Twelve

Every Wednesday and Friday, a big silver refrigerator truck out of Boston delivers fresh fish to Lombardi’s Fish Market on Railroad Ave. on the corner beneath the Interstate overpass. Gene gets ecstatic over eating fresh fish and if he can’t get away from the office himself, he sends me over to Lombardi’s.

Inside, a sign posted on the wall above the scale says, LOMBARDI’S FAMOUS FRESH FISH MARKET! WE HAVE SERVED THE PUBLIC FOR 50 YEARS!! NO ONE DOES IT BETTER THAN WE DO!!! I never read that sign without wondering what it is they do better than anyone else. I took my number card off the sprocket on the counter. The room is small and fishy smelling, and people were packed in like sardines (ha ha). Friday is actually the worst day to go to Lombardi’s because, besides the fresh fish, they also sell fish and chips dinners. Hordes of people come just for that. The door opened and shut constantly as people poured in. All of a sudden I saw Cary Longstreet—or was it Yancey?—right in front of me. I hadn’t even seen her come in, and now she was close enough to touch—but I wouldn’t dare. She had that cool princess-of-the-realm look spread over her face like a mask. I had to remind myself of that little smile she’d given me, a fresh mischievous little smile that had given me heart.

“Cary—” I said, but just then the clerk called my number. “Twenty-four! Step up, please, don’t hold other people up!” She wore a bloodstained white coat like a doctor.

I ordered two dozen clams and a pound of red snapper. “Clean it and leave the head on.” Gene made a fish soup from the head. I glanced over my shoulder at Cary, wondering if she recognized me. She had moved away, toward the other end of the counter, where they sold the fish and chips.

Outside, I hung around, waiting for her. Practice being Drew, I told myself, give her that old Gregoretti smile, that old Gregoretti charm. As soon as she came out, I tossed her a big smile and said, “Hi!”

“Hi.” She put the white bag of fish and chips into the saddlebag of a red boy’s bike and rode off. Was that it? For one moment I looked after her in despair, then I ran after her. I caught up with her at the corner where she was waiting for a break in the traffic.

“Hi,” I said again. “Do you remember me at all? I’m Pete. I came into the shop—”

“I know. Yo’re the one with the friend.”

“No, I told you—the friend—forget him. I’m the one, I’m the guy who wants to know you.”

“Mmm,” she said, and pushed off.

I caught up with her again at the next corner. “Going the same way you are,” I lied.

“Uh huh.”

I ran after her, block after block, barely keeping her in sight. Once, twice, she glanced back at me. At the corner of Elm and Bridge streets, I had a lucky break when a policeman halted traffic for a funeral procession.

I trotted up to Cary. “Listen, don’t you think I’ve run far enough? How about giving me a ride? I’ll pedal.”

“You’re nervy, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I’m not fussy. I’ll ride the handlebars.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“What street?”

“Franklin Avenue.”

“What do you know! Just where I’m going!”

“You live on Franklin?”

“I know someone who lives there.” That was the truth—now.

“Who’s that?”

Then another lucky break—I didn’t have to answer. The policeman blew his whistle, beckoning the line of waiting cars forward, and Cary bumped off the curb.

“How about that ride?”

“You are a pest,” she said, but she smiled.

“Don’t you think it’s a sign of character to be persistent? What’s the verdict? Do I keep running or do I go to Franklin Avenue in style?”

She touched one of the little gold bird earrings. “Oh … why not? But I pedal.”

I put my fish into the saddlebag next to her package and hopped up on the handlebars. She bent forward, her head almost touching my back. “This is great,” I said.

“For you.”

“Told you I’d be glad to—”

“No thanks. I don’t let other people ride my bike.”

“Afraid I’ll steal it?”

“You can walk, you know.”

“I’m not complaining. I saw you at the bus stop the other day when it was raining.”

“I didn’t see you.” She bumped up the curb and stopped in front of a little, brown-shingled house with a sagging porch and a tiny front yard. “All off. This is where I live.”

I was surprised. Not a very impressive house for a princess.

“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way to your friend’s,” she said.

“I have a confession to make.” I held on to the handlebars. “My friend on this street is you.”

“Nooo kidding.”

I flushed. “I just wanted to get to know you.”

“You are persistent, aren’t you?”

“A persistent pest, I guess.” I looked at her, hoping she’d deny I was pest. “Well, anyway, thanks for the ride. Now I have a long walk home.”

“You don’t even live around here?”

“I live downtown.”

“Nobody lives downtown.”

“Lots of people live downtown, not just us. Street people—”

“That’s just fancy talk for bums.”

I didn’t want to get into an argument with her on the first day. “People live in the Y’s, too,” I said. “And there’s the Jefferson Hotel—that’s mostly older women—”

“Is that where you live, in the Y?”

“No, I live in a house. I’ll show it to you sometime.” A face appeared at a window. A girl with bangs and glasses tapped on the pane and beckoned to Cary. “Your sister’s calling you,” I said.

Cary wheeled the bike up onto the porch. “’Bye, Pete, it was fun. Oh, wait! Your fish.” She tossed me the package. I caught it and saluted her as she went inside.