Page 69

SEVENTEEN

I t’s dark, now, nighttime on Bedford Street, and Eddie is finally home.

He covered every inch of the city, but never found his quarry. After he missed the curb and tumbled onto Seventh Avenue and had to pull himself up by grasping a No Parking sign because his legs were so spent, he finally shuffled home, the wobbling walk of a man who’s gone too fast, done too much, fallen too far. He was barely able to stand by the time he got back to Cookie’s building. The stairs to the second floor felt like Everest. When he collapsed onto the fainting couch, it felt like he might never move again.

If only he could sleep. But how? Even sleep feels like more effort than he can bear.

The city outside his open window is uncommonly subdued, unusually still even for this midnight hour, so quiet he can hear the linden leaves rustle across the street. He blinks at Francis’s portrait, waiting. For what?

A little time passes. Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour, maybe a lifetime before he hears the voices in Cookie’s room. Not just hers this time; there’s another voice, too. Is it Albert? No, Albert would never speak so softly. Eddie turns over, certain he’s imagining them.

But they come again. Eddie tiptoes into the hallway and listens at the door. The voices stop for a moment. Do they perceive him out here? He freezes.

After a moment they start again, and a rush of recognition cascades down his spine. That’s Francis’s voice. He’s come.

Eddie thrusts his hand out to the knob, but something grasps his hand, pushes it away, keeps him from turning it. Something whispers to him: No, don’t interrupt. Let them talk. He complies.

They know each other, of course, Cookie and Francis. Eddie had suspected so after Francis brought him to Cornelia Street this morning. Or was it seventy years ago? It’s hard to know anymore.

Eddie should go back to the couch. He knows this. But curiosity is a powerful impulse, so he presses his ear to the door.

Their words are muffled. He can’t discern what they’re saying, just a word here, a word there. Yesterday. Depression. Contrarian. Spanish dancer. Theo. Forever.

Don’t you already know what they’re saying, Eddie? They’re talking about the present. About the past. About yesterday and tomorrow, there and here, then and now. They’re telling your story. They’re talking about you.

Eddie leans closer to the door. He holds his breath and their words become clearer.

“Does he understand now?” she is saying. “Where he belongs? Who he is? What he wants?”

Francis answers. “Only he can know.”

She sighs. “Well. We’ve done our best, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” he says. “He’s all right now.”

“And you? Do you know where you belong? Who you are? What you want?”

There’s a long pause. Eddie can almost hear him thinking.

“Yes,” Francis says. “Yes.”

Yes.

The voices start to quiet again, fading. Eddie can no longer make out their words. But Francis is here. He is here, in the apartment, just on the other side of the door. This knowledge settles Eddie, centers him, anchors him.

He pads back into the den and curls onto the fainting couch under the lazy disco ball. He’ll close his eyes, just for a few minutes, to wait.

He won’t see Francis come in.

He won’t feel Francis kiss his forehead.

He won’t hear Francis whisper goodbye.