and forward lurch of the cab, and on each occasion he tried to remember where he was, what things he had done that night. The concentration became too difficult, and after a brief, hazy glance out the window, Constantine let his eyes close once again and fell into the easy arms of sleep.
Weiner woke Constantine in front of the motel near the District line. “Come on,” Weiner said, “I’ll walk with you inside.”
Constantine rubbed his face, felt the idle of the cab. The driver’s head was tilted in shadowy profile, listening to the backseat conversation.
“I’m not ready to go inside,” Constantine said.
“Okay. Well, I’ve paid for the cab.”
“Thanks, buddy. Thanks for the night.”
“Take care, kid,” Weiner said, patting Constantine’s arm. “I’ll see you Friday morning.”
Constantine watched Weiner exit the cab, march across the street to his GM sedan. He sat in silence until Weiner pulled away from the curb.
Finally the driver looked in the rearview, caught Constantine’s eye. “Where would you like to go?” he said, with the careful enunciation common to Middle Easterners.
Constantine looked out the window. “Take Thirteenth Street to Missouri. Catch Military and head west.”
The cabby nodded, swung the car out on Georgia, cut a U, and gave the Chrysler gas.
Constantine had the driver stop the cab at 27th and Military, across from an entrance to Rock Creek Park. He gave the man ten dollars, told him not to wait. The driver took off down the empty street. Constantine stood under a streetlight, strained his eyes to focus on his wristwatch. He could see that it was sometime after three.
Constantine crossed to the west side of 27th, started down the sidewalk. He buttoned his shirt to the collar against the chill as he walked past St. John’s, his Catholic military academy high school.
Constantine had no feeling for the school at all, not like the boozehounds he met in all the bars around the world, guys who talked incessantly about “those days” as if those were the only days that still carried significance in their bitter, empty lives. Constantine had not wanted to attend St. John’s-his father had insisted-so his years there had been spent working toward a kind of deliberate separateness from the school and its students. He supposed now that he had achieved what he set out to do.
At a curve in the road, 27th became Utah. Just past that, Constantine turned left and walked down McKinley. The structure of the neighborhood, its impression of low-key wealth, had not altered. Elegant, porched colonials sat rowed on the block, complemented by sensitive Volvos and Ford Taurus wagons parked on the street in front of them. Only the trees had changed, their height and fullness exuding an old-world, botanical charm on the homes that stood beneath them.
Constantine quickly crossed Nebraska Avenue, continued west on McKinley. He walked to 33rd, made a right. He had done nearly a mile on foot now, and though he knew that he was loaded, he felt oddly invigorated. The feeling accelerated as he brushed past hyacinths and shrubbery, taking the steps up to the playing field of his old elementary school, Lafayette.
He went around the concrete walk that encircled the baseball field, passed a concrete pedestal water fountain that had been jammed on. Constantine slowed at the backstop, curled his fingers through the fence. He looked out at the fog moving slowly in the night, across the wet diamond. Behind him, the water of the fountain arced over and cleared the pedestal, drumming faintly in the mud.
Constantine remembered the year-1973-and his team, a ragtag group of D.C. Rec boys. They took the city championship that summer, against Anacostia, under the lights at Turkey Thicket. Constantine played second base, went two for three that night, a cheap single and a line double to left. The double had knocked in a pair of runs. Closing his eyes, he could still see the faces of his teammates in the infield: a stoic Irish boy at first, a genial, rifle- armed Indian at short, a fireplug Irish Catholic at third base. The pitcher was a tall, lanky kid whose black eyeglasses, held together at the bridge by white surgical tape, slid down his thin nose at the completion of each pitch. The kid threw serious heat-the opposing teams reverently called him “The Greek from Rock Creek”-but Constantine could not remember his name. Standing there, he could not remember the names of any of them.
Constantine pushed away from the backstop and walked toward the school, remodeled now since his youth. He saw the brick wall where he had played stickball as a child, walked past the basketball court where as a teenager he had smoked reefer and shot hoops daily, walked past the hill where he had drunk Tango and Boone’s Farm, where he had made love to Katherine on summer nights. He could smell those nights-the bite of wet, freshly cut grass, the taste of nicotine and fortified wine on Katherine’s breath, the faint, briny tang of her young vagina- even now. These memories were clear, though he did not feel as if he owned them; he had the feeling that these were memories told to him by someone else.
He walked over a grassy hill, slipped in the dew, slid a few feet to the bottom of the hill. Getting to his feet, he brushed wet grass and mud off his jeans as he crossed Broad Branch Road. Constantine walked straight down Oliver, made a left into the alley that ran to the street after the first house.
He walked along a privacy fence, turned right at the back of the house. The privacy fence told him that the Bradfords had passed away-they would never have erected a fence, and they would never have left their beloved house for anything less than death. At the next house, Constantine stopped, stood in the alley under a light, rested his forearms on a chain-link fence.
He looked into the yard. The shrubbery, the border around the walkway, the double-locked wood shed-all of it fastidiously and impersonally maintained. The pear tree was still standing, pruned back, flowering now with small white blossoms. At nine years of age, one August evening in 1966, Constantine had reached for a pear in that tree, reached absently and with anger as his parents had argued violently in the house, their voices carrying into the backyard. The pear had been filled with bees, and the bees stung his palm and forearm just as he put his hand around it, and he knew instantly from the horrible sound and then the unbelievable pain that he had made a terrible mistake. He had run screaming down the alley, frantically rolling in a puddle at the end of it. Afterward, Mrs. Bradford had held him and treated him, and he went home very late that night. By then his mother was so far into the bag mat she could not recognize the swelling in the hand and arm of her own son. His father, of course, had gone to bed.
Constantine looked into the second-story window of the Dutch Colonial. The blue light of a television flickered in the room. In silhouette he could see a thin head rising over a high-backed chair, and from the head, sparks of sparse, white, disheveled hair. He wondered what his father thought, sitting there, old and alone in the middle of the night, staring at the empty, insane images moving across the television screen.
Did the old man think of his wife? Probably not. Constantine himself rarely thought of her, and when he did it was with effort, a futile attempt to reconstruct her face, her radiance, before the gin and ugliness, before the slow sickness came and drained the blood and youth right from her. Oddly, he found it difficult to bring her image up in his mind, though he remembered the cloth of her brilliant blue housecoat as she sat at the side of his bed, rubbing his back. Sometimes, too, in the dawn hours that bordered between consciousness and sleep, he could hear her voice, saying his name. He’d awaken suddenly, and the sound of her voice would still be in his head, and he would not return to sleep.
Constantine took his cigarettes and matches from his shirt pocket and put fire to a smoke. He stood there, his arms on the fence, staring up at the silhouette of his father in the window of the house that he’d grown up in, and he lowered his head and laughed. The sound of his laughter carried in the night. A light came on in a house down the alley, and with it the deep bark of a large-breed dog.
So if the old man came out of the house, what would he do? Would the father recognize the son after seventeen years? He would, Constantine decided. He would look at the long hair, the twisted, drunken face, the muddy clothes, and simply turn around and walk slowly back into the house. There was no reason to think, after all, that anything between them had changed. But standing there, Constantine felt himself hoping, against his cynicism, that his father would leave his chair just then, descend the pine staircase, pass through the small, dim kitchen, and walk out the back door, into the yard, to see and wrap his arms around his son.
The old man did not walk from the house, and after a while the light went out down the alley and the dog no longer barked.
Constantine ground his cigarette down into the concrete and walked out of the alley to Broad Branch Road, following that all the way to Military. He crossed to the other side of the street and put his thumb out at the first group of cars. At the tail end of the group an old Lincoln came to a stop near Oregon Avenue. Constantine went to the passenger door, opened it, and got inside.
