S Rozan - Absent Friends

Jimmy turns to the gray water again, and the black ships. He can't think of anything to say. Anything.

It was my story, says Tom.

What?

The bullshit story that got Jack so pissed? Had nothing to do with Eddie Spano. Came from me.

What the fuck? What are you saying?

This cop. O'Hagan. My guy. I told him, tell my dad this and that. I thought Dad would send Jack out of town. Atlanta, maybe. To cool him off.

You told him?

Jack was too hot, Jimmy. They weren't ready to roll him up, but they would've, sooner or later.

Tom waits a minute, then says, But not just that. You remember, you and me, we talked about Markie? About him and Jack, we were worried about him getting in trouble because of Jack?

Yeah, well, says Jimmy, and he's surprised how savage his own voice sounds.

Tom drinks his coffee. Jimmy gets the strange idea that Tom's collecting himself, getting ready like a fireman does, before he charges into the flame wall.

And not just you and me, talking about it, Tom says. Marian said to me how she was afraid, she thought Jack was going to get too deep into something, get into some kind of thing he couldn't get out of.

Marian? I thought, says Jimmy, I thought Marian and you…

Yeah, says Tom. I was surprised. I liked it that she talked to me like that, it'd been a long time.

A long time, thinks Jimmy, looking at the bridge arching away. It's all been such a long time.

Tom says, I looked at it, Jim. Markie, you're worried about him, Marian's worried about him and Jack, too. I'm thinking, if Jack fucks Markie up, it'll be Sally, too, and little Kev. And Vicky's been after me, I spend too much time cleaning up after my brother, worrying about my mom because of Jack, like that. Everyone's worried and everyone wants the same thing. I looked at it.

Jimmy watches the ships, coming and going, back and forth. He wonders who's in charge, someone must be or they'd all crash, wreck each other. He thinks back to so many times when they were kids, Tom having a good idea because of something everybody wanted.

Tom rubs his eyes like it's too bright out here, on this gray day. He says, So I went to O'Hagan. I said, Tell my dad it's like this, that you have this operation going. Jimmy, I swear, I thought Dad would send Jack, send him someplace. I thought Jack would get to go to Atlanta, that he'd get what he wanted out of this, too! Shit, Jim.

Tom looks into his coffee cup; it's empty. He says, I don't know how the story got to Markie. It was supposed to be my dad. I don't know how.

After that Tom doesn't say anything else. They sit on the rocks, Jimmy not saying anything either, just looking, just taking it all in. A gull screeches, soars and knifes into the water, comes up silent, flaps away. It must have caught what it wanted, Jimmy thinks.

Jim, Tom says, you let me know. Whatever you want, I'll do it.

Jimmy doesn't turn to watch as Tom walks away, but he hears him go.

November 2, 2001

On the ferry. On the way back. No, not back. That would mean a journey done. A place not home, from which he was returning. But there was no home now, and no returning.

People stared, moved away. Because of the blood. On his face, his own. Scrubbed and stanched, but still slowly bleeding. He was still bleeding. On his shirt, on his jacket, Kevin's. So much death, death everywhere, and still people backed away, because of blood.

Phil stood in the wind outside, the Brooklyn side, and stared at the bridge. Brigadoon, Camelot, Shangri-la, all vanished. Never real, but where he'd lived. Gone now. Gone.

His last night on Staten Island-oh yes, what else was it?-and spent in jail.

“I love you,” he'd told Sally, calling on the prisoner's pay phone. The air was rank, the walls too close.

She'd said-sadly, softly-“It doesn't matter.”

When they'd let him out, he'd gone right over, but she wouldn't let him in.

Now, on the boat, he took out his phone, tried again to call her. Again, as all morning, all day yesterday, only ringing. No connection to be made.

He slipped the phone away, back in his pocket, his shirt stiff with blood.

If she had answered?

What was he thinking to say?

November 2, 2001

Marian walked out onto the deck of the ferry, on the east side. The boat seemed to lurch; she thought she might fall, but did not. She stood in shadow, aware of people moving uneasily away: something in her face, her eyes, making them uncomfortable, making them uncertain. Marian was uncertain, also: uncertain how she'd come to be on the boat, uncertain where she was going. Uncertain of everything, and yet it was all so clear, every minute, every second.

The phone ringing, Kevin in his room picking up before Sally could. A few minutes later, Kevin, dressed but not shaved, reaching into the kitchen for his keys.

“That was Uncle Phil.” Sally flushed; Kevin went on, “He wants me to meet him.”

“Why?”

“He wants to show me something. Be back later, Mom. Goodbye, Aunt Marian.” His smile, not the sunburst, but a sweet, sweet one. It seemed slightly sad to Marian, this smile, but of course she didn't say that to Sally. Sally had enough on her mind.

Goodbye, Aunt Marian.

More tea in Sally's kitchen, Marian and Sally talking, at first about Jimmy's papers, where they could be, what could be in them. Then their mood lightening, trading gossip, then just talking, as best friends, as they always had.

The phone ringing, high-pitched, Sally laughing at a joke Marian had made as she reached for it.

Racing to the hospital, Marian driving Sally's car, Marian no more fit to drive than Sally, her skin cold and her stomach churning, but she knew it was right. (Strangely, frighteningly, she took the keys, she took the wheel, because she heard Jimmy tell her to, heard Jimmy saying it was right.)

The hours there, and then the doctor, and then Sally in Marian's arms, wailing, sobbing, and Marian, too, and nothing she could do.

And the hours since. At the hospital, police officers with questions. Back at Sally's house, family, friends. Firefighters. The telephone ringing, nonstop, unbearable, finally silenced, turned off, still ringing and ringing, thought Marian, but no one could hear. Sally, white, silent, motionless.

Sally's mother, finally, asking everyone to leave, thanking them all, asking them to go home. But not me, surely, Marian thought, not me, to leave, to be alone now. Not me, too. Marian the last friend remaining, as she'd been the first, Marian expecting to stay.

Sally, green eyes finding Marian from across a vast, lifeless desert. Sally saying nothing, shaking her head.

Marian spending the night at her father's house, sitting in the yard for a long time before going to bed. Her mother's flower beds were overgrown with grass.

Now, on the ferry, Marian watched the clouds, the ships, the hills. The place where she'd grown up, where her heart had remained, grew unimaginably distant as the boat plowed without remorse toward the opposite shore.

If only, she thought: if only she could have spoken to Sally, across the desert of Sally's eyes, if only she could have found words. If only she'd found words for Kevin: Where are you going, Kevin, what are you planning, I'm sorry if I upset you, Kevin, don't go.

Why hadn't she found the words?