I move out?”
“I think I’m a little … uh, over the meridian for that, Sissy.”
“People do it all the time at your age!”
“I didn’t say I was never going to do it again. I expect to do it at least once more before I stop forever.”
“Not that. You know what I mean. What about that guy you were with? I want to call him Moss or Gray …”
“Brown,” said Marie. “Brown Stuart.”
At some point, it became clear that Marie’s life would be the chance to grab a carry-on bag, a long dress, some underwear, and a cab—headed for places girls who grew up in a two-flat at 79th and Kedzie Avenue rarely got to go, to the trials and the nuptials and the funerals of the famous and the infamous. She traveled light, literally and personally, with no strings. That wasn’t to say she lacked for love. Brown Stuart, her counterpart at her first job, her lover for years, would have married Marie a thousand times. Bookish, boyish, a kid from South Boston, suddenly rich and visible, he had switched his first and last names to mimic the prep-school cred that Anderson Cooper owned the day he was born. When Marie was pushing forty-five—still young enough, technology being what it was, to have perhaps one child—she’d finally decided to take Brown up on offer one thousand and one. But Marie’s decision to say yes to Brown’s proposal coincided nearly exactly with her sister’s death. Five or six years ago now, Brown wrote to say he’d married Melanie Towers, a D.C. bureau reporter not a day over thirty-five. In short order, Brown and Melanie had a little boy. Marie sent a baby gift, the most impractical engraved rattle she could find, in that bird’s-egg-blue box that, even empty, firmly announced its status.
Tipsy now, Marie noted a perilous loosening of her tongue. “It wasn’t Brown I really wanted,” she said.
“Who, then?”
“It was your dad.”
“Come on!” Sicily was clearly as puzzled as she was beguiled. “You had, like, what, five dates? Four? Who falls in love in a month? It’s impossible, except maybe for Kit.”
“It’s not impossible,” Marie said, a bit blearily, standing up as the doorbell buzzed. “I was crazy about him.”
“Really?”
“No fooling,” said Marie, and then spoke into the intercom. “Who is it, Angel?”
“Mister LaVoy, to see Sicily.”
“He works until three,” Sicily said as Marie pressed the button. “It’s one o’clock. That’s too weird.”
“He got out early,” Marie said. “Angel knows Joey. He isn’t going to send up the Boston Strangler dressed as a Chicago fireman.”
“That’s what the Strangler counted on,” Sicily said, and they both turned their eyes to the knock at Sicily’s entrance—and it was weird, Marie thought, too soft, as if made by a handful of wet rags rather than a handful of knuckles.
“That’s freaky,” Sicily said.
Marie, only five feet one, stood on her toes to peer out of the security portal. It wasn’t Joey, but she recognized the kid. Motioning to Sicily, Marie moved aside. It was Joey’s younger brother, whom Marie had met maybe twice. His head bowed, Paulie stood holding a newsboy’s cap in his gloved hands, his unzipped parka having slipped from his shoulders to the floor. Sicily stepped back, confused, pulling her shirt away from her stomach in a gesture Marie recognized as nerves. Sicily’s throat and chest didn’t sweat very much—too much skin had been removed for there to be a real pore structure—but when she was frightened, as she was now, sweat burst from her scalp and her stomach: Within seconds, a wet mark appeared on Sicily’s silk undershirt.
“Joey’s hurt,” Sicily said. Marie thought exactly the same thing. Some lazy slate-eyed deity had heard Sicily disavow her angel mother for the sake of her crazy aunt and, with nothing better to do, decided to prove that Sicily was indeed her mother’s child, replete with her mother’s destiny. “It has to be Joey. I know it.
“I think I’m a little … uh, over the meridian for that, Sissy.”
“People do it all the time at your age!”
“I didn’t say I was never going to do it again. I expect to do it at least once more before I stop forever.”
“Not that. You know what I mean. What about that guy you were with? I want to call him Moss or Gray …”
“Brown,” said Marie. “Brown Stuart.”
At some point, it became clear that Marie’s life would be the chance to grab a carry-on bag, a long dress, some underwear, and a cab—headed for places girls who grew up in a two-flat at 79th and Kedzie Avenue rarely got to go, to the trials and the nuptials and the funerals of the famous and the infamous. She traveled light, literally and personally, with no strings. That wasn’t to say she lacked for love. Brown Stuart, her counterpart at her first job, her lover for years, would have married Marie a thousand times. Bookish, boyish, a kid from South Boston, suddenly rich and visible, he had switched his first and last names to mimic the prep-school cred that Anderson Cooper owned the day he was born. When Marie was pushing forty-five—still young enough, technology being what it was, to have perhaps one child—she’d finally decided to take Brown up on offer one thousand and one. But Marie’s decision to say yes to Brown’s proposal coincided nearly exactly with her sister’s death. Five or six years ago now, Brown wrote to say he’d married Melanie Towers, a D.C. bureau reporter not a day over thirty-five. In short order, Brown and Melanie had a little boy. Marie sent a baby gift, the most impractical engraved rattle she could find, in that bird’s-egg-blue box that, even empty, firmly announced its status.
Tipsy now, Marie noted a perilous loosening of her tongue. “It wasn’t Brown I really wanted,” she said.
“Who, then?”
“It was your dad.”
“Come on!” Sicily was clearly as puzzled as she was beguiled. “You had, like, what, five dates? Four? Who falls in love in a month? It’s impossible, except maybe for Kit.”
“It’s not impossible,” Marie said, a bit blearily, standing up as the doorbell buzzed. “I was crazy about him.”
“Really?”
“No fooling,” said Marie, and then spoke into the intercom. “Who is it, Angel?”
“Mister LaVoy, to see Sicily.”
“He works until three,” Sicily said as Marie pressed the button. “It’s one o’clock. That’s too weird.”
“He got out early,” Marie said. “Angel knows Joey. He isn’t going to send up the Boston Strangler dressed as a Chicago fireman.”
“That’s what the Strangler counted on,” Sicily said, and they both turned their eyes to the knock at Sicily’s entrance—and it was weird, Marie thought, too soft, as if made by a handful of wet rags rather than a handful of knuckles.
“That’s freaky,” Sicily said.
Marie, only five feet one, stood on her toes to peer out of the security portal. It wasn’t Joey, but she recognized the kid. Motioning to Sicily, Marie moved aside. It was Joey’s younger brother, whom Marie had met maybe twice. His head bowed, Paulie stood holding a newsboy’s cap in his gloved hands, his unzipped parka having slipped from his shoulders to the floor. Sicily stepped back, confused, pulling her shirt away from her stomach in a gesture Marie recognized as nerves. Sicily’s throat and chest didn’t sweat very much—too much skin had been removed for there to be a real pore structure—but when she was frightened, as she was now, sweat burst from her scalp and her stomach: Within seconds, a wet mark appeared on Sicily’s silk undershirt.
“Joey’s hurt,” Sicily said. Marie thought exactly the same thing. Some lazy slate-eyed deity had heard Sicily disavow her angel mother for the sake of her crazy aunt and, with nothing better to do, decided to prove that Sicily was indeed her mother’s child, replete with her mother’s destiny. “It has to be Joey. I know it.
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