Tom grins back.
Serve him right, says Big Mike. Teach him a lesson if his kids took him on.
He'd cream them, says Jack.
Now, says Big Mike. Not someday.
Yeah, says Tom, but now's when they're mad. So I told everyone, watch out for Eddie and Pete, stay away.
Mike nods again. That's right, son, he says. You look out for your friends. The Spano boys, what's their beef?
The circus, says Tom.
What?
Mr. Spano, he said he'd take them to the circus. In Madison Square Garden. Now he won't.
Broke his promise?
Tom shrugs.
Bad business, breaking promises, says Big Mike.
What I hear, says Tom, Mr. Spano said Barnum and Bailey's, that's for spoiled rich kids and their snotty parents, all those folks in the city don't know what to do with their money. He said, All the way the hell into Manhattan? And seven dollars a ticket, a guy would have to be stupid to pay that so his kid could see an elephant take a crap. He said, Spivey's, that's the kind of show for people like us.
Spivey's? says Big Mike. That elephant they got at Spivey's, I thought he'd croak when they were here last summer. Wouldn't be surprised, that elephant don't come back with them this year. And that bearded lady? Ask me, she glues that thing on.
Well, I don't know about her, says Tom. But that sure is one sorry-ass elephant.
Tom and Jack and Big Mike share a laugh. But anyway, Tom says, that's what Eddie and Pete are so—Tom looks to make sure his mom is still out of range—so
Yeah? says Tom's father. That's what he says?
Two weeks later, the Saturday before Easter, the kids are bouncing up and down on Madison Square Garden's wooden seats. They're so juiced on cotton candy and the sawdust smell from the sideshow where they got to see the tigers up close in their cages, from the blaring music and the circling lights, they can hardly sit still. Mike the Bear, on one end of their row, says, Ah, settle down, you wild animals, but the kids can't. Mrs. Molloy, smiling on the other end, reaches over to stop Jack from tickling Vicky; to hand Markie a napkin so he can wipe purple cotton candy from the end of his nose; to calm them all down just enough so they're ready, really ready, when the lights go down and the music stops and the ringmaster booms, Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages! and not looking behind him, snaps his whip.
It's true then, Tom's ways are different from the old ways. And times are changing. Not that Mike the Bear's not smart, no one would say that. But the new times, they call for another approach. A guy like Tom, he makes everyone look legit. That's what's needed now.
Tom's happy.
LAURA'S STORY
Chapter 4
The night before—the night of the day Harry died—Laura had submerged herself in a blanket on the couch in her own apartment and waited for the hours to pass. Headlights brightened the room, fell away, rose again, a seashore rhythm. Car engines purred, a motorcycle roared by. From the staircase came a sudden laugh, as pleased and tipsy people passed Laura's front door.
To all of these Laura attended, lying curled and sleepless. She would have to relearn them now. In the nearly three years that she and Harry had been together, these had become unfamiliar, the sounds, sights, and cadences of the cramped and sunless downtown studio that in any case had never been her home.
Harry had been here only twice: once, on a Sunday morning in early spring, out of a cheerful, demanding curiosity. A quick glance had shown him everything the room had to offer; he'd laughed and taken her in his arms. They'd perched with paper coffee cups on the roof and admired the view over Lower Manhattan. Harry had pointed out this building and that, one neighborhood and another. Laura had been two years in New York by then and would have bridled at a geography lesson from anyone else. But Harry, as always, took the measure perfectly of what she knew and offered detail or context, footnotes or background. And Laura, as always when she listened to Harry—and this was especially true when his subject was his first love, New York—felt a thrill that was part anticipation, part relief, part a sense of herself as privileged beyond hope. It was—and she had laughed when she'd realized this, and never told Harry—the same thrill she'd felt when, as a little girl, she had begun to learn to read.
Though even through her joy, Laura, listening to Harry's measured drawl, heard an urgency behind it, as though he saw the tide slowly rising and had much to tell her before the island where they stood was engulfed and they had to strike out for shore.
That morning they'd climbed back down the fire escape and in through Laura's window. They made laughing, teasing love on a jumble of blankets on the floor, Harry refusing to have any part of anything so tacky as Laura's fold-out couch.
Lying together afterwards, Laura asked Harry, “Can you swim?”
