The 25th Hour (22 page)

When they got to the room Monty did not want to go in; he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands and shook his head violently. ‘Monty,’ his father said, uncovering his ears, ‘please. Help me out here.’ His father had never spoken to him like that before. Monty opened his eyes, took his father’s hand, and followed him into the room.

The robber mommy looked at him and smiled; she reached out for his hand and drew him close. He was afraid but she drew him close. He didn’t know what was happening but he knew it was bad. She held his hand and said, ‘Don’t be scared.’

‘I’m not,’ he said.

‘You look very handsome in your helmet,’ she told him.

‘I’m going to be a fireman,’ he said, and she nodded.

‘I know you are.’ She closed her eyes and a shudder ran down the length of her long body. And then another and then another. Her hand dropped Monty’s and clawed at the bedsheets. Mr Brogan gripped his son by the shoulders and led him to the doorway. As he left the room Monty heard his mother speak, with great effort. ‘You’re going to be a wonderful fireman, Montgomery.’

He did not turn around. He left his father behind, walked down the hospital corridor, his basketball shoes squeaking on the shining floor, and stopped at the open door of another room. An old man lay in his bed, tubes running up his nose, into his arm. A radio on the nightstand played opera. The old man saw Monty standing at the door and beckoned for him with one curling finger.

‘
Figlio mio
,’ said the old man. ‘
Dov’e` il fuoco?
’

Monty ran. He ran so fast the fireman’s helmet flew off his head, but he did not stop; he ran to the end of the corridor, down three flights of stairs, out the hospital doors, east to Seventeenth Avenue, north to 81st street. He did not stop running until he was on his own block. He crouched outside his building and panted.

Half an hour later he watched his father park the blue Chevrolet across the street and then sit motionless in the driver’s seat for a minute. When Mr Brogan finally got out of the car he stared at Monty for a long time over the roof of the Chevrolet. He started to cross the street, turned back, unlocked the passenger door, and reached inside. He slammed the door and checked both ways for oncoming traffic, the red plastic fireman’s helmet in his hand.

Twenty-two

The parked cars lining the avenue look like scoops of vanilla ice cream, glistening below the streetlights. The awnings of the buildings, fringed with icicles, creak beneath the weight of the snow. The sidewalk plane trees, pin oaks, and Callery pears in their little squares of soil stand motionless in the still, clear air, the curves of each branch precisely traced by curves of snow. The avenue looks unreal to Jakob: too white, too silent, like an abandoned mansion, its furniture draped with white sheets. The snow has stopped falling.

Doyle, off his leash, charges down the middle of the street, carving a trail through the foot-deep powder, a drop of ink rolling down a blank page. Monty follows behind, twirling circles with the leash, his ruined shoes squeaking with each step. Jakob and Slattery walk side by side, a few feet farther back. Jakob tries to step carefully into the hollows of Monty’s footprints, the tramped-down snow, but mimicking Monty’s longer stride is awkward, ruining Jakob’s rhythm. Slattery wades forward, his pant legs soaked from the knees down.

Ten minutes before, the three of them had marched up the narrow staircase to Monty’s apartment and sat in silence in the dark living room, nobody willing to say a word. The light spilled out below the door of the bedroom but Monty did not go in there; he sat on the floor, his back against the radiator, scratching behind Doyle’s mangled ear. Jakob pictured Naturelle lying in bed, eyes open, waiting. For some reason the image stabbed at Jakob. He wondered if she knew that Monty had fucked another woman back at the club, if she cared.

Monty finally stood up and said, ‘Let’s take Doyle for a walk. One last walk with Doyle,’ and the four of them trudged back out to the snow.

Jakob listens to the sounds of Slattery’s heavy footsteps; he feels his friend’s exhaustion, his frustration. In a strange way it comforts him to see how bad Slattery looks, how miserable. His face is troubled, gloomy, and Jakob feels a great surge of affection for him, to see him so wretched on account of another. Slattery’s a good man after all. Not a sweetheart, but a man you’d want on your side when the troubles come.

Still, he’ll look fine by the weekend, thinks Jakob. We’ll both look fine. In a few hours, while Monty is riding the bus to Otisville, Slattery can crawl into bed, the shades pulled down, sleep until Sunday, watch the Super Bowl at a friend’s apartment: bowls of popcorn and nachos on the coffee table; happy, well-fed people piled on the sofa, lounging on the floor, drinking beers in the kitchen; everybody cheering when the good guys score.

The four of them march down the middle of the avenue, a crew of jaywalkers stomping past red lights on the eastern edge of the hushed island. The only vehicle on the road is a snowplow half a mile south, its yellow lights flashing. Jakob wonders how far he would walk through the snow before protesting. Monty could lead them to the Gulf of Mexico and they would tramp wearily behind, unaware of the sand and shells beneath their feet.

At 86th Street they cross into Carl Schurz Park, past the fenced-in gingko trees. Doyle spots a squirrel sitting on its hind legs by a garbage can; they stare at each other for a moment and then Doyle pounces, kicking up snow. Jakob is relieved when the squirrel makes it to an oak tree and climbs to safety. Doyle sits below, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, staring sadly up through the branches.

They follow Monty up a cascading series of steps – the actual steps hard to discern in the deep snow and weak light – and along a trail that winds past red maples, lampposts, and park benches. When they get to the playground, Jakob taps Slattery’s elbow and gestures:
This is where he’s taking us
. They have heard the story before, of how Monty and Naturelle first met on the swings. But Monty doesn’t even slow down; he leads them past the swings, the sandboxes, the monkey bars, past the basketball courts and roller-hockey rink, onto the esplanade that runs for miles along the East River.

Jakob has never been on the esplanade at night. Now he understands why Monty wanted to come. Across the river lies Queens, and Queens before sunrise is beautiful: red antennae lights winking to warn pilots; the Pepsi sign glowing in neon script over the bottling plant; white clouds rising from the smokestacks like genies, bulging and blustering, ready to grant three wishes to the good people of Astoria. Behind Queens the sky is beginning to brighten, a pale blue band at the eastern horizon that darkens progressively into the black above Manhattan.

Jakob brushes snow off the iron rail of the balustrade, leans against it, and stares into the river. A string of yellow lights quivers beneath the water, and Jakob shudders, imagining a legion of drowned men bearing torches, all of them standing silent vigil on the riverbed. He knows it’s nothing but the reflection of electric lights fixed to the suspension cables of the Queensboro Bridge, but Jakob can’t shake the image of bloated, eyeless bodies waiting below the water.

‘Look at the lighthouse,’ says Monty, pointing with one gloved hand to the stone tower on the northern tip of Roosevelt Island. ‘They should fix it up, get it working again. Be nice to come out here and see it working. No tugboats around. Crews are probably stuck in their driveways in Staten Island.’ Monty laughs. ‘I figure all the tugboat guys live in Staten Island. I don’t know why.’

‘Those guys make good money,’ says Slattery, who has joined them by the balustrade. ‘They have one of the best unions in the city. Them and the crane operators.’

‘It would be good to work a tugboat,’ says Monty. ‘Hauling barges around, being out on the river all day. Get the radio tuned to a game, you know, just smoking and watching the city roll by.’

Slattery shakes his head. ‘You’d be watching the city so much you’d run into it.’

‘So what do you think,’ says Monty, turning to face Jakob. ‘You ready for Mr Doyle?’

Jakob watches the dog rolling in the snow, pawing at the air. ‘He likes the snow.’

‘He’ll be good for you, Jake. Nobody’s going to break into your apartment, that’s for sure. And girls love Doyle. Take him for walks, you’ll see. It’s a certain type of girl that goes for Doyle. It’s the funky ones. Look at him. It’s the ones that like old beat-up tough guys. What time you got?’

‘Quarter past seven.’

‘Quarter past seven.’ Monty drums a quick riff on the iron rail and hauls himself over the balustrade with one motion. He stands on the narrow ledge, the backs of his knees against the rail, the river below him.

‘Wait,’ says Slattery, holding his hands up. ‘What are you doing? Monty, what are you doing?’

Doyle – belly down in the snow, panting – stares up at his master. Jakob’s mouth hangs open, the words caught in his throat.

Monty watches the dark water flowing beneath him. ‘What do you think, about forty feet down? What are you worried about? I can’t kill myself jumping forty feet. Unless I freeze to death.’

‘Come on,’ says Slattery. ‘Come on, give me your hand. Don’t fuck around.’

‘Don’t fuck around? I should be serious, right?’ Monty scrapes snow off the ledge with his shoe. ‘I’m not going in there like this. They’ll eat me alive.’

‘Come on,’ says Slattery. ‘You’re going to slip and break your neck.’

For a long moment Monty says nothing, staring across the river at Queens. Finally he turns, grabs the rail of the balustrade, and vaults back to the esplanade, his feet skidding on the snow as he lands. Slattery grabs him around the waist and keeps him from falling; Doyle barks; Jakob exhales.

‘I’m not going in there like this,’ repeats Monty, shoving Slattery away. ‘The minute they get a look at me, I’m gone. You got to help me out, Frank.’

‘Tell me how,’ says Slattery, bewildered.

Monty whistles for Doyle and the dog jumps to his feet and runs over, wagging the stump of his tail, his muzzle powdered with snow. Monty hooks the leash onto the dog’s collar and ties the cord around a baluster, knotting it twice.

‘Make me ugly,’ says Monty.

Slattery and Jakob look at each other.

‘You told me before,’ says Monty. ‘Anything I need.’ He unbuttons his coat and lays it carefully atop the balustrade.

Slattery shakes his head. ‘I can’t do that. What are you thinking, I give you a black eye and people won’t fuck with you? It won’t change anything.’

‘You think I deserve it, don’t you? I blew it, right? That’s what you think, I had a good chance and I blew it?’

Slattery keeps shaking his head. He backs away from Monty. ‘I can’t hit you.’

Monty stands with his feet apart, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks smaller now, without his coat on, the black wool sweater narrowing his body. ‘I think you can. I think you want to, a little bit. I think you’ve wanted to for years.’

‘I’m not doing it.’

‘You want to,’ says Monty, advancing on him. ‘Come on, Frank. You’re afraid?’

Slattery holds his hands up, palms toward Monty. ‘Listen—;’

‘What are you afraid of, Frank? That I’ll hit back? You’re afraid I’ll get mad and hit back? That would be embarrassing, right? Big tough guy like you getting your ass kicked?’

‘Come on,’ says Jakob. ‘This is crazy.’

Monty turns on Jakob and points a gloved finger at him. ‘Who’s talking to you? Who the fuck is talking to you?’

‘Forget it,’ says Slattery. ‘Come on, forget all this. Let’s get some breakfast.’

‘This all works out pretty well for you, doesn’t it, Frank? Pretty convenient for you. You’re going to look after Naturelle when I’m gone, right? You’re going to make sure she’s okay?’

‘What?’

‘You think she doesn’t know how bad you want her? You’re fucking pathetic, drooling after her all the time; you’re like a dog sniffing her ass. She laughs at you, Frank. You’re a joke, an old joke, and you’re not even funny anymore. She’s not even flattered anymore, it’s gone on so long.’

‘All right,’ says Slattery quietly. ‘All right.’ He turns stiffly and walks away.

‘Come on,’ whispers Jakob. ‘Monty, come on, what are you doing? Tell him you’re kidding.’

Monty pivots and punches Jakob hard on the cheek, the crack of gloved knuckle on bone echoing on the empty esplanade. Jakob falls back against the balustrade, clutching his face.

‘
Monty
,’ he says.

Monty steps closer and punches Jakob again, this time in the gut, and Jakob sinks to his knees, gasping. He covers his face with his hands, to protect himself, then hears a great groan, hears the sound of two bodies slamming into the snow. When he looks up he sees that Slattery has tackled Monty, has pinned him to the ground. Slattery holds Monty’s throat with his left hand and drives his right fist into Monty’s face, again and again and again and again and again.

Doyle is howling, trying to jump onto Slattery but yanked back each time by the leash. He strains forward, fangs bared, the muscles in his hind legs bunching, but his master is three feet too far. He never quits; he keeps jumping for Slattery, keeps being yanked back by the leash.

Jakob touches the burning skin of his cheek and examines his fingers: no blood. Slattery keeps hitting Monty, the blows beginning to sound wet, Monty no longer wriggling beneath him.

‘Frank,’ says Jakob, grabbing hold of the balustrade and pulling himself to his feet. ‘Frank!’

The blood puddling by Monty’s head, melting through the snow and steaming in the air. The sound of a fist unmaking a face. The dog howling and battling the leash.

Jakob stumbles over to Slattery and pushes him. ‘Stop!’

Slattery looks up, his face wet with tears, his mouth open, a webbing of saliva between his lips.

‘Okay,’ says Jakob. ‘Enough.’ He places his hands under the big man’s arms and helps him rise.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ says Slattery, looking down at Monty. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

Jakob crouches and turns Monty onto his stomach and Monty coughs, a thick ribbon of blood falling from his mouth. Doyle barks madly. Jakob scoops up a handful of snow and begins gently pressing it to the side of Monty’s face; he listens to make sure that Monty is breathing.