Drowning in the East River (7 page)

"You need to embrace your faith," the priest repeated. He paused for a moment, before continuing. "Say twelve Hail Mary's and ten Our Fathers. Have no fear, my son. You will meet your wife again in the arms of the Holy Father." The pronouncement came quickly, made up from the top of his head.

Hunching as he moved through the tiny confessional, David stepped back out into the nave and maneuvered his way towards a pew near the back. "Ave Maria, gratis plena, Dominus mecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructose ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nune, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”

David yawned and looked up from his thick Latin textbook. Outside his bedroom window, snow blanketed Greenpoint Brooklyn in a sea of fluffy white flakes. The muffled clap of hooves bled in through the thin glass. A horse and wagon slowly trotted down the otherwise empty street, making the early morning ice run.

Pulling his blanket higher around his shoulders, David glanced up at the grandfather clock against the wall. The little wire hands showed it was a little before three in the morning. The dive bars would be closing and kicking the last few drunks back onto the street.

“David!"

Quietly shutting his textbook, David stood up slowly and blew out his candle. Sliding under the covers of his bed, he pulled the blankets tightly around his chin as he forced himself to fein sleep.

Thomas Freeman always returned from his nightly excursion to the bars at closing time. David knew the smell. His father stank of cheap brandy and cigars mixed with the overpowering odor of cheap perfume from whatever whore his father had spent most of the night with.

Pulling the rough cotton up around his eyes, David squeezed his eyes shut as the bedroom door opened. Opening his eyes under the sheets, David could see his father's wilting figure in the doorway.

A man of forty-seven, Thomas Freeman was showing the physical decline of an alcoholic. A steam laborer by trade, he had once been a physically imposing man. Age and alcohol had shrunk him down to half the man he had been. His skin was gray; his thinning black hair was sloppy and unkempt.

David had vague memories of the attractive and well built man his father had once been, but those were quickly fading.

David had no such memories of his mother, who had died in childbirth fifteen years earlier. The only signs remaining of Bridget Freeman were sparsely placed photographs. The pictures of her had become fewer as the years passed. David kept one in his dresser, carefully hidden from his father's sight. It looked to be one of their wedding photographs. In years of staring at the image, David decided his parents probably weren't much older than fifteen or sixteen. They were posed stoically in front of a nondescript painted background. In the picture, his mother could have been any girl in his school. Her petite figure was corseted tightly into a simple white dress. Even though her soft and angelic face was serious, David imagined she must have had a beautiful smile. His father looked like a different man. His arm was wrapped tightly around his mother's cinched waist. Their bodies were pressed close to each other. Thomas looked down on his wife with a look of love and sensitivity which David couldn't ever remember coming from the man he knew today.

"I know you're awake," Thomas said. His words were slurred; his voice cracked from too many cigars over the course of the night. With no response from his son, Thomas took a noisy step into the bedroom, shattering the stillness of the moment. His boots clopped heavily on the splintering floorboards as he moved across David's bedroom at a clumsy pace. "I saw your light from the street, boy.”

David kept his eyes closed, devoting all his focus to keeping his breathing deep and even. The stench of stale brandy oozed from his father's pores. David rolled onto his stomach, wanting to avoid the nightly battle which his father actually seemed to enjoy.

"Don't fuckin' ignore me, boy!”

David yelped as Thomas grabbed him by the hair, and yanked him out from underneath the blankets.

David hit the floorboards hard, and scrambled up to his feet. He could feel angry tears brimming in his eyes as he stared into his father's red and blotchy eyes. His scalp throbbed from where his father had grabbed him. David turned, facing his father squarely. He could see the outrage growing on the old man's face as he refused to back down. "Maybe if you weren't out drinking, you would know I have homework.”

"Just like you, wasting your time with that bullshit." Thomas scoffed. He turned and looked down at the work which was spread over David's desk. "You're never going to amount to anything."

"Anything to get away from here, and not turn out like you.”

"Check your tone," Thomas taking a step towards his son.

Before David could react, Thomas reached out and grabbed him by the lapel of his pajamas, his other hand landing a punch squarely across his son's jaw. He kept his fingers tightly around David's collar, staring straight into his son's eyes. "Don't you ever fucking talk to me like that! After everything I've done for you." With that, he loosened his grasp on David's neck.

Stumbling back, David's hand flew up to the stinging welt on his face. "What have you done for me Dad? Tell me before I have to pour you into bed." He turned around to face his father, the words spilling unchecked from his mouth as he spit out a mouthful of blood. He wiped his nose, streaking some blood across his cheek.

As Thomas reached out to grab him again, David stepped back, ducking his father's grasp. The alcoholic stumbled at the suddenness of the movement.

"You're a goddamn drunk and an embarrassment," David said. He took a steadying breath as he continued. "How does it feel that your fifteen year old son has to support you?" David paused, waiting for the next blow to fall, but his father was silent. The old man just stared at him, seething.

"If it wasn't for you, your mother would still be alive." Thomas said simply. "You killed your mother. You're nothing but an ungrateful, spoiled child. I wish you would have died with her." The words were said so simply, so matter-of-factly. "You should have never been born. I would still have her with me.”

"Fuck you," David said, he could feel his emotions threatening to overwhelm his body. He ran his fingers through his hair, hiding his violently trembling hands at his side. Angry tears burned in his eyes, and threatened to drop down his cheek. He took a step back to avoid another unstable blow from his father. "Go to hell!”

David sighed as he got to his feet and tucked the rosary beads into his jacket pocket. Dull sunlight drifted in through the skylights above his head. David reached into his pants, pulling out his pocket watch. It had just passed 7:30am.

CHAPTER FOUR

An eerie silence hung over the city during the usually bustling Monday morning. Indian Summer had finally been broken by a strong cold front moving in from the east, off the river.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, David held Thomas tightly to his chest. Glancing up the block, the island was shrouded in a dense, London like fog. An icy wind whipped over Manhattan, funneled through the long city blocks. "Come on, Tommy," David whispered in Thomas' ear, lowering his head to be heard against the buffeting gusts.

Trying to shield Thomas from the biting wind, David finally spotted the rickety, black Model T waiting to take them across the bridge to the cemetery. The automobile was idling across the street.

"Thank you," David said, climbing into the lumpy passenger seat in the back of the car. He gently set Thomas down on his lap, the toddler shivered in his arms.

The grizzled driver glanced over at David with a look that registered between indifference and actually caring. He had participated in too many services to be truly invested. “Calvary?"

"That's right," David replied.

It had been a snowy morning just before Christmas when David first set eyes on Jessica. Six inches of snow blanketed the streets of Manhattan, snarling the daily goings on of the normally lively city. He stopped in front of the wagon, taking a moment to brush the still falling snow off Petey, his black and white speckled clydesdale.

Draping a blanket over Petey, David stepped onto the corner of 14th and Second Avenue. His stop was Conlon's Dry Goods, which occupied most of the ground level of a seven-story building. Constructed in a rich, almost crimson colored brick, the deep red intermingled with sandstone colored trim surrounding every other row of windows. The fire escapes were painted red, matching the deep shade of the rest of the building.

David kicked the door frame, knocking off all the snow collecting deep in the soles of his ratty work boots. His right foot tingled with numbness from the icy water seeping in through the cracks.

With his feet finally feeling clean enough to step inside, David pushed open the door into Conlon's Dry Goods. A bell tinkled as he stepped inside. His muscles relaxed as he was blasted by the heat emanating from the hardworking steam radiator.

The walls of main room were stacked with bags and barrels, each filled with different grains and flours. A splintering wooden counter took up the only empty wall. There was a dusty till in one corner, probably sitting in the same spot it had for thirty years.

A fresh faced young woman poked her head up from under the counter. Her wide, dark eyes instinctively shot in the direction of the door. She smiled as she focused in on him. She stood up, wiping a layer of flour from her hands on her gray apron. "How can I help you?”

"I have a shipment of flour out on the wagon," David said. He flipped off his cap and ran his fingers through his wet hair. Looking at her, his stomach flipped. "Where would you like me to drop it for you?”

"Just bring it in 'ere if you would," she said. Her eyes playfully lingered over his body. The coy smile spreading across her face told him she liked what she saw. She had a lilted Irish accent, softened from years spent in the United States. "I can handle it from there.”

David flashed a nervous smile at the personal nature of her glance. "You're sure?”

"It's not far," she said, a hint of flirtation in her voice. She walked out from behind the counter. "I'm stronger than you give me credit for." She leaned against the counter, massaging the balls of her feet.

"Are you new here?" David asked, pulling his order pad out of his back pocket. He busily scribbled a few notes. It was mostly to look busy in case her father walked in. "I've been delivering here for the last six months or so, and I've never seen you.”

"I'm covering for my sister," she said. She brushed a strand of thick, dark brown hair out of her eyes and quickly glanced over her shoulder. "I usually work on Fridays, but my sister is taking my shift so I can go to- an event." She paused, clearly deciding against giving him too much information.

"That would explain why I've never seen you," David said. He reached out, hoping to shake her hand. "You should work this shift more often.”

"Jessica Conlon. I'm the black sheep baby sister." She shook his outstretched hand, returning his smile. The girl had an unmistakable air of confidence, despite the fact that she looked to be at most fifteen years old. She untied the strings of her dingy white apron and slung it over a chair. Underneath the apron she was wearing a simple yellow dress, which fastened high around her neck.

"Here we are.”

David had been staring at the weather stained floor of the automobile for the last forty-five minutes as the car made the slow trudge through Brooklyn. David looked around, his eyes focusing on the surroundings outside. The car had idled to a stop on one of the paths winding through Calvary Cemetery.

Stepping onto the pavement, David took a quick look around. A thick and heavy mist hung over the grounds, shrouding the Manhattan skyline in fog. From the street, the grassy, tombstone covered hillsides dropped away steeply until it met the East River.