The Art of Forgetting (44 page)

              Lloyd caught up, cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Kennedy, I know this is sort of short notice, but I love your daughter and I’d like to ask for your consent to marry her.”

              Daniel Kennedy twisted his mouth, lifted his blond bushy eyebrows and slipped his hands in his trouser pockets. He let out a short snort and turned to Milk Duds. “You said he’s a doctor?” he asked his son.

              “Yeah, for now. He’ll probably lose his job tomorrow.”

              Erin’s father studied Lloyd for a few seconds. He turned to his wife and sighed. “At least this one’s not French.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets, grabbed Lloyd’s hand and said, “You have my consent and our blessing, son.” Perhaps it was the breeze blowing in his face, but Patrick Kennedy’s eyes became moist. “I was so sorry to hear about your mother, Lloyd. And I wish your father were here to see all this.”

              “Oh, but he is,” Lloyd said.

              Daniel Kennedy nodded while his wife bowed her head and made the sign of the cross. He’d have to leave it at that for now, Lloyd thought. He looked to his left and caught sight of Roy, standing on the pitcher’s mound, bible in hand, stunningly elegant in a shiny black cassock, a plain white satin sash draped over his shoulders.

              “I told the good padre to keep it short and sweet,” Daniel Kennedy said, “in case you’re renting this joint by the hour. I don’t want my only daughter to end up destitute.”

              “Daniel!” his wife scolded him.

              Daniel Kennedy shrugged. He told Lloyd, “Why don’t you run on up there. I want the satisfaction of walking my daughter to the… pitcher’s mound.”

              Lloyd walked to the pitcher’s mound and stepped squarely in front of Roy. The priest reached out to shake Lloyd’s hand. Lloyd wrapped his arms around him in a firm embrace and said, “I love you, father.”

              Chapter 47

             
Two years later
.

             
I
t was a magical morning of Indian summer. The trees on Michigan Avenue had started dressing in bright yellows and deep ochre but the breeze blowing off the lake lacked the chilling bite that was sure to make its presence felt in another week or so.

              The water tower had a festive atmosphere: tourists bustling about taking turns posing and clicking snapshots, horse-drawn carriages slowly snaking their way through the throng of yellow taxi cabs, while a lone street musician played the melody of
Unforgettable
on an alto sax.

              Lloyd and Erin crossed Michigan Avenue hand in hand and entered the three-story bookstore that sat as a stalwart cornerstone to one of the polished high rises. A line had formed in the store’s lobby extending past a sign that read, “Today’s Book-signing: Best-selling author Cecil Spalding.” Next to the sign, books were stacked in tall heaps on the floor. Lloyd grabbed a copy and studied its cover. The title read,
The Constellation of Hope
.

              Erin squeezed Lloyd’s arm. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered in his ear.

              “It’s not like I wrote it. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to read it. More than four-hundred pages and not a single illustration.”

              “You know darn well what I mean,” Erin said.

              The line moved forward a few paces and Lloyd caught sight of Cecil Spalding sitting at a table, shaking hands, autographing books, exchanging pleasantries with adoring fans, most well into middle age but quite a few teenagers as well.

              Lloyd pulled Erin to his side and kissed her forehead.

              “So glad you could make it,” a voice at their back said. Lloyd and Erin turned. It was Beverly Spalding. Her hair was meticulously coiffed and she was wearing a long hunter-green velvet gown. Erin hugged her, Lloyd shook her hand.

              “We wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Lloyd said.

              “Just look at him.” said Mrs. Spalding. “Who could have ever imagined?”

              “I’m so happy for you,” Erin said.

              “And I’m happy for you,” Mrs. Spalding said. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to step away before I start crying. He’ll be so thrilled to see you.”

              It took the better part of fifteen minutes before Lloyd and Erin reached the table where Cecil Spalding sat, black felt tip marker at the ready in his hand. He was quite dapper in a camel hair sports coat over an open-collared sky-blue shirt, a silk scarf wrapped around his neck in place of a necktie.

              Lloyd set the book in front of him. Spalding looked up and wagging a finger said, “I remember you.”

              “How are you, Cecil?” Lloyd asked.

              “Well, it’s a bit like driving a new car. It takes a bit of getting used to the controls, but boy is it better than that old jalopy I was stuck with for so long. You see, my mind still goes off in spurts from time to time, making all these ridiculous associations, which is not such a bad thing for a writer really. But the perseveration is gone.”

              “How about the dreams?” Lloyd asked.

              Spalding smiled broadly. “Ah, the dreams!  You know how the dreams are.”

              “Sign my book?”

              “Be glad to.” Spalding opened the cover and scribbled a few lines, flipped the cover shut and handed the book back to Lloyd.

              “Won’t you come visit us sometime?” Spalding said. “You remember where we live.”

              Lloyd and Erin stepped to the front of the store and joined the cue for the cash registers. Lloyd read the inscription and chuckled.

              “What does it say?” Erin asked.

              “I’ll tell you later.”

              They paid for the book and walked out of the store, making their way south on Michigan Avenue, hand in hand.

              “Are you sure you’re okay to walk?” Lloyd asked.

              “I’m not fragile,” Erin said. “Besides, Dr. Flowers said daily exercise is good for me.”

              “Yeah, well don’t believe everything doctors say.”

              They ambled down the crowded sidewalk stopping every so often to peer into elegant store fronts to shake their heads and raise their eyebrows at the sight of the price tags on some of the items. In front of the Wrigley building Erin suddenly stopped, her mouth agape. She grabbed Lloyd’s hand and pressed it on her midriff.

              “Wait… there!  Did you feel that?” Erin asked with a giggle.

              “I felt it,” Lloyd said.

              “There it goes again! We better step it up. Looks like someone’s getting hungry.”

              Lloyd stood there gawking at Erin. She grabbed his hand and gave it a tug to start him walking again.

              “We have to think of a boy’s name,” Erin said.

              “Wait a second. How do you know it’s a boy?”

              “I don’t. It’s just that I already have a girl’s name picked out. Ellen. And that’s settled.”

              “Ellen Copeland. It has a good ring to it,” Lloyd said.

              “Do you have a boy’s name in mind?” Erin asked.

              “How about Kaz?”

              Erin twisted her lips. “What’s that short for?”

              “Kazimir.”

              “Kazimir Copeland?  Mmm… keep thinking,” Erin said.

              They were crossing the Du Sable Bridge now. The image of the three-lettered name still lingered in Lloyd’s mind like an afterglow in bold black letters on a liquid blue backdrop. The letters spun around on themselves and seemed to pulsate.

              “How about Zak?” Lloyd asked.

              Erin stopped and said, “Zachary Copeland. Zachary Andrew Copeland.” She squeezed Lloyd’s hand. “I think this is going to work.”

              She turned again and took a step but Lloyd nudged her back and said, “Wait a second.” He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out his silver lighter. He read the inscription as if for the first time.
Blest be the tie that binds
. He tossed the lighter straight up, just inches above his hand and caught it, feeling its weight.

              “Lloyd?” Erin said.

              He locked eyes with her. “Our baby won’t need this.”

              Erin gave a nod of her head. Lloyd kissed the silver amulet, reached back with his right arm and flung the lighter in a high arc. They followed it with their eyes as it plunged into the Chicago River.

A personal note to you, the reader:

Th
ank you for taking time to read The Art of Forgetting. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review on Amazon or Goodreads. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and is always very much appreciated. I would love to hear from you if you have any comments or suggestions. You can contact me at:

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[email protected]

Acknowledgements

              I think it was 1974. I was in the fourth grade at the International School of Trieste. The school year had just begun and I had written a short story about Marco Polo as one of my first assignments. My English teacher was Mr. David Padbury, the personification of the traditional English educator. I was pretty frightened of him, not just because of his stern demeanor, but because in addition to being my teacher, he was also the school’s headmaster and chief disciplinarian.

              One morning, Mr. Padbury called me to the front of the class. I rose to my feet and walked to his side, my knees quivering, wondering what I could have possibly done to land me in trouble. He held up the paper with my Marco Polo story and in his usual serious voice declared, “Peter, this is the best story I’ve ever read. Well done.” He shook my hand and then he handed me a small envelope containing a crisp 500 Lire bill; enough to buy ice cream with change to spare.

              I doubt that my Marco Polo story was the best that Mr. Padbury had ever read (I mean, what about Hamlet?) and I can only wonder how many students he’d bestowed with similar proclamations over his long and distinguished career. Nonetheless, in that moment he instilled in me the seed of an idea that never went away: the idea that perhaps I had a bit of a talent for writing and story-telling. This book would not have been realized had it not been for Mr. Padbury. It would have been equally impossible to write without the patience and caring of the many wonderful teachers who’ve had the misfortune of landing me in their rosters over the years. I owe them all a huge debt of gratitude.

              I’d like to thank Suzanne Frank, Daniel Hale and Amanda Alvarez, along with all my fellow students at the SMU Writer’s Path for lavishing me with invaluable guidance throughout the preparation of my manuscript. I owe a special debt of gratitude to Dr. Roy Benaroch for his precious input and assistance in editing this novel.

              Most of all, I’m indebted to my beautiful wife, Emma, for her incredible patience, support and encouragement throughout the writing of this book.
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

              Peter Palmieri was raised in the eclectic port city of Trieste, Italy. He returned to the United States at the age of 14 and earned his B.A. in Psychology and Animal Physiology from the University of California, San Diego. After earning his medical degree from Loyola University Stritch School of Medicine, he completed his pediatric training at the University of Chicago and Loyola University Medical Center. More recently, he was awarded a Healthcare MBA by The George Washington University. Currently Peter is busy practicing general pediatrics at a large academic medical center while working on his next medical suspense.

              The Art of Forgetting is his first novel.