The Laments (23 page)

“Their own kind?” said Julia incredulously. “I thought America was quite integrated.”

“It is,” said Frank. “Why, there are Italians, Germans, Irish here! I think we even have a Jewish family down the street.”

Rusty Torino plunked a half-empty bottle of Chivas on the beverage table and sank into a deck chair, clutching his terrier. He wore a billowing Hawaiian shirt over his expansive gut, white boating shoes, and mirrored sunglasses even though the sun was barely an ember through the cluster of birch trees on the horizon.

“Well, the movie star’s here,” said Frank. “You want a burger, Rusty?”

“I can’t eat a thing,” said Rusty, while his terrier peered miserably at the Cornish hens, whose size and physique roughly approximated his own. Frank stuffed a beef morsel into Tiny’s mouth. The Yorkie scarfed it down and immediately threw up on Rusty’s shoes. This did not stop Frank from introducing Julia and Howard to Rusty. “You must have heard of Rusty Torino; he was on a famous TV show.”

“Sorry, we’ve just arrived in America,” said Julia with an apologetic smile.

Looking slightly disappointed, Rusty glanced from Julia to Howard. “You’re English,” he noted.

“No, actually we’re—”

“Always had English villains on my show,” continued Rusty wistfully. “Something about that accent made them sound evil, y’know.”

THE FINCHES’ TIRE SWING
was the main attraction for the kids. Wally Finch asserted his dominion by commandeering the tire from the more helpless tots and swinging, upside down by his knees, across the driveway and over Frank’s barbecue setup. He landed just short of the beverage table with rippling haunches and a fearsome grunt. Though Wally was overweight and clumsy, he commanded respect the way a bull elephant seal governs the beach, by mass and bluster. When greeted by the crafty smiles of the Lament twins, he sensed a threat to his primacy.

“Can I do that?” asked Julius.

“Nope,” said Wally. “My party, my swing, my turn.”

“I’ll have the next turn,” Julius said, undaunted.

“And me!” cried Marcus.

“When I
say
,
” said Wally.

Wally dragged the swing back to the porch roof, followed by the twins, and again soared over the party. When he landed, he lost control of the tire for a moment, and Julius was waiting to grab it. Wally marched up to Julius, butting him with his chest.

“Did I
say
you could have that?”

“You let it go,” said Julius, handing the swing to Marcus. Wally lunged at Marcus, who handed the swing over to Julius, leaving Wally sputtering.

“Let him have a turn,” said Will.

Wally spun around to face Will, which freed the twins to scramble up onto the porch roof. Muttering a silent curse, Wally marched over to the chip and pretzel table.

Mickey and Kent Gallagher were clambering up Madge’s latticework as Julius took flight above them. They flailed at him with their hockey sticks until Frank Finch threatened to take them away. Vinnie Imperatore’s little brothers and sisters tore after Julius as he landed, but he evaded them in an effort to get the rope back to Marcus for his turn.

Hearing Lionel Gallagher begin chanting
o
m
s from the porch, Will observed that Lionel bore no resemblance to his parents or brothers. For a moment, Will worried that this disaffected lunatic was his own fate staring back at him.

Then the evening light changed hue. Perhaps it was the smoke from Frank’s fire as it lifted its cloaky haze to reveal the approach of two figures; Will recognized them merely by their profiles.

The first figure, a tall, gangly man with a large head and enormous hands that swung by his side, was followed by a diminutive woman with a vast swirl of blond hair. She wore a Bavarian peasant blouse with puffed sleeves, and a neat blue skirt and blue pumps. Halfway across the street, the couple stopped, and the father turned to his house, beckoning with a sweep of his arm.

“Astrid!
Komm mi
t
!
”

A figure emerged and danced across the grass to catch up with her parents. Though her face and figure might have been judged plain by themselves, there was a sweetness in her manner and open smile; it was enhanced by her hair, not merely blond but golden, catching in its tresses the last glimmer of the sun.

Rusty put the terrier down in order to fully appraise this vision; Frank Finch wiped the sweat from his chin; Cosmo Imperatore put down his cigar, and even the women regarded Astrid Himmel with the awe reserved for a wonder of nature. Suddenly it became clear to Will that Astrid was the Himmels’ carefully kept secret.

As everybody greeted her, Max and Maria Himmel beamed with pride at their daughter’s social glory. Even the infant Imperatores swarmed toward Astrid.

Then a moan came from the porch.

“Astrid! Astrid, I love you!”

It was Lionel. He had wrenched off his shirt, dropped his pants and underwear, and stood writhing with yearning, revealing a half-erect penis and imploring arms.

Vinnie’s mother made the sign of the cross as Frank Finch bounded over and wrapped his barbecue apron around Lionel, hoisted him over his shoulder fireman style, and carried him through the trees while the acid freak wailed.

“I’ll always love you, Astrid!”

For a moment, Max Himmel seemed genuinely amused by the spectacle, but a private remark from his wife quickly turned his expression into somber disapproval.

In the midst of this fuss, Abby and Patrick Gallagher sipped their drinks, apparently content to pretend that Lionel was no relation to them.

“Teenagers are such free spirits these days,” sighed Madge. “Frank would never have been seen without socks at that age.”

Cosmo lowered his cigar and shrugged. “Thank God for clothes, that’s all I can say.”

Julia and Madge were both diverted by Cosmo’s white T-shirt, rotund belly, and the lavender plaid Bermuda shorts that emphasized his pale, knobbly knees and hairless legs. This ensemble was completed with black socks and sandals. The women met each other’s glance and burst into laughter. It was the kind of moment Julia had hoped for at this party.

Max Himmel greeted Howard with a vigorous handshake, but Howard was puzzled by his neighbor’s tone, which veered sharply between amusement and outrage.

“Here we are, Howard, 1969, and I look at the television, and this show,
Hogan’s Heroes,
very funny, you understand, but it makes every German a
buffoon
. But every Japanese is
inscrutable
and
wise
. Was it not the same war?”

“Hmm, perhaps Americans feel remorse for dropping the bomb on Hiroshima?” suggested Howard.

Max narrowed his eyes. “Yes, but what about Dresden? The Allies firebombed Dresden, a city of innocents just like Hiroshima. Yes, the Jews died in the millions, I know this, but did no innocent Germans die?”

Howard conceded that some had.

With a wry smile, Max beckoned Howard closer. “America, my friend, is like a big cocktail party,” he whispered.

“A cocktail party? What do you mean?” asked Howard.

“I mean it looks easy to fit in—just smile, wave, have another drink—but we are all so different!” Max’s smile faded as he looked around the garden party. “And always the pressure to fit in! People tell me to change cars,” he said. “Buy a Ford! A Chevy! Get rid of the Mercedes—don’t be so
German
.” Max rolled his eyes. “Even my wife wants a Ford. She says, ‘Think of the girls,
act
like an American.’”

Then Maria summoned him with a tilt of her head, and Max excused himself with a defeated shrug, following her to the buffet table.

ASTRID SMILED AT THE LITTLE CHILDREN
who were clustered around her like moths drawn to a lamp. Beyond them, Vinnie, the Gallagher boys, and Wally gathered in a group, all obviously smitten.

Will knew instantly why he wasn’t inside this gathering. He thought of Digley’s games in the playground. He’d been in the group; he’d been outside the group; and, frankly, the view was better from the outside. But one thing perplexed him: he couldn’t picture Astrid taking bites out of his apple. There was no hint of rebellion in her pretty face.

Then Will noticed an unfamiliar girl skirting the party; she had Max Himmel’s wide forehead, stormy gray eyes, and a pall of dark hair pulled back by a tortoiseshell barrette. The sleeves of her sweater tapered past her hands, and she wore wool stockings in spite of the warmth of the evening.

“Ah, Marina, finally!” said her father.

Will could see how, in some bizarre exchange of genes, Astrid’s beauty was a combination of all the conventional features of her parents, while Marina had inherited what remained—her mother’s vulnerable mouth, her father’s long stride, and the unsettled look in his eyes. Hers was an uneasy kind of beauty. Now Will recognized the girl who had bitten into his apple: she watched the boys fawning over her pretty sister with silent scrutiny, just as she must have watched him from her window.

The boys quickly turned their ardor into a contest: Vinnie eagerly offered Astrid the potato salad, the Gallagher boys each grabbed one of four variations of cold pasta, and Wally Finch presented her with the meat platter. Astrid gushed at her devotees while Marina circled like a stray cat.

She came to a stop behind Will’s shoulder, making it impossible for him to look directly at her.

“You’re a spy,” she murmured.

“What?” said Will.

“Watching my house. I saw you,” she whispered, lowering her chin behind his ear. “You’re a spy.”

“You bit the apple, didn’t you?” he replied.

Marina cast him a mischievous glance. “Why don’t you offer my sister the chips?”

“Why should I?” he replied.

“Don’t you like her?
Everybody
loves Astrid.” There was a hint of derision in her voice, but Will wasn’t sure whether it was directed at him or her sister. “You should see her tap-dance and play the piano,” she continued. “And she’s on the honor roll. She sings in the choir, front row, every Sunday.”

ALL THIS TIME
Marcus had been sitting on the roof of the Finches’ house with the rope in his hand. A joyous epiphany had struck him. Astrid Himmel was the living embodiment of his dream girl—her face, her hair, her figure. All the elements of his favorite commercial had come together.

“Marcus! I bet you can’t swing from your legs,” Julius challenged.

Marcus didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on Astrid, who was laughing at something Vinnie had said.

“Hey, Marcus!” repeated Julius.

Astrid looked up as Julius repeated his dare. Marcus blushed as he felt her bright gaze.

“Bet you can’t swing over everybody, just by your legs!”

“Of course I can!” Marcus replied.

With the golden girl’s attention now fixed on him; Marcus dusted off his hands and mounted the swing.

HAVING RETURNED
from the Gallaghers’ house, where he had dumped Lionel after a stern lecture on public behavior, Frank loaded up a serving platter with the last few T-bones. He was debating taking the two large steak knives into the kitchen to be cleaned when Madge suggested that he have a bite before the meat disappeared. He propped the two knives in the rack so that the blades would face down. But one knife wouldn’t go in all the way. It was the long knife, a twelve-inch stainless steel from Sheffield. About six inches of the blade sat just above the rack, exposed. Frank looked around, concluded that it would be safely out of reach of the little kids, and went off to have his T-bone.

“
MARCUS, GET ON WITH IT
, or let me do it,” complained Julius as he shot Astrid a cocky grin. Both twins were aware of the girl’s attention now, and each wanted the spotlight.

“I’m going. Don’t rush me,” said Marcus, turning anxiously for some signal from Astrid. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, and smiled.

Hanging from his knees, Marcus swung across the driveway. His path took him directly over the barbecue grill and he continued on his way, toward the soft earth for his landing, but he didn’t let go. Perhaps it was because he knew that he would fall on his face, and he didn’t want Astrid to see this, or perhaps he simply misjudged when to release his legs. He saw Astrid watching him, her mouth open with surprise. Savoring every second of her attention, Marcus let the rope swing him back.

At this moment, Frank Finch realized that Marcus’s hands were reaching out for a way to stop his fall, and that he was heading for the grill.

“Stop!” cried Frank.

Marcus released his legs and flew over the heads of the children, over the Imperatores, the Gallaghers, and the Finches. He imagined that his hand had merely bumped the grill, because the rig clattered as he made his landing on the grass, a giddy smile on his face.

People would talk later about the accident with awe, as if, in spite of what happened, Marcus’s first few seconds aloft had been glorious. Indeed, as he flew, it was a remarkable sight, even to Astrid; but the smile on Marcus’s lips and the eagerness in his eyes as he soared overhead would haunt her for years.

Aftermath

Will blamed himself. He should have been watching. Perhaps he could have persuaded Marcus not to hang by his feet, or caught him in midair, or pushed the enormous barbecue rig out of the way, and perhaps Marcus wouldn’t have landed on his hands, and his right hand wouldn’t have been sheared off by the stainless-steel carving knife that Frank Finch had propped up between the bars of the grill a moment before.

Julius saw his brother’s wrist bleeding before anyone else did; he grabbed Frank Finch’s fresh apron and wrapped it, tying the apron strings around it tightly, for a tourniquet; it was something he had learned on TV, which discounted Julia’s attempt to blame television and the Coca-Cola Company for what happened—though she tried. Julius blamed himself for teasing Marcus, and wept all night until a surgeon at the hospital told him that his tourniquet had probably saved Marcus from bleeding to death.

Astrid was sobbing as the Himmels led her away; Mrs. Himmel covered her daughter’s eyes with her hand, to shield her from the awful sight. Marina lingered behind her parents, torn between their commands and her morbid curiosity. She was the last person to see the severed hand cooking on the grill before Frank Finch secretly buried it in his backyard. This would weigh on Frank’s conscience for a week, until, unable to sleep, he went out one night with a shovel, only to find that a dog had dug it up. Rusty Torino found his terrier playing with something resembling a shriveled gardening glove. He tossed it into Cosmo’s yard, where it was discovered a week later by Cosmo’s wife. Deemed an object of no significance, it was thrown in the trash.