Park Lane South, Queens (15 page)

Claire laughed. “Hop in.”

Michaelaen climbed up to join them. He gave the Mayor an affectionate bite on the ear—a habit of his, not always too comfortable for the Mayor but necessary to their familiar routine. He'd brought his Tootsie Rolls along. This was exciting. A secret club. “I'll trade you one Tootsie for a toast,” he bargained.

“One Tootsie for half a toast, pardner. Take it or leave it.”

“How bout two Tootsies for a whole toast?!”

“All righty.”

They collapsed in giggles. Then he sat up straight and looked furtively around him. His cheeks filled up behind tightened lips.

“What's the matter, Michaelaen?”

“Nuthin'.” He was remembering the last deal he'd made. With Miguel. He didn't know what, but something bad had happened to Miguel. Maybe they never should have gone that time with the other kids, in there where they got to see those pictures. Those pictures where the little boys and girls didn't have all their clothes on and they were doing stuff to each other. Only he wasn't sure what. At first it had been fun, like. Only now he was a little bit afraid, because if he told, then Mommy could get shot. Or worse. So sure he wasn't going to tell. And he didn't want nothing bad to happen to Aunt Claire, either.

“Tell me. Come on. You can. I cut down smoking for you, didn't I?”

That was true. She smelled better than ever. Not as good as Mommy, but good. And things were hopping since she'd come to live with them. Claire grabbed his foot and held it tenderly. That was the wrong thing to do. “I was thinking about the raccoon,” he lied. Claire was thinking about why she'd never had a child. There had been all sorts of reasons not to. And the part about becoming something dried up, well, that was all that that had been: a reason. Not wanting to have somebody someday look at her and think that. It wasn't as if she would ever feel that way about herself, anyway. She always had been dried up in some ways and fruitful in others. No, that hadn't been it. More often than not it had been the fear of being totally dependent on some man who would then turn on her. Without question, losing interest fell under the category of betrayal. And the men she'd chosen to love always would have strayed without the constant pull of her sexuality. Had she been hating men all along? Ridiculous! Although she could have been using her sexuality to attract the wrong kind of man just because she scorned them so much that she wanted to prove how despicable they were. Had that been another fear that she'd been trying to draw near? Hadn't she searched the world finding unworthy subjects to love so she could always be right? So righteously right. Keeping busy hating the wrong in others so she wouldn't have to hate herself. Claire took one good long look at Michaelaen and she knew that she had been wrong. She'd been wrong all along. A cool, light wind blew across the porch. A Canadian wind. Open Indian spirits come to look. The Mayor pointed his snout to the sky, then yawned, then fell asleep, as did Michaelaen, then Claire. The wind chimes wept above their heads and nobody knew what else would happen next.

CHAPTER 7

Freddy pedaled his bicycle like mad through the woods at dawn. He liked to pick out certain produce for the restaurant himself and you had to get there good and early. He bumped through the pine forest and whizzed onto Park Lane South. There was no not braking down White Hill. White Hill was steep, and every year or so another kid got killed sledding through the stop sign on the bottom. And the tow truckers. There was great competition among them to be the first at any wreck. The first one there got the job. Like modern-day cowboys they galloped through the rural neighborhoods at heart-thumping speeds. Plenty of them had crashed at the foot of White Hill. Plenty. The street had a veritable glitter from all the ground glass of accidents throughout the years. You always wanted to be careful around there. There was a tree down at the bottom, just a bit off the crux. It was the oldest tree in Richmond Hill, a good thirteen feet around the trunk, and that tree, as noticeable as it was, was made invisible by the devastating white of the hill. Nobody knew who'd originally painted the San Francisco–like slope, but whoever it was had done a good job of it. It was still white and it had been for as long as even old Mr. Lours could remember. Freddy pulled over at the tree and put his feet on the ground. He blew his nose and wiped his face. Geez, this was one hell of a tree. Funny he'd never noticed it. You could see the front porch of the Breslinsky house from here. He got back up on the bike and pedaled down. Oh, for God's sake! Claire had Michaelaen outside with her again. This was really the limit. Freddy didn't like Claire. She would get up and leave the room in the middle of one of his stories. And, worse, if she stayed, she rarely bothered to laugh. She wasn't a nice Queens girl. She was hard. Yes, that was it, she was hard. She had this childlike bashfulness that fooled you, when in reality she was nothing more than a tart. A world-class tart. Taking pictures round the world. If that was what she'd been doing, where was her money?

Freddy wheeled his bike over and looked at them. The Mayor opened one eye then closed it right back up again. Ugly old dog. Ought to be put to sleep. He looked at Michaelaen's face collapsed in sleep, so beautiful, so infernally a replica of Zinnie's that if he didn't know Zinnie's character so well he'd wonder if Michaelaen were his. The sound of someone skittering about up on the second floor put him back on his bicycle. Probably Mary getting up. He didn't feel like shooting the breeze with her. Mary did go on and on. Off he went.

It is
Föhn
, was Claire's first thought as she opened her eyes. Sirocco. The high-pressure, delicious wind. Weather that bowled you over with its perfection. The only thing was that people didn't exactly know what they were doing in it and neither did they much care. Michaelaen and the Mayor still slept soundly. Claire remembered Johnny in a rush, before her defenses were up. Maybe he'll call, she thought. Maybe I'll get up and go inside and the phone will ring.

A garbage truck lumbered up the street. The compacter roared and overalled men flung the cans through the air. Claire watched them with interest. Years ago, when Michael had died, they'd found a nest of mice in the cellar. They were Michael's mice, or at least he'd protected them by never telling their parents about them. He'd made Claire swear she'd never tell, either. He didn't want Pop to go knocking them off, he said. Poor little fellas. The mice, as though in silent contract with Michael and his live-and-let-live policy, had gone about their teeny lives unnoticed. Claire remembered very well. But after the accident, the whole time Michael was laid out in Mullaney's Funeral Parlor, the mice had raced crazily through the walls at home. With uncanny terror they'd clattered noisily over the rafters. Stan had set his traps with grief-stricken, dedicated preoccupation. They were only little mice. All mixed up. Of course somebody had had to do something, but Claire remembered how she'd hated her father for his industrious and careful murders. One morning, the morning of the funeral, she had watched from the upstairs window as the garbage men had picked out a wrapped up newspaper from one of the cans that had tipped, and a baby mouse had slid out onto the curb. The garbage man had picked up the thing by its tail and flung it into the chopping blades. She had felt such shame at that moment that she'd wanted to hide. She hadn't wanted anyone to see Michael's mice. Not ever. She hadn't wanted anyone to know any more of his soft and tender weaknesses.

“Why Claire,” her mother came up suddenly behind her, “Why sweetheart, don't cry!”

She didn't even know she'd been crying, but there it was, hiccupping and sobbing out of her like a child, finishing the job that had started up last night at Johnny's kindness, taking fuel from her mother's concerned tone. She cried on and on, amazed all the while that these great gulps of water were coming out of her. She was two people then, one watching, one doing, and the watching side marveled at the wholehearted self-pity involved, marveled that Michaelaen didn't wake up from her noise, and recalled the smell of the pine needles from the last time … when she'd buried the cat. There had to be some meaning there, but she wasn't sure what. Strangely enough, that had been the start of some hope in her life, being out on her own without that bastard Wolfgang. Now maybe she was feeling hope, too. You didn't cry from despair. You breathed shallow breaths and you tried to feel nothing, but you didn't cry.

“There, there,” her mother was saying. “They'll find your cameras, Claire. And if they don't, we'll get you another. Don't worry, Claire. Bonnie Claire.”

Bonnie Claire? She looked up and laughed. Her mother hadn't called her that since she was a child. Ah, poor Mom. What had she gone through back then, losing a son? And telling her now with her face all screwed up in compassion that they'd buy her a new camera. As if they had any money for things like that. As if they had any idea how much even half of her equipment would cost.

“I'm all right, Mom. I'll be fine. I guess it's all sort of a strain.”

“Sure a strain is what it is. Why don't you come along with me to mass?”

“Now, Mom. I'll be just fine. You know I will.”

“I know. But all the same—”

“No ‘all the same.' Come on. You've dropped your rosary. You don't want to be late. Look, here comes Mrs. Dixon.” And indeed she was, walking across the lawn in right-angle zigzags to avoid the webs. She rolled her sparkling shopping cart behind her. They'd stop off at Key Food straight from church.

“All right, I'm off. I'll say a prayer for you, special. Claire?”

“What?” She wished her mother would go already. She didn't want old Dixon to see her with her eyes all red.

“That John Benedetto drove you home last night, didn't he?”

“Mmm.”

Her mother still stood there. “All right. I won't ask questions. Just try not to do that anymore. Go off without a word. I was worried.” She hesitated. “See you later then.”

Claire waved to Mrs. Dixon and the two women sped away, not even giving so much as a nod to Iris von Lillienfeld who stood in distressed admiration of her blooming, eight-foot-tall hollyhock.

Claire wiped her cheeks and walked across the street.

“
Guten tag,
” she said.

“Good day,” Iris snapped. Her lipstick was awry and an exhausted royal blue Spanish shawl clung limply to her sparrow's shoulders.

“I … uh … I've noticed you out here several times and I wanted to say hello.”

“I guess dat means you gonna say hello now.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, it does.”

“Vell?”

“Pardon?”

“Something else? You vant something else?”

“No,” Claire decided she could play her game. “I don't want anything else.” She headed back across the street. Old codger, she grinned to herself. She knew a thing or two about reeling in a trout.

“Pisces,” Mary eyed her husband over the paper. “Try not to worry so much about financial problems.”

Stan looked up from his bowl of Sealtest vanilla-fudge. “Tales of the Vienna Woods” bombinated through the kitchen.

“All your worries will soon be over with the moon moving into Virgo.”

“It doesn't really say that.” Stan returned to his dessert. He gave it one more squirt of Reddi-Wip.

Mary looked hurt. “Sure it does. Pisces. Right here.”

“Notice how she doesn't show you the paper, Pop,” Zinnie said. She had her mother's number. How many times had Mary tried to get her to stay home from work by pleading any old bad omen under Gemini.

Mary threw the paper furiously into the air, losing the page and all threat of investigation.

“Ma,” Carmela said. “You're so naive.”

“Influenceable I might be, dear. Naive I never was. Naivety is a gift. Something, I might add, that none of my children were born with. The lot of ya come into the world with crisp frowns of revelation tattooed to your foreheads.” She started to sing one of her old Irish songs, old “Molly Malone”: “She wheeled a wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow …” Claire looked up, amused. How she had hated her mother singing those songs when she'd been a girl! It used to embarrass her to no end.

The Mayor watched them fondly from the floor. It had been a grand meal. The finest whittle of garlic roast pork and Mary's special spinach baked in white sauce and laced with Gruyère. Ah, you couldn't beat that Mary once she got started in the kitchen. There was no match. No wonder Stan had married her.

Claire was thinking, all right, if he's on nights, he'll just be waking up. Any minute now the phone will ring. He would certainly want to know if she remembered anything new from the missing photographs. Or if Carmela had lost sight of Stefan at the party. Carmela had said no, but then you never knew with Carmela. She might think of an absence as a desertion to her femininity. She certainly sat there looking cool and polished, although Claire knew she wasn't. Her perfect nose had the start of a shine and she kept turning, looking nonchalantly out the window.

Michaelaen jangled Mary's change purse between his knees. There was rock ‘n' roll between those coins. All at once he jumped up and shrieked. Freddy was at the back door with a cherry cheesecake. They were always glad to see Freddy. Even Stan, despite himself. You couldn't stay mad at Freddy for very long.

“What news from the front?” Zinnie asked when they'd divided up the cake and settled down to a second dessert. Freddy took his time and licked the fork with a big red tongue. He loved to have the floor. Claire looked away. “It hasn't been easy,” he said finally. “I guess you all know by now that I've been interrogated?”

“What?” they all said.

“Yes, indeedy. And not with kid gloves, let me tell you. After they solve the murder, Carmela, you ought to do a story on the underhanded methods of harassing innocent suspects by the police.”