The 25th Hour (23 page)

Slattery watches, speechless, bloodied hands by his side. Jakob remains crouched next to Monty, his fingers resting on the back of Monty’s neck. Doyle keeps barking, over and over, the collar digging into his throat as he struggles to reach his master. A tugboat sounds its horn on the river and Jakob thinks, One crew made it to their boat.

Finally Monty shakes his head clear of the snow and begins crawling forward.

‘Hold still for a minute,’ says Jakob. ‘Hold still.’

When Monty tries to stand his legs collapse beneath him. Jakob wraps his arms around him before he falls and lowers him slowly back to the snow.

‘Don’t try to move yet.’

Monty pushes himself off the ground again and this time manages to keep his balance, though he sways like a drunk. ‘It’s okay,’ he mumbles, the words slurred. He turns to face his friends.

Slattery looks at him and moans, sits down heavily in the snow, his chin tucked against his chest, his right hand, slick with blood, covering his face. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

‘Hospital,’ says Jakob. ‘We need to take you to a hospital.’

‘No,’ says Monty, staggering toward them. Doyle is mewling now, stomping his paws, confused. Monty bends down unsteadily and scratches behind the dog’s ear.

‘Be a good boy,’ he says.

Slattery is still sitting in the snow, sobbing. Monty leans over and kisses his forehead.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Monty.

Slattery rocks back and forth, hands over his face, his forehead marked with blood.

Monty turns to Jakob and touches his shoulder. ‘Take care of my dog.’

He lifts his coat off the balustrade and walks away from them, away from the black river, the steel bridges, the stone lighthouse, away from the sun beginning to rise over Queens, away from the basketball courts, the swings in the playground, down the cascading steps and west toward home.

Twenty-three

She sees him when he’s still three blocks away, a black-clad figure limping through the snow, holding his coat down by his hip.
He’s alive
. She breathes in deeply, the cold air burning her throat; she reaches for the silver crucifix hanging around her neck but it’s not there; it’s upstairs on the night table, atop the coil of silver chain. She starts walking toward him but stops after a few steps, squinting, the early morning light flaring off the snow. Even from this distance she can tell that something is wrong. When he’s a block away she realizes why he’s not wearing the camel’s-hair coat. He doesn’t want blood to drip on it.

Blood leaks from his nose, from his mouth, from a deep gash bisecting one eyebrow. The entire left side of his face is bright red, grotesquely swollen, a thumb-length welt curling under the cheekbone. His nose is badly broken; his lower lip is split in two places; a patch of skin the size of a dollar bill has been scraped off his forehead. His throat is striped red and white.

The swelling has narrowed his eyes to slits; he doesn’t see her standing by the stoop steps, wearing his old hooded sweatshirt, until he is almost upon her. When he does see her he smiles, and she has to look away for a moment, his beautiful teeth ruined, three knocked out of the bottom row, one front tooth chipped badly. He tries to say something but chokes, leans over, hands on his knees, and spits up blood.

Naturelle takes him by the hand and leads him slowly up the stoop steps, through the two entrance doors, up the narrow staircase and into their apartment. Pale sunlight shines through the windows. She sits him down on the sofa and runs into the bathroom, rummages through the medicine cabinet for the things she needs, fills a glass with cold water and returns to him, makes him drink. He tries to speak again but she shakes her head, takes the glass from him, and rests it on the coffee table. Lifting his arms above his head she pulls the black sweater off, unbuttons his shirt, and slides it over his shoulders. She runs her hands quickly over his rib cage, watching his face to see if he flinches.

She goes into the kitchen for a washcloth, fills a bowl with warm water and liquid soap, hurries back to the living room, and sits beside him. She begins gently cleaning his face, pausing when he jerks back, then leaning forward again to dab at each cut and scrape. When she wrings the washcloth above the bowl, drops of blood fall into the water and bloom. After she is satisfied that each wound is cleaned, she opens a bottle of witch hazel and wets a cotton ball. She presses the cotton lightly against the gash that splits his eyebrow; Monty shudders, his fingers gripping the edges of the sofa cushions. Eight cotton balls soaked in witch hazel lie on the coffee table when she’s finished. She tapes a gauze pad over the gash. He’ll need stitches, she thinks. She imagines a prison doctor roughly sewing him up while joking with the nurse. Will they handcuff him to the table?

Monty’s head lolls against the back of the sofa, his battered face framed in sunlight. The night is over and he is asleep. She watches him breathing, the rise and fall of his rib cage, the tremor of pulse at the base of his throat. She looks up at the clock on the far wall. She needs to wake him, dress him in clean clothes, take him downstairs, and find a taxi. She watches him dreaming, his eyelids fluttering, his fingers curling and uncurling, grasping for something. One more minute and she’ll wake him. Give him one more minute.

Twenty-four

When Monty opens his eyes his father is standing before him with clenched fists.

‘Who did this to you?’

Monty reaches for a glass of water and recoils when the rim touches a broken tooth. The pain is shocking, fierce and electric. Monty lowers his head and waits for the nerves to quiet, then raises the drink again and sips more carefully. When he finishes, Naturelle takes the glass from him and goes to the kitchen to refill it.

‘Who did this to you, Monty?’ his father repeats.

‘What time is it?’ Monty can see the clock on the far wall but can’t read the hands. The room is blurred with sunlight and shadows, all the edges washed away. His father’s face is a pale oval that bends and splits when he speaks.

‘I’m bringing you to the hospital,’ says Mr Brogan. ‘We can tell—;’

‘No,’ says Monty. He puts his palms down on the sofa cushions and pushes himself upright. ‘I need to go.’

Naturelle returns with a full glass of water. She waits quietly, her eyes focused on Monty’s hands.

‘What time is it?’ he asks again. He pulls on his shirt and buttons it crooked; Naturelle sets the glass on the coffee table and fixes him. She hands him his sweater and he slides into it, then heads for his bedroom, banging his shin against the table.

‘Monty,’ says Mr Brogan. Monty stops and looks at his father but Mr Brogan says nothing else, so Monty goes into his room, looks at the unmade bed, the running tights on the floor, the bowl of plums on the bedside table beside an empty pack of cigarettes. He pulls off his wet shoes and finds an old pair of workboots in the closet, slips them on, and laces them.

He pulls out the empty suitcase from under the bed and packs what to wear on the day they free him: his midnight-blue suit, neatly folded; his suede cap-toe boots fitted with hand-carved cedar shoe trees; a black silk shirt with silver quarter moons for buttons; boxer shorts; black dress socks. He packs a string of old Spanish rosary beads that Naturelle gave him on his birthday two years ago. He packs the photograph of his mother, father, and six-year-old self standing before the lit Christmas tree.

He returns to the living room and leaves the suitcase by the front door. ‘I’ll say goodbye here,’ he says. He goes to Naturelle and gathers her in his arms. He holds her for a long time before letting go. She smiles up at him, her lips pressed tightly together. The skin around her eyes is dark and swollen from lack of sleep. She blinks and looks away but Monty watches her for a moment more. She seems very young right now, all her makeup washed away, her long black hair tied back in a schoolgirl’s ponytail.

He approaches his father but Mr Brogan shakes his head.

‘How you planning on getting to the Port Authority?’

‘Subway.’

‘You won’t make it. Trains are barely running right now. I’ll drive you to Otisville. Jesus, look what they did to you.’

‘Come on, Dad, go easy on me. I’ll take a taxi.’

‘There won’t be any taxis,’ says Naturelle. ‘Let him take you to a hospital.’

‘You don’t trust my driving?’ asks Mr Brogan, trying to smile. ‘I got chains on the tires and everything.’

‘I don’t want it like this. You’re making it harder. Let me walk away, Dad. It’s easier that way.’

‘What’s easy about it, Monty? Easy? My God, you don’t understand, do you? You don’t have any idea.’ He touches Monty’s cheeks very lightly with his fingertips. ‘Let me drive you there. I need to see where it is anyway, for visits. Okay, buddy? Help me out.’

Monty blinks and then nods. ‘No hospitals,’ he says.

Mr Brogan kisses Naturelle on the cheek and she embraces the older man, wrapping her arms around his winter parka and hugging him very hard. When she releases him he walks to the front door and opens it, picks up the suitcase, and leaves the apartment without closing the door. Monty stands still, looking at Naturelle. They listen to his father’s footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

‘Wait a second,’ she says. She goes into the kitchen and he waits, rocking back and forth on his boot heels, his eyes closed. The faucet in the kitchen is dripping slowly, each drop a distant handclap. When Naturelle comes back she gives him a plastic bag filled with ice cubes and makes him hold it against the side of his face. They don’t move for a moment, her hand on top of his hand, the bag of ice pressed to his jaw.

He wants her to grab him, to whisper that she knows a place to hide where no one will ever find them. He wants her to promise that she’ll follow, that she’ll find a job in Otisville and come to visit every week. He wants her to say that seven years will pass like a night’s bad dream, that he will wake to find her arms around him, that a lifetime is waiting for them around the bend.

Naturelle says nothing and Monty says nothing. Finally he nods and turns away, closing the door softly behind him. He unknots the plastic bag and dumps the ice down the stairwell, watching the cubes glitter and disappear before clattering on the linoleum three floors below. He balls the empty bag and pockets it.

Downstairs Mr Brogan’s car is double-parked in front of the building, his hazard lights blinking. The roof of the old Honda is crowned with snow but the windshield and rear window have been swept clean. Mr Brogan opens the passenger door and Monty eases carefully into the seat, then leans over to unlock his father’s side.

They wait for a minute until the engine is purring smoothly and warm air is flowing through the vents. ‘FDR is closed,’ says Mr Brogan. ‘I figured we’d go up First Avenue, take the Triborough, catch 87 up to Route 17, and then 211 takes us right into Otisville. Easy drive, except for the snow.’ Monty doesn’t respond so Mr Brogan continues. ‘I saw a bad accident on the BQE. A tow truck flipped over. They were going to tow the tow truck, I guess, but they had to get it on its feet first. Its wheels, I mean.’

Monty rubs the corners of his eyes and his fingers find crust there. He picks away the dried blood. His father sees what he’s doing and hands him a red handkerchief from his coat pocket.

‘It’s clean,’ says Mr Brogan, studying the side of his son’s face. ‘Jesus, look what they did to you. I’ll tell you what, Monty, you’re going to be okay. The false teeth they put in now, you can’t tell the difference. How’s your nose?’

‘Broken.’

‘Broken nose, that’s character. It looks bad now, I know it, but when all the swelling goes down it’s going to be okay. Don’t worry, when you come home, you’re still the best-looking kid in Bensonhurst. They sure gave you a licking, though. How many were there?’

‘I don’t know, Dad. A bunch of them.’

They drive up First Avenue, the tire chains chanting steadily:
deh-deh-leh-deh-deh, deh-deh-lehdeh-deh
. Each time Monty presses the handkerchief against his eyes, pain flares along the bridge of his nose. But he can see a little better now. He looks out the window and watches the city roll by.

The white clouds above them are cracked here and there with blue. The streetlights are still on, glowing weakly in the morning air. A mustachioed man stands on a corner, holding a cigarette in gloved fingers, his snow shovel resting in the crook of his elbow. A woman wearing a man’s overcoat, the hem brushing against the toes of her galoshes, shakes salt on the sidewalk in front of a shuttered butcher shop. Two young boys drag their sleds behind them, huffing and puffing with exaggerated fatigue, their breath rising above their bright-red faces. A man and woman wearing matching green parkas load their skis into the rack on their car’s roof. A newspaper vendor sits on a blue milk crate, sipping coffee from a paper cup, while his curly-haired son snaps icicles from the kiosk’s eaves. A police officer, hands on his hips, stares under the opened hood of his cruiser while his partner leans against the driver’s-side door and laughs into his walkie-talkie.

At a red light on 96th Street, Monty looks up at the city bus idling noisily alongside them. A little boy in the backseat, wearing a white knit skullcap, waves at Monty. Monty waves back. The boy taps on the window and Monty reads the letters finger-drawn on the frosted glass:
moT
. It takes Monty a moment to figure it out. Then he smiles as well as he can and draws on his own window:
Monty
. Before he can cross the
t
the bus pulls away and Monty watches it go, trailing exhaust in its wake.

‘Give me the word,’ says Mr Brogan, ‘and I’ll take a left turn.’

‘Left turn to where?’

‘We can take the George Washington Bridge. Wherever you want.’ Mr Brogan drives carefully, hands on the wheel at ten o’clock and two o’clock, squinting into the slush ahead for potholes. ‘We’ll get you stitched up somewhere and go west, find a nice little town—;’

‘Dad.’

‘I’m saying if you want. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. We’ll drive and keep driving. Stop in Chicago for a Cubs game. I’ve always wanted to see Wrigley Field. Maybe we can go to the Grand Canyon, take a few pictures. We’ll find a little town somewhere, find a bar, and I’ll buy us drinks. I haven’t had a drink in nineteen years, but I’ll have one with you. And then I’ll leave. I’ll tell you, Don’t ever write me, don’t ever come visit. I’ll tell you I believe in God’s Kingdom and I believe I’ll be with you again, and your mother. But not in this lifetime.’