North of Boston (38 page)

“You didn't drive me away, Milosa. I'm here. I'm sitting here right now.” I reach out, touch the top of his hand with my fingertips. I've never touched him before.

A tear rolls slowly down his face. He doesn't wipe it.

“About the pictures,” he says, moving quickly away from the emotion. “Isa wouldn't allow you to be photographed, wouldn't let a camera near you.”

Except when she was in Labrador, where she felt safe
, I think. Remembering the photo of me in Roger's box.

“She was completely irrational on the subject,” Milosa continues, “as she was about many things. She said she wanted to protect you from what had happened to her.” He gives a soft, derisive snort.

Suddenly we're circling the whirlpool again. The subject we can't talk about. I have to ask the question; this might be my last chance. “What
did
happen to her back in Russia, when you first met? I know there was something bad, something she never forgave you for.”
You sold her, Milosa, and that's how you made the money to come to this country and established the contacts in New York that launched her in the fashion world
.

Milosa slowly closes his eyes. “There's nothing more you need to know.”

I feel the question's urgency dissolve. He's right. Isa's gone, with Milosa soon to follow. Their lives, their struggles and sufferings, are already fading into the nameless past, into a vast sea of countless millions of forgotten lives just as difficult, as tortured, as triumphant as theirs. What, really, does any of it matter anymore?

His hand reaches out and touches mine. His fingers are warm.

Now we've touched each other. Two simple, remarkable gestures.
What's love?
I wonder.
Is this it?

Milosa sits up and straightens the sheet. He sips from the water glass and clears his throat. In a clear, brisk voice, he says: “So now you'll take your mother's fragrance, and build a successful company with it. And Isa will smile in heaven, if there is one, if they've waived the rules and let her in. And I'll track her down, kick out whatever scoundrel she's shacking up with, and if she's willing, she and I will try again.”

He's actually beaming. I've never known him to be so fanciful. It's not the old bravado. Something bright and trusting has entered his spirit.

“You should come out to the patio. Sit in the sun. It's a lovely day. I'll have Jeffrey bring us tea.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” He shifts in the bed uncomfortably, and I notice trembling in his fingers. “Before you go, will you get a handkerchief out of my top drawer over there?”

I get one, bring it to him. It's starched, neatly folded, monogrammed in gold thread with the initials MK. It was always Milosa's pleasure to honk into fine linen with gusto whenever necessary. Isa would roll her eyes and pronounce it stable manners. At which he'd say,
Stable manners? I'll give you stable manners. My father used his fingers or his sleeve!

Oh, dear,
Isa would say.
Pirio, cover your ears. Your father's about to tell us how your grandfather plucked his own rotten teeth, and how freakishly often he farted in their tiny shack.

Not just him, my sweet
. And then, if he had it in him, Milosa would bend over slightly, raise a hip, and produce a gaseous gust.
For Mother Russia!
he'd cry.

Isa would sigh with bland, beleaguered patience.
Do you see what I put up with, darling? Who can blame me for calling this man an ass?

Milosa opens his palm. “Now let me smell that wretched woman's scent again.”

I lay the vial in his hand. He opens it and dabs some of the perfume on the cloth. He looks at the wet mark strangely, as if it might be living, dabs a bit more. He doesn't bring the moistened handkerchief to his nose, however. Just folds it neatly and puts it on the night table next to the Tiffany lamp.

“There. That's my ticket. For the journey,” he says.

—

Tooling down Beacon Street as dusk approaches, I've got the windows and sunroof of the Saab wide open. I like things cold now, brisk, every window open, air streaming across my skin. Your body adapts if you let it, grows to fill the space it's given, does what's asked of it.

I stop at a light in Kenmore Square. Trapped in bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic, I sit considering the future of Inessa Mark, Inc. I'm going to make a big push with Isa's Scent—I think I'll even call it that. I'll put all the company's resources behind it. Gamble on my nose and my gut feeling; do what my heart is telling me. I want to start right away, with Maureen as product manager. Her experience will be invaluable. Not just for this product, but for all the other new ones we'll be rolling out as we struggle to raise Inessa Mark to the level of a luxury house.

The light changes. Only a dozen cars get through the five-way intersection before there's gridlock, which prompts an outcry of horns. I close the windows and sunroof, enjoying how the glass mutes the blare. I'm in no hurry. I'm home. This is my city, my Boston. The Citgo sign waves a big red triangle of hello.

I grab my cell, hit Thomasina's speed-dial number, and hold the phone to my ear. She and Noah got back from New Hampshire last night. Apparently, after a rocky start, they adjusted to life at the White Mountain resort, and eventually found themselves unwilling to leave the stunning views, the spa, and other amenities, or to miss a scheduled hayride through the hills. So they stayed a bit longer than they needed to. Noah was back in school today.

Parnell and I slept late this morning, lingered for a long time in bed, and had a legendary breakfast. He's planning to spend the day drafting an article about Caridad Jaeger before heading off to Falmouth to tell her that her allegations against her husband have finally been proved. I don't know what will happen to Caridad in the long run, but at least her true story will be told.

When I left the apartment at noon, the five fingers of Parnell's good hand were flying across his keyboard as if they were ten. I kissed the scruff of his unshaven cheek and the ropy tentacles of his uncombed hair. He barely noticed, so engrossed was he, and was easily forgiven, as we had spent the morning noticing every inch of each other, exploring like true adventurers, staking our selfish claims. I breathed his smell over and over, and let it fill me. It is not something to be described. It will never exist in this world again, and could never be bottled and sold. It is just himself, Parnell. A singular alchemy of cells, fluids, enzymes, antibodies, sweat. His body's signature in indelible ink on a new blank sheet of my heart that will always, forevermore, be his.

I feel his hand cupping my ass, the plump wetness of his lips—I'm almost drowning in sense memory when the ringing coming through my cell phone is cut off by Noah's voice.

“Hello?”

“Noah. Hi. It's Pirio.”

“Oh, hi. How are you?”

“I'm fine, thank you. And you?”

“Pretty good.”

“Did you enjoy your vacation?”

“Oh, yeah. It was cool. The place we stayed at had a game room and a heated pool. I had a mask and snorkel, and I rode bareback on a horse.” A pause. “My mom said you were looking for the people who crashed into my dad's boat.”

“I was.”

“Did you find them?”

“No, I didn't. I'm sorry, Noah. I tried my best.” I'll never tell him about the narwhals or the
Sea Wolf
's special voyages. His father made a bad choice, tried to rectify it but only went halfway, and ended up making a bad deal that took him to the ocean floor. He had only half the courage he needed, which is what drove Thomasina crazy. But he came through as a dad. Noah's got his disk of narwhal tusk, which he thinks is whalebone. He's got happy memories of Red Sox and Bruins games and Ned pushing him on a swing. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder, at least some of the time. That's not nothing. It was real love. Sacred. Not to be disturbed.

“That's OK. They'll turn up,” Noah says brightly. Reflexive optimism is his thin barrier against the crushing universe of non-sense.

“Do you and your mom want to have dinner?” I ask.

Noah holds the phone about six inches away from his mouth and bellows
MO-OM
down the hall.

“WHAT?” I hear Thomasina yell from another room.

“YOU WANT TO HAVE DINNER WITH PIRIO?”

“OF COURSE I DO,” she bellows back.

There's some scrambling with the phone; then Noah's well-modulated voice comes over the line. “We can do that.”

—

After dinner, when Noah's in his bedroom doing homework, I spread several printed sheets on Thomasina's kitchen table. Legal guardianship forms that I got from a lawyer this afternoon. He said the document was standard boilerplate, and went over it with me carefully, changing some of the wording to fit the situation. I gave him specific information with which to fill in the blanks, and he had his secretary type it all up and put the document in a legal-size envelope bearing the name of his firm. Now all I need is Thomasina's initials on every page and her undated signature at the end. Then, whenever I choose to add my signature and a date, Noah will become my ward.

Thomasina glances at the first page of the document. Her mouth twitches, but she doesn't say anything. She sits down heavily, pulls the pages nearer to her, and reads right through with close attention, shuffling each page behind the others when she gets to its end. When she's finished reading, she sits back, sighs, bites her lip. She doesn't look at me, just holds out a hand. “Do you have a pen?”

“I never want to file these papers, Thomasina.”

“No, of course not. Where's the pen?”

I hand her one, and she grips it tightly, lowers her head, bears down hard on the shaft as she initials each page and signs on the blank line at the end. She stares at her signature for a few moments, then places the pen on the table gently.

“Thomasina, like I said, I never want—”

“No, no. Don't say anything. We'll file these papers if we ever have to, whenever you think it's right. You'll be the one to decide. I'll count on you to do that. Do you understand?” Without waiting for my answer, she stacks the pages neatly, slides them into the long envelope, and pushes it across the table to me.

“Thank you,” she says with a firm voice, though her shoulders slump.

“But you—”

“I'm going to meetings. I'm trying again. That's all I can do.” Her face is drawn; her lips are almost colorless. She pushes her hair off her face.

“How are you feeling?”

She looks at me frankly, with the full gray splendor of her troubled eyes. “Like shit. But dammit, I've got eighteen days.”