Читать книгу The Gunners - Rebecca Kauffman - Страница 13

Chapter 5

It was the third week of January, and the crust of yellowy-gray snow that had encased the city of Buffalo earlier that month had received a dusting overnight, an inch of fresh crystal powder. The air was clean and quiet and wondrous, the sky a pale bowl. It was Sunday. Mikey arrived at St. Mary’s Cathedral thirty minutes before Sally’s three o’clock service.

The lobby was dark and smelled like the inside of a sweaty old baseball cap. Mikey hung his coat and brushed snowflakes from his hair. There were a dozen people in the lobby, older folks, friends of Sally’s mother, Mikey guessed. In the low light, grim and tucked within layers of black clothing, everyone there looked severe and vaguely bloodless. The priest was a flaccid-looking individual with a sad, high forehead, and he offered Mikey a nod that was both wary and polite. Mikey’s hands were frigid because he hadn’t worn gloves, and he stuffed them into his pockets, where they met his thighs and sent goose bumps to his groin.

Mikey considered whether he ought to make attempts at mingling or disappear to walk through quiet basement hallways and avoid speaking with anyone until his friends arrived. He was tempted by the thought of dark halls, dark classrooms, janitor’s closets, drinking fountains mounted low on the wall. His low-grade anxiety was brought quickly to the surface by any sort of social interaction, much less one taking place in a church, and under this sort of circumstance. He felt anxious, shaky, hollow. He wore a dark gray suit from JCPenney and a poorly knotted blue tie. His armpits felt cold and stiff, suggesting wetness. In the mirror that morning, his pale eyes had looked wet and muddled, as if they were lost, had been placed inside the wrong head.

Mikey made his way across the lobby to a small coffee setup. He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee that was not steaming, and he stirred in a packet of sugar. A chill nipped at him. Had he locked the door to his home? He had left extra food out for Friday, but was it enough? His fingernails were unclean. What would his friends think of him? Had he grown ugly and weird in the last decade? Had he grown old?

Mikey sipped his coffee, which was thin and cool, and tried to reach a relaxed pose as he gazed around the lobby. He drew his phone from his pocket and glanced at it for the time and notifications. Jimmy had called several hours earlier to say that his connecting flight was delayed and he was stranded in Denver. He had rebooked for later that day but would miss the funeral service. He said that the catering arrangements were already made at the lake house; Mikey and the others should head there without him.

Mikey’s phone showed no update from Jimmy or any of the others. He slid it back into his pocket and breathed hot air into his fists since the coffee had not warmed his fingers. He was bothered by his cold hands. It seemed like the sort of thing a person would remember about another person, especially when there was little else to say about him. The Man with Cold Hands.

Mikey glanced over toward the door, where, mercifully, Lynn was entering. He adjusted his glasses to make sure it was her, and it was.

Lynn wore a puffy green coat that nearly grazed the floor, and her head was small and pale within an explosion of curly red hair. She was with a very tall and handsome man whose bald head gleamed with moisture. As the man helped Lynn remove her coat, she caught sight of Mikey across the room. Lynn straightened up in recognition, her face broke into delight, and she called, “It’s you!”

She bounced on her toes and clapped her hands together fast and happy for a moment, then stopped, abruptly conscious of her display of joy in the somber room. Mikey made his way over to the two of them.

Lynn was very thin and her face was pocked with scars that Mikey did not remember, but her smile was generous and straightforward, her green eyes lively. For the first time in days, Mikey felt warm.

Lynn said, “Sorry to make a scene, but I don’t care if it’s a funeral! Mikey, you’re a sight. This makes me happy. Can’t believe how long it’s been. This is my boyfriend, Issa.” Her red curls were so tight it was as if each one had been formed around a pencil. Her nose was dusted with freckles.

Issa’s voice was low and rich when he said, “Pleasure.”

Mikey said, “You guys are in Pennsylvania, right? How long was the drive?”

Lynn said, “Jim Thorpe’s the name of the town. Should be five hours, but the snow slowed us down. Left at”—she glanced down at her watch, then up at Issa—“five thirty this morning?”

Issa said, “Five. Couple stops along the way.”

Mikey said, “Issa, have you been to the area before?”

Issa nodded. “Twice.”

Mikey was glad he had rehearsed easy points of small talk: the drive, weather, traffic, location of restrooms, if needed. However, he hoped that in his efforts to be calm and composed he did not seem aloof.

Lynn explained, “We’ve been back here to visit my mom a couple times, but it’s more often that she comes to us. She loses her mind over the Museum of Mason Jars in the next town over from us. You think I’m joking? She has to take the ninety-minute tour every time she visits. Last time she went, she picked up a job application for me.”

Issa corroborated this with a nod. “And one for me, too,” he said.

Mikey laughed. He said to Issa, “Lynn has told me, but I can’t remember. Where are you from, before Pennsylvania?”

“New York before that, Addis Ababa before that.”

“Is that Ethiopia?”

Issa nodded.

Mikey said, “How do you like the snowy Northeast?”

Issa said, “I don’t. But Lynn’s got this stuff in her blood.” He turned to Lynn and brushed a little bit of snow from her hair, then placed a long arm around her. “Says she’d lose her mind without winter.”

Lynn said, “True. It’s the only good excuse to live the way I like.”

Mikey said, “How do you mean?”

“Go to bed early,” Lynn explained. “Spend all day in blankets. Watch Law & Order for ten hours straight. Eat soup from a can. All the things I love to do. But you act like that in the summertime, and everybody thinks you’re off your meds.”

Issa said, “She hibernates like a bear.”

Mikey laughed. “Lynn, are you still playing piano?”

Lynn nodded. “Although . . .” She held out her left hand to display that she was missing her left ring finger. Completely gone, down to the fist, some puckered scar tissue gathered at the top of the metacarpus.

Mikey said, “I don’t think I knew about that. Did you ever mention it in an email? When did it happen?”

“Long story,” Lynn said. “I’ll tell you later.” She hesitated as she lowered her hands to her thighs. Pale skin stretched tight over her clavicles. She tucked hair behind her ears and said, “Did you see this coming?”

“What’s that?”

Lynn nodded in toward the sanctuary. “Sally.”

“No,” Mikey said. “Did you?”

“Didn’t see it coming,” Lynn said. “But I felt it coming. Or heard it coming, I guess I should say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been working on improv sets, practicing with old jazz trio recordings,” Lynn explained. “The days leading up to her suicide, every time I sat down to play, the music that came out of me was . . .

wrong. Ugly. Oppressive. I couldn’t make sense of it until I got this news. It’s like some part of me that I don’t even know knew.”