“I do.”
She smirked and shook her head, then rolled on top of me. We kissed, all open mouths and heat. But it was a heat with no flame. What I pulled down, she pulled up. What I tried to unsnap, she twisted away. We were consenting adults, but she wouldn’t consent. I had more luck in middle school.
It was the first time I had brought Veronica to my place, three rooms on the second floor of a crumbling tenement building on America Street in Providence’s Italian neighborhood of Federal Hill. Three rooms was an extravagance because I was living in just one of them, unless you counted the time I spent in the kitchen opening and closing the refrigerator.
I’d tidied up the place in anticipation of Veronica’s arrival, even dragged a damp paper towel through the dust. I would have tried distracting her from the decor with music, but Dorcas still had my LPs, and my only CD player was in Secretariat’s dash.
All the floors were covered in the same linoleum made to look like red brick. Real brick wouldn’t have had all those scuffs. The beige walls were bare except for a few plaster cracks and my only piece of art, a shadow box holding a Colt .45. It had been my grandfather’s gun when he wore Providence PD blue. He carried it until the day someone laid a pipe across the back of his skull on Atwells Avenue, jerked it from his holster, shot him dead with it, and dropped it on the body.
Veronica asked about the gun, so I had to tell the story again. As she listened, she rested her hand on my shoulder.
“Every once in a while I take it down and clean it,” I said. “Makes me feel close to him.”
It was late Saturday afternoon, and through the walls we could hear my neighbor, Angela Anselmo, screeching out the window at her little darlings, the eight-year-old budding concert violinist and the thirteen-year-old fledgling smash-and-grab virtuoso. She had already started supper, the garlic aroma from her kitchen slipping easily through the inch-wide crack at the bottom of my front door. We were lying on my tag-sale bed and Salvation Army mattress because there was no place else to sit. I was still pissed about the LPs and the mystery novels, but for the first time, I was glad Dorcas had all the furniture. Veronica’s lips flirted with the side of my face.
“How mad do you think Lomax will be?” I said.
“Pretty mad.”
“Maybe I should do the dog story this weekend.”
“No working this weekend. Just us. You promised.”
“Unless there’s a fire in Mount Hope,” I said.
“Unless there’s a fire,” she said.
“I hope the fire-scene pictures tell me something.”
“What are you hoping to find?”
“The same face in the crowd at several fires.”
“A firebug?”
“Maybe. They like to hang around and admire their work.”
“Mulligan?”
“Um?”
“Could we talk about something else?”
Again with the lips.
“Sure. Why don’t you tell me how you managed to get that grand-jury testimony?”
“Forget it, buster.”
“What, then?”
“Ask me something else.”
“Do you color your hair?”
“What?”
“Do you color your hair?”
“No. Okay, my turn. How’s that divorce coming along?”
“I had a pleasant conversation about that with Dorcas just this morning.”
“And?”
“Unless I agree to lifetime alimony, she’ll tell the judge I beat her.”
“She’s been saying that for two years, Liam.”
“I asked you not to call me that.”
“I like it.”
“I don’t.”
“It’s a fine name, baby.”
But it was my grandfather’s name. Every time I hear it, I see a chalk outline on a bloodstained sidewalk. I didn’t want to go into it, so I just shook my head.
“L. S. A. Mulligan. Maybe I could call you by one of your middle names.”
“Seamus or Aloysius?”
“Oh.… Ever have any nicknames?”
“My teammates on the Providence College basketball team used to call me ‘Stew.’ ”
“Why?”
“Mulligan Stew?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“It seems odd calling you Mulligan when your hands are on my butt.”
“It’s the only name I answer to.”
“Like Madonna?”
“Like Seal.”
“I think I’m going to call you Liam.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Pleeeeeease,” she said, stringing out the syllable and rubbing all that woman against the front of my jeans. The rubbing didn’t work. It just made me forget what she was asking. I rolled her over, pinning her beneath me and nipping at the space between her neck and the swell of her breasts. My hands fumbled with the top button on her blouse.
“Liam?”
I ignored her, my fingers working on the second button.
“Mulligan?”
“Mmm?”
“I want you to get an AIDS test first.”
8
Efrain and Graciela Rueda had arrived in Providence seven years ago from the little town of La Ceiba in southeastern Mexico. He went to work as a day laborer. She made beds at the Holiday Inn. Two years later, the twins were born. Graciela wanted to name them Carlos, which means “free man,” and Leticia, which means “joy,” but Efrain insisted on Scott and Melissa. He wanted them to be American through and through. Their children were their life. Now they didn’t have enough money to bury them.
Their fellow parishioners at the Church of the Holy Name of Jesus raised enough for two little wooden coffins. The Providence firefighters’ local donated the headstone. In a paroxysm of generosity, Lugo’s Mortuary supplied the hearse at half price.
On Monday morning, the crowns of the tallest headstones in the North Burial Ground poked above the crusted snow cover. Rosie and I stood with a little knot of mourners huddled at a pit hacked into the frozen turf. Mike Austin, the firefighter who had brought Scott’s body down the ladder, helped carry him to his grave. Brian Bazinet, who had descended with Melissa, helped carry her.
I cocked my head to catch the priest’s ancient words of comfort and glory, but they were swallowed by Graciela’s keening and the white noise of hundreds of Bridgestones, Dunlops, and Goodyears swishing by on the interstate thirty yards to the west. Off to the east, the gravedigger watched from his backhoe, its engine muttering.
After the mourners slogged to their battered Toyotas and Chevrolets, Rosie and I picked up clumps of frozen earth and dropped them into the grave. They landed on the little coffins with hollow thuds. Then we stood aside and watched the gravedigger finish the job. I tried to find calm in the steady rhythm of his work, but in my mind I could still hear Graciela’s anguished wail and the low rumble of her husband as he tried to comfort her.
Journalism professors preach that you should never get emotionally involved in your stories, that to remain objective you must cultivate a professional detachment. They are so full of shit. If you don’t care, your stories will be so bloodless that readers won’t care either.
I said a prayer in case He was listening. But where was He when the snowplow was burying the hydrant? Where was He when the twins were screaming for help?
Rosie and I crunched through the snow to the Bronco, then turned and looked back at the patch of brown earth in a blinding field of white. We didn’t speak. What was there to say?
Somebody had to pay for this, and Polecki and Roselli weren’t up to the job.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I walked into the newsroom and found a thick manila envelope on my desk. On the front were the words “You owe me—Gloria.” She’d stuffed the envelope with eight-by-tens.