the North End via the Central Artery. I felt anger
toward the elder D'Amicos for no good reason. I decided to cool off a
little first with a different kind of visit.
* * *
In February you can't see any sailboats from her
hillside. Her first year there, we had an early spring. Then, a few
brave souls, probably amateurs, were out by the last week of March.
"This year, I'd bet April 10th at the earliest,
Beth."
Before she'd gotten the cancer, or at least before we
knew she had it, we would visit Boston's Museum of Fine Arts once
every few months. I always preferred paintings, Beth sculpture.
Whenever we entered a room of sculpture, she would stand for fifteen
minutes in front of one piece, say a smallish Greek statue, while I
would wander around the room.
Whenever I got back to her, she would be ready to go
on to the next room. She always said she preferred studying one piece
of work in detail. I never had the patience to stare at one piece of
stone for that kind of time.
Until I lost her.
For months after Beth was buried, I would look only
at her ground, not the headstone. Now I would I notice the slightest
additional scratch on her marker. A relative of hers, an old man,
advised me at the wake to shy away from polished marble. He said
that, despite its hardness, it always showed nicks and after ten
months would look like it had been in the graveyard for ten years.
He may have been right. I tried to believe the marks
around her name and years were natural aging, caused by cold and rain
or windblown branches. More likely, they were the product of
carelessly swung rakes or tossed beer bottles. But, she gently
reminded me, I wasn't keeping to the point.
"You're right, kid. A1, A1 Sachs, is dead. I
identified the body this morning. Someone tortured and mutilated him,
Beth. The police are treating it as a gay murder, but I don't think
so. He called me Tuesday morning and planned a dinner with me. He
sounded nervous. No, more than nervous, scared." I thought about
that. In Vietnam we'd both been scared often enough, but I could
never remember Al sounding scared. That was the edge in his voice
that I noticed but didn't recognize yesterday.
"In addition to sounding scared, somebody
searched his room. A pro. He left nothing out of order that anyone
would especially notice." I left out the part about the guy who
might have checked my pink message slip.
"I don't have the slightest idea why it
happened, kid. He was living and working out of Pittsburgh for a
steel company, and this was the first time he'd been in Boston for
years."
She told me it wasn't my fault. Agreeing with her
helped only a little. "Anyway, I'm going to be taking him home
to Pittsburgh. Our flight is tonight at six-fifty. So I won't be
coming by for a while."
The wind rose up, blowing a little sleet in front of
it. I turned up my collar and hunkered down on my haunches. I touched
her grave with the fingers of my right hand.
"Give A1 my best," I said.
Hanover Street is the main drag of the North End.
Tourists and people from other parts of the Boston area cruise it,
futilely searching for a parking place near the dozens of Italian
restaurants which lie along or just off it. Most of the buildings
have a commercial first floor, often a bakery or butcher shop. The
remaining floors are apartments. In good weather, the women, young,
middle-aged, and old, lean out of windows with their elbows on the
sills.
On street level, the men, also of all ages,
congregate in knots of three to five on the sidewalk. Some sit in
folding lawn chairs, most talk in staccato Italian. Few pay much
attention to non-neighborhood people walking by. A lot of Bostonians
maintain that the North End is the safest neighborhood in the city.
Seven-sixty-seven Hanover had a small insurance agency on the ground
floor. I walked to the doorway next to it and pressed the D'Amicos'
bell. The door was painted dark gray, with six stained-glass inserts.
I waited two minutes and pressed again. Still
toward the elder D'Amicos for no good reason. I decided to cool off a
little first with a different kind of visit.
* * *
In February you can't see any sailboats from her
hillside. Her first year there, we had an early spring. Then, a few
brave souls, probably amateurs, were out by the last week of March.
"This year, I'd bet April 10th at the earliest,
Beth."
Before she'd gotten the cancer, or at least before we
knew she had it, we would visit Boston's Museum of Fine Arts once
every few months. I always preferred paintings, Beth sculpture.
Whenever we entered a room of sculpture, she would stand for fifteen
minutes in front of one piece, say a smallish Greek statue, while I
would wander around the room.
Whenever I got back to her, she would be ready to go
on to the next room. She always said she preferred studying one piece
of work in detail. I never had the patience to stare at one piece of
stone for that kind of time.
Until I lost her.
For months after Beth was buried, I would look only
at her ground, not the headstone. Now I would I notice the slightest
additional scratch on her marker. A relative of hers, an old man,
advised me at the wake to shy away from polished marble. He said
that, despite its hardness, it always showed nicks and after ten
months would look like it had been in the graveyard for ten years.
He may have been right. I tried to believe the marks
around her name and years were natural aging, caused by cold and rain
or windblown branches. More likely, they were the product of
carelessly swung rakes or tossed beer bottles. But, she gently
reminded me, I wasn't keeping to the point.
"You're right, kid. A1, A1 Sachs, is dead. I
identified the body this morning. Someone tortured and mutilated him,
Beth. The police are treating it as a gay murder, but I don't think
so. He called me Tuesday morning and planned a dinner with me. He
sounded nervous. No, more than nervous, scared." I thought about
that. In Vietnam we'd both been scared often enough, but I could
never remember Al sounding scared. That was the edge in his voice
that I noticed but didn't recognize yesterday.
"In addition to sounding scared, somebody
searched his room. A pro. He left nothing out of order that anyone
would especially notice." I left out the part about the guy who
might have checked my pink message slip.
"I don't have the slightest idea why it
happened, kid. He was living and working out of Pittsburgh for a
steel company, and this was the first time he'd been in Boston for
years."
She told me it wasn't my fault. Agreeing with her
helped only a little. "Anyway, I'm going to be taking him home
to Pittsburgh. Our flight is tonight at six-fifty. So I won't be
coming by for a while."
The wind rose up, blowing a little sleet in front of
it. I turned up my collar and hunkered down on my haunches. I touched
her grave with the fingers of my right hand.
"Give A1 my best," I said.
Hanover Street is the main drag of the North End.
Tourists and people from other parts of the Boston area cruise it,
futilely searching for a parking place near the dozens of Italian
restaurants which lie along or just off it. Most of the buildings
have a commercial first floor, often a bakery or butcher shop. The
remaining floors are apartments. In good weather, the women, young,
middle-aged, and old, lean out of windows with their elbows on the
sills.
On street level, the men, also of all ages,
congregate in knots of three to five on the sidewalk. Some sit in
folding lawn chairs, most talk in staccato Italian. Few pay much
attention to non-neighborhood people walking by. A lot of Bostonians
maintain that the North End is the safest neighborhood in the city.
Seven-sixty-seven Hanover had a small insurance agency on the ground
floor. I walked to the doorway next to it and pressed the D'Amicos'
bell. The door was painted dark gray, with six stained-glass inserts.
I waited two minutes and pressed again. Still
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