Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

I checked myself. Flo had been right. I did look a little like Grey.

He’d stand in the mirror when I was a kid and I’d watch the slow and significant ritual of his grooming. The way he’d use two wooden brushes, one in each hand, to style his hair. Slapped aftershave to his cheeks and massaged his skin, always giving himself a few chucks under the chin right before he finished. Then he’d dab himself with cologne at the hollow of his throat. He’d have a suit already laid out on the bed but would often try on five or six shirts, sometimes all the same color, before he made his choice. Her a019;d hold up ties against his chest and check his reflection from different angles, in different lighting. When he was done I’d be fascinated with the intricacies of tying a double Windsor knot. It was like a stage performance. He’d catch my eye in the mirror and say, “The clothes don’t make the man, the man makes the clothes. But they have to be the right clothes and the right man.”

Headlights washed against the window. I pulled back the curtain and spotted Dale and Butch sitting in his Chevy, parked at the curb. They were arguing, their faces animated in the harsh dashboard light. I went to my room, pulled out the butterfly knife, and left it on her nightstand.

I walked downstairs and stood at the front door. I looked down at myself dressed in my uncle’s clothes, on my way to a date I didn’t want to go on, and abruptly felt like a moron. I should be helping Dale. I should be preparing myself to tell Collie to go fuck himself. The list went on. I should be making sure that Danny Thompson wasn’t still plotting to pull forty grand out of Mal’s ass. I should either be figuring out what to say to Kimmy and Chub or I should let it go. I had to watch out for Fingers and Higgins. Sweat broke out on my upper lip. Maybe Gilmore was right. Maybe my coming home had only stirred up all this trouble. And instead of fixing it, here I was playing dress-up.

My father came up behind me, gestured with his chin at the muscle car, and said, “Your mother right about him?”

“Yes. He’s a bank-heister wannabe.”

Two, three beats went by, then he let out a disgusted grunt. “So that’s why he gravitated toward her.”

I didn’t have to say it. He said it for me.

“Or her to him.”

“Yeah.”

“Won’t be able to stop her from seeing the little shithead.”

“No, probably not.”

The rest of the equation passed between us silently. Someone might have to convince him to stop seeing her.

I started to undo my tie. My old man put a hand on my arm and said, “Hey, no. Go have a night out.”

“Dad, I should be-”

“You should be out having a good time with Grey. He invited you. You said yes, right? So go. The reporter is cute. You can field her questions. And she’ll have a cute friend. What’s so wrong with that?”

Maybe nothing. I took the parkway up to 25A and drove down to the sound. The party boats coasted in on moonlit water as calm as a sheet of glass. They docked behind Torchy’s, and wealthy couples strolled across the massive deck, arm in arm, all pearls and five-thousand-dollar Italian fashion. A ten-piece band led by a young Dino look-alike played fifties crooner tunes. I was twenty minutes early. Grey would already be inside with his date and her friend. They’d be at the bar and he’d be regaling them with stories and letting them drink in his beauty. I let him do his thing and parked on the street for a while, listening to “Till There Was You” and “More” and “A Blossom Fell.” Then I drove in and let the valet take my car.

Inside, the place wasn’t quite as different as I’d been expecting. But a lot of ritzy restaurants right on the water had the same feel. Large windows so you could watch the party boats coming, an emphasis on seafaring decor that you really couldn x2019;t get away from. Ocean-blue walls, portraits and ancient photos of whalers, framed centuries-old maps of Long Island, seascape oil paintings. This one had a three-tiered setup with a lot of mirrored and well-lit staircases, like they expected Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to put on a show.

The host wore a black suit that was only a touch more retro than mine. He asked for the name of my party and I told him.

We got two steps toward the table when Grey appeared at the foot of the bottom staircase, slick and handsome with all the cool and style in the world, owning everyone and everything around him, including me.

“There’s the boy,” my uncle said.

He was sixty-two and looked ten years younger. He wore dashing and debonair the way other men wore desperation. I could smell his moisturizer, exfoliants, veggie conditioners, and skin toners. His eyebrows had been trimmed. He was holding a glass of Glenlivet, his favorite liquor. With his free arm he pulled me into a tight clinch and kissed my forehead.

“It’s good to see you, Terrier. You know I should break your ass for dodging us the past few days.”

I hadn’t seen him in five years and couldn’t think of a thing I wanted to say to him. I clenched him back and my head felt emptier than it had been since the ranch. I felt protected and fortified. Hugging him was like hugging my father, who never hugged anyone. Grey clapped me on the back and I did the same to him. He shot me a smile and I returned it.

“Whatever’s been on your mind, let it go for the night,” he said. “All the same shit will be waiting for you when you come back to it. But for now let’s get soused in style.”

I stalled and held back a step as he turned for the dazzling staircase. Maybe I did have questions after all. They started buzzing me all at once. I wanted to know what kind of game Grey was running on the pretty newscaster and why he hadn’t kept her out of the family’s hair. I needed some perspective on what my parents had endured. I wanted to ask if he’d been to the doctor like Mal and how far the disease had progressed. He shouldn’t be drinking, that much was obvious. But I knew he wouldn’t stop, it was too much a part of who he was. Grey might not answer. He might freeze me out for ruining his night. But of all the Rands he was the one who’d learned to chatter the best. Usually just to play the ladies, but I thought if anyone might shoot the heavy breeze with me, it was Grey.

As we walked up the steps he said, “You like older women, right?”

“What?”

His chuckle broke deep in his chest. “Sure you do.”

“Look, I just wanted to-”

“They’re worldly. They’re self-affirming. They know their own needs, their likes and dislikes, and they aren’t afraid to share them with you. Don’t be put off.”

“Is this about infiltration?” I asked.

“If you’re lucky.” He sipped his drink. “The twentysomethings, even the thirtysomethings, are usually still trying to figure themselves out, and they think daytime television and therapy and Redbook quizzes are the way to do it. The forty-year-olds, they’re not called cougarsmucnd we and hin for nothing.”

“Grey, the hell are you talking about?”

He looked me up and down. “You chose a nice suit. Wrong tie for it, but you did pretty good.”

We walked to the top tier and he led me to a table at the far corner. I supposed they were the best seats in the place, looking down on everyone else, with the best view of the sound. You could see clear to Westchester, the lights of the party boats bright and inviting.

The pretty blond newscaster was sitting there with another woman, those azure eyes full of eager delight. A soft scent of citrus danced along with her, tangling with Grey’s cucumber-and-aloe deep pore cleanser.

I glanced at Grey but he was giving her the sloe eye. I wondered if she had her tape recorder running in her purse.