Unforgotten

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “Back home there is a man, Ubaiah, who is palsied and blind. He can do nothing for himself. Each day his caregivers lay him at the door of my father’s church. Flies collect on his skin.”

  Rese took that in without showing her revulsion.

  Chaz went on in his same even tone. “People who pass by the church touch him like a charm, their load lifted, their problems suddenly lighter.”

  “Perspective?”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps he is a true conduit of grace and healing. The hem of Christ’s robe.”

  Rese sank back in the chair. “Does he know it?”

  Chaz shrugged. “He can’t say.”

  But if he had a part to play, could the same be true of Mom? She had confirmed something Star had only imagined in the dark moments when people treated her unspeakably, when she looked up from the crimes against her body and saw fairies. Mom had called her the fairy child and given Star a deeper comfort than Rese ever had. She didn’t get the fairy thing exactly, but why couldn’t the presence manifest as something beautiful in the face of incomprehensible ugliness? And if Mom had seen Star’s fairies, did she experience some form of God herself? Lance said the Lord would find an open heart. Maybe the mind was not required. Only God knew what it took for Mom to get through one day to the next, and yet her words had touched Star more deeply than anyone imagined.

  The foolish things to confound the wise, the weak to shame the strong. Chaz said if she knew who God was, she could accept whatever He wanted as right and good. She straightened.

  So then—who was God?

  ————

  Lance came in and saw Chaz and Rese with their heads together, Chaz’s long finger to the page, Rese wearing the expression that challenged and amused and endeared her to him. A seizing jealousy gripped.

  How lame was that? He’d abdicated the mentor role by losing her trust. What could he tell her now, that wouldn’t show him for the hypocrite he’d been, talking about truth when all the time he’d been misleading and withholding?

  Chaz was the one who never faltered. Lance frowned. He should leave them to it, but he went and sat down, satisfied when Chaz slid the ribbon into the Bible to mark his place.

  “How is she?” Chaz must have heard the commotion in the hall, or maybe he just guessed where he’d been. Though they had only met four years ago and came from vastly different cultures, it sometimes seemed Chaz was his alter ego, his better self.

  “Cussing a blue streak. Only she doesn’t know it.” He told them the words Nonna had adopted for yes and no. “And she’s consistent. It’s like a code.” He caught Rese’s expression. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m sprouting tentacles, molting my skin? What?”

  She raised her chin. “You said that without mocking. My crew would have yukked it up big time.”

  “Are you kidding? It took everything I had not to laugh.”

  “Nothing was stopping you now.” She leaned in. “But you told it as though it was just another symptom.”

  What was her point?

  Chaz closed his Bible. “I think I’ll shower while it’s available.” He was giving them privacy, though Lance didn’t know what Rese was trying to say. Rico had moved to the drum set and, still wearing the headphones, employed the air brushes now that everyone was up but Star.

  Rese frowned. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the butt of every joke or have people mocking someone you love.”

  Had she expected him to make fun of Nonna, thought he would take advantage of someone’s fragility? Well, he’d hardly shown her his best self.

  Rese clasped her hands. “You saw the humor, but you didn’t laugh behind her back. Didn’t make us laugh.”

  Now she was making too much of it. “I might have, if I wasn’t so worried.”

  “I know what it looks like, Lance, that mean streak that feeds on weakness.”

  He wasn’t a mocker, or a joker. And he did champion the down-and-outs, had that sensitive spot for unluckies. Didn’t mean he needed a medal. “She gave me this.” He took the key from his pocket and studied it.

  Rese leaned forward. “A safe deposit key?”

  “Do you know how they work?”

  “If you’re not on the signature card, you don’t get in.”

  He frowned. “Any way around it?”

  “Maybe if a court orders it.”

  “That would take too long.”

  She reached for the key, felt its smooth surface, and read the engraving. “I don’t think you can use this without her.”

  He looked up. “What about with her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if she tells them to let me in?”

  She gave him a slow blink. “Tells them.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re going to have her cuss at the bankers.”

  He spread his hands. “Who’s gonna know? It’s in Italian.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sorrow and fear are oily water.

  I cannot hold both in my heart.

  Despair extinguishes fear,

  for if you can’t care, what is there to lose?

  Igasp as Marco skids into a hollow hidden by shrubs and stomps on the brake. “What are you doing?”

  He puts a finger to his mouth and motions me to be still. The road is winding enough that it is some time before the vehicle passes. Marco scrutinizes the car, two men inside.

  “Who are they?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know. Maybe no one.” But his fingers tighten on the wheel.

  We wait in silence, ears straining for the sound of tires, an engine. It comes so softly at first I am not sure if I imagine it, but there is the car coming back slowly, the men leaning and pointing. Marco shoves me down, hissing, “Stay there.”

  He eases his door open and slowly cranks down the window, then he slides out and crouches behind it, peering over the edge. The other car draws near, nearer, then is lost behind the shrubbery that hides us. There’s only the sound by which to guess. I tense as the engine quiets to an idle and the grind of tires ceases.

  My throat is parched, and I glance at Marco, who has drawn a gun. Oh, God. Signore …

  He motions me to silence, but it is shattered by a thundering spray of bullets. Glass bursts and lands on and around me. I smash my hands to my ears as explosions boom beside me—Marco’s gun, firing back, single shots. He told the truth; someone wants me dead.

  And suddenly it matters, more than I knew. I want to live! Even if I must grieve what I have lost. I drag myself off the seat and crawl out behind Marco. He doesn’t move or acknowledge me. He sits frozen, gun poised, muscles tensed.

  Branches crunch. Marco lunges up, fires, ducks. No answering bullets, only a crashing of bracken, a thud. I want to see, but the heavy metal door blocks what is happening as surely as my own navet blinded me before. I taste dirt, and blood, and the metal of the car I press my face against.

  A stick jabs into my calf, but I don’t move. I sense more than hear something behind me, jerk my head and cry out. Marco spins. Two shots ring out. The man falls with a staccato blast as the long gun drops from his hands. He writhes, then lies still. I press my hands to my face, then pull my fingers away, not wanting to look, but unable to stop myself.

  Marco grips my shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

  Unable to speak, I shake my head. But even as I do, my skin burns with a dozen stings, and I see flecks of blood on my hands.

  He raises my chin. “Don’t rub. It’s glass.” He picks three slivers from my face, then pulls me to my feet. Noting the shard-strewn seat, he says, “Can you stand?”

  I can stand; I can move; I can breathe—unlike the person behind me. Holding his gun out before him, Marco walks to the man, crouches, and presses his fingers for a pulse—as he had for Nonno’s.

  I suck in a sob.

  He rises and looks up the slope toward the road to another corpse bloodying the ground. This isn’t real. People don’t do this
, don’t … I thought Marco would check the other man, but he must know he’s dead already, and I don’t want to think how.

  I peel my lips apart. “What do we do now?”

  Marco smiles, just a pulling at his lips and a softening of his eyes. “Attagirl.” He raises my face. “You got the goods, babe, and I ain’t beating my gums.”

  The breath returns to my lungs, then escapes with a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

  His eyes take on a definite sparkle. “You are one darb dame.”

  “How can you tease at a time like this?” But that’s exactly what he’s doing, either to shake me or himself out of it. “What are we going to do?”

  He pockets the gun. “Get the glass off that seat.” He strides into the scrub, stomps a branch, and breaks off the leafy end.

  I shake my skirt and realize my stockings are torn and fine lines of blood lace my legs, from when I climbed out, I guess.

  Marco goes to work with the branch, brushing the glass to the floor, then as much as he can to the ground. “Watch where you step.”

  “Will the car run?”

  “Most of the bullets went high since we were sitting in the hole. I don’t think the engine’s damaged, but we’ll know soon enough.”

  “Marco …”

  He turns at my tone.

  “What about them?”

  “I’ll place a call when we’re far enough away.”

  “To the authorities?”

  He nods.

  “Will they help us?”

  He pulls my door open with a tinkling of glass. “Climb in.” He holds my elbow. “Try not to rub your skin; you’re covered in slivers.”

  By the glitter of his hair, he is too.

  “We’ll wash off when we get somewhere.”

  I climb gingerly onto the seat, thankful now for his car, for him. And then it strikes me that he has killed two people. It was selfdefense, but still he’s done it. My stomach heaves with the smell of blood, the shock of seeing men fall, even violent men who want me dead.

  My limbs chill. It could have been me, bleeding in the dirt. My life slipping away. If Marco had not—Who is Marco? Why does he have a gun and know how to use it?

  As though reading my thoughts, he takes the weapon from his coat and hands it to me. “Load this, will you? The cartridges are under the seat.”

  With shaking hands, I get the box of cartridges, but I have no idea how to put them in. He instructs me as he drives, and I do what he says.

  I set the loaded gun gingerly on the seat between us. “But they’re gone now, right?”

  “Better not be caught off guard.”

  “There could be more?”

  He hesitates, then, “There could.”

  “Why do you have a gun? How do you know—”

  “For protection.” And protect me he had.

  “They had machine guns.”

  “Tommies. Make a man lazy. You get to spraying bullets everywhere when all it takes is one good shot.” He replaces the loaded revolver inside his coat.

  “Marco …”

  “I handle a lot of jack for important people. Have to know how to defend myself. And you.” His sideways glance. “I told you I’d keep you safe.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s happening?”

  He is silent long enough to let the question climb in between us.

  “Your father got mixed up in something over his head, I guess.”

  Tears sting. “That doesn’t make sense. Papa wouldn’t—”

  “Stop fooling yourself. You saw it before I came. You said it that first day on the porch.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did, cara mia. Deny it now, and you can tell it to Sweeney.” He slows for an intersection, then hits the gas. “I’m sorry about your pop.” His voice thickens, as though he does care. “Listen, babe. It happens all the time. Guy thinks he’s got it under control, but he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. Or who.”

  I picture Arthur Jackson, leaning against his car, his face illuminated by match light. “Papa wasn’t stupid.” So why, why, why?

  “I don’t believe he was.”

  Tears fill my eyes. “He wouldn’t risk—” My voice catches.

  “He knew the risk. Why else tell me where to find you?”

  Sobs rise and tears run down my cheeks, stinging the cuts. I shake my head. “I don’t believe it.”

  Marco says, “I’m sorry about your nonno too.”

  ————

  From what she could tell by Lance’s side of the conversation, the family lawyer was confirming his inability to access the safe deposit box without Antonia and seemed dubious of her limited communication. Having dealt with her father’s affairs, Rese had her doubts, as well, but Lance insisted Antonia’s intent was obvious, as though convincing the lawyer would make it so.

  Lance stuck his hand in his hair as he talked, gripping as though he might pull it out. She knew his need to make things right when he thought he’d messed up. She’d experienced it in the painstaking recipe cards and instructions he’d sent so she could make the inn’s breakfasts without him.

  He was just as determined now, but the doctor had insisted Antonia stay quiet and undisturbed for the next few days. Lance might convince the whole neighborhood it would work, but he couldn’t take his grandmother anywhere until she was strong enough. Of course, that didn’t mean he would stay still. As soon as he hung up, he took her by the elbow and wiggled that ominous set of keys at Rico.

  “Be good to it.” Rico twirled and caught a brush over his head.

  “I’ll even gas it,” Lance called back.

  She was not going to argue. If Lance thought Rico’s bike was safe, fine. He could not afford more guilt, and she assumed her death would cause a twinge. She didn’t feel quite as brave when he wheeled it out again. Had it looked that bad yesterday?

  “I’m sorry I don’t have leathers.” He handed her the helmet.

  “No problem.” She pulled it onto her head.

  He stood a moment looking at the bike. “Wish I had my Harley.”

  Rese waved her hand over the Kawasaki. “And miss out on this dream machine?”

  “I liked you better kicking and screaming.”

  “I bet.” His parents’ vignette had been informative. She resists; he insists. It lowered Lance’s octane to have her willing. She straightened. “Ready?”

  She was prepared for yesterday’s speed and terror, but his route this time took them down into the city, and they crept along in traffic for much of it. With the choking fumes and Lance’s constant revving to keep the engine alive, she almost preferred the death-defying speed of the open road.

  He wasn’t acting on impulse this time; he was grimly determined, and she guessed their destination before the rectangular crater came into sight. She had known they would visit this place sooner or later. Yesterday was escape; this trip, immersion. Since he couldn’t fix it, Lance wanted to wallow in everything that was wrong in his life.

  He found a parking place on the street, a feat he seemed to accept as his due, as though God dared not deny him. But he deflated as they walked up to the chain-link fence and looked through while people milled around them. She concentrated on the scene, wanting to see it first without Lance’s grief casting a wash over her own impressions.

  A gap in the towering buildings, space in a city that had none. Concrete ramps and platforms in place of the rubble that had been imprinted when images of disaster were played and replayed. Where was the devastation? Somehow she’d still expected smoke. This looked clean and orderly and planned. It looked intentional.

  “What is all this?” She recognized the inner workings of massive construction but hadn’t kept abreast of plans.

  “The new complex. Five buildings. Over there”—he pointed to a spot in the construction—“the Freedom Tower will soar 1,776 feet, with a glass spire pointing to heaven. You can see the master plan in the World Financial Building.”
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br />   She stared at the subterranean levels and layers before her. “It’s not what I expected.”

  “People who come here now see hope, determination. Even triumph.” He stared into the hole. “I just see Tony.”

  She raised her eyes past the hole to an ornate stone building with its faade chunked and blasted, its windows blown out. Next to it stood another tower draped in black netting. All around them, cars drove, pedestrians passed, business happened. The city would never forget. Those with lost loved ones would never forget. But time was moving forward; life continued. She turned. “You have to move on sometime, Lance.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Has Gina moved on? Her sons?”

  “Will you blame her if she does?”

  He stared into the hole a long time. “No.”

  “Then why do you blame yourself?”

  He glanced sideways. “For what?”

  “For living your life when Tony can’t.”

  He hung his fingers from the chain link. “Maybe if Pop didn’t look so disappointed every time I walked in, as though he’s still hoping it’ll be Tony instead.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Think about it. Did he say one word to me last night?”

  She replayed the dinner. He must have. There’d been no animosity between them, no friction. Had there? But she couldn’t recall anything said. For Lance, with all his words, that silence must be deafening.

  He swallowed. “The thing is, it should be Tony. Rese, he had three kids, a wife. People depended on him, not just at home. He was decorated for exemplary service to the city of New York. He could have done so much.”

  “So God messed up?”

  He frowned. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He sagged a shoulder to the fence, seeing, she guessed, the nightmare that was personal to him in a way it would never be for her.

  “It’s renovation, Lance. Not new construction.”

  He stared a long time at the concrete edge below them, studded with steel at regular intervals. Then he said, “I know that. But I also know evil is not indiscriminate. People like to think so, but it’s not. He prowls the earth like a roaring lion. He looks for the brightest and the best. And God says, ‘Consider my servant Job.’ ” She didn’t know what he was talking about, but there was an edge to his voice. “You think God singled Tony out?”