Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [86]
The mule was in seat 14C, on the aisle, her legs crossed, the baby boy cradled firmly in her arms, his eyes closed, a soft blue blanket wrapped around zippered Snoopy pajamas. The mule was in her late thirties, rich brown hair combed in a swirl, unlined face barely touched by makeup.
As she turned to peer down the aisle, she noticed the overweight man next to her rest his paperback on his knees and smile down at the baby.
“I always like flying with babies,” the man said. “Makes me think the flight has a better chance of making it.”
The mule smiled back and stayed silent.
“Got yourself a beautiful one there,” the man said. “He can sleep through this racket, then maybe he’ll sleep through the flight.”
“He’s good that way,” the mule said. “Never gives me much trouble.”
“That comes when they’re older,” the man said. “Trust me. Got three of my own. I’d give anything to have them back to when they were as small as your kid.”
The mule nodded and turned her head away, watching a young flight attendant chant the procedures to follow in the event of a crash.
“Got family in New York?” the man asked her.
“No,” she said, turning back to face him.
“How long are you staying?”
“Not very long,” the mule said, looking down at the baby, making sure the blanket concealed a portion of his face.
“New York’s a great place for short visits,” the man said. “It’s living there full-time that’s hard. What hotel are you staying at?”
“We’ll be with friends,” the mule said, bracing herself for takeoff, once again turning away from the man, resting her head on the back of her seat.
“There’s a lot there to see,” the man said, picking up his paperback and folding it in half. “Lots of great things.”
“We won’t have much time for any of that,” the mule said. “We’re only in town for a day. It’s a quick business trip.”
“That is quick,” the man said, shifting his body up higher in the seat. “What sort of business are you involved in?”
The mule leaned closer to the man and smiled, her eyes locking on to his. “Promise you won’t tell anyone,” she said in a whispered voice.
“I promise,” the man said, lowering his head.
“Jason and I are drug dealers,” the mule said, lifting her eyebrows, a smile wrapped around her face.
“Who’s Jason?” the man asked.
“The baby,” the mule said, throwing a look at the boy wrapped in the blanket.
The man had a quizzical look on his face and held it for several moments. Then he heard her start to laugh.
“Yeah, right,” the man said, laughing along with the mule. “And me? I’m a hit man. But you’ve got to keep that one to yourself too.”
“It’s a deal,” the mule said, leaning back again and shutting her eyes.
The man returned to his paperback thriller.
The mule slept through the remainder of the flight into New York’s LaGuardia Airport, content and confident.
A dead baby held warm in her arms.
13
BOBBY SCARPONI, SHIRTLESS, a hand towel draped around his neck, stared into the mirror. The exposed bulb just above the hanging glass cast the small bathroom in a series of shadowy contrasts. He ran a hand along the red scars covering the upper part of his chest and running into his neck and cheek. They were hard and crusty to the touch, a constant reminder of the flames that had changed the course of his life.
Rev. Jim lived in Queens, a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a private home owned by a carpenter and his wife who seemed to be foolishly too young for him. It was the kind of apartment usually reserved for a young man starting out. It was not meant as a final stop.
Rev. Jim walked out of the bathroom, passed the small kitchen, and stopped by the open window near his bed, thin white drapes flapping in the wind. He stared down at the quiet street below, filled with parked cars and lit by the glow from a series of houses similar to the one in which he lived. It was how he spent most of his nights, his mind crowded with visions of his mother dying by his side, flames and heat surrounding