Little Deaths(56)

He was as gentle as he’d always been, and she clutched him to her and made the breathy moans that worked for him, and afterward they slept.


After Frank had left the next morning, she dozed a little longer and then lay on the couch. This is what he wanted. What her mother wanted. This is what Frankie and Cindy would have wanted: Mommy and Daddy together again. She tried to think about what she wanted, but it made tears come and her head ache, so she lit another cigarette and picked up a magazine and stopped thinking.

Later, the sky quickening toward dusk, she heard kids yelling in the street. She opened a bottle and drank four glasses in quick succession until she didn’t notice the noise outside anymore, then she turned the radio on. Two more drinks and she turned the music up and began to dance.

She threw her head back and watched herself in the darkening window: slim shoulders, white arms, long fingers like grass under water, her hair a flying wind of red and gold. She spun and stretched and moved her hips and ignored the banging on the door, the ringing telephone. Drank harder and danced until the world was a glorious blur of color dancing with her. The colors and the light and the narrow band of sky above the dark buildings whirled faster and faster until Ruth fell, exhausted, across the back of the sofa and lay there laughing, legs in the air, while the beat played on through her whole body.

And it was while she lay there, head turned to watch the sun sink behind the rooftops across the street and the first stars peek out, that she noticed the lights and the cars and the shadows outside. And even as she watched, another car pulled up, long and sleek and shining. The door opened and Devlin stepped out, his profile lit neon by a streetlamp.

And Ruth just lay there, panting, her skirt around her hips and her hair across her face. She was surely invisible in there, in that secret darkness, but it seemed to her that their eyes met across that twilit distance. It seemed that, for a moment, they were as close as lovers.


Pete thought about his conversation with Gina for days. Then one morning he woke early, and he knew what he had to do. He splashed water on his face, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. He’d learned that if he didn’t look inside himself, fear couldn’t creep in. If he didn’t look, he couldn’t see the things he was most afraid of: that he didn’t belong in New York, that he wasn’t good enough, that one day he’d have to admit defeat and go back to Iowa with his tail between his legs and take a job at the local paper and pretend to his mother every day that he was happy to be home.

Normally when this feeling threatened, he’d grab his jacket, run downstairs, close the door behind him, and walk fast into the morning. And by the time he’d reached the diner on the corner of 2nd Avenue and ordered his usual pancakes and maple syrup, the feeling would have subsided and been replaced by astonishment. That he was here at all. That New York really was like every movie he’d seen, every commercial: yellow cabs driven by angry Italians changed lanes without signaling; white-tipped old men drank from brown paper bags on street corners. The Empire State Building was lit up at night like an angel on high and neon BAR signs were spread out below like glitter.

But he had a feeling that pancakes and the skyline wouldn’t be enough today. As he lifted his razor toward his face, he saw that his hands were shaking. He put the razor down and took a breath, forced himself to meet his eyes in the mirror. This was the right thing to do. The moral thing.

He finished shaving and dressed and drove to the office, and all the time he was afraid.

But the taste of certainty was iron-sharp in his mouth and carried him all the way to his desk. He sat down and began to type.

. . . Mrs. Malone was visibly upset when this reporter visited her. She stated several times that she has no idea who would want to harm her or her children. As she has maintained from the very beginning, she put them to bed at their usual time, she checked on them at midnight and she found they were gone in the morning. She heard nothing in between. She misses them terribly, as any loving mother would. The apartment is spic-and-span but oddly quiet, and she’s finding it difficult to sleep. And she is still afraid that the person who took them may be out there, and that other children may be at risk.

When he finished, he pulled the pages from his typewriter, skimmed them, and took them through to Friedmann’s office. Friedmann was on the phone and held up a finger, signaling him to wait, but Pete just put the article on his desk and walked down to the drugstore. He ordered an ice-cream soda and as he sat at the counter and watched the girl pour out the Coke and drop the ice cream in the glass, he realized he was calmer than he’d been in weeks. Whatever happened next, he could live with what he’d done.


Pete was in the newsroom by seven the next morning. He took the overnight bulletins out of the tray and started leafing through them. Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw Friedmann arrive. He’d never seen him in the office this early.

Friedmann looked over at him and jerked his head.

Pete straightened his tie and stood up. Took a breath and walked into Friedmann’s office, head high.

His article was on the desk, a red line scored through it. Friedmann gestured to it.

“What the fuck is this? I told you to leave this alone.”

He removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose.

When he spoke again, he sounded almost sad. “What’s happened to you, Wonicke? You used to have fire in your belly. You had the makings of a damn good reporter. And now you’re coming out with this crap!”