North of Boston (3 page)

T
he high, medieval-looking façade of Gate of Heaven Church in South Boston has fallen into a damp shadow. If you did not fear God before you saw this church, you would after. Or at least whoever commissioned such a looming, unmerciful structure. Mourners file through the heavy nail-studded doors, collapsing their umbrellas, unbelting their trench coats. It is the same church where Noah was baptized; as I enter I recognize the marble font to one side of the distant altar. I slide into a back pew and watch Ned's friends file in.

You can tell the fishermen by their red, weathered faces. One of them limps—perhaps from having a leg struck by a flying hook or crushed against a gunwale. Most have probably been to funerals without caskets before. They look uncomfortable being indoors, breathing dry air, walking a pace behind their stout, practical wives.

Ned's parents, his sister and brother-in-law, and their unruly twins are already seated in a front pew. So are Thomasina and Noah, but on the other side of the aisle. Ned's mother, Phyllis, is probably aghast at that, probably wishes she'd cordoned off the area to keep Thomasina out of the limelight. But Thomasina apparently arrived early enough to claim the exalted spot before anyone else did, placing Noah beside her like a mascot.
See? This
is his child,
despite what you think.
She's wearing a voluminous black hooded cape that brings to mind either the grim reaper himself or an excessively pious nun. I'm guessing that underneath its folds she's got on a tight, near-transparent, possibly spangled T-shirt and even tighter three-hundred-dollar designer jeans, and I'm willing to bet that her eyes are rimmed with eyeliner and gobs of mascara, which, when she cries, will ghoulishly run. At this stage of her addiction, she is incapable of proper decorum, not that she was ever any good at it.

The priest keeps everyone waiting, then appears from a side door like an ecclesiastical rock star in a lush purple robe, and is ushered to the altar by a flock of boys in fluttering white tunics. He turns his back to us, raises his arms to the huge crucifix above the tabernacle, lowers them in prayer, and proceeds to a lectern at the left side of the altar, where he begins to speak. He has a boyish face and a clear, calm voice; I try to listen but feel as if cotton is plugging my ears. I'm deaf to religion, and can only fidget. The service drags on and on. You'd think the lack of a body would make things go a little faster.

Finally the priest leaves the altar, makes his magisterial way down the center aisle, robe flapping. Thomasina and Noah are quick to fall in behind him. Ned's parents and sister and her family are forced to follow in her wake. Thomasina surprises me with her solemn carriage and dignity; in a pinch she is able to fall back on impeccable upper-class breeding. It's Phyllis who's red and heaving, dabbing her eyes. We mourners let them pass, give them plenty of room. The family of the deceased occupies an inner circle of grief that everyone wants to honor, and avoid.

People begin to file out of the pews. I stay behind, strangely reluctant to leave. I needed something from this service. Some kind of solace, I guess. My eyes fill with an image of Ned, glassy-eyed and bloated, floating a few feet off the scoured-by-trawlers ocean floor, his hair waving around his skull like sea grass in the current, one of the lobsters he wanted to catch trundling across his orange quilted vest.

My gaze wanders blindly across the painted statues of saints, the flickering red votive candles, the wood-carved stations of the cross. All of it designed to reconcile humanity to suffering and death. I heartily wish that the weird myths of religion worked for me, but they don't. Still, right now I can't seem to tear myself away. What if I'm missing something hidden in plain sight? What if I'm wrong?

I manage to collect myself and join the last stragglers flowing into the marble foyer. There's a commotion at the front door. I can't see through the people, but I hear raised voices, then, heart sinking, Thomasina's shriek.

“What are you doing? Take your hands off me!”

I push my way forward, and the first thing I see when I break through the crowd is Phyllis, stiff and bloated with rage, barring the exit against Thomasina and Noah. She's wearing a small round hat, dark coat, and dark pumps; her hair is tightly curled and sprayed. She looks like a woman who has worked hard, sacrificed much, asked for little, and played by the rules. A woman, therefore, who considers bitterness her right. One hand clutches a small black purse close to her chest; the other has apparently just shoved Thomasina.

“How dare you walk in front of us! How dare you come here at all! You ruined my son—he was never the same after he went with you. And now you barge in here and take the first pew as though you were his wife. Why did you come? You don't belong here! You have no right to walk in front of us!”

I wince. I see Noah stiffen. Thomasina reaches for his hand. Dozens of people are watching, and no one makes a sound.

At this point Ned's father, standing slightly behind his wife, snaps out of his dazed disbelief and steps forward, takes Phyllis by the elbow, and steers her to the door. She stumbles out, her face painfully red, calling over her shoulder, “Look at you! You come into a church dressed that way—like a slut! I don't care if I burn in hell for saying—”

The massive door closes on her voice, and the crowd stands stock-still for a moment. Then people begin to move again, to dip their fingers into the holy water and make the sign of the cross with bowed heads and mumbled prayers. It's as if they've decided that whatever just happened maybe didn't. Or, if it did, it can't be helped now. Nevertheless, in their exodus, they leave a good five feet of empty space around Thomasina and Noah, who stand just where they were, like two human statues on a square of marble lawn.

“Thomasina—” I touch her arm.

“It's fine, Pirio. I can handle this,” she says in a firm voice.

Her eyes are fixed on the door. Beyond it, there'll be a gauntlet of stone stairs she must walk down. Followed by a crowded sidewalk and a corner at which small groups of people will be talking. Stares, whispers, smirks. Then the car ride home with a bereaved, repudiated ten-year-old. But, yes, she'll handle it. Walk through the crowd without showing any emotion. Make up something vague and almost believable to tell Noah about what just happened.
It's not your fault. It's mine. Your grandparents don't like me very much
.
Silly, isn't it?
Nobody could meet this challenge better than Thomasina. She'll even make it look easy. But tonight when she's alone she'll reach for the Stolichnaya again, instead of her usual wine. Polish off a fifth with a vengeance and pass out on the couch, where Noah will find her in the morning and briefly have to wonder if she's still alive.

She inhales deeply, firmly grasps Noah's hand; he glances at me in fearful confusion, and I nod encouragement. So they go, backs erect, eyes straight ahead. A man holds the door for them, but looks away when they pass. Perhaps in cowardice, or simple pain, I linger in the foyer until it's empty. When I finally go outside, there's no sign of Thomasina and Noah or Phyllis and her family.

It's just dusk. The air has a muted violet tone. A fat white pigeon waddles toward me, tottering from side to side as if on legs of differing heights. In this light, its feathers appear luminescent. On an impulse I squat down, and the pigeon approaches my outstretched palm. It pecks at my fingers for a bit, and walks unhurriedly away.

This is the second strange thing that's happened to me recently. Last night I heard bagpipes in the middle of the night. I opened the window and leaned out. It was a peaceful song I'd never heard. I listened for a long time, and when I went back to bed, the music was still playing. I felt like the bagpipes were singing me back to sleep.

My pigeon flies to the top of the building across the street and disappears over its roof. A man is standing on the sidewalk just below that point. He's looking at me in troubled concentration. He's in his thirties, medium height, with a wide face, heavy black glasses, and curly brown hair that almost reaches his shoulders. He's got one hand in his pocket. There's a sense of decorum, of strength being reined in, words held back by pursed lips.

He crosses the street, ascends the steps briskly, sticks out his hand. “Larry Wozniak, old friend of Ned's.”

I shake his hand—it's warm and dry. I realize I'm shaking his left hand with my left hand.

“Terrible, isn't it? He was so young.” He seems to know he's mouthing platitudes.

I agree vaguely and proceed down the steps. It's been a long funeral, and I'm not in the mood for small talk.

“You were on the boat, right?” he hastily adds, following me. “I recognized you from the newspaper photo. I, uh . . . I wanted to know if . . . Were you and Ned, uh . . . ? How well did you know him?” He's flushed and floundering.

“If you're asking whether we were lovers, the answer is no. Friends, yes. But only to a point.”

“Really?” He says this as though my answer were a lot more interesting than it was, and adjusts his steps to match mine. “What do you mean ‘to a point'?”

“I mean that I'm friends with his ex-girlfriend and godmother to his kid. I went out on his lobster boat because he needed the help. It was a new boat, he was just getting started and hadn't found a regular stern man yet. It was a Saturday, and I had nothing else to do, so I agreed. I like to try new things.”

“Oh, I didn't realize you're not an actual fisherman.”

“No, just a pretend one. A fishing dilettante, you might say. Although once a person's been involved in a fatal tragedy at sea, I don't think that distinction should really matter.”

“No, probably not.” He appears chastened in a way that lets you know it's only momentary. “I guess Ned explained what to do.”

“He taught me how to bait lobster traps before we left the harbor. Said he'd show me how to haul the pots on the way back. We were supposed to be home before dark.”

“Did he ever say anything about why he wanted to switch to lobstering all of a sudden?”

“He worked on corporate factory trawlers and long-liners for twenty years. Maybe he got tired of spending weeks at sea hauling groundfish for a soulless corporation and wanted his own boat, his own little business. Makes sense to me.”

“But he never said exactly why?”

“He wasn't into self-disclosure. He talked about the Red Sox, Bruins, and Patriots in depth. And the weather. As in,
Nice day, huh?
Or,
Looks like rain to me.
”

Larry has been weaving his way around lampposts and mailboxes, trying to stay abreast of me on the narrow sidewalk. He's wearing a ratty old trench coat over a dark gray pin-striped suit jacket, black T-shirt, and jeans. I think he could at least have found some nicer pants for the occasion. Sometimes it feels as if the whole world is giving up, going over to shabbiness. I guess I've got a bit of Phyllis in me.

“Why do you want to know all this?” I ask, my irritation mounting.

“Just curious, I guess. We fell out of touch. I didn't know what he was up to.” Then, as if he just thought of it, he asks, “Can I walk you to your car?”

“We're here.” I manually unlock the door of my Saab.

He shuffles his feet awkwardly. “One more thing: Did you, uh, did you see who hit you?”

“You mean the boat that ran us over?” I can't believe he's asking me this question right now.

His eyes slide sideways. “Yeah, did you happen to catch the name on the stern transom or any numbers on the side?”

“No, I didn't see the name. It was just a boat to me. A great big fucking boat.”

T
he second half of the ritual—the after-funeral party—takes place at Ned's favorite watering hole, Murphy's Pub. All of his friends are there, none of his immediate family. There's a buffet table with cold cuts, lasagna, garden salad, cakes. There's a DJ who's been told to play sixties, seventies, and eighties music—the songs Ned lived his life to. It's like a wedding reception, only without the happy kissing couple and the girls in horrid dresses. But everyone talks, laughs, cries, and drinks the same way, as if their lives depended on it, and it's a safe bet that many of them expect to make a long night of it, so that the rowdy hell that is in them can break loose if it wants to.

I see Noah and Thomasina sitting at the bar and make my way across the crowded room. Noah has been served a ham sandwich, chips, pickle, and Coke. The bluish shadows under his eyes and the fact that he's loosened his tie make him look like a tired banker. He seems relieved to be out of God's jurisdiction, but uncertain how to behave among grown-ups who are acting like unruly kids. Thomasina steals a maraschino cherry from the bartender's store and offers it to him. He refuses—he's a stickler for the rules—so she pops it into her mouth and lays the stem on her cocktail napkin. The glass in front of her is full of a clear liquid, tiny bubbles, and a lemon wedge. “Sparkling water,” she informs me immediately, but her eyes slide sideways, because she knows it won't last.

Noah's looking at the baseball game on the TV above the bar. One of the guys watching the game passes Noah a bowl of peanuts and starts talking to him, man to man, about who's going to win. Noah moves to the stool closer to him so he can eat the peanuts and see the TV better, and I take his place. The man sitting on the other side of Thomasina has dark hair, smooth olive skin, and a youthful, feminine face. He's leaning toward her, paying close attention to the dramatic brunette in the skin-tight jeans. Between the music and the television, there's a lot of noise.

“Was she a bitch, or what?” Thomasina says. “I didn't say half of what came to mind. But when she ever put her hands on me . . . I could have killed her.”

The dark-haired man says, “Killed who?”

“Phyllis Rizzo.”

He finds this amusing, but doesn't speak.

“Honestly, Pirio. Can you believe she said that stuff in front of Noah?”

“In front of everyone,” the man obligingly amends.

“Oh, well. Every funeral needs a scene,” I say, hoping to move the conversation along.

A large man sidles up, his eyes locked on mine. It takes a few seconds for me to recognize John Oster, and then the bottom of my stomach falls away.
Whoosh
. Like an elevator plummeting twenty floors in two seconds. You can't help having this reaction when you suddenly run into someone you used to have intense sex with, no matter how long ago it was.

He's changed a lot in a decade. The flaming hair that used to fly around his head is thinner now and neatly buzzed, exposing the white skin of his skull. His hairline's crept back, too. John Oster's red hair used to be a reckless celebration, so I can't help seeing these changes as a loss. More sadly, all the once-sharp bodily angles are rounded, as if it had been decided by the gatekeepers of middle age that they'd be better off padded for their own protection by a layer of fleshy bubble wrap.

But he's still John Oster. The gunmetal flash in his eyes; the brash, square-to-the-world stance that seems to be taunting fate—these things are his alone. No one ever called him John: it was always Crazy John, Johnny O, or Oyster Man. He told more stories than Jesus, most of them about daredevil challenges and nick-of-time survival. About things that shouldn't have happened and did. About losers who got what they deserved. He was bitter, shocking, loyal, and often insincere. He had enemies, but many more friends who respected him for doing and saying the things they wished they could. Occasionally, I was granted glimpses of his soul. Angels and demons were doing battle in there. Most of the time the score was close; occasionally, however, the demons streaked ahead. You could see him getting out of control—the sudden spells of dark brooding; the petty, nasty cruelties; the vicious lack of self-respect. Women thought him sexy, but most of them stayed away.

He and Ned had grown up together in Southie and were never far apart. When Thomasina and Ned started going out, it seemed reasonable for Johnny and me to do the same. I was drinking a lot back then, even more than Thomasina, and didn't think too much about what I was doing, just bobbed along like a cork in whatever current was flowing, as long as it was fast. My relationship with John Oster had a kind of discordant poetry to it at first, lasted longer than I thought it would, predictably foundered when it hit our very significant differences, and got ugly at the end. I had heard news of him occasionally over the years, mostly from Ned. The two of them worked side by side on trawlers and purse seiners for a company called Ocean Catch up until Ned quit.

Johnny drapes a lazy arm around Thomasina's shoulders in a half-assed condolence hug, while keeping his eyes on me. “Howdy, stranger.”

“I heard you got married,” I say. “Congratulations.”

“That's right. Four boys now. Keep us busy.”

“Four? You don't waste time.”

“Kevin, Sean, Riley, and Patrick. Not a dull moment at my house.” But his eyes are saying something else. Like, there are a lot of dull moments.

“Will I have the pleasure?”

“They're home with the wife.” A pause. “I heard you
didn't
get married.”

“I like my freedom.”

His eyes gleam. “Yeah. You always did.”

That's the kind of statement that needs a wide berth, especially coming from an ex.

“You ever think about me?” he says bluntly.

“I try not to.”

“I don't think about you either.”

Thomasina, who's been following the conversation with strange delight, emits a kind of strangled bark.

“How about a dance anyway, for Ned and the good old days?” Johnny says.

It sounds about right to me. What else do you do at an Irish funeral but dance with a guy you used to fuck to honor the departed? We move onto the tiny parquet floor in the middle of the room. Only one other couple is there, swaying slowly to the sound of “Beast of Burden.” I'm glad, actually. My body feels as if it's been locked inside a tomb, and I need to bring it back to life. Johnny lumbers for a while, then finds a groove. His eyes are half closed, and his skin is luridly tinted in the glow of the colored bulbs strung along the wall. It feels weirdly OK to be swaying across from him. Because I know he cared about Ned. Because he's grieving, too.

By this time others have joined us on the floor. I dance for a long time without stopping—with Johnny, with another guy, with Noah in his adorable tie. I whirl and let the music flow through me until it washes away all the tension I've been carrying. Thank-yous flow from my sore heart to the Band, Led Zeppelin, and the Rolling Stones.

The guy who introduced himself outside the church, Larry Something-or-other, is sitting at a table with a noisy group of Ned's fishing buddies. Most of them are in blue dress shirts with loosened blue striped ties. Blue-on-blue seems to be the color combo of choice for men who would rather be wearing something else. Larry isn't talking much. Maybe he doesn't approve of wild Irish funeral parties. Every so often he turns his head and watches me. Doesn't stare, just watches. Like I'm someone he's not personally interested in but needs to keep an eye on. A kid sister, maybe. It seems pretty obvious that we're going to speak to each other again before the evening is done.

Thomasina and Noah have moved to a large round table in the corner, away from the music. The dark-haired guy who had been sitting next to Thomasina at the bar is there, too, hunched over, leaning close to Noah, hands gesticulating in front of Noah's impassive face. I get a not-right feeling from it, pull up a chair, join their tête-à-tête.

“You gotta upgrade,” the guy is saying. “These smartphones are so much better. You got a girlfriend yet, heh? You can text her all day with this thing.” He points to a cell phone between them on the table—a flat black thing with a shiny display.

“I don't have a girlfriend. I'm in fifth grade,” Noah says.

“Don't have a girlfriend? What's with that, bro? Gotta be some hot girls where you are. Anyway, you get a girlfriend, you'll impress the hell out of her with this thing. You go bowling or something, whatever you kids do, you keep it in your pocket, and when the time is right, you pull it out like it's nothing much. Her eyes will pop, I'm telling you.” He turns the phone on, starts tapping through the touch screens. “Look: You got a computer, a phone, a camera, and Internet all in the same place. And your iPod—you just load it in. Books, too. Boom, just like that. You're reading William fucking Shakespeare while you're waiting for your Big Mac. Or your oil change. Whatever you want. One click, and it's all happening.”

Noah looks at the guy thoughtfully, trying to figure him out. Reverts to manners when he has no luck. “Thank you very much, but I don't want an upgrade right now.”

“It's free if you give me your old phone.”

“I told you, I don't have it. My mom said I couldn't take it 'cause she didn't want me playing video games.”

“You didn't leave it in the car, did you?”

Noah shakes his head.

“Well, it's a shame you can't get your hands on it, because you just missed the deal of a lifetime.” The guy sweeps the new phone off the table and stows it in his pocket. “I would have traded fair and square. And, hey, when you find the old one, I still will. OK, little man? That a deal?”

“Hey, Noah,” I say, eyeing the guy. “Who's your friend?”

“Max,” Noah says heavily, as if the one syllable is one too many.

Max stretches out his hand, and we shake over Noah's head, but it's perfunctory. The fingers barely clutch mine.

“Pirio,” I tell him, though he didn't ask.

“Say what?”

“Pirio.” I enunciate slowly.

Max nods like he gets it, but looks bothered by the nominal challenge, and turns his attention back to Thomasina, who's chatting with others at the table.

Noah is drawing the stages of evolution in a notebook he brought with him. So far he's done one-cell organisms, amoebas, and some strange-looking fish.

“That one needs a mustache,” I say, pointing.

“Whiskers, maybe,” he says, humoring me.

“Wait. Do fish have whiskers?” I'm actually not sure.

“Pirio—” This could mean either yes or no.

“I think I saw whiskers on a fish in the aquarium. A blue, bulbous, bug-eyed guy with droopy jowls. Looked just like my uncle Fred.”

“You don't have an Uncle Fred.”

“How do you know? I could have six Uncle Freds back in Russia. All kick-dancing on the steppes, yelling
Oie!
”

“Oie?”
he repeats, squinting.

“Russian for ‘Hey, pretty lady, will you marry me?'”

Noah smiles.

It's work to get a smile from him, but worth the effort, because his face softens and turns beautiful.

“You want to go home now?” I ask.

He looks at me gratefully. “Yeah.”

—

Two hours later Murphy's Pub is emptying out. Only three big round tables are still occupied by reveling mourners. The DJ is playing sad-sack tunes; the same couple has been shuffling on the dance floor for an hour, collapsed into each other, either drunk or half asleep; and two disheveled women are in the corner crying loudly like it's a job they've been hired to do. Only crumbs are left on the buffet table—cake plates with nothing on them but plastic knives coated with sticky clumps of icing, salad bowls with limp, oil-smeared lettuce clinging to the rims. A half hour ago the bartender put about twenty shots of Irish whiskey on the bar for whoever wanted one—his spiritual offering to his old pal Ned. A bunch of people gathered round, raised the glasses, took a big religious swallow, and felt the holy burn.

Thomasina, Max, Johnny, some other people, and I are sitting together at a big table. Noah's been dropped at home with a babysitter, and Thomasina's slipped off her high-heeled boots and long since switched to vodka on the rocks. The guy sitting next to me leaves. Larry approaches the table, asks if he can sit down. I say sure and ask what took him so long. He says he was waiting for a seat to open up next to me. An answer worthy of respect.

We give conversation another shot. Somehow we get onto skiing, which he likes, roll over onto fishing, which he doesn't like (too boring), and spiral around some other topics of no importance. If he gets too personal, I say something flippant. If I get too personal, he changes the subject. We spend some time suspended in this weird ballet.

Thomasina bobs her head in our direction. The glimmer in her eye lets me know she's sized up Larry and found him to be acceptable dating material—whether for herself or me it's hard to say.