The Last Refuge (19 page)

A nurse came in to give me the aspirin. She delivered it in a little paper cup. She asked me if I needed anything else.

“A cigarette.”

“You’ll be released in about a half-hour,” she said sweetly, patting my arm. “You want the TV?”

“Talk about a killer.”

“Pick your poison.”

I was signing myself out and getting my car keys at the cashiers near the ER entrance when Amanda showed up. She stood back a few feet and waited for me to finish up, then followed me outside where we sat on the teak benches next to the orderlies catching morning cigarettes. I bummed one and smiled at Amanda.

“See what happens when I try to dance.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She leaned over to get a better look at the bandage stuck to the side of my head. She put her hands up to her mouth.

“It’s not that bad. They showed me in the mirror.”

“I was so frightened. What happened?”

“You don’t know?”

“They said you were in a fight.”

“Not exactly. All the fighting was done by the other guy. I never saw it coming.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess you didn’t hear anything, any buzz around the bar? You didn’t hear a name?”

“No, there was just talk about a fight. I don’t think anyone saw the other fellow very well. He must have left very quickly. One of the bartenders got you into your car. Robin and Laura drove you here. They said you woke up for a second, then passed out again before you got to the hospital. There was a lot of blood. Eddie was really upset.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t go with you. I’m so ashamed.”

“Don’t start apologizing, for Christ’s sake.”

She smiled.

“It would have been hard to explain bloody clothes to Roy. But I checked on you this morning. I know a girl on the third floor. She asked around and they said you were fine. You don’t look fine.”

“Just a little hole in my head. Match the one on the other side.”

“I was having such a good time.”

“Sorry I messed it up.”

“Now you’re apologizing. No fair.”

I looked around at our exposed position in front of the big ER double doors.

“We probably shouldn’t be sitting here.”

“I know. I just couldn’t stand wondering.”

“I gotta go get Eddie. He’ll think he’s back in stir.”

Amanda was sitting on the edge of the bench, all clenched up. She looked pale and tired. I frowned at her.

“Amanda.”

“Sam.”

“You do this a lot?”

She looked down at her hands, clasped and held tightly between her knees.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah you do. You’re married.”

“Oh, that.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do this. Never did.”

She tightened up even more.

“I see.”

“No you don’t.”

“You don’t want to see me.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

I leaned around to catch her eye, but she wouldn’t look at me.

“I told Sullivan that I didn’t know who slugged me. But I do. At least, I know what he looks like.”

Now she looked at me.

“Then why didn’t you say?”

“You remember the day we met at the beach? Do you remember a guy in a long coat hanging around our cars when we left?”

“I don’t know. I suppose not.”

“Roy know any big Italian guys, say about six-two, two hundred plus pounds?”

Her eyes shifted away again. But right before it did her face changed. It turned into something complicated.

“Impossible.”

“You could make a case.”

“If it was Roy, I’d be the one in the bandages, not you. You, at least, can fight back.”

Then she stood up and did what she was getting good at doing. Walking away from me. I got up and
followed her across the street to the parking lot. When she got in the gray Audi, I got in the passenger seat.

“Okay, I’m a dope,” I said.

“No, you’re not. I’m a fool.”

It was still early in the morning, but it didn’t look like it was going to be much of a day. The sky looked uniformly gray through the red leaves of the maple trees that shaded the hospital parking lot. My head was a little wobbly on my neck and my limbs were fitted with lead weights. I wanted to go home and lay down on the porch, but for some reason I wasn’t ready to go.

“Thanks for coming to see me.”

She started the ignition and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. I reached over and pulled her thick auburn hair back off her face. Her eyes were closed. Her cheekbones were flushed red, deepening the copper and olive tones of her skin, filling her face with color where before she’d been sallow and pale.

I leaned over and kissed her neck right below the little freshwater pearl earring that dangled from her right ear. Her skin was very smooth and her neck strong. It smelled like a blend of hope, dread and calamity. She turned her head, still resting on the steering wheel, her face softening back toward normal.

“Just remember I tried to tell you things and you didn’t want to hear,” she said, before leaning across my lap and opening the door.

“About big Italian guys?”

“Things. Just things.”

I got out of the car and watched her drive away. I found the Grand Prix parked up on a grassy mound at the back of the lot. There was blood all over the back
seat. I got an old blanket from the trunk to cover it up. I thought I might have to throw up before I could drive away, but after sitting down with my legs out the door for a few minutes, I recovered.

Eddie almost pulled me off my feet in his desperation to get out of the vet’s and into the Grand Prix. He sniffed at my head, but was good enough not to say I told you so.

No one greeted us at the cottage. No notes, no mail. I pushed my way through the door, sampled the salty, dry wood smells and swam in the deep comfort of familiar surroundings. I banged a big cast iron fry pan down on the burner, crumbled in some ground meat and filled another huge pot with water. When it started to boil I tossed in a handful of spaghetti and made myself a tall Absolut from out of the freezer. The clear liquid burned the wound on the side of my tongue and warmed up my extremities. The woodstove did the rest once I got it cranked up with choice, bone-dry split red oak. I changed into my oldest blue jeans and a thirty-year-old sweatshirt. I put some early Thelonious Monk on the CD player and slopped some sauce from the Italian place in the Village on the pasta. I could only chew on one side of my mouth, but it was worth it. I went out on the porch to watch the clear skies paint the Little Peconic a metal-flecked, pale gray-blue. The angled October sun tipped each little wave with reflective silver that winked at me like the sequins of an evening gown. The pink hydrangea were beginning to brown at the ends of their leggy pale-green stalks. But the lawn still looked like a deep forest pool.

And I wasn’t dead.

After we ate, Eddie and I both slept the rest of the day. Too exhausted to feel any more fear, too hardened to thank whoever might be responsible for yet another reprieve, deserved or not.

Three days later I finally got Regina Broadhurst put in the ground. The funeral home was owned by an oversized Greek guy named Andre Pappanasta. He had thick curly black hair and a beard and a voice that came out of somewhere inside his chest. He smiled and laughed a lot, mostly because he never went near his funeral business, preferring to work the counter at one of the five or six pizza joints he owned around the Island. You only talked to him when you made arrangements, which he’d do between phone orders for large pepperoni pizzas and baked stuffed zitti.

The day was brand new, sunny, and the air reasonably clear. My tongue was still sore and my lower ribs ached, but my head had healed enough to leave off the bandage. With a little work my hair covered the wound. The funeral guys were composed and friendly and the priest was bored, but efficient. Half a dozen old cranes from the Senior Center, Roy and Amanda Battiston, Jimmy Maddox and I made up the congregation. We gathered in a viewing room decorated in the calm civility of thick, peach-colored carpet and semi-gloss paint.

Amanda was dressed in a plain navy blue suit and light blue blouse. When she and Roy met me in the parking lot she squeezed my hand. Her freshly
showered smell engulfed my brain, but I kept a safe distance. Roy was scrubbed pink and somber in a charcoal-gray suit. He carried about fifty pounds more than he needed, but it looked like it had settled there permanently. His receding hair was combed straight back. His handshake was warm and dry. Before letting go he added another hand. That drew us into closer proximity than I would have chosen on my own. I could smell the same soap as Amanda’s.

“We want to thank you for letting us know about this,” he said to me. “Regina was a good friend of Amanda’s mother.”

She nodded in agreement.

“She didn’t know too many people.”

“We lost Amanda’s mother last year. It’s very difficult,” he said, looking at her gravely.

“Sorry about the short notice.”

He waved off the comment.

“Not at all. We completely understand.”

One of the ushers herded us out of the waiting room and into another room that looked about the same except for the coffin and some funereal flower arrangements. Jimmy Maddox was hanging back, like he’d rather stay in the waiting room, but I gripped him by the shoulder and said, “Come on, man.”

I had trouble concentrating on what the priest was saying. They always had that effect on me. As soon as I see vestments and big silver candelabras my mind starts roaming all over the place. I got that from my mother. She hated organized religion, even though every Sunday she’d drag me and my sister to the Polish church in the Village. When I was about ten, she just
stopped, never saying why. I never asked, afraid a show of interest would start her up again. So I was left with the memory of singsong Latin monotones and my mother fidgeting and snorting away in the pew. Great job of indoctrination.

The priest said something about the mortal remains of the dead, giving me an unwanted image of old Regina carved up on the autopsy table.

A rumble of low voices came from the back of the room. It was Barbara Filmore. She was wearing a suit made of car upholstery, accented by a black feather thing wrapped around her throat. A veiled hat sat on the top of her hairdo and her glasses low on her nose. The bulge of her midriff drew attention to her thin legs, conjuring the image of an overdressed waterfowl.

She had a bald-headed, roundish guy with a salt and pepper mustache for an escort. He looked bored but attentive. He had those pale beige patent leather shoes and matching belt sets you see in Florida, but rarely around this part of the East End. He wore a light blue guayabera shirt and wrinkle-free beige pants made of some long-chain polymer. I guessed him to be about ten years older than me.

They disturbed the calm of the room for a few minutes before settling down. The priest sent up a few more requests for the Almighty to look after Regina in the hereafter. I prayed for the whole thing to be over.

A pair of Pappanasta’s boys came in and hauled her out of there after the priest finally wrapped up his bit. They looked well-dressed and professional, like IRS agents or the guys I used to work with from Accounting & Finance. They seemed to be old pals of
the priest’s—probably got together a lot after a gig.

Nobody in the room was crying, which I deeply appreciated. Sunlight did nice things with all the flowers I’d ordered up for the occasion. They looked fresh and expensive, which didn’t surprise me. Andy always used quality toppings on his pizzas. A matter of principle.

The congregation was forced to talk to each other after the priest said hello, handed out a few banalities, then made a run for it. Probably had a seat warming up for him somewhere. Roy and Jimmy Maddox were stuck with the old folks. I was with Amanda, Barbara Filmore and her date.

“We’ve had quite the schedule at the Center lately, Mr. Acquillo,” said Barbara. “I expected a visit.”

“Been pretty tied up.”

“Oh,” she said, as if suddenly remembering there was a guy standing next to her, “this is Bob Sobol. This is Sam Acquillo.”

“How’re you doin’?” he said absently, looking past my shoulder at the sun and fresh air blowing in from an open door. His grip hurt, which surprised me a little.

“Bob is thinking about buying property out here. He’s staying with me. Maybe you could tell him what you know about the area, investment-wise—you’ve owned out here for some time, haven’t you?”

“I inherited.”

Bob didn’t seem to care either way.

“Bob also has retirement to consider, so it has to be livable,” said Barbara, leadingly. She looked at Bob for a little help.

“I like the area,” said Bob, finally relenting. There
was a touch of the Bronx in his accent, the one I knew as a kid.

“I know some good real-estate people I can refer you to,” said Amanda.

The two of them stared at her till she put out her hand.

“I’m Amanda Battiston. Regina was a friend of my mother’s.”

“Is that
Mrs.
Battiston?” Bob asked her, looking at her left hand.