“That is pure bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“He loved you, Kenny. You were his only son — his only child.”
“I was a responsibility to fulfill. An obligation. You were his only son, Irene. You were the one he adopted as his child. You were the son I could never be.”
“You are really one fucked-up individual.”
“You even talk like a man. You were tougher than I was. You still are.”
I held my tongue. My head was pounding. I took a lot of long slow breaths.
“You know, Kenny, maybe if I lived your life, I’d be as bitter as you are — but I doubt it.”
This was met with stony silence.
“I can accept the fact that your dad drank too much. You’re right. He did. But there was more to him than that, and you know it.”
“Go away, Irene.”
“He loved you, Kenny. He told me more than once how glad he was that you came to live with him. How a piece of him had been missing until you came back.”
“I said, go away.”
“He loved you. And if you don’t know it, that is about the saddest thing I can think of — that he died unaware that you didn’t believe in his love, and that you didn’t love him back.”
“I did love him,” he said quietly, and shut his eyes to me.
I walked out, my face a big mess, tears rolling down my cheeks. People stared at me as I went by, then turned away in embarrassment if I caught them looking.
Out on the sidewalk I was given a wide berth. I stopped and I got out my handy Kleenex packet, which up until recently was only used when other people started crying or sneezing, and tried to get myself together. After a few minutes I was okay again. I allowed myself a king-sized sigh. I couldn’t help Kenny. The old feeling I always had in connection with him.
As for my own sadness, I resolved that my love for O’Connor was not going to be my burden, but rather my strength.
39
I STILL HAD a little time to kill before meeting Lydia at the Tandoori, so I walked around downtown, window-shopping. There are all kinds of specialty shops in downtown Las Piernas. I walked past a place that repaired typewriters, another that sold boots — no shoes, just boots — a glassblower, a used-book store, an antiques dealer, and a place that sold and repaired electric razors. About every fifth door led into a little cafe or restaurant. Most shops were kept up pretty well, but a few looked as if no one had dusted out the display case since 1935.
Like every downtown of every city of any size, downtown Las Piernas had pawnshops, bail bondsmen, fleabag hotels, and places that had what my grandfather called “girlie shows.” But that group of businesses was an endangered species in the wake of redevelopment. While 1930s-born Broadway still had many buildings with mythology-laden art-deco fronts and curving lines, they were fast becoming overshadowed by the shining, angular monoliths of glass and mirror that had recently grown up along Shoreline Drive. As soon as the ocean view had been walled off, I had no doubt the developers who spawned these architectural behemoths would trudge inland, and squash the griffins and centaurs and cherubs of Broadway. The Bank of Las Piernas and other more modern buildings had already taken the place of some admittedly funky predecessors.
Even with my browsing, I got to the Tandoori before Lydia. The Tandoori was one of the few downtown lunch spots that didn’t close on Sundays. The air inside the restaurant was fragrant with curry and spices.
Lydia arrived and we were courteously guided to a booth near the back. There were about ten other people scattered around at the other tables, which just about made a full house.
We went about the business of studying the menu without saying much. Lydia chose a curried vegetable dish and I went for the murg sag and an order of garlic nan. The waiter left and Lydia looked over at me.
“Are you going to tell me about it, or should I pretend your eyelids aren’t swollen and your nose isn’t red?”
“Have you ever noticed that, in the movies, a woman can cry and neither her mascara nor her nose will ever run?”
“That’s Hollywood.”
“Yeah.” I told her about my conversation with Kenny. She shook her head silently.
“He’s lost his mind. Don’t let him get to you.”
“Too late. Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy for even trying to talk to him. Double crazy for letting it bother me.”
“Truth be told, I probably would have strangled him on the spot.”
“What do you suppose brought him to say things like that?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Irene, if you haven’t been able to see how threatening you are to Kenny, you ought to start learning Braille.”
She had a point. Kenny had said as much to me.
Our food arrived, but my appetite had left. I picked at the soft thin bread covered with bits of garlic and made a stab or two into the spinach-and-chicken dish. But I couldn’t force myself to do much more.
