gather you’re leaving?”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“If you can wait till I put my pants on, I’ll walk you home.”

“We really shouldn’t be seen together,” she said, but he could tell this objection was his to override.

As it turned out, they had both the vaporetto and the streets to themselves. Even San Marco was deserted, except for the last of the musicians putting away their instruments outside Caffè Florian and some waiters stacking chairs on a gurney.

“When does Todd get back?” he asked when they arrived in Campo San Stefano, off of which her gallery was located, their living quarters above.

“Tomorrow,” she said. A failed novelist turned travel writer, Todd Lichtner was often away on assignment for one of a half-dozen magazines. “Speaking of which, will you see Hugh again?”

“It’s possible. I got the impression he wasn’t finished badgering me.”

“Remind him he promised to stop by the gallery?”

“If he promised, he won’t need to be reminded.”

“I have one or two pieces I’d really like him to see.”

“The Ponti?”

She nodded. “And Jean Nugent’s new work.”

Noonan shrugged. “The Ponti’s good. Hugh might like it.” Probably not, though. And he couldn’t think of a single reason for Hugh or anyone else to like the Nugent.

Evangeline must have read his mind and, perhaps, even shared his assessment, because when she looked away there was just enough light from a nearby streetlamp to see that her eyes were moist. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stay open,” she said, her voice full of terrible resignation. “Some days I can’t even remember why I want to. Most of what I do anymore is just habit, starting with getting out of bed in the morning.”

Getting
into
bed with him was another example, clearly—no need even to state it.

“People get into ruts,” Noonan said. And ruts weren’t always a bad thing. Maybe an artist’s discipline, process and routine—habit, if you will—were just ruts with a purpose, and if you were talented and lucky they paid off in a kind of freedom, at least within the borders of canvas. Counterintuitive, granted, but there you were. The danger was that the purpose of your regimen would be lost, leaving mere habit to explain and justify itself if it could. And when it couldn’t? Well, maybe you were done. Going through the motions, those motions a feeble prayer that was unanswered, unanswerable. Why had he become a nocturnal walker, taking the same route night after night? All five
sestieri:
San Marco, Castello, Cannaregio, San Polo, Dorsoduro, always in that order, never the reverse, gauging time by space and vice versa. In the end, how different was he from his father, whose strict discipline had never been rooted in anything more profound than a selfish need to be in control.

“I do love Venice,” Evangeline continued, “but it’s absurd living here.”

“Where would you go?”

“Yes, well, there you are.”

“What does your husband want?”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to know? If I could figure that out, I could want the opposite.”

“Try changing something small,” he suggested. “Something that doesn’t matter. See how it feels.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, actually. The small thing I’ve been thinking about changing is you.”

“If you’re trying to hurt my feelings—”

“I’m not,” she said, tears really starting to flow now. “I’m really not. I mean…did you enjoy it tonight? Us? Did it speak to you in any way?”

The question was fair enough. The exhausted orgasm he’d finally achieved, while pleasurable enough, had seemed remote, something happening on a parallel track, vibrations half absorbed by the ground, no danger of collision. Was it just age? The law of diminishing emotional returns played out in the flesh? “I’m glad you came over,” he said, which was true, though it was also true he was now just as happy to return her to her husband and her life.

“Want to hear something crazy?”

“I guess?”

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt, smudging it with eye shadow. “Here’s what I seem to want from you, Noonan. I want to
not
see you again for a very long while. That’s the first thing. The second is if Hugh comes tomorrow, I’d like you to come with him.”

“I think you just summed up about forty years’ worth of my relationships with women,” he smiled. “It’s not a new ambivalence. It’s just new to you.”

“Do you want to come up?”

“Now? Christ, no.”

And then she was gone, the slamming door echoing out into the canal. He said her name, then tried the door, but it had locked behind her. Lucky that, for he might’ve followed her inside. He lingered a moment in the doorway, then stepped back a few paces to the water’s edge and looked up, waiting for a light to come on inside, which eventually it did, reflecting off the shimmering water and the dark brick walls that framed the canal. A painting, Noonan recognized. And also a memory? A moment later Eve appeared at the window, reaching outside to pull the shutters closed. He didn’t think she saw him standing in the shadows below, but then her voice came down, barely audible. “Go home, Noonan.” With the shutters closed, the canal was dark again, the painting gone.

He had just rounded the corner and started to descend the three steps into the narrow
calle
that opened into Campo San Stefano when something hit him in the chest, hard. Before he could make sense of that, there was the inexplicable sound of coins dancing on the stones at his feet. Todd Lichtner’s pale face momentarily swam into view and, when Noonan blinked, was gone. He stepped back, rubbing his breastbone, the pain there the only thing he could be certain was real. Then he saw the other man again, gathering up the scattered coins as best he could in the dark and muttering, “What a rotten bastard you are, Noonan.” It seemed not to occur to Lichtner that a truly rotten bastard might just kick Todd Lichtner in the head as he scrabbled around on his knees, and Noonan might have done just that if he hadn’t been so puzzled by the coins. The punch and the simultaneous explosion of coins illogically suggested that his chest had been full of them, freed by the blow, like candy from a piñata. He would’ve preferred another explanation, but when he tried to form a question, he discovered he had no breath, that Lichtner had hit him harder and with more conviction than Noonan would have ever guessed he possessed. It was all deeply puzzling, so he sat down on the step to watch him grope around in the dark for coins he seemed to think belonged to him. One had come to rest between Noonan’s feet, and he picked it up to examine it. Poor light, but he could have sworn it was an American quarter.

Finally Lichtner got to his feet and came over to glare down at him with a mixture of anger and, unless Noonan was mistaken, dawning embarrassment. Evangeline had apparently been wrong about at least one thing. Her husband
did
have clue one. Noonan handed him the quarter, which he promptly threw in the canal. “You shitheel,” he said, still shaking, though his pique seemed to wane as his embarrassment waxed.

Noonan’s breath was returning, and with it an idea. Lichtner must’ve had a roll of coins in his fist, to heighten the impact, but the blow had ruptured it. And with that realization, the world, which had momentarily tilted, righted itself. “You’re home early,” he said, his voice little more than a croak.

“Since yesterday,” Lichtner said. “I’ve been staying in a goddamn hotel in case you’re interested.”

“Where were you before?”

“Las Vegas.”

Noonan smiled, the roll of coins making sense now. He’d been playing the quarter slots. How perfectly Lichtner.

“I
knew
there was somebody. I
knew
it.” He was still standing over Noonan, his fists clenched.

“If you punch me again, I’m going to throw you in the canal.”

Lichtner took a step back. “Hey, I’m the one with the grievance here,” he said indignantly.

“Nevertheless,” Noonan said, still massaging his breastbone, “fair warning.”

To Lichtner, Noonan’s resolve not to be punched a second time seemed to limit the proceedings unfairly. Still, there could be little doubt that he’d carry out his threat, so he shrugged and said, “You all right?”

“I guess,” Noonan said, though he wasn’t sure and remained seated for the moment. His breathing was returning to normal, but it felt like the other man’s fist was still inside his chest cavity, heaving and flexing. “That hurt, if it makes you feel better.”

“Good,” Lichtner said, offering him a hand. “I’m glad.”

Noonan allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “What now?”

Lichtner shrugged again, fully embarrassed now. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “This didn’t go the way I imagined. I guess I didn’t think much past punching you in the face.”

“You punched me in the chest.”

“You were on a step. My timing was off. I guess I was impatient.”

Noonan went over to the water’s edge, raised some phlegm and spat into the canal.

“I suppose we could go someplace and talk about it,” Lichtner said, his hands now at his sides. “The bars over in Campo Santa Margherita might still be open.”

“That’s all students over there,” Noonan reminded him. “Kids.”

“What the hell,” Lichtner said. “We’re behaving like children, we might as well drink with them.” He actually seemed disappointed that Noonan wasn’t more enthusiastic. “I probably shouldn’t go home yet. Not until I’ve calmed down.”

To Noonan, he looked calm and then some, like a man more afraid of getting punched by his wife than of punching her. He seemed to comprehend utterly that he was good for about one punch a decade, and he’d thrown it not two minutes ago. “I thought you were staying in a hotel.”

“Just the two nights. If I didn’t find out who it was tonight, I was just going to ask her.”

The bar they found in Campo Santa Margherita was, as Noonan predicted, full of university students, several of whom—recognizable by their outlandish costumes—were celebrating the completion of their final exams. They took a table as far from them as possible, which wasn’t far enough.
“Dottore…dottore,”
they chanted while a boy dressed as a penis chugged from a pitcher. Noonan ordered a beer, Lichtner a Campari. By the time the drinks came, some of the latter’s indignation had returned. “I
knew
it had to be you,” he said. “I just knew it.”

“How?” Noonan wondered, curious about his logic. Evangeline, he happened to know, had had several lovers before himself. How had they been ruled out?

“You’re the only man I know who’d punch a woman. That’s repellent. I can’t forgive that,” Lichtner added, in case Noonan asked him to.

“That was an accident, actually. Ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

Clearly he did, though his resentment was such that he couldn’t admit to it. “How about fucking her? I suppose that was an accident, too.”

“Well, there was an accidental quality to the whole thing, now that you mention it. It’s probably over, if that’s of any interest.”

“It isn’t,” Lichtner said petulantly. “It isn’t of interest and it isn’t over, not for me. I’m the one who has to imagine the two of you going at it. How can I stay here in Venice knowing what I know?”

Noonan was tempted to tell him this was just being silly, that if it wasn’t him in Venice it would be another man in Paris, or London, or Davenport, Iowa. Lichtner’s problem, or one of them, was that his wife was unhappy, a condition that, if not universal, was nearly so. She wanted more. More than Todd Lichtner, for one. More than Noonan, for another. Who the hell didn’t? “Maybe you should divorce,” he suggested.