Richard Montanari: The Echo Man

I rattle through the crowded streets like a white skeleton.

At just after eight a.m. I enter Fitler Square, finding the expected gathering — bikers, joggers, the homeless who have dragged themselves here from a nearby passageway. Some of these homeless creatures will not live through the winter. Soon I will hear their last breaths.

I stand near the ram sculpture at the eastern end of the square, watching, waiting. Within minutes I see them., mother and daughter.

They are just what I need.

I walk across the square, sit on a bench, take out my newspaper, halve and quarter it. The killing instruments are uncomfortable at my back. I shift my weight as the sounds amass: the flap and squawk of pigeons congregating around a man eating a bagel, a taxi's rude horn, the hard thump of a bass speaker. Looking at my watch, I see that time is short. Soon my mind will be full of screams and I will be unable to do what is necessary.

I glance at the young mother and her baby, catch the woman's eye, smile.

'Good morning,' I say.

The woman smiles back. 'Hi.'

The baby is in an expensive jogging stroller, the kind with a rainproof hood and mesh shopping basket beneath. I rise, cross the path, glance inside the pram. It's a girl, dressed in a pink flannel one-piece and matching hat, swaddled in a snow-white blanket. Bright plastic stars dangle overhead.

'And who is this little movie star?' I ask.

The woman beams. 'This is Ashley.'

'Ashley. She is beautiful.'

'Thank you.'

I am careful not to get too close. Not yet. 'How old is she?'

'She's four months.'

'Four months is a great age,' I reply with a wink. '

I may have peaked around four months.'

The woman laughs.

I'm in.

I glance at the stroller. The baby smiles at me. In her angelic face I see so much. But sight does not drive me. The world is crammed full of beautiful images, breathtaking vistas, all mostly forgotten by the time the next vista presents itself I have stood before the Taj Mahal, Westminster Abbey, the Grand Canyon. I once spent an afternoon in front of Picasso's Guernica. All these glorious images faded into the dim corners of memory within a relatively short period of time. Yet I recall with exquisite clarity the first time I heard someone scream in anguish, the yelp of a dog struck by a car, the dying breath of a young police officer bleeding out on a hot sidewalk.

'Is she sleeping through the night yet?'

'Not quite,' the woman says.

'My daughter slept through the night at two months. Never had a problem with her at all.'

'Lucky.'

I reach slowly into my right coat pocket, palm what I need, draw it out. The mother stands just a few feet away, on my left. She does not see what I have in my hand.

The baby kicks her feet, bunching her blanket. I wait. I am nothing if not patient. I need the little one to be tranquil and still. Soon she calms, her bright blue eyes scanning the sky.

With my right hand I reach out, slowly, not wanting to alarm the mother. I place a finger into the center of the baby's left palm. She closes her tiny fist around my finger and gurgles. Then, as I had hoped, she begins to coo.

All other sounds cease. In that moment it is just the baby, and this sacred respite from the dissonance that fills my waking hours.

I touch the Record button, keeping the microphone near the little girl's mouth for a few seconds, gathering the sounds, collecting a moment which would otherwise be gone in an instant.

Time slows, lengthens, like a lingering coda.

I withdraw my hand. I do not want to stay too long, nor alert the mother to any danger. I have a full day ahead of me, and cannot be deterred.

'She has your eyes,' I say.

The little girl does not, and it is obvious. But no mother ever refuses such a compliment.

'Thank you.'

I glance at the sky, at the buildings that surround Fitler Square. It is time. Well, it was lovely talking to you.'

You, too,' replies the woman. ''Enjoy your day.'

'Thank you,' I say. I'm sure I will.'

I reach out, take one of the baby's tiny hands in mine, give it a little shake. 'It was nice meeting you, little Ashley.'

Mother and daughter giggle.

I am safe.

A few moments later, as I walk up Twenty-third Street, toward Delancey, I pull out the digital recorder, insert the mini-plug for the earbuds, play back the recording. Good quality, a minimum of background noise. The baby's voice is precious and clear.

As I slip into the van and head to South Philadelphia I think about this morning, how everything is falling into place.

Harmony and melody live inside me, side by side, violent storms on a sun-blessed shore.

I have captured the beginning of life.

Now I will record its end.

'My name is Paulette, and I'm an alcoholic.'

'Hi, Paulette.'

She looked out over the group. The meeting was larger than it had been the previous week, nearly doubled in size from the first time she attended the Second Verse group at the Trinity United Methodist Church nearly a month earlier. Before that she had been to three meetings at three different places — North Philly, West Philly, South Philly — but, as she soon learned, most people who attend AA meetings regularly find a group, and a vibe, with which they are comfortable, and stay with it.

There were twenty or so people sitting in a loose circle, equally divided between men and women, young and old, nervous and calm. The youngest person was a woman around twenty; the oldest, a man in his seventies, sitting in a wheelchair. It was also a diverse group — black, white, Hispanic, Asian. Addiction, of course, had no prejudice, no gender or age issues. The size of the group indicated that the holidays were rapidly approaching, and if anything pressed the glowing red buttons of inadequacy, resentment, and rage, it was the holidays.

The coffee, as always, was crap.

'Some of you have probably seen me here before,' she began, trying to affect a tone of lightness and cheer. 'Ah, who the hell am I kidding? Maybe I'm wrong about that. Maybe it's ego, right? Maybe I think I'm the shit, and no one else does. Maybe that's the problem.

Anyway, today is the first time I've really had the balls to speak. So, here I am, and you have me. At least for a little while. Lucky you.'

As she told her story, she scanned the faces. There was a kid in his mid-twenties on the right — killer blue eyes, ripped jeans, a multicolor Ed Hardy T-shirt, biceps of note. More than once she looked over at him and saw him scanning her body. He may have been an alcoholic but he was still most definitely on the make. Next to him was a woman in her fifties, a few decades of heavy use mapped in the broken veins on her face and neck. She rolled a sweaty cellphone over and over in her hands, tapped one foot to some long-silenced beat. A few chairs down from her was a petite blonde in a green Temple University sweatshirt, athletic and toned, the weight of the world just a snowflake on her shoulder. Next to her sat Nestor, the group leader. Nestor had opened the meeting with his own short and sad tale, then asked if there was anyone else who wanted to talk.

My name is Paulette.

When she finished her story everyone clapped politely. After that other people rose, talked, cried. More applause.

When all their stories were exhausted, every emotion wrung, Nestor reached out his hands to either side. 'Let's give thanks and praise.'

They joined hands, said a short prayer, and the meeting was over.

'It's not as easy as it looks, is it?'

She turned around. It was Killer Blue Eyes. At just after noon they stood outside the main church doors, between a pair of emaciated brown evergreens, already struggling through the season.