Authors: Richard Russo
“Slide across,” Noonan told her, suddenly very impatient. She hadn’t even acknowledged his father’s existence.
“Easy,” his father said.
Noonan ignored this. “Where will you be?”
“At the diner,” his father said. The lights, Noonan noticed, had just come on down the block, and Larry was once again moving around behind the counter. “You hungry?”
Noonan decided to tell the truth for once. “Yeah,” he said, looking at him.
He smiled. “If her old man doesn’t shoot you, I’ll buy breakfast.”
S
INCE
T
HIRD WAS
one of the few East End streets that had been plowed, Noonan took it, even though it meant passing by Ikey Lubin’s. He was not anxious to run into any of the Lynches, who would put two and two together if they saw him with Nan at this hour of the morning. It was about the time Ikey’s opened for business, and sure enough, Big Lou Lynch was lumbering across the intersection.
“Just keep going,” Nan said, purposely looking off in the other direction.
He considered this. The man was probably half asleep and wouldn’t recognize the car anyway. Then again…He slowed, rolling down his window. “Hi, Mr. Lynch,” he said.
Lucy’s father broke into one of his big, goofy smiles. Then he saw who it was, and the smile disappeared, which meant the Lynches had also gotten a middle-of-the-night phone call. Big Lou peered across at Nan, then back at him, clearly wounded that she hadn’t said hello.
Noonan could tell he was wondering if this meant she wouldn’t be coming to Ikey’s anymore. “I’m taking Nan home,” he said. “But I’ll swing by on the way back and help you dig out.”
“We can manage okay, I guess,” Mr. Lynch said, still regarding Nan fearfully.
“It’ll be an all-day job,” Noonan told him. They’d have to shovel not only the sidewalk in front of the store, but paths out through the snowbanks and the parking lot. “Another shovel will make it go a lot quicker.”
“What about your own house? Won’t your mom—”
“My brothers will take care of that.”
“Bobby,”
Nan said. She was crying again.
“Okay, then,” Mr. Lynch said, stepping back. “I guess we could use you.”
“He knew,” Nan said as soon as the window was rolled up.
“Knew what?”
“What we did.”
“Nan,” he said, “it was just sex. You were the one who wanted to.”
“We’re supposed to be married first.”
“Well, we weren’t. I’m sorry.”
“My husband’s going to know,” she said, crying harder now.
Noonan had no idea what to say to that, but it was a relief to know that whatever future she was imagining didn’t include him.
T
HE SKY WAS LIGHT
by the time they arrived at Nan’s. All of the Borough streets, even the little ones, had been plowed, and there were half a dozen pickups with snow-blade attachments opening up driveways. The Beverlys’ elbow-shaped drive was already plowed, so he pulled right up to the house. Mrs. Beverly, wearing an overcoat, was standing like a statue between the inner and outer doors. Seeing her there, Nan opened her door and stepped out before the car had come to a complete stop. It was so slippery that she almost fell, but then she found her balance. “Wait,” he said, taking his key out of the ignition, though she was already running to her mother, who pulled her inside and quickly closed the door, as if the air outside were not just cold but poisonous.
That left Noonan sitting by himself in the drive, wondering whether duty dictated that he follow and knock on that emphatically closed door or be grateful for the clean getaway that apparently was his for the taking. Before he could decide, he saw Mr. Beverly in the rearview mirror coming toward him from the general direction of the garage, its door wide open. Noonan got out to meet him, maybe even offer to shake hands, and struggled to get his footing on a mound of packed snow, still holding on to the handle. Instead of waiting for him to come around the vehicle onto a level surface, Mr. Beverly, his face twitching with anger and fatigue, not to mention, Noonan supposed, a nonstop litany of wifely abuse, came up to him on the bank of snow beside the car. Mr. Beverly was several inches taller and had an athletic build, though according to Nan the only sport he managed gracefully was water-skiing. Staring at Noonan’s busted lip, he said, “Did you strike my daughter?” as if the visual evidence suggested this was the only valid conclusion to be drawn.
“No sir.” Noonan had started to offer his hand, but saw now there was no point.
“Then how did
that
happen?” Mr. Beverly demanded.
Noonan squinted at him, trying hard to follow his logic. Under the circumstances, mentioning the sleeping bag didn’t seem the wisest strategy. “It was an accident,” he said. “I’m sorry about last night. We should’ve called, but Nan was pretty upset—”
“Upset?” her father said. “Did you touch her?”
It was the imprecise nature of this question that caused him to hesitate, and in that pause Mr. Beverly intuited the truth, or something like it. Immediately Noonan saw the man’s intention to throw a punch and then, in the next instant, the punch itself. Because he was still holding on to the handle, he was able to lean back without slipping. Mr. Beverly’s wildly thrown fist, encountering nothing but air, spun him around on the slick incline, then both feet flew out from under him, and he landed flat on his back, his head cracking on the packed snow before he disappeared completely under the car. Alarmed, Noonan peered over the windshield, expecting him to slide out and stand up on the other side, but instead a groan issued from underneath.
He carefully backed up to the front wheel, then got down onto his hands and knees to look underneath. It seemed Mr. Beverly’s overcoat had snagged on the undercarriage, and he was looking straight at Noonan, as if for an explanation. “Ohhhhh,” he moaned.
“Let me go around the other side,” Noonan said. “I’ll pull you out.”
But when he got there, he saw that Mr. Beverly was perfectly centered beneath the vehicle. By lying on his stomach, he could reach him, though not with enough purchase to yank him free. “Mr. Beverly?” he said. “Can you move at all?”
His head, apparently, since he was staring at Noonan again. “Shoulder,” he groaned. “
Dislocated.
Happened before. Call ambulance.”
He had to ring the doorbell three times before Nan’s mother answered, her sleeves rolled up, her forearms wet. “She’s in the bathtub,” she said. “Washing off your filth.”
“Right,” Noonan said. “Your husband said to call an ambulance.”
“Where is he?”
He pointed under the car.
“You ran over him?”
“He slipped.”
“You’re a monster.”
“No,” Noonan said. He wasn’t feeling good about himself, it was true, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t warranted so harsh an assessment.
“Wait here,” she said. “Don’t you step one foot into our house. Do you understand me?”
He nodded, and Mrs. Beverly went over to stand next to the car. She wasn’t the sort of woman who got down on her knees in the snow. “Jack,” she said sharply.
“Ambulance” came her husband’s voice.
“Did that boy do this to you?”
“No,” Noonan called.
She ignored him. “I’m calling the police,” she told her husband.
“No. My fault. All my fault.”
“Of course it’s all your fault,” she said. “What do you think I’ve been telling you for the last twenty-four hours. This
is
all your fault. My God, what kind of man are you?”
“Hurt.”
Mrs. Beverly marched back to the house, and Noonan held the door open for her. “He can just stay there for all I care,” she said.
“Would you like me to call the ambulance?”
“I’d like you to leave here and never return.”
“Okay,” he said. “Except—”
“Go. Get out. Now.”
“That’s my father’s car.”
“So walk.”
“He’ll want it back.”
Mrs. Beverly considered this for a second, then screamed, louder than he’d ever heard a woman scream, “Get
out
of here! Get out! Right this minute!”
Noonan walked up the drive, past his father’s car. When he heard the front door shut behind him, though, he turned around and cautiously returned to the car, getting down on his hands and knees again.
“Did she call? The ambulance?” Mr. Beverly said, staring at him.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded. “I’m going…to pass out, I think,” he said, and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” Noonan said. Standing up, he glanced back at the Beverly home one last time. In what he guessed must be her bedroom window, Nan was standing in a pink robe. He waved goodbye, in the sense of so long. She too waved goodbye, in the sense of goodbye.
T
HE BLIZZARD HAD DUMPED
just under three feet of snow, the worst storm in several winters, but by seven-thirty that morning, as Noonan made his way through the snowbound streets of the East End on his way to Ikey Lubin’s, the sun came out, and the sky was a robust shade of blue that augured spring. People who’d come out bundled up in heavy coats to tunnel through the monstrous snowbanks now shed them in favor of bulky wool sweaters, and even so their foreheads glistened with sweat as they worked. The warming sun was welcome, but it made the snow heavy and slippery, difficult to shovel. Still, everyone seemed to be in a fine mood, convinced that winter had delivered its final blow. Several people called out greetings as Noonan trudged by in the middle of the street, and though he tried to share their good cheer, it wasn’t easy. His girlfriend’s father had just tried to punch him, injuring himself in the process; her mother had shrieked like a banshee and called him a monster. Worse, as soon as he got to Ikey’s, he was going to have to call his father and explain that he’d left his car in Mr. Beverly’s driveway with him pinned beneath it. And then there was the serious stuff. Last night, he’d had sex with a girl he not only didn’t love but didn’t even like very much. If she got pregnant…as if to complete this thought, church bells began to ring. It was Sunday. Somehow he’d forgotten that.
Business at Ikey’s was brisk. People were too snowed in to drive any distance, certainly not out to the A&P. By the time Noonan arrived, Lucy and his father had cut a tunnel from the store’s entryway to the street, and Big Lou, looking pale and tuckered out, was all too happy to surrender his shovel to him. Midmorning, Dec came down, brutally hungover, and surveyed the situation. “Damn,” he said. “I was hoping you’d be done with this Eskimo shit by now.”
“Well, we’re not,” Lucy told him.
“I can see that,” Dec said. “You don’t mind if I just watch, do you?”
Tessa then came out with another shovel from the storeroom and handed it to him without a word.
“Sunday’s my day off,” Dec reminded her. “Did you forget that?” But he took the shovel and headed over to the parking lot, where they hadn’t even begun yet, and stood there for a good solid minute before throwing up violently into the snow and causing Noonan to wonder who’d be sick next.
Tessa nudged him with her elbow. “See?” she said. “You aren’t the only damn fool in the world, are you?”
Maybe not, but that’s exactly what he felt like. Nan had been right. Except for Dec, the Lynches all seemed to know about last night. Throughout the morning Lucy had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, and Noonan couldn’t tell if his friend was disappointed or just plain scared, knowing what the consequences might be. At noon, Tessa insisted they take a break, heaping paper plates high with cold smoked pork chops and both macaroni and potato salad. Noonan scarfed his down and allowed himself to be talked into seconds. Big Lou, still looking pale and weak, ate little before pushing his plate away.
“You all right, Biggy?” his brother said. “I ask because you look like hell.”
“I don’t seem to have no strength,” he told him.
“You never did,” Dec replied. “Even back on the farm you always managed to give me the heavy end of everything.” Then he turned to Noonan. “Were you at Murdick’s last night?”
“No,” he said. They hadn’t made it inside, so it wasn’t much of a lie.
“Damn,” Dec said. “I just had this really vivid recollection of you and Cupcake being there.”
After lunch they went at it again. It seemed like every time they made a good, wide opening in the snowbank, the plow came by and shut them in again. There was room for only eight cars in Ikey’s tiny lot, but three feet of snow in an area that size was a stupendous amount, and by the time they’d finished clearing it Noonan’s bad wrist was throbbing. The pain was strangely welcome, though, and the ache helped him locate the rhythm that hard physical labor demanded, his efforts becoming economical and compact, each swing of the shovel having just enough force behind it to propel the wet slippery snow onto the bank. Though Lucy matched him shovel for shovel, he noticed happily that his friend wasn’t taking full shovelfuls and that sometimes the snow he flung came sliding back down the bank at him. Midafternoon, Dec, bent over at the waist like a cripple, said, “Girls, I’ll leave the rest of this to you,” then disappeared upstairs.