We Are Not Ourselves(198)

When the first batter up in the bottom of the thirteenth walked, she could hear Ed saying, It’s the leadoff walks that kill you, and then the next batter was the pitcher, and she knew pitchers couldn’t hit and the team usually pinch-hit for them in situations like this or had them bunt, but somehow he was swinging away, and somehow he got on base safely with a little ground ball that didn’t leave the infield, and she found herself standing and shouting “Go! Go! Go!” as her voice was swallowed in the mounting chorus of thousands of others. The next batter squared up for a bunt—she remembered Ed calling it that, squaring up, facing your fate head-on—and when he lay it down, the third baseman came rushing in for it and made a bad throw and the runner on second came all the way around to score. She squeezed her hands into fists and felt her throat constrict as the cheering cascaded around her.

It mattered so little that they’d won, and yet nothing mattered more. A fugitive joy stole through her as the players cleared the field. She sat in her seat and watched the fans leave, the emptying stadium growing quiet. Shades of runners lingered on the base paths. When the groundskeepers began sweeping dirt into piles and smoothing them out, she made her way to the car.





101


She rang the buzzer for the apartment number she had listed in her address book. A shy and small-framed woman answered the door, speaking Spanish. Eileen could see a crib in the living room behind her and a shirt spread out over an ironing board. She asked about the Orlandos, but the woman didn’t seem to know what she was talking about. Eileen excused herself and went back downstairs. The Orlandos’ name wasn’t anywhere on the lobby registry.

She went around the corner to the Palumbos’ house. Mr. Palumbo came to the door. In the eight years since she’d last seen him, he had aged considerably; he must have been pushing eighty by now.

“It’s me, Mr. Palumbo,” she said. “Eileen Leary. How are you doing?”

She couldn’t tell whether he didn’t recognize her or didn’t want to let on that he did. She’d never talked much to him, but he’d been her next-door neighbor for years, and she wanted that to count for something. When he extended his left hand, palm down, she took it gratefully in her own. The knuckles were like ball bearings, but the skin was smooth. He squeezed her hand tighter and started patting it with his other one. His hands felt like little furnaces.

He said his wife had died. Eileen offered condolences but couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Ed. He said his son had moved out of the apartment upstairs. “It’s hard to be a landlord at my age. My daughter wants me to sell the house and move out with her family in Hackettstown. I think about it, but what am I supposed to do out there, in the middle of nowhere? Watch the grass grow? The kid on the third floor, nice Colombian kid, he takes care of the handyman work. I go up there and play poker.” He laughed. “He takes all my money.”

She asked after the Orlandos. Mr. Palumbo started to speak about Donny and then disappeared inside for a long time. When he came back, he handed her a business card for an auto body shop in Garden City. He explained that Donny had opened it a few years back and now he had a few locations, with car washes.

“Very successful,” he said. “He got remarried too. Nice lady. He has two girls with her.”

She felt a joyful smile spread across her face. Beleaguered Donny of the inauspicious circumstances had made a miracle happen. Ed would have been so proud.

“Wonderful,” she said.

“I went out to see them. Beautiful neighborhood. Gary lives in a carriage house on the property. Brenda keeps the books for the shops. You should see Sharon. What a beauty. She could be a movie star.”

“My goodness,” she said. “And Lena?”

“She passed right after my wife.”

Mr. Palumbo crossed himself, so Eileen did too. When Mr. Palumbo asked about her family, she spoke vaguely, sparingly. She felt like a fool not admitting Ed was gone, but she couldn’t help herself. She needed this man to believe Ed was still alive.

They said their good-byes. As Eileen turned to leave the stoop, she heard the sound of something falling inside the apartment, and she had an eerie sensation that Mr. Palumbo had keeled over, dead. She knocked on his door again in a panic that surprised her. When Mr. Palumbo answered the door, she said the first thing that came to mind, which was that she wanted to wish him a happy Thanksgiving in case she didn’t see him before then. He looked a little bemused and thanked her for the wishes and she was left alone again. A sudden thunder overtook her heart and the tinny taste of fear stole into her mouth. She sat on his stoop to calm herself. She decided that she was afraid of getting left behind—but that was impossible; she had left before that could happen. Happy as she was for Donny, it unnerved her to learn that he hadn’t been living in the neighborhood all this time. She’d never imagined he would get his act together enough to make the radical moves he’d made. She had derived a certain comfort from thinking of him as living out the trajectory of his known life, keeping her past in place by staying put for her, even if he didn’t know he was doing it. It was much more frightening to think of the world in a state of permanent flux.

She hadn’t built a dynasty. She wasn’t even sure there would be a continuation of the line. Her son had gone back to Chicago to school, but she couldn’t help worrying about him, and in a more elemental way than she’d ever worried before. She’d begun to worry less about what sort of foundation he was laying for her future grandchildren—God willing, he would meet a nice girl and settle down and have kids—and more about his own future.