I left the restaurant, stared up into the cloudless blue sky and decided to walk home. It was a beautiful day, and I thought it might be good to clear the old noggin.
As I strolled along, I thought about Frank. And Donna. And Blackie.
I became so lost in thought that, by the time I reached the United Nations, I stumbled into the middle of a political protest.
A crowd was gathered, some of them carrying placards, all of them yelling and chanting, mostly at each other. It had something to do with the endless violence in the Middle East.
Pro-Israeli zealots and pro-Palestinian extremists were screaming and jumping up and down and accomplishing nothing useful that I could see.
I moved off to the side, watching the ebb and flow of picketers and dissidents, fascinated by the crush of demonstrators as they spilled into the street, blocking traffic and ignoring the admonitions of policemen carrying bullhorns, cautioning them to disperse before they got themselves arrested.
Big problems deserve big solutions. Was this the best they could do?
I decided to turn west even though it was out of my way, not just to get away from them, but to stroll up Madison Avenue. Putting the political strife behind me, I returned to my own problems while passing some of New York’s finest shop windows—Paul Stuart’s beautifully tailored clothing, Tourneau’s endless array of watches, a bookstore that sells first editions and the impossibly chic fashion shops further up the line.
Funny though, how my thoughts kept returning to the protest outside the U.N.
By the time I got to the sixties, I turned east for home. I only had a few hours before I picked Donna up for our dinner, but I knew I was not going back to work, that there was something I needed to do first. Reaching my apartment building, I got my car out of the garage and drove up to Arthur Avenue.
Sometimes you don’t stop by Memory Lane for ages, then you’re suddenly camping out there like it’s where you live.
I parked around the corner from the Roosevelt and took a walk down the street to Egidio’s Pastry Shop. It was a warm fall afternoon, and the sun felt good as I stood out front, staring at the window. Beautiful cakes were on display, placed on paper-lined shelves alongside trays of luscious cannolis and the largest Napoleons I’ve ever seen. There were racks of breads, piles of cookies and all sorts of other goodies. If you stood there long enough you could probably gain three pounds just looking at the stuff.
Gerry Egidio loved all his shops, but this was the original. I waited outside for a minute or so, thinking about how long it had been since I’d seen him, how awkward it was going to be to ask him to play twenty questions about my father. I took a deep breath and walked in.
There he was, behind the counter, giving instructions to two ladies about how to organize pastries on a large metal tray. When he turned in my direction he hesitated, then his businesslike demeanor softened.
“Unbelievable,” he said.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You recognize me?”
“Recognize you? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was your father thirty years ago.” He came around the counter and shook my hand, holding it in both of his. “This is wonderful, wonderful to see you.”
“You too,” I said.
“Ralph stopped by this morning, said you were at the Roosevelt last night for dinner.” He let go of my hand. “I’m happy to see you. Come,” he said, and led me to one of the small wrought iron and glass cafe tables that were set off to the side of the shop. We sat, and he called to the ladies behind the counter, asking them for espresso and biscotti.
He wanted to know everything about me, and I told him. He knew I’d finished college and heard I’d done graduate work. He said it made him very proud. He recalled how much he enjoyed our discussions at those Saturday lunches at the Roosevelt, and how disappointed he was that I never came by to see him anymore.
I told him I felt odd about visiting the old neighborhood since Blackie died.
He nodded.
We drank espresso and talked about his children. When he told me he was seventy-eight, I said I couldn’t believe it.
“You look exactly the same as the last time I saw you, you really do.”
He smiled. “I try to stay in shape, I don’t eat too much of my own pasticcino, and I keep working. That’s the trick. Retirement is a death sentence.”
He really did look the same. Same wire-rimmed glasses, same healthy olive complexion, same measured smile and those same dark, intelligent eyes.
“I’m a grandfather seven times over,” he announced, then went to his wallet for photos.
“You’re kidding,” I said. I knew there was nothing unusual for a guy his age to have grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren for that matter, but I thought astonishment was the appropriate response.
“Three girls, four boys.”
As I looked at the snapshots, I figured he must be a fine grandfather.
“Best thing in the world,” he told me.
“That’s great,” I said.
“Ralphie says you’re not married yet.”
“I’m not,” I admitted.
“It’s time for you to find a nice girl, no?”
I ignored the question and continued to study the photos. Then I said, “My father wouldn’t even be sixty yet, you believe that?”
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “He cheated himself out of a lot of things, your father. But this,” he said, tapping the snapshots with his forefinger, “this is the greatest experience in life.”
I handed him back the pictures, then watched him take a sip of the dark coffee.
He placed the demitasse cup down and gave me an even, serious look. “You’re not here because you missed my pastries or because you wanted to hear about my family. All these years, you never stopped by, then last night you see Ralphie and this afternoon you come to see me. What is it, son?”
When he used the expression “son,” it kind of took me by surprise. I know it’s just a figure of speech, but I drew a deep breath before I responded. “I want to show you something,” I told him, “then I need to ask your advice.”
“All right,” he said softly.
I reached into my jacket and pulled out a photocopy of the letter. “I found this in my father’s papers. My mother gave them to me a few days ago. It looks like he wrote this about a month or so before he died.”
Gerry took off his glasses, trading them for a pair of reading spectacles he kept in his shirt pocket. He took his time going over the letter, reading it through twice. I watched him, thinking, if I can’t trust Gerry Egidio, what is there to believe in?
When he finished he looked up, shaking his head back and forth, very slowly.
“Does it mean anything to you?” I asked.
He grinned and his eyes narrowed, making him appear years younger. “Blackie,” he said. “He was a rogue, your father. He always broke my stones about working so hard, never having enough fun. He teased a lot of us in the group, but especially me.”
“I remember.”
He looked away now, staring at the trays of pastries and breads and cakes that lined the far wall of his shop. “I really miss him, maybe more than I miss anyone in the club. And that’s funny, because we couldn’t have been any less alike. Except for one thing. We both knew you were a smart boy. We both wanted you to be educated. My own kids, I did the best I could. They had some schooling, but none of them were really students. My sons are all in the business now, did I tell you that? They don’t work as hard as I did when I was their age.” He uttered a short laugh. “They don’t even work as hard as I do now, but I guess that’s how it goes, from generation to generation.”
He gave me a look, as if that was something we should both think about. “You were different. You were intelligent, and your father saw that. As crazy as he was—and you should forgive me if I have to say that he was a little crazy. As crazy as he was, he saw it. It made him proud too. Don’t think it didn’t.”
I couldn’t bring myself to reply.
“So now you found this letter.” He waved the paper gently in the air. “One of Blackie’s schemes, one of those big deals he was always trying to cook up. And all these years later you want to make the mistake we all hoped you would never make.”
“I’m not sure what to do,” I admitted. “That’s why I’m here.”
He pressed his lips together and had another look at the paper. “I suppose you’ve already spoken to Benny.”
“I did, yes. He knows what it’s about, but the only thing he would tell me was that it has something to do with a man in France, an old friend of my father’s named Gilles.”
When I mentioned France, I saw something light up in Gerry’s eyes, then fade just as quickly.
“This must have something to do with the time my father was in the Army. In France,” I said again, hoping to get another rise out of him. “I think it was toward the end of the war. I thought maybe he said something to you at one of those lunches.”
He switched eyeglasses and leaned against the back of his chair, folding his arms, staring at me. “I understand he left your family with very little.”
“Nothing, is closer to the truth,” I admitted.
“Then whatever he meant by this letter, if it amounted to anything at all, he would have told your mother, wouldn’t he?”
“Not necessarily. I realize you don’t know my mother, but she’s a lot different than he was.”
He nodded. “I understand. And I understand that this letter, coming to you all these years after he’s gone, it makes you feel you need to do something about it.”
“Exactly.”
I waited as Gerry let his gaze meander around the room again.
“All right,” he said at last. “There were times your father talked about something he and Benny did at the end of the war. Said they had a friend in France, and that some day they’d all be rich. It wasn’t the only time he said he’d be rich, but this was something else. The war was over for so many years by then, and far as I know he never went back to France. If he had something going on there, what was he waiting for?”
“I have the same question.”
“Most of the men in our crowd were in the service. Even I did my part, although I was too old for combat. Those days, in France or Italy or the Pacific, they were special to us.” He shook his head again. “Which certainly doesn’t mean I’m encouraging you to go any further than this conversation. If he did something, stashed money or whatever nonsense he got into, it’s ancient history now. You can see that, can’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“And his death, the way he died just after he wrote you this letter, that’s part of it too, isn’t it?”
I felt every drop of blood within me go ice cold. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry.”
“What are you saying? What has this got to do with his car accident?”
He removed his glasses again, shifted in his seat, sipped at his coffee, all without ever taking his eyes off me. “I don’t know what to say.” He hesitated. “I’m just trying to help you, that’s all.”
“I know, but help me do what?”
Gerry managed to smile again, although this time it came to him with difficulty. “To forget it? To stop asking questions you shouldn’t be asking?”
I thought it over. “Sometimes I feel I’ve spent too much of my life not asking questions I should have asked, or worrying and thinking but then not doing anything. I went to college and graduate school, I work at my job, and where has it gotten me? I feel like half of my life I’m reaching for something, and the other half I’m playing it so safe I never get there.”
The way he looked at me, I felt like an idiot.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I don’t have anywhere else to turn for answers. I don’t know anyone else I can trust, anyone who knows me and knew my father.”
“I understand,” Gerry said in a quiet voice that sounded as sad as I suddenly felt.
“What should I do?”
“I think you knew that answer, even before you came to see me.” He waited for me to say something. “You’re going to try and speak with this man Gilles?”
“I am,” I said. “But I want to know what would you do?”
He hesitated before saying, “I think I’d do the same thing. I’d want to at least talk to him.” Then he said, “Damnit, just remember, you’re not your father. Whatever you do, remember that.” He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“Sometimes I think maybe I’ve run too far from who he was. I know that sounds nuts, but I do.”
He said he understood. Then he made me promise to be careful. “Next time I see you,” he warned me, “I expect to hear about the books you’ve been reading, not about old letters.” He handed me the copy of Blackie’s note, which he’d been holding all this time. “Come back and see me soon.”
“I promise,” I said. And I meant it, not just because it felt so good to see him, but because there was another part of our conversation we had not finished.
***
ON THE DRIVE BACK TO MANHATTAN I thought about my father’s death.
Blackie had pulled one of his disappearing acts, which he would do every now and then when he was on a bender, or off “doing work,” as he called it. My mother would become nervous when he disappeared for a day or two, and when he returned they would argue about why he couldn’t phone from wherever he was, just to say he wasn’t going to be home that night, that day, whatever. Blackie would tell her he couldn’t, that was just the way it was. He couldn’t.
This time, though, it ran into a few days before she heard from one of his friends.
I was living in Manhattan, so I didn’t even know he was gone. It was my sister Kelly who called to tell me that Blackie had been away for three days and that my mother had just received a phone call. That’s when I learned Blackie had been in a car accident.
In the hospital, my mother didn’t want us to visit him, not until he’d healed up a bit. She didn’t want any of us to be upset.
I told her that was nonsense, I was his son and I was going to see him.
Blackie was in the intensive care unit, an awful, insensate mess. His face was mostly bandaged, the uncovered areas badly bruised and cut and having turned various shades of purple and black and red. He lay there with his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and irregular, tubes and wires running from his arm and his nose and his chest to all sorts of monitoring devices, with hanging bottles crowding the small area. I sat there quietly for a couple of hours, just watching him, waiting to see if something would happen. I held his hand and spoke to him. He tried to mutter a few things, but mostly he slept.
I saw the doctor, who explained that the facial injuries were the least of it. He said that Blackie had suffered massive internal injuries, and the specialists were worried about how his heart was going to take it. He’d had a second coronary earlier that year, and his condition was very weak.
As I’ve said, he died two days after the accident without ever regaining consciousness. We were told he had been driving alone, that his car swung out of control on the Saw Mill River Parkway, and he crashed into a tree.
I recalled the car Blackie was driving in those days, a brown Eldorado with a white convertible top. I remembered that the car showed up in the driveway a few days after we buried my father, looking as good as new, supposedly having already been repaired. I remember saying how odd it was, that the car was fixed up that quickly, but my mother never responded. She sold the car as soon as she could, explaining to us that there was as much owed on it as it was worth.
My mother never discussed the circumstances of his death again.
***
AT THE ENTRANCE TO MY BUILDING I used the house key to let myself into the lobby, took the elevator upstairs and trudged wearily down the hallway.
Somehow, before I reached my door, I began feeling more alert. It was as if I had awakened from an uneasy sleep, knowing that something was wrong. I’m not sure how I knew, I just did.
I had already inserted my key in the lock when I noticed the scratch marks on the brass. It was one of those things you see but it doesn’t register right away. Then it did. I hesitated, just before I turned the key, when it occurred to me that someone might still be inside.
I opened the door and quietly stepped inside, carefully measuring each movement. I stopped in the foyer, listening, hoping not to hear anything. There was silence, except for the sounds outside from the noisy streets of New York. I walked slowly toward the living room.
The contents of my father’s box were scattered all over the coffee table and floor. I stood there for a moment, not ready to move again just yet.
I considered turning and walking out, then felt a rush of anger that told me, no, this is my goddamned apartment, I’m not running anywhere.
Maybe it wasn’t the wisest instinct at that moment, but that was how I felt.
I turned for the bedroom, where I opened the closets, then looked in the bathroom where I pulled back the shower curtain, then moved to the kitchen. I don’t know why it all began to strike me as funny, perhaps it was the absolute absurdity of the situation, or the fact that the apartment was too small to effectively hide anyone, but I even opened the refrigerator and dishwasher, just to amuse myself. Then I returned to the mess in the living room.
I drew a deep breath and let out a long sigh—it felt like the first breath I’d taken since I opened the front door—then dropped onto the couch, in front of the box, and stared at the mess that had been left behind. As I began sorting out the papers and photos, the first name that leaped to mind was, of course, Frank. Who else had I talked to about the letter? Nicky. Gerry. Benny. None of those names made for a likely suspect. Frank was the name that kept flashing across my mind.
I re-organized my father’s papers, knowing the one thing they had not found was his letter, since I’d already hidden the original in a file at my office, the only copy still in my pocket. I assumed the note and envelope from Gilles de la Houssay went unnoticed and, when I found it, I experienced a momentary sense of relief. There was no reason for anyone to attach importance to an innocuous letter from an old friend. I put it down on the table, then went back to organizing the other papers, feeling sad and angry and lonely as hell.