Richard Montanari: The Devil_s Garden

Twelve years later, on a frigid Bronx thoroughfare, when his world exploded and white fire rained down around him, Johanna Roman whispered to him once more, this time from beyond the grave, and Michael realized that these things were one and the same.

Abby was prone on the bed, reading the Daily News. In the corner of the room was a five foot pile of presents. Sitting on the bed, Michael kissed her on the back of her neck. Michael Roman loved the back of his wife’s neck.

“Man, look at all this loot,” he said. “Maybe we should have a party for them four or five times a year.”

“You just want one of the iPods.”

It was true. Michael was still using his battered Sony Walkman. And listening to the New York Dolls to boot. He had to get with the times. “You know me too well.”

“It’s a living.”

“Are they asleep?”

Abby laughed. “They ate a pound of sugar. They’ll fall asleep sometime in August.”

“I suppose I have to call and thank your parents.”

Michael was kidding, and Abby knew it. Dr Charles and Marjorie Reed were in Austria, or Australia, or Anaheim – it was hard to keep track of them. But they had sent checks for Charlotte and Emily, $10,000 each, earmarked for their college funds. Abby’s parents had always been a bit cool toward Michael. They were never crazy about their blue-blood daughter marrying a lawyer, especially a civil servant lawyer. But if Michael had to choose between seeing them, or padding his daughters’ college fund, there was no contest.

“I’ll let your conscience be your guide on that one,” Abby said.

Michael flopped back onto the bed, turned on his side, facing his wife. “Do you think they had fun?”

“Four year olds always have fun, Michael.” She stroked his hair. “They would’ve had fun with a cardboard box and a broken frisbee. Besides, the party wasn’t for them, you know.”

“It wasn’t?”

Abby rolled her eyes. “My love, you are so naive.”

“Who was it for?”

Abby turned to face him. His skin was clear and pale, with the lightest powdering of freckles, her eyes the color of semi-sweet chocolate. She had her ash-blond hair pinned up, but some of it had escaped, and now softly framed her face. She still looked at least five years younger than she really was, but her experience – the practice of holding life and death in her hands for almost a decade – had brought something to her eyes that spoke more of wisdom than age. She still gave him butterflies. “It was for all the other mothers on the street, of course. It’s a competition.”

“What kind of competition?”

Abby sat up, energized. “Okay,” she began, counting it off. She’d obviously given this some serious thought. “Number one. The catering. Did we have expensive catering – as in did we just go with the hot dogs, mini-burgers, and pizza – or did we spring for the chocolate fountain? Two. Do we have eucalyptus outdoor furniture or did we go for the teak? Three. Do we have an in-ground or above-ground pool? Four. Did we have a band or just the clown -?”

“I have to tell you, that was one weird frickin’ clown,” Michael said. “Miss Chicken Noodle 1986.”

“I think she was non-union.”

“But we did have a pony. Don’t forget the pony.”

“The pony was a big plus.”

“Even though he crapped in the azaleas.”

“Ponies will do that.”

“Man,” Michael said. “I had no idea about any of this.”

Abby touched his cheek. “My city boy.”

Michael glared. “City boy? City boy? Didn’t you see me with the Weed Eater out there this morning? There is not a man in any one of the five boroughs who can handle a piece of lawn maintenance equipment like that.”

Abby smiled the smile, the one that always started a shiver somewhere around Michael’s forehead and traveled to all regions nether. “Yeah, well,” she began, moving closer, looking at his lips, “I’ve always said you were a man who could handle his equipment.”

Michael smiled, kissed his wife on the nose, got up, bolted into the bathroom, brushed his teeth. When he came out, Abby was sitting up in bed. The only thing she wore was a beautiful navy blue silk tie. It still had the price tag on it.

“That’s the one?” Michael asked.

Abby nodded. It was a ritual for them. Before every big case she would buy him a new tie, a lucky charm to wear during his opening statement. She had not failed yet. With Abby’s magical neckwear Michael had a 100 per cent conviction rate.

“Professor Roman?” Abby asked, gently unknotting the tie and placing it on the nightstand.

“Yes, Nurse Reed?”

“I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

Michael pulled off his shirt. He now had on just a pair of light green hospital scrubs. “Of course.”

“Which of the Bronte sisters’ books would be your favorite?”

Michael laughed. “Well, let me think about this for a second.” He slipped out of his scrubs, under the sheets. “I’d have to say my favorite would be the one about Jane Eyre’s sister Frigid.”

Abby snorted. “Frigid Eyre?”

“Yes. It’s the story of a homely English girl’s quest for sexual adventure.”

Abby shook her head. She put her arms around Michael’s neck. “I can’t believe we never made the connection. Charlotte and Emily. I mean, how many years of higher education do we have between us? Fifteen?”

Of course, for Michael, this was not a rare occurrence. He was twenty-nine before he realized that the ABC song was the same melody as “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”. In his time he had once prepared a closing argument in a homicide case in less than an hour – with a vicious hangover, no less – and could recite the contributors to Black’s Law (Eighth Edition) by rote. But the subtleties of “Twinkle, Twinkle” were lost on him.

The subtleties of Abby Roman’s body, however, were not.

Midnight. Michael stood in the doorway to the girls’ room. Abby had been right. The girls were both still awake. He entered the room, kneeled between the beds.

“Hi, Daddy,” Charlotte said.

“Hi ladies,” he said. “Did you guys have fun today?”

They both nodded in unison, yawned in harmony. Sometimes they were so different in their outlooks, their problem-solving skills, it was as if they were not even related. Charlotte with her ability to divine logic from chaos. Emily and her sense of color and flair for the dramatic. Other times, most of the time, they seemed to be of one mind, one heart, even more so than the connections that bound most twins.

Michael glanced over at the corner of the room. Their little table was set for tea. It was, as always, arranged for three people. They never put a stuffed bear or bunny in the third chair. It was always just empty. It was one of the many mysteries that were his daughters.

He turned back to the girls as Charlotte pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. She crooked her finger, beckoning Michael forward, as if to share a secret. He leaned between the two girls. They often did this when they wanted to tell him something together, an exercise that often ended with a kiss on each cheek. The kiss part was supposed to be a surprise.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“Ta tuleb,” the two girls said softly.

At first Michael thought he misheard them. It sounded as if they’d said “tattoo” or “the tool.” Neither interpretation made sense. “What did you say?”

“Ta tuleb,” they repeated.

Michael leaned back, a little surprised. He looked back and forth between his daughters, at the four big blue eyes in the soft blush of the nightlight. “Ta tuleb?”

They nodded.

The phrase brought Michael back to his early childhood, to evenings above the Pikk Street Bakery, nights when he would be reading comic books while he was supposed to be doing his homework. When his mother, looking out the kitchen window, her long steel knitting needles in hand, saw Peeter Roman turn the corner onto Ditmars Boulevard, she would yell “ta tuleb!” up the stairs, and Michael would immediately get back to his studies.