don't bother.
An hour after I got to Maxine's, she left me in her bed and put the pizza I brought in the microwave.
"You want some?" she called from the kitchen, mouth full. "I really think Grimaldi's is better, you know, honey."
I got up and looked out of the window. The sun was high over the Hudson beyond Shore Drive where Maxie lived. She had grown up nearby in Bay Ridge. It was a peaceful neighborhood, Italian, some Jews, white; it had been Scandinavian once. She had moved back from Staten Island after her husband, Mark, died in the Trade Center.
From her half of the two family house, what they called a Mother and Daughter out in Brooklyn, she had a spectacular view of the water. I wasn't crazy about how easy the access was to her front door, but she loved it. She had always wanted a view of the Verrazano Bridge she said.
"The Golden Gate," Maxie would say, thickening up her Brooklyn accent. "That's not a bridge. This," she'd say, walking to the window and looking out, "this is a bridge!"
When Mark died on 9/11 she had gone back to her job in forensics, which was how I knew her. She was good at it and it filled up the hours and the girls were in junior high now anyway. She came back to the bedroom, where I was struggling with my jeans.
"You putting on a few pounds, sailor?" She giggled.
Maxine Crabbe was an old friend. We got together once in a while and argued over where you got the best pizza in Brooklyn—Grimaldi's, Totonno's, Di Fara's on Avenue J. Once in a while we had a pizza orgy and an overnight.
She was thirty-eight and looked younger, a stringbean of a girl, tall, skinny, loose limbed. She wore her hair short and she had freckles. We had known each other before I met Lily. I met Max when she showed up, a kid of twenty-two, at a station house where I was working. She was very sharp.
We had dated on and off, she was practical, funny, smart and uncomplicated, but I was a pain in the ass and couldn't commit and she gave up and married Mark, a handsome fire captain from Staten Island. They had twins, Millie and Maria, identical as babies but different as they grew up; Millie was smooth and blonde, a real little nymphet, and Maria, who hated her sister's obsessions with boys and clothes, wore glasses she didn't need and kept her face in a book even at dinner when Max tried to stop her. But they were both good kids.
Once in a while, in the old days, I went over when they lived on Staten Island. I'd fish with Mark; Maxie would barbecue.
For months after Mark died, Maxine worked long nights at the "Dead House," the makeshift morgue at the Marriott Hotel downtown where they tried to match what remains they could find to DNA samples. It was horrible for her; not because she wasn't used to it, she dealt with dead bodies all the time. She pulled those hours, I knew, because she was waiting for Mark to show up. Something, she thought. Please, God, let them find a piece of him so I can get some rest. They never did.
Like everyone downtown, we got close those months. Lily left New York, Max and me, we went out a few times. Nothing was ever said. We fell into a kind of routine, pizza, a movie, music, a trip to the park with the girls. No big deal. We were friends who fell into bed together once in a while. It filled up the time, but I missed Lily.
"You want a slice?"
"I'm not hungry," I said. "I'll skip it. Is there coffee?" I got dressed, followed her into the kitchen, where she was sampling the pie.
"Grimaldi's is much better," she said. "Artie?"
"Yeah?"
"You believe in God?"
"No."
"I wish I could get rid of believing."
"It's different if you're Catholic, I think."
"But Jews believe."
"I'm not that kind of Jew," I said.
"What kind are you?"
"The kind who doesn't believe in God. Anyway, my father wasn't Jewish at all, but that's not really it. I'm a New York Jew, you know? I'm a Woody Allen Jew, a George Gershwin Jew, a Stan Getz Jew, a Mel Brooks Jew, and Billy Wilder and books by Philip Roth and all
An hour after I got to Maxine's, she left me in her bed and put the pizza I brought in the microwave.
"You want some?" she called from the kitchen, mouth full. "I really think Grimaldi's is better, you know, honey."
I got up and looked out of the window. The sun was high over the Hudson beyond Shore Drive where Maxie lived. She had grown up nearby in Bay Ridge. It was a peaceful neighborhood, Italian, some Jews, white; it had been Scandinavian once. She had moved back from Staten Island after her husband, Mark, died in the Trade Center.
From her half of the two family house, what they called a Mother and Daughter out in Brooklyn, she had a spectacular view of the water. I wasn't crazy about how easy the access was to her front door, but she loved it. She had always wanted a view of the Verrazano Bridge she said.
"The Golden Gate," Maxie would say, thickening up her Brooklyn accent. "That's not a bridge. This," she'd say, walking to the window and looking out, "this is a bridge!"
When Mark died on 9/11 she had gone back to her job in forensics, which was how I knew her. She was good at it and it filled up the hours and the girls were in junior high now anyway. She came back to the bedroom, where I was struggling with my jeans.
"You putting on a few pounds, sailor?" She giggled.
Maxine Crabbe was an old friend. We got together once in a while and argued over where you got the best pizza in Brooklyn—Grimaldi's, Totonno's, Di Fara's on Avenue J. Once in a while we had a pizza orgy and an overnight.
She was thirty-eight and looked younger, a stringbean of a girl, tall, skinny, loose limbed. She wore her hair short and she had freckles. We had known each other before I met Lily. I met Max when she showed up, a kid of twenty-two, at a station house where I was working. She was very sharp.
We had dated on and off, she was practical, funny, smart and uncomplicated, but I was a pain in the ass and couldn't commit and she gave up and married Mark, a handsome fire captain from Staten Island. They had twins, Millie and Maria, identical as babies but different as they grew up; Millie was smooth and blonde, a real little nymphet, and Maria, who hated her sister's obsessions with boys and clothes, wore glasses she didn't need and kept her face in a book even at dinner when Max tried to stop her. But they were both good kids.
Once in a while, in the old days, I went over when they lived on Staten Island. I'd fish with Mark; Maxie would barbecue.
For months after Mark died, Maxine worked long nights at the "Dead House," the makeshift morgue at the Marriott Hotel downtown where they tried to match what remains they could find to DNA samples. It was horrible for her; not because she wasn't used to it, she dealt with dead bodies all the time. She pulled those hours, I knew, because she was waiting for Mark to show up. Something, she thought. Please, God, let them find a piece of him so I can get some rest. They never did.
Like everyone downtown, we got close those months. Lily left New York, Max and me, we went out a few times. Nothing was ever said. We fell into a kind of routine, pizza, a movie, music, a trip to the park with the girls. No big deal. We were friends who fell into bed together once in a while. It filled up the time, but I missed Lily.
"You want a slice?"
"I'm not hungry," I said. "I'll skip it. Is there coffee?" I got dressed, followed her into the kitchen, where she was sampling the pie.
"Grimaldi's is much better," she said. "Artie?"
"Yeah?"
"You believe in God?"
"No."
"I wish I could get rid of believing."
"It's different if you're Catholic, I think."
"But Jews believe."
"I'm not that kind of Jew," I said.
"What kind are you?"
"The kind who doesn't believe in God. Anyway, my father wasn't Jewish at all, but that's not really it. I'm a New York Jew, you know? I'm a Woody Allen Jew, a George Gershwin Jew, a Stan Getz Jew, a Mel Brooks Jew, and Billy Wilder and books by Philip Roth and all
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