The Nest(93)

Sinatra lifted his head and whined a little. “What do you say, Mr. S.?” He rubbed a few knuckles across Sinatra’s head, the place where his skin was a little slack and the fur soft. The dog panted with pleasure. From down the street he could see Stephanie waving at him. She probably wanted help with her bags. Sinatra started barking at something in the opposite direction.

“Shush, boy,” Tommy said, looking to see what was agitating the dog. It was a couple. The woman was on crutches and there was something uneven about her companion’s profile. They were walking slowly and looking at house numbers. As they got closer, Tommy couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A tall muscular man with one arm and a long-haired woman with a missing foot walking together down his street. It was his statue come to life. He stood and Sinatra’s barks turned to a menacing growl.

“Shhhh.” He picked the dog up and tucked him under one arm to keep him calm. He really needed to get some sleep. He blinked and shook his head a little, looked again but his vision hadn’t cleared. The statue was still there and it was coming toward him. He felt light-headed and looked up at the sky. He didn’t know why, what he expected to see up there. He thought for a minute he might faint. What was happening couldn’t be happening. He could feel his breaths becoming shallow and then a constriction around his chest, like someone was tightening a belt. The dog scrambled out of his arms and down the stoop and turned to face Tommy, barking in earnest now, scared.

Oh, please, Tommy thought, not now. Not the heart attack he’d feared, not while that statue was still in the house. He put a hand on the iron railing to try to steady himself. If the statue was in his house, how was it also walking down the street? Stephanie was yelling his name from one direction. From the other direction, the statue-come-to-life was getting closer. Sweat streamed down his back, and his palms were clammy. Sinatra was barking even harder. Holy Jesus, he was dying. He was having a stroke or a heart attack or both. He tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t.

“Quiet,” he said to Sinatra, but he wasn’t sure anything came out. His throat was tight and dry.

“Excuse me.” Now the statue was in front of him, talking, wanting to climb the stoop.

Tommy tried to speak but his lips wouldn’t work. They were coming for him, that’s what he was thinking even though he didn’t really understand what he meant. Coming for him? Who?

“Hey.” The man stepped closer and reached out with his one arm. “You okay, buddy? You don’t look so good.”

“What’s wrong, baby, why are you so upset?” Tommy thought the woman was talking to him, but she’d leaned her crutches against the stoop and was trying to soothe Sinatra who was barking at her outstretched hand. Tommy stared at her missing foot and then back at the man with one arm. He couldn’t tell in that moment if he was hallucinating or if he was dying, but whichever it was he knew it wasn’t good. Ronnie, he thought. Help.

“Call 911,” Tommy heard the man say. “Do you need a hand there, mister? What’s your name?” Vinnie’s voice sounded like it was coming through a long tunnel or across a static-filled connection. He couldn’t make out the words, but he heard the man say something about 9/11. Fuck. And right before Tommy pitched forward, he looked at them both beseechingly, his hand at his heart, his mouth a tight slash of pain.

“What?” Matilda said, her voice thick with concern and fear. “What is it, Papi?”

“Forgive me,” Tommy said. And then he fell, landing at Matilda’s missing foot.





CHAPTER FORTY–TWO


Tomorrow was Mother’s Day and Melody would wake up and spend the last day in her beloved house. Monday morning, the moving truck would come and load all the boxes and wrap their furniture in quilted moving blankets and they would get in their car and follow the van to their temporary condo on the other side of the tracks.

And then the bulldozers would arrive.

Walt had kept that piece of information from her until he couldn’t any longer: The person who bought their house was a developer who planned to raze the entire thing and build a spanking new monstrosity. She moved through the rooms now with a fresh sorrow; soon they wouldn’t even exist.

Today, they were waiting for a salvage firm to show up. The developer was not only going to demolish her house, but he was going to strip it first—the wood, molding, the oak banister, her painstakingly cared for heart pine living room floor—and sell it all to an architectural salvage firm. Walt tried to get Melody to leave, but she wouldn’t. She wanted to look the * in the eye who was dismantling beauty and reselling it at a profit. She and Nora and Louisa were in the living room packing up the last of the books when the doorbell rang. When Walt opened the door, she thought she was seeing things. It was Jack.

She wanted to pummel him at first. She was outraged. He was the salvager? He was going to rip out the soul of her home and sell it? It took a few minutes for Jack and Walter to calm her down and help her understand: Jack was salvaging what he could for her.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“I know people,” Jack said, gesturing to the crew with him. “These guys will take what you want and store it.”

“For what?”

“To use again, Mom,” Nora said. She and Louisa were expectant, excited. They’d known about the plan for weeks as Jack and Walt conspired to figure out the details. “If you build your own house someday. Or to put in one that’s already built. You can keep the best things and reuse them.”