Twenty-Seven

Samuel Adams stood on his pedestal, his face stern, his right foot tapping the ground, and his arms crossed with a newspaper rolled up in his left hand. The sculptor Anne Whitney had either caught him in the act of demanding that British troops leave Boston or scolding his dog for pooping on the rug. It was hard to tell.

The statue stood in the middle of the broad stone plaza that fronted Faneuil Hall. Peter Faneuil had built the structure in 1742 and donated it to Boston so that the city might have a central marketplace. The Boston Town Meeting had voted to accept the gift by a close vote of 367–360, honoring a long tradition in New England of regarding anything that is new or free with profound suspicion.

Whether it was due to my forays into the suburbs, my dustup with my mother, or my introduction to a dead brother, Boston seemed especially alive tonight. The crowd breathed life into the place, lifting my spirits and showing me the bright side of life.

It was a warm September evening. Breakdancers twirled and leapt while their friends worked the crowd, collecting money in a Red Sox hat with an oversized logo splashed across its side. Mayor Kevin White’s gigantic statue strode into the tourist attraction he created, his jacket thrown over his shoulder, his free hand gesturing to an invisible conversationalist.

I scooted through the gap between the statue and the breakdancer crowd. Faneuil Hall lay in front of me. Commuters charged through the plaza on their way to the Government Center train station, dog walkers led their charges, and shoppers rushed home with their loot.

Lucy crouched at the base of Sam Adams’s statue, petting a cocker spaniel. The dog’s owner, an older woman wearing a business suit, smiled at the attention and then gave the dog a little tug to continue its walk. Lucy stood and looked around the plaza. When our eyes met, she smiled her brilliant smile. It was a smile that said I’m so happy to see you! It was just what I needed.

I said, “I’d be careful of cocker spaniels. I hear they’re a love ’em and leave ’em breed.”

Lucy said, “I’ll be sure not to get my hopes up. Besides, I don’t think he had a job.”

Lucy threw her arms over my shoulders and pulled me close for a kiss. I responded. The kiss went on for a beat longer than I expected. It was a nice surprise. She pulled back and said, “Somebody’s been drinking.”

“Yeah—Bobby Miller. He was definitely drinking.”

“I see.”

“Let’s get some supper.”

Lucy took my arm as we walked around Faneuil Hall toward Quincy Market. We rounded the corner of the building and winced at the loud drumming of a guy who had inverted a series of buckets and was rapping out a staccato bucket solo. Lucy pulled herself closer to me in response to the auditory assault. Her breast pressed against my arm and thoughts of Sal, JT, and my mother were banished. Lucy and I ran past the bucketeer and into the market, where we were immediately rewarded with one of the best smells in Boston.

Quincy Market houses a long line of exotic food court eateries. We walked into the market and past a brightly colored collection of curries, a raw bar serving clams on the half shell, a submarine sandwich shop, a Regina Pizzeria, and a Mediterranean place that served gyros and falafel. There were cookies, chocolates, beers, wines, roast beef, and boiled lobster. There was a Japanese place that gave free samples, and there was, of course, a Starbucks.

Lucy said, “I don’t know where to start.”

I said, “I think this situation requires a complete reconnaissance before we can make an informed decision.”

We wandered down one side of the food court and back up the other, comparing options and taking note of the especially yummy. We stopped for a beer, then retraced our steps through the market and bought food at the winning eateries. We bought a lobster roll, chicken curry, hummus and pita bread, and an Italian sausage with peppers and onions. For dessert we chose a chunk of fudge and two coffees. Then we walked back to the center of the market and into the great hall.

The rotunda of Quincy Market is like the hub of a propeller. It’s a large, circular, domed room with tables and chairs set up for wandering diners. Staircases swept up the corners to the second level. We climbed the stairs and found a circular eatery, where we sat at a butcher-block table against the railing that overlooked the lower level. The market’s gleaming dome arched above us.

Lucy cut the lobster roll in half and we shared it as we talked.

Lucy bit into her piece of the roll and said, “You haven’t mentioned your brother.”

I said, “I’m trying to forget my brother.”

“Really?”

“Since he showed up, things have gone from good to bad and then bad to worse. Bobby yelled at me, my cousin called me an idiot, some guy named Talevi threatened me with a gun, and my mother slapped me in the face.”

“Oh my God! She did?”

“Yeah. It happens sometimes.”

“Are you okay?”

“She’s a little bit crazy, so I need to cut her some slack.”

“There’s cutting people slack and then there’s allowing yourself to be assaulted.”

“Well, I really can’t call an open-handed smack from a five-foot-tall Italian woman an assault.”

“You can if it’s from your mother.”

I was annoyed. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. I dipped some pita bread into the hummus, ate it, and changed the subject to something lighter.

“Personally, I’m more worried about the guy with the gun,” I said.

“Talevi?”

I said, “Yeah. Bobby says he’s a spy. My cousin Sal seems to know him too, but I can’t see how.”

“Is Talevi Italian?” said Lucy.

“No. He works for the Pakistani embassy.”

“His name ends in an i. Could be Iranian.”

“You think the Mafia’s letting Iranians in?”

Lucy said something, but my brain had gone for a holiday, trying to fit an Iranian spy into an Italian loan-sharking operation. The piece not only didn’t fit in, but it was the wrong size and color. It was like having a puzzle piece with a little skull on it when you were trying to make a puzzle of a kitten hanging onto a rope.

I came back into the conversation and heard the tail end of Lucy saying, “—Pittsfield?”

“Huh?” I said.

“I asked how things went in Pittsfield.”

“Pittsfield was bad,” I said. Then I told her just how bad it was. I ended with the story about my mother being a murder suspect and the slap. When I was done, she was silent.

I said, “I’m a hell of a fun guy, aren’t I?”

Lucy put her hand on mine. “Tucker, you are a great guy and a good man. None of this is your fault. I’m sorry I keep bringing it up.”

“It’s kind of like slowing down to look at a car accident, isn’t it?”

Lucy smiled. “Yeah. A little. Let’s forget about it. Deal?”

“Deal.”

I prepared another bite of lobster roll and asked Lucy about her day at school. She took over and told me about how her high school students were splicing glowing genes into E. coli to make a new form of glowing life. We had never done that in high school.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It seems that there are things that man was not meant to know.”

“Well, my kids had better know it,” said Lucy.

I munched my food and nodded while she spoke. It was pleasant. Comfortable. We finished up our food and threw away the refuse. As we walked down the staircase, I said, “Let’s go shopping.”

Buying a present was supposed to be the capstone to a beautiful evening. It wasn’t.