Edgar and Lucy Page 18

“You smell,” Edgar enunciated—not with meanness, but with the necessary force to overcome the torpor of intoxication. He tapped his nose to further convey his point—adding, in case his meaning wasn’t clear: “Like poop.”

  Thomas grabbed the boy’s bandaged finger.

  If this hurt, Edgar wasn’t sure. It seemed to be happening to someone else.

  “Say it again,” Thomas said, squeezing harder. The pain made a brief but shocking appearance.

  “Ow.”

  “That’s what I want to hear.”

  As Thomas began to twist the finger, Edgar panicked. “Stop. You’re going to pull it off again.”

  “You mean whack it off?”

  “Please,” Edgar said. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Leave him alone, you fat fuck.”

  Thomas looked up, but held fast to Edgar’s finger.

  “What did I just say?” The man grabbed Thomas by the shoulders and shoved him backwards.

  “Don’t touch me,” Thomas cried, kicking. “You can’t touch children. I’ll call the police.”

  “You should,” the man said. “Here, let me get my phone. In fact, I know a few guys down at the station. You want me to call for you? Or do you want to do it?” He extended the phone, tightening his grip on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Pervert.” Thomas sneered and kicked again.

  The man easily sidestepped Thomas’s foot, before throwing a quick backhanded slap to the fat boy’s face.

  Edgar vomited onto the pavement.

  The man gently touched the little boy’s head, and then turned back to Thomas. “I think you better get out of here before my buddies from the station get here and we find out who the real pervert is.”

  Thomas’s lips were quivering. “I wasn’t going to hurt him.”

  “But you did hurt him.”

  “I only—”

  “What did I say? Take your fat ass—and get the fuck out of here.”

  Feeling the tears in his eyes, Thomas turned away.

  “Did I not say run?” the man barked—and Edgar watched in amazement as the fat boy did what he was told, only stopping when he’d reached the corner.

  “I have a gun,” Thomas shouted.

  “I have one, too,” the man shouted back, as Thomas disappeared around the bend.

  Edgar looked up into his savior’s face. Something was familiar. The blondish-brown hair. The beard.

  “Gross,” one of the boys said, passing the vomit.

  “What’s the fat kid’s name?” asked the man.

  A few of the boys laughed. “Thomas,” one of them said.

  “Thomas what?”

  “Pittimore,” another said, feeling no sense of betrayal. Thomas was amusing, but they all knew he was a shit. He stole tater-tots, flat-tired shoes, and had a nasty habit of grabbing a person’s pen and licking it.

  The bearded man took a small pad from his pocket and scribbled a note. “Move on, guys. Show’s over.” Slowly, the boys ambled away.

  “Are you a policeman?” asked Edgar.

  “Here.” The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the boy’s face.

  Edgar swayed on his feet. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “I’m going to school,” said Edgar.

  “I don’t think so, my friend. You can hardly stand up.”

  “I’m…” Edgar’s head rolled to the side. Things that shouldn’t be moving were moving again, including the green pickup truck parked across the street. “Oh,” Edgar said—and then he turned back to the man. “You’re…”

  “Yes,” the man said, catching Edgar as he fell.

  18

  Tuesday

  She dressed quickly: a pair of gray slacks and a midnight-blue turtleneck—an untouched ensemble Florence had given her last Christmas. It was the nearest to sober she could find, now that her one black dress was covered in Edgar’s blood.

  Lucy was dreading the funeral—could already hear the organ, the Ave Maria. Already, there was a knot in her throat. She hoped the priest wouldn’t mention Frank.

  She phoned the school, telling the secretary she’d be coming in to pick up Edgar. “He shouldn’t be there today. He’s ill.”

  “I’ll pull him from class,” the woman said. “When are you coming?”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Outside the bedroom, the air seemed blurry. Lucy wasn’t sure whether to blame the fire or the Percocet. Downstairs, she was shocked to find the kitchen spotless, as if Florence’s ghost had stopped by with a mop.

  Had any of it really happened? The tomato, the finger, the three hours in the emergency room before Edgar was carted away to surgery. Ron and the Schlips had waited with her. Afterwards, the doctor had been optimistic. “With kids that young, you could put a fingertip back on with Scotch tape and it would probably work.” When Lucy had looked at the baby-faced doctor with a distinct lack of amusement, he’d added: “But, no, I mean, we did a lot more than that. I’d say there’s an eighty percent chance it’ll take.”

  * * *

  On the drive to Edgar’s school, Lucy felt nauseous and decided to stop at the salon to use the bathroom. Plus, she should probably tell Celeste, the owner, what was going on. When Lucy had called, several days ago, to request Thursday through Tuesday off, she’d simply said it was for “personal reasons.” She hadn’t mentioned anything about Florence.

  When Lucy arrived, Audrey Fenning was by the front desk, speaking with Celeste. At the sound of the entrance bell, Mrs. Fenning turned. She had a large patch over her left ear.

  “Good morning,” Lucy said tentatively.

  “Speak of the devil,” said Fenning.

  Staring at the white bandage taped to the woman’s face, Lucy could think of nothing but her son’s finger. In her drugged state, she struggled to comprehend how Edgar’s injury had leapt to the old woman’s ear.

  “It’s infected,” said Fenning.

  Lucy looked at Celeste as if she were an interpreter; but Celeste only shrugged and closed her eyes.

  “There was pus. I had to have a shot.” Mrs. Fenning zeroed in on the proprietress. “If this is the kind of shop you run, I don’t think your doors are going to stay open for long.”

  “We’ve been here for almost tree years,” replied Celeste—her Jamaican accent rising with her pride.

  “Well, if you want to go for four, I suggest—”

  Celeste held up a densely bangled arm. “We don’t even know that this was caused by—”

  “She poked me with a pair of dirty scissors.”

  “They weren’t dirty,” said Lucy.

  “Oh, but you’re not denying you poked me?”

  A rush of air that was not entirely free of laughter issued from Lucy’s mouth.

  “See what she’s like?” Fenning bristled. “Makes a joke out of everything. Look at her, she’s smiling.”

  “I’m not smiling,” said Lucy.

  “What is that on your face then?”

  “It’s my face, all right? I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

  “You’re a smirker. From day one, you’ve been a smirker.”

  “We’ll have another stylist take care of you the next time,” Celeste offered.

  “That’s not the issue. The issue is the girl’s attitude. The issue is my ear.”

  “Let me see it,” Lucy said. She reached her hand toward the white bandage.

  Fenning chirped and stepped back. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to see it. Take it off.”

  “Lucy,” Celeste warned. “Ladies, why don’t we go in the back? We can talk in the break room.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Fenning said, “there’s nothing more to discuss. Either you take disciplinary action…”

  Lucy snorted.

  “… or I will file a formal complaint.”

  “It was a scratch. How many times do you want me to apologize?”

&n
bsp; “It’s not a matter of apology, it’s a matter of infection. Plus, I have a wedding next week, and now I have to wear this.” She touched the ear patch and winced.

  Lucy sighed and turned to Celeste. “It was a fucking scratch.”

  Audrey Fenning shook her head sadly. “You know, I feel sorry for you, Ms. Fini.

  “Mrs. Fini,” Lucy corrected.

  “I’ve been in this town a long time, Mrs. Fini, and I’ve seen a lot of girls like you. Mean types, unpleasant. My daughter Karen used to be taunted by girls like you. I mean, obviously you have problems, you have issues—and that’s none of my business. But you know what? A person has to work things out. Take Karen, she didn’t have it easy, and now she—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know—the space people. You tell me every friggin’ time you come in here.”

  Mrs. Fenning sniffed and turned to Celeste. “For this language alone, she should be fired.”

  “Lucy,” Celeste said quietly. “Please.”

  “You can’t reason with people like her,” Mrs. Fenning said, shaking her head.

  “I will take care of it, ma’am,” Celeste said. “I’m sorry for your trouble.”

  “And I expect a free haircut the next time I come in.”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Fenning touched her bandaged ear again. “You know, Mrs. Fini, I’m a reasonable woman. I only ask to be treated with respect.”

  Florence had often said the same thing. Lucy looked at Fenning coolly, though with a sudden desire to explain. “I had a bad night.”

  “We all have bad nights. It’s no excuse for bad manners.” Audrey Fenning adjusted the shoulder strap of her pocketbook and nodded at Celeste. “Good day.”

  When the coast was clear, Celeste set her hands on the ledges of her wide hips. “Christmas, girl! What you got stuck up your ass this week?”

  Lucy rubbed her face and began to walk away.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “I’m sorry, I—I’ll be right back.” Lucy grabbed her stomach and rushed toward the bathroom.

  Bracing herself against the sink, she hovered between nausea and tears. The two forces seemed to act at odds with each other, preventing either from flourishing. Finally, the scent from a large dish of cinnamon-orange potpourri gave an advantage to the nausea. Lucy leaned over the toilet, but no relief came.

  Through the flimsy door drifted the sounds of the salon. A murmur of voices, the hum of a dryer, the insect-like clicking of a pair of scissors. Someone was muttering along to an Elton John song on the radio, singing both parts of a duet like a lunatic. Don’t go breaking my heart. I couldn’t if I tried.

  Trapped in the tiny bathroom of Celestial Styles, what erupted finally from Lucy’s body was neither sickness nor tears. It was fury—a particularly potent strain that had visited her before in the years since Frank’s death. The bastard had abandoned her—had left her with broken bones and a baby. The wounds seemed fresh in light of Florence’s departure. The old woman should have stayed—for Edgar, if for nothing else.

  Lucy took a breath. She had better call the school—let them know she was running late. When she reached for her cell, though, she realized that she’d left it at home.

  “Lucy, what you doing in there?”

  “I’m doing what a person does in here.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me,” Celeste said—her voice still rabidly Jamaican. “We need to talk.”

  When Lucy emerged and phoned the school from the reception desk, Celeste waited with crossed arms.

  “This is Mrs. Fini. I called earlier about my son.”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “We left several messages on your cell.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t get them. Could you just tell Edgar I’ll pick him up in about ten minutes?”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “He’s not here.”

  “What do you mean, he’s not there?”

  “He didn’t come in today.”

  “Yes he did. He took his books, his backpack.”

  “Did you drive him here?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I mean, did you see him enter the school?”

  “Why don’t you check the bathrooms? He’s probably—”

  “Mrs. Fini, we’ve looked everywhere. So, you did drive him here?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, so did he take the bus? Or does he usually walk?”

  “I…” Lucy realized she had no idea how the kid got to school.

  “If he walks,” the secretary asked, “do you know who his Ped-Pal is?”

  “His what?”

  “We always recommend the children who walk have a companion. If you give me the name of his Ped-Pal, I can ask him if Edgar walked with him this morning.”

  Lucy rubbed her face and stared out the window of the salon. Florence should have given her a fucking file. Ped-Pals?

  “If you want, Mrs. Fini, I can let you talk to the assistant principal.”

  Lucy felt an old fear, as if she were the one in trouble. Bad student, check. Bad mother, double check.

  “Should I put you through to Mr.—”

  “No— Oh my God, here he is. He just walked in the door.”

  Celeste scrunched up her face, looking from Lucy to the imaginary person who’d supposedly just entered the salon.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” the woman on the phone said.

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “Thank you so much.”

  She’d just have to get in the car and find Edgar herself. There was no need to get the authorities involved.

  Celeste’s arms were still folded. “What kinda games you playing, missy?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…”

  Celeste widened her eyes, waiting.

  “It’s too hard to explain.”

  “Try,” Celeste said gravely.

  “It’s really not any of your business,” Lucy said.

  “Not my business, huh? This is my business, missy. Where you think you standing? Whose phone you lying on?”

  “Celeste—”

  “Poking the customers, and now you come in late, doing some fish story on my phone.”

  “I’m not late—I told you I couldn’t work today. I said I’d be back on Wednesday.”

  “Exactly,” said Celeste.

  “Exactly,” mimicked Lucy. “It’s friggin’ Tuesday.”

  “On what planet? Look at the daybook, girl. It’s Wednesday.” Celeste pointed to the appointment calendar on her desk.

  Lucy stared at the black X drawn over the day through which she thought she was moving. She felt nauseous again. “I’m sorry, can we talk about this later?”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I have to get home.”

  “You have six appointments today.”

  “I’m sorry—I can’t stay.”

  “Is something wrong with your boy?”

  “No, I just have to…” Lucy’s hands were shaking. “Maybe you could just reschedule everyone for tomorrow?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Celeste said. “We can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what?”

  “Let’s step outside for a moment, shall we?”

  “Celeste…”

  “I know that woman’s a bitch, but it’s not just her. Some of the others have complained, too.”

  “They’re all bitches.”

  “Well, that may be. But our job is to cater to them.” Celeste touched Lucy’s arm. “Come on, let’s talk outside.”

  “What? Are you afraid I’m gonna make a scene?” Lucy pulled away. “Talk to me here.”

  The two women looked at each other. Celeste, who’d braved her share of heartache (a hurricane in Kingston had killed her youngest brother), could see the small tremors of fear compromising Lucy’s swagger. “What’s going on, girl?”

  Lucy liked Celeste, too. She wasn’t a liar or a pushover, like most women. Still, some heavy anchor stopped Lucy from moving toward Celeste
’s proffer of kindness. “Nothing,” Lucy said flatly.

  “That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “What do you want me to say?” The thought of breaking down here at the front of the salon, of falling into the vanilla-musk of Celeste’s cleavage, brought up the bitter pride of a girl who’d learned to spurn her mother’s kisses after her father had beaten her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go.”

  Celeste nodded. “You can come back later to pick up your things.”

  Lucy made the sound that others often mistook for laughter.

  Before she was out the door, Celeste stopped her. “There’s just been too many complaints. Listen, girl, I’ll see if my man can get you something at the restaurant.”

  “No, thank you,” said Lucy.

  As she stepped out of the salon into the bright sun, she leaned against the building to keep herself from falling.

  Wednesday?

  Some part of her knew it was true. She’d slept for a whole day once before—after Frank had died.

  But what about Edgar? Had he gone to yesterday’s funeral without her? She pictured him climbing into Florence’s coffin; saw the two of them being lowered into the ground together.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  Lucy slipped on her sunglasses, and ran.

  19

  Tuesday

  “We should probably begin,” Father Reginald said to the twenty or so people gathered in the front pews.

  He’d waited as long as possible. Several calls had been made to the family’s house; a large man, a friend of the young lady’s, had even driven to the residence and knocked on the door—but, for all intents and purposes, Lucy Fini and her son seemed to have vanished. Florence’s soul would have to be prayerfully entrusted to the eternal without them. There was a marriage to be performed later in the afternoon; the floral crucifixes would need to make way for garlands of pink delphiniums.

  “Let us bow our heads,” Father Reginald intoned.

  Among those that did so were the Jews, Henry and Netty Schlip. In fact, a large number of the mourners were Ferryfield shopkeeps. Willie Marchwell, Leonard Wong, Teresa Collucci. The knife sharpeners, Richie and Enzo Fortunato, were in attendance, wearing identical suits and sitting so close to each other that their brotherhood appeared Siamese. Florence’s old friends, Honey Fasinga and Dominic Sparra, also bowed their heads, as did the Heftis. When the butcher looked down, it was to discreetly text into his phone: Where are you??? Funeral!!! Is Edgar okay?