Miles. Part 8

The Captain stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and looked at the sky, Nicolasha, the steps in front of him, and the sky once more before meeting my eyes. "Your parents, son. They...they're dead." Nicolasha's arm slid across my back, holding me up as my legs weakened. "Some drunk at a stoplight, last night. I don't know." The Captain's voice was trapped in the back of his throat. "I'm sorry, son."

My eyes drifted to the icicle I had snapped in half. It laid there at my feet, slowly melting in the sunlight that still hung over the porch, the bright sun's unsullied veneration to the birthday of the son of G.o.d.

G.o.d...some divinity I suddenly felt I couldnt hear, or touch, one that had left me in the mists of that daylight, deadened by the frost of a winter afternoon in h.e.l.l itself.

My G.o.d.

I sat in the back of the Captain's unmarked Chevy and let Nicolasha hold my gloved hand as we drove to the southern suburbs. The sun was beginning to set. The pa.s.sing noise of the expressway and the occasional crackle from the police radio were the only sounds that broke the silence I had imposed on everyone.

My mind had wandered to a night last summer, when I had invited all of my baseball buddies to stay over at my place. None of the other parents wanted a platoon of young teenaged boys in their house, but I was "lucky": Dad was downstate on business, while Mom was working that night. The next morning, everyone complained about how I was the last one to go to sleep, and the first one to wake up. Mom teased me in front of the guys, reminding me about how I would never go to sleep when I was a baby unless my little fingers were wrapped around someone's hand.

Nicolasha leaned forward and whispered directions into the Captain's ear. He sat back gently and turned his head sideways to look at me. I paused for a moment before deciding not to return his stare. I couldn't make out his features in the dark of the car, anyway.

Whenever we used to drive someplace, Dad would always insist on traveling at night. Traffic was lighter, moved faster, and there weren't nearly as many State Policemen out when it was late, he reasoned. I thought it had to do with his favorite kind of music, jazz, which always sounded better at night. I used to fall asleep with my body curled sideways against the front seat and my head resting on his thigh, that is, until he bought his Stingray, which had its gear shift mounted on a large center console. He purchased it around the same time we stopped doing road trips.

I took my gloves off and put a bare hand back into my teacher's.

The wide circular driveway in front of our pristine home was filled with cars, few of which I immediately recognized. The Captain had difficulty finding a place to park. He and Nicolasha flanked me like bodyguards, and walked me slowly toward the front door.

Some idiot had turned on all of the Christmas lights that lined the house and hung from the naked branches of the young trees Mom had planted last spring.

My cousin, excuse me, Mayor Lawrence Poiregaz, peered out from one of our living room windows and pointed at us. He opened both sides of the front door and met us about ten feet from the house. There were a cl.u.s.ter of relatives staring out from within the doorway.

"Thank G.o.d, you're here. We were all worried sick."

The Captain cleared his throat, about to speak, but I cut him off with a slightly raised hand and my very best, ice-cold tone of voice: "Who is this...'we'?"

Lawrence the Laughing Lawyer, Dad's contemptuous behind-the-back nickname for his Aunt Hilly's pride and joy, was stunned. I think my bodyguards were, too, but the little blue flame inside of me, smoldering through the ride from Hyde Park, had become rather fierier. He diplomatically ignored the visible bruises on my face. "It's your...we're your family."

d.a.m.n my family. I jabbed my finger toward the house. "Is that mine now?" I ignored Nicolasha's gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Uh...what?" Lawrence sputtered.

"The house. You were my Dad's lawyer, weren't you? Is this house mine or not?"

Lawrence fumbled trying to light a cigarette. He nodded repeatedly until he took his first drag.

"Good. Then I want everyone to leave, right now."

The Captain spoke up. "Now, son, you can't..."

"Yes, I can. It's my house, isn't it?" The Captain nodded his chin once. "Then get them out of here."

Nicolasha stepped between me and Lawrence, putting his hands on my face. "Little friend. Listen to me," he implored. I took a step backward, out of his reach.

"Where's my uncle?"

Lawrence cleared his throat with a deep series of smoker's coughs. I could see the Huns at the door getting restless. "He's taking it very hard." Nicolasha and the Captain withdrew to the unmarked squad car. "We all are." I don't know if Lawrence heard my snort of a reply. He coughed again. "He said he'll be here tomorrow morning."

I watched the Captain drive away, but forgot to wave. Nicolasha stood where the car had been parked, holding my gloves and waiting in the darkness for the blue flame to subside. In vain.

"Who's making the arrangements?"

Lawrence started to regain his composure. "Your uncle asked me to, help make it easier on both of you." One of the immigrant cousins began to walk outside the house. Lawrence waved him back. "If that's OK with you," he added, with a degree of sincerity I couldn't place.

"It isn't." Everything inside of me was being gobbled up by the blue flames. I felt like I was about start spitting fire from my mouth like a nuclear dragon on a bad day. And my maybe well-meaning lawyer cousin became ground zero for the blast. "I'll to do it myself." I wheeled past him and headed for the side of the house, the secret pa.s.sageway to my empty backyard. "And get those people out of here. I want to be alone."

"No problem at all." Lawrence's voice was equally cold and insensitive, and had hurt woven throughout the syllables, as well. I spun around on my heels and glared at him with a pointless hatred. He lowered his head and mumbled an apology before retreating back to the house.

I gestured for Nicolasha to follow me.

After waiting for the last door to slam and the final car to drive off, I sunk back into the large wooden lawn chair that faced out from the patio toward the end of the snow-blanketed yard, almost two hundred feet away.

I felt like Michael Corleone at the end of "The G.o.dfather Part II", cold and alone, incapable of doing anything about my pain except to stare off into some distant s.p.a.ce.

Nicolasha pulled up a wooden stool and sat next to me. A good deal of the white moon radiated brilliantly in the star-studded night sky above us. The yard and the suburban neighborhood surrounding us were utterly silent, except for the supernatural rustle of the icy breeze as it pa.s.sed through the leafless tree branches that towered like barbed wire over our barren property. I could smell traces of pine being burnt from a local chimney. We sat just beyond the shadow of my empty house made by the moon. My only thoughts stayed with my eyes, which scanned the heavens, looking for that one shimmering star the wise men were said to have followed those many, many years ago.

"You were very harsh back there, little friend," Nicolasha said gently. I nodded, still playing at Copernicus. "I am trying to understand, however." Waiting for my reply, he held out a hand for me to take, which I declined to, choosing to enjoy a few final moments of lifeless wonderment at the twilight instead. "Would you like me to come inside with you?"

"I don't want to go in," even if I was freezing to death.

"You cannot sleep in the snow, tovarisch."

Our shadowy features gazed at one another. "Alone, or with you?"

"Even together, my friend."

I looked away. "I should feel more alone than I do." My voice remained impa.s.sive. Nicolasha couldn't see the tears about to fall from my eyes. He stood up in front of me and offered me my gloves. I closed my eyes as I put them on, trying to keep any tears from falling. Strained with an odd sort of fear, I felt myself being pulled up from the chair and into his arms. I slowly relaxed after Nicolasha did not reach downward with his hands, or touch me with his lips. He just held me close to him, leaning his face over my head.

"I am so sorry, little friend." Nicolasha's voice broke with a terrible snap. "Sweet baby Jesus be with you tonight."

Only a messianic Russian would say such a thing.

We cried together. Or, rather, Nicolasha sobbed quietly, for me, for us, for sweet baby Jesus knows what, while I let forth with a heaving, choking, hyperventilating, practically screaming hailstorm of tears that would have been embarra.s.sing in an opera.

I had just seen Nicolasha off to the train station, having balked at spending the night in my house, before retreating to the timeless sanctuary of warm, sprinkling shower water, with the alb.u.m Felix's dad had bought me, Shostakovich's unusual and nearly surreal Hamlet Suite, voluminously playing in the background.

I spent many minutes standing naked from the door of my bathroom, staring down into the dark hallway where Mom and Dad's bedrooms were. I knew a little about Shakespeare's Hamlet (and a few of his other works) thanks to the cool, nearly s.a.d.i.s.tic baritone reading voice of Mister Granger; whatever tenuous relationship this Suite may have had with the neurotic Danish prince, et al, Soviet artistic sensibilities aside, was quite beyond me. The d.a.m.ned piece sounded like vast, orchestral music for a silent movie comedy. But I was thankful for the distraction provided to me by the crashing, cacophonous potpourri of musical vignettes in this Shostakovich oddity. I particularly enjoyed the allegro Tournament, a vast, cla.s.sic waltz for those precious twinklings of Stalinist intimacy one might be possessed with. I listened to it twice.

Mom loved waltzes.

I sat in a hunter green tartan flannel robe one of my aunts had bought me for Christmas, with a fresh pair of white gym socks on my feet. I tried on the matching shirt and pants that came with the robe when I got out of the shower, but they were unbearably stiff and itchy.

I had already called the Polish priest at Holy Rosary to ask him to preside over the funeral service, and to reserve the church for that purpose, my parting shot to the Huns, who would no doubt be shivered to their timbers about making such a fateful trip back to the old neighborhood. The Pole was a little terse on the phone, but I imagined he was carrying on like that to hide his dismay at the grim tragedy of it all.

I was, too, I guess.

I then called Lawrence's house. I was relieved he picked up the phone instead of Aunt Hilly. I apologized briefly and he accepted with gushing grace, insisting I let him take care of the wake the following night. He wanted to hold it at a client's funeral home, a friend he had gone to the University of Illinois with. I agreed, and apologized again, mostly because Nicolasha had prevailed upon me earlier to do so.

The professor wasn't home. Neither was Brennan, d.a.m.n it.

That left my phone call to Florida.

I ran my hand through my wet hair, waiting for the other line to be picked up. I was nestled in the corner of our sofa, where the raging fireplace warmed my legs, which were propped up on a bulky ha.s.sock placed in front of me. I had brought my Shostakovich record downstairs to listen to again, but hadn't switched it on yet, unlike every single light in every room I could turn on in the house.

"Happy Holidays."

"Mrs. Cromwell." I could hear a festive gathering in the background. My mind spun in turmoil, trying to decide whether I bitterly resented the cheer, or desperately wanted to be there. "Is Felix there?"

"The Hitman! Sure, let me get him." She called for her other son. "Id spank you for that 'Mrs. Cromwell but I think you might enjoy it!" Could she hear my involuntary smile? "We can't wait for you to land tomorrow!"

My jaw and eyes closed tightly. I couldn't bring myself to say anything else until Felix took the phone and said 'h.e.l.lo' twice. "Felix?" I was determined to keep myself composed, like I had with the priest and the lawyer, but my voice betrayed everything that was fermenting deep inside of me. Felix yelled for everyone to be quiet. The rest of his family ignored him.

"What's the matter, buddy?" I had trouble talking, again. Deep distress flooded into his gentle voice. "You're not coming, are you?"

"No." That I could say out loud. "I can't." I fought with my heaving chest and short breaths, but lost to the few tears that rolled down my face and rested between my cheek and the receiver.

"Is it your parents?" The festivities quieted down considerably. Felix sounded furious. I didn't know he even had a temper. "Tell me what they said. Please."

I refused to speak until I was sure I wouldn't break down in the middle of a sentence. My best friend probably thought I was blowing him off, or trying to think of a really good lie. "My Mom and Dad...they're dead...got killed...by some...by a drunk driver." I covered the mouthpiece with my hand to keep my halting sniffles a private affair. "Last night."

"Oh my G.o.d..." I heard Felix start fumbling with the phone. He took a few seconds before coming back on. I couldn't tell if he was crying, too. His voice sounded completely different, though. "Are you OK? Were you hurt?" I listened as Arlene whispered urgently to Felix, wanting to know what was going on.

"I wasn't in the car." I ran out of things to say. Felix told his mom in a vicious whisper what little I said. "I have to go."

"I'm flying up in the morning. So will my family, if they can."

"You don't have to, Felix." I didn't expect him to say that. I don't know what I expected, aside from bursting out in tears for the three hundredth time that year. I wondered if all these crying sessions meant I was a manic depressive. My voice winnowed down to a squeak. "I'd rather be there with you guys, anyway."

"I'll be there by lunch." His voice was collected and serious. I knew there and then he'd come, and almost began to feel a flash deep inside of me. "Try and get some sleep now, OK, buddy?" It was almost midnight in Florida.

"I will," I said, even though we both knew I wouldn't. The fire needed some more logs. "Thanks, Felix." I was too disoriented to wonder why I was thanking my friend for being a part of the most difficult phone call of my life.

His voice was filled with emotion and pain. "You're my best friend."

He hung up before I could reply.

I turned off all of the lights I had just turned on before I began my phone calling.

I was convinced I would stay up all night to watch the flames in the fireplace run their course, only to turn my attention to the vast, intricate patterns of blackness I would find on the ceiling above me.

But I didn't. Still wearing my new robe, I huddled myself in one of our hand-woven blankets from Mexico and plunged into a leaden, dreamless sleep well before the logs had extinguished themselves or Hamlet had finished playing.

X I I.

I turn my back.

There is a world elsewhere.

Coriola.n.u.s It was the longest day of my life.

While I took my morning shower, I presupposed that the wake would go smoothly, as smooth as such events can go, while the funeral itself would be the "hard" part. After all, when Papu Kasza pa.s.sed on to the great ward organization in the sky, I was devastated by the wake, and a.s.sumed the burial would be that much worse. Sure, I was younger and slightly more foolish when that happened, but why would that impact on my a.s.sumption?

Thus did I begin my interminable voyage across the tumbling and uncharted seas of the ritual of death, Roman Catholic-style.

Uncle Alex and Veronica came over around ten that morning. My Uncle had quite obviously drank himself to sleep only a few hours before, but I was relieved that he hadn't found any other form of pharmaceutical morphine to help him...cope...if inhaling a few bottles of gin falls under that category.

Veronica suggested we needed to pick out what Mom and Dad were going to wear. I stared at her without comprehending. Was this a party or something? They're dead, missy. I wasn't sure appearances were the most important thing on their minds now. What the h.e.l.l was she on about?

"For the wake, baby." Baby? Don't you call me that. My Mom called me that. "We have to decide what clothes to bury them in."

I thought they were being buried in a coffin.

Uncle Alex stood uselessly in between us, staring at the family pictures lining the hallway leading to my parent's old bedrooms. Veronica glanced sideways and unhappily at him. "I'll pick out something."

Fine. Dad was probably in the middle of negotiating with Saint Peter as we spoke.

She emerged a few minutes later with one of my Mom's best dresses, a blue silk with silver piping, tailor-made to show off her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and her antique pearls, an outfit that screamed 'I have more money and more taste than the rest of you wh.o.r.es'. Was there a dress code in the afterlife? "Isn't that a little bit much to be buried in?"

Veronica shrugged her shoulders, and held out her other selection, Dad's Navy dress whites. I nodded at that choice. Uncle Alex began shaking his head like there were something rolling around inside of his skull.