Jim, Tom says, you let me know. Whatever you want, I'll do it.
Jimmy doesn't turn to watch as Tom walks away, but he hears him go.
PHIL'S STORY
Chapter 14
On the ferry. On the way back. No, not back. That would mean a journey done. A place not home, from which he was returning. But there was no home now, and no returning.
People stared, moved away. Because of the blood. On his face, his own. Scrubbed and stanched, but still slowly bleeding. He was still bleeding. On his shirt, on his jacket, Kevin's. So much death, death everywhere, and still people backed away, because of blood.
Phil stood in the wind outside, the Brooklyn side, and stared at the bridge. Brigadoon, Camelot, Shangri-la, all vanished. Never real, but where he'd lived. Gone now. Gone.
His last night on Staten Island—oh yes, what else was it?—and spent in jail.
“I love you,” he'd told Sally, calling on the prisoner's pay phone. The air was rank, the walls too close.
She'd said—sadly, softly—“It doesn't matter.”
When they'd let him out, he'd gone right over, but she wouldn't let him in.
Now, on the boat, he took out his phone, tried again to call her. Again, as all morning, all day yesterday, only ringing. No connection to be made.
He slipped the phone away, back in his pocket, his shirt stiff with blood.
If she had answered?
What was he thinking to say?
MARIAN'S STORY
Chapter 16
Marian walked out onto the deck of the ferry, on the east side. The boat seemed to lurch; she thought she might fall, but did not. She stood in shadow, aware of people moving uneasily away: something in her face, her eyes, making them uncomfortable, making them uncertain. Marian was uncertain, also: uncertain how she'd come to be on the boat, uncertain where she was going. Uncertain of everything, and yet it was all so clear, every minute, every second.
The phone ringing, Kevin in his room picking up before Sally could. A few minutes later, Kevin, dressed but not shaved, reaching into the kitchen for his keys.
“That was Uncle Phil.” Sally flushed; Kevin went on, “He wants me to meet him.”
“Why?”
“He wants to show me something. Be back later, Mom. Goodbye, Aunt Marian.” His smile, not the sunburst, but a sweet, sweet one. It seemed slightly sad to Marian, this smile, but of course she didn't say that to Sally. Sally had enough on her mind.
More tea in Sally's kitchen, Marian and Sally talking, at first about Jimmy's papers, where they could be, what could be in them. Then their mood lightening, trading gossip, then just talking, as best friends, as they always had.
The phone ringing, high-pitched, Sally laughing at a joke Marian had made as she reached for it.
Racing to the hospital, Marian driving Sally's car, Marian no more fit to drive than Sally, her skin cold and her stomach churning, but she knew it was right. (Strangely, frighteningly, she took the keys, she took the wheel, because she heard Jimmy tell her to, heard Jimmy saying it was right.)
The hours there, and then the doctor, and then Sally in Marian's arms, wailing, sobbing, and Marian, too, and nothing she could do.
And the hours since. At the hospital, police officers with questions. Back at Sally's house, family, friends. Firefighters. The telephone ringing, nonstop, unbearable, finally silenced, turned off, still ringing and ringing, thought Marian, but no one could hear. Sally, white, silent, motionless.
Sally's mother, finally, asking everyone to leave, thanking them all, asking them to go home. But not me, surely, Marian thought, not me, to leave, to be alone now. Not me, too. Marian the last friend remaining, as she'd been the first, Marian expecting to stay.
Sally, green eyes finding Marian from across a vast, lifeless desert. Sally saying nothing, shaking her head.
Marian spending the night at her father's house, sitting in the yard for a long time before going to bed. Her mother's flower beds were overgrown with grass.
