Or maybe I will.
Maybe I do.
Driving south on 93, I realized, once and for all, that I love the things that chafe. The things that fill me with stress so total I can’t remember when a block of it didn’t rest on top of my heart. I love what, if broken, can’t be repaired. What, if lost, can’t be replaced.
I love my burdens.
For the first time in my life, I pitied my father. It was such a strange sensation that I allowed the car to drift over the white lines for a moment before I made a correction. My father was never lucky; his rage and hatred and all-consuming narcissism-all of it unfathomable, even now, twenty-five years after his death-had robbed him of his family. If I’d squealed like Gabriella in the back of a car, my father would have backhanded me. Twice. Or he would have pulled the car to the side of the road and climbed back there to give me a beating. Same with my sister. And when we weren’t around, my mother. Because of this, he died alone. He’d demeaned my mother into an early grave, my sister refused to return to Boston when he was terminally ill, and when, at the hour of his death, he’d reached across the hospital bed for me, I let his hand hang in the air until it fell to the sheets and his pupils turned to marble.
My father never loved his burdens because my father never loved anything.
I’m a deeply flawed man who loves a deeply flawed woman and we gave birth to a beautiful child who, I fear sometimes, may never stop talking. Or squealing. My best friend is a borderline psychotic who has more sins on his ledger than whole street gangs and some governments. And yet…
We left the expressway at Columbia Road as the day finished furling up into a sky which was now the color of plum skin. The snow kept falling weakly, as if it couldn’t commit. We turned left on Dot Avenue as lights came on in the three-deckers and the bars and the senior citizens’ home and the corner stores. I’d like to say I found a sublime beauty in it all, but I didn’t.
And yet.
And yet, this life we’d built filled our car.
I saw our street in the distance, and I didn’t want to pull up in front of our house and let this moment empty from the car. I wanted to keep driving. I wanted everything to stay exactly as it was right now.
But I did turn.
When we got out of the car, Gabby grabbed Bubba’s hand and led him toward the house so she could take him down to the cellar. Last year we’d answered her incessant queries about how Santa could enter a house with no chimney by assuring her that in Dorchester, he came through the cellar. So she’d enlisted Bubba to help her lay out the milk and cookies.
“Beer, too,” Bubba said as they reached the house. “He likes beer. And he doesn’t turn his nose up at vodka.”
“Watch that,” Angie called as we went to the back of the Jeep for the luggage. “That’s my child you’re corrupting.”
A snowflake fell on my cheekbone and instantly melted and Angie wiped at it with her finger. She kissed my nose. “Great to see you.”
“You too.”
She took my burned hand in hers, looked at the large Band-Aid I’d placed across the palm. “You okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Don’t I look okay?”
She peered into my eyes, this gorgeous, volatile, hyper-passionate woman I’ve been in love with since second grade. “You look great. You just look, I dunno, pensive.”
“Pensive.”
“Yeah.”
I pulled Angie’s bags out of the back. “Something occurred to me today while I was sitting by the river, throwing away a five-hundred-dollar gun.”
“What’s that?”
I closed the hatch. “My blessings outweigh my regrets.”
She cocked her head and gave me a crooked smile as the snow found her hair. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Then you won, babe.”
I sucked in a breath of snow and cold air. “For now.”
“Yeah.” She held my gaze. “For now.”
I slung one bag over my shoulder and lifted the other with my right hand. My injured left hand I closed over my wife’s and we walked up the small brick path to our home.
Acknowledgments
SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Lieutenant Mark Gillespie of the MBTA Police and Chris Sylvia of Foxborough Terminals Co. Inc.
Ann Rittenberg, Amy Schiffman, Christine Caya, and my Midtown family-Michael Morrison, Brianne Halverson, Seale Ballenger, and Liate Stehlik.
Angie, Michael, Sterling, and Tom for the early reads.
And Claire Wachtel for deworming the dog and sending it to the groomers.
About the Author
DENNIS LEHANE is the author of nine novels-including the New York Times bestsellers Gone, Baby, Gone; Mystic River; Shutter Island; and The Given Day -as well as Coronado , a collection of short stories and a play. He and his wife, Angie, divide their time between Boston and the Gulf Coast of Florida.
