Gone, Baby, Gone - Dennis Lehane [29]
The Ashmont Grille served the sort of food my mom used to make—meat loaf and potato and lots of gravy—and the waitresses all acted like moms, too. If you didn’t clean your plate, they asked you if the starving children in China would waste food. I always half expected to be told I couldn’t leave the table until I’d eaten every last bite.
If that were the case, Angie would have been there until next week, the way she picked at her chicken Marsala. For someone so petite and slim, Angie can out-eat truck drivers fresh off the road. But tonight, she swirled the linguine on her fork, then seemed to forget about it. She’d drop the fork on the plate, sip some beer, and stare off into space as if she were Helene McCready looking for a television set.
By the time she’d reached her fourth bite, my meal was gone. Angie took this as an indication that dinner was over and pushed her plate into the center of the table.
“You can never know people,” she said, her eyes on the table. “Can you? Understand them. It’s not possible. You can’t…fathom what makes them do the things they do, think the way they do. If it’s not the way you think, it never makes sense. Does it?” She looked up at me and her eyes were red and wet.
“You talking about Helene?”
“Helene”—she cleared her throat—“Helene, and Big Dave, and those guys in the bar, and whoever took Amanda. They don’t make sense. They don’t…” A tear fell to her cheek and she wiped at it with the back of her hand. “Shit.”
I took her hand and she chewed the inside of her mouth, and looked up at the ceiling fan above her.
“Ange,” I said, “those guys in the Filmore were human waste. They’re not worth a single moment’s thought.”
“Uh-huh.” She took a deep breath through her mouth, and I could hear it rattle its way through the liquid clogging her throat. “Yeah.”
“Hey,” I said. I stroked her forearm with my palm. “I’m serious. They’re nothing. They’re—”
“They would have raped me, Patrick. I’m sure of it.” She looked at me, and her mouth jerked erratically until it froze for a moment in a smile, one of the strangest smiles I’ve ever seen. She patted my hand and the flesh around her mouth crumbled, and then her whole face crumbled with it. The tears poured from her eyes, and she kept trying to hold that smile and pat my hand.
I’ve known this woman all my life, and I can count on one hand how many times she’s wept in my presence. I didn’t understand completely at the moment what had brought this on—I’d seen Angie face far more dire situations than the one we faced in the bar today and shrug them off—but whatever the cause, the pain was real, and seeing it in her face and body killed me.
I came out from my side of the booth, and she waved me away, but I slid in beside her, and she caved into me. She gripped my shirt and wept silently into my shoulder. I smoothed her hair, kissed her head, and held her. I could feel the blood coursing through her body as she shook in my arms.
“I feel like such a goof,” Angie said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
We’d left the Ashmont Grille and Angie asked me to stop at Columbia Park in South Boston. A horseshoe of bleachers set in granite surrounded the dusty track at the tip of the park, and we bought a six-pack and took it down there with us, dusted some splinters off a bleacher plank before sitting down.
Columbia Park is Angie’s sacred place. Her father, Jimmy, disappeared in a mob hit over two decades ago, and the park is where her mother chose to tell Angie and her sister that their father was dead, corpse or no corpse. Angie returns to the park sometimes during her dark nights, when she can’t sleep, when the ghosts crawl around in her head.
The ocean was fifty yards to our right, and the breeze coming off it was cool enough for us to wrap up in each other to keep from shivering.
She leaned forward, staring out at the track and the wide swath of green park beyond. “You know what it is?”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t understand people who choose to hurt other people.”