Providence Noir

by Ann Hood

  He’d sit for hours with a yellow pad and black and red pens, sketching out ideas for a menu. New York–style wieners, french fries with vinegar, tuna club, turkey club, steak sandwiches, grilled chicken club, bacon-and-egg western sandwiches, and the pièce de résistance: coffee milk served from a magnificent, polished copper dispenser liberated by his grandfather from a destroyed hotel in Calvados, France.

  Recently, due to the toxic combination of his infernal horniness and late-night drinking, Tommy had impregnated his girlfriend. A woman with whom he had nothing and everything in common, and they’d just married. A pregnant wife and no job. Tommy felt incredibly unlucky and hoped that maybe dealing with the don would change all that.

  In those days his Olneyville neighborhood was a desolate area of rundown, multifamily triple-decker homes and small manufacturing shops, which sat in a valley across an overpass that ran above the Route 10 connector to I-95. It was a short walk from the Italian Federal Hill section of the city. There were no signs showing the demarcation points, differentiating one neighborhood from the other, and none were needed. The intersection of Atwells and Harris was the boundary. Along Atwells up on Federal Hill sat cafés, restaurants, salumarias, social clubs, laundromats, pastry shops, and live-poultry markets; all part of the don’s fiefdom. When gang-banging street criminals considered edging out of their Olneyville neighborhood and moving toward the Hill, the thought was a fleeting one. The don deplored any and all street crime unless, of course, he himself ordered it. Brainless violence was bad for business; it brought unwanted attention from the police. Olneyville gangsters did their dealing in Olneyville; it was safer.

  * * *

  Not long after opening the diner to outrageously favorable reviews, Tommy suddenly felt an enormous inner brightness. Mighty success smiled and the money rolled in. On weekend nights lines circled the block, wieners by the thousand were consumed. During that heady time, in a spurt of passionate gusto, Tommy finally fell madly in love with his wife Callie. Dark brown skin, part Japanese and part Brazilian with a round pretty face, Callie delivered a baby girl they named Lara. All seemed perfect. Until it was not.

  With the don, Tommy shared an interest in contact sports, recreational drugs, experimental sex, and a need to amass a huge amount of money. It took him only a few months to pay off the loan, 20 percent interest and all. Then, on a bright summer Wednesday in July, Tommy was startled to learn that the don, in the precise middle of a ridiculously slow fellatio, had an enormous ejaculation. It was said that the Old Man called on God, grabbed at his chest, and died. In that one luxurious moment, Tommy Boyle’s protection was gone and all changed.

  Twelve years later

  Her name is Lara Boyle. She is twelve years old, sitting on the top step of the stoop in front of her family’s house. She waits for her babysitter. The blue sleeveless sundress she wears is embroidered with tiny yellow tulips. Lara is as neat as a pin; being neat and well-groomed is a permanent character trait that will follow her all the days of her life.

  The family car is parked in the driveway, and her father is putting cardboard boxes, one at a time, into the backseat. The boxes are heavy and she notices the patches of sweat staining the light brown shirt he wears, she thinks from the heat of the morning. Lara does not know that her father’s sweat flows with nervousness and fear.

  “Callie!” her father shouts, drawing Lara’s attention. He runs his hands through his hair, shouting for her mother again, and then he slowly brings his hands to his face, calling out once more. When he turns to look at Lara she sees a small, sad smile form, and in that moment her mother comes out of the house, moving quickly, as if angry or afraid.

  “Vanessa is on her way,” her mother says.

  Her father nods, then bends and puts his hands on his knees, holds them there as though he is in pain, rocking. “Call her, Callie, call her again.”

  “She’ll be right here,” her mother says. “Tommy, I don’t understand why I need to go with you. Is there no end to this?”

  Her father seems to weigh the question as he picks up the last of the boxes, staring at it as if waiting for a sign. And then, nodding, he places it alongside the others on the car’s backseat.

  “I want you with me,” he tells her.

  Lara notices Vanessa’s small red car breaking out of traffic, pulling to the curb, and parking on the opposite side of the street. And then for one long moment she thinks of the night before, the way her mother cried into her father’s shoulder. She understands that something her father said made her mother cry. Her mother crosses the front yard quickly, her father is already in the car, his hands holding the steering wheel. He throws Lara a kiss, she is expected to return it, just as she is expected to sit and wait on the stoop.

  “C’mon, Lara,” her father shouts, “be nice and throw your daddy a kiss! Daddy loves you.”

  She does.

  Lara watches her mother now, the way the back of her hand moves across her lips, how fast she walks. And then, as her mother opens the car door and sits beside her father, Lara hears the ignition as her father turns the key, distinctly hears it.

  And then Lara hears the explosion.

  The morning erupts in thunder, shattering steel and glass. Lara hears her mother’s shriek, a sound like crazy laughter. After the blast, the erupting glass and flying steel, she sees an orange-red flash of fire and then there is silence.

  Lara’s father, Tommy Boyle, somehow stumbles out of the silver car. His body is smoking and he is coughing blood, the glare of the sun all around him. He makes a noise Lara cannot understand, drops to his knees, his hand extended toward her as he falls to the grass.

  Her mother is gone. There is nothing but a drowsy hissing sound coming through the smoke and fire. Lara puts her hands over her ears and shuts her eyes. In the middle of the street, Vanessa screams.

  * * *

  Sometime after noon, Lara is sitting shoulder to shoulder with Vanessa on her bed. The babysitter’s arm is around Lara’s back, her hand cupping the child’s shoulder. There are a number of strange men and women in the house now, moving around as though they belong. Her mother would not be happy.

  From the street there have been the sounds of fire engines, police cars, and an ambulance. Lara keeps her eyes shut tight and her hands cover her ears; in the closing off of all light and sound, maybe she can change what happened. She allows herself to go with that feeling, that none of the horror happened.

  Lara hears the door to her bedroom open. She uncovers her eyes and sees two men step in and stop. The men stand three feet from her. She moves her hands toward her face and worries that she might start to cry.

  “Is the child being cared for?” the one with a mess of blond hair asks softly. “Does she need anything?”

  “She’s in shock,” Vanessa explains.

  The man nods. “Yeah, well, of course,” he says, then he points to the man standing beside him. “This is Brendan McKenna. He’s a state police investigator. My name is Mark Perino, I work for the FBI. Lara, your mom and dad were on their way to meet with us when the accident happened.”

  Hearing this, Vanessa begins crying out loud.

  Accident? Lara thinks. It was an accident?

  Things come to Lara now without her knowing how or why. She remembers her father and mother arguing about gangsters, the looks they exchanged, and she understands now that in those looks there was dread. It was the way they touched each other, the way her father hugged her mother, the way her mother gave in. And, in the remembering, she wonders what the blond man, whose name is Mark, meant by accident. And considering that, Lara feels sorry for herself. She realizes that everything has changed, that there is no one left, that she is alone. She sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the blond man. His gaze goes through her like a breeze.

  “Does the child want something to drink? Juice or soda? We’ll get her whatever she wants,” the blond man says.

  “She won’t speak to me. She hasn’t said a word,” Vanessa
says. Her voice is trembling and filled with panic.

  Lara hears herself mutter, “Please,” and wonders where the word comes from. She wants to scream but she is too frozen with fear. A tiny “please” is all she can manage.

  A woman in uniform has joined the men in the room. She is not as tall as Vanessa and she is serious and hard-faced. Her voice, her tone, gets Lara’s attention. “We need to place her,” the woman is saying. “Apparently, there is no family.”

  Tears come again to Lara’s eyes, run down her cheeks onto her hands that are folded in her lap. She does not cry out loud, just sits, silently weeping.

  The guy standing next to the blue-eyed man rubs his elbow, saying, “Whadaya mean, no family? No one? How can there be no one at all?” He looks at Lara in a strange way, and she thinks: There is no one.

  “There is no family,” Mark Perino says. “Tommy and Callie were the last Boyles. Now listen,” he tells them, “this child, this beautiful little girl, is not going to any state facility, no foster home. I couldn’t answer to my conscience if I allowed that.”

  The uniformed woman smiles, a sad smile, Lara thinks. “What do you mean?” she says. “You won’t allow it? C’mon, you know better.”

  “I gave Tommy Boyle my word. I told him, God forbid anything happens, I’ll take care of his wife and daughter.”

  “I doubt you have that authority,” the woman says.

  The blond man smiles. Lara sees that his, too, is a sad smile and guesses that it was meant to be. “I represent the government,” he says, “my word is backed up by the United States of America.”

  Something in that makes the woman shake her head.

  “It makes no difference to me what you think,” he says. “Tell your superiors, the child is going with me. I’ll take care of her.”

  The woman tries to step around him, but Mark Perino grabs her shoulder, stopping her.

  “I’m calling my superiors,” the woman says. “I don’t want any problems here.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear her. He reaches down and puts his hands on Lara’s shoulders then slides them under her arms and lifts her. Walking, he is gentle, lifting her with one arm and moving the uniformed woman out of the way with the other. And all the time, the woman is talking.

  “I don’t think you can do this,” she says. “There are rules and procedures, state laws.”

  When he speaks his tone is all business: “I don’t care about your rules and procedures. You’re going to get out of my way. Later, when the child is settled, I’ll call your boss.”

  He puts a hand on the uniformed woman’s shoulder and pushes her toward the door. Everyone in the room gives him nervous looks, as if they are not sure of what to do, whether to get involved or not.

  “You pack her some things,” he says to Vanessa. “Be quick. Don’t get fancy, just essentials.”

  In her mind, Lara wavers between the bittersweet joy of having someone strong hold and protect her, and the crushing certainty that she will never see her mother and father again. He is gone. Her father is gone forever, and that is a concept she finds impossible to comprehend. Lara wipes her eyes and flattens her cheek against Mark Perino’s shoulder. He breathes out heavily and then pulls her closer to his chest, hugging her so tightly she can hear his heart beat.

  “I honestly don’t think you can do this,” the uniformed woman is saying.

  Lara hears Mark reply: “I know what you think. I know your attitudes. I even know the movies you watch.”

  Lara thinks of all the strangers in her house who will not go away. She hears one say, “If it were me, there would be blood for blood.” Lara thinks about that, blood for blood.

  She leaves Mark and walks to her bedroom window, looks down onto the driveway and sees the family car. All at once she wants her mother and father, wants to touch her mother’s skirt, smell her father’s aftershave, feel her mother’s long fingers stroke her cheek. Lara senses her mother and father know this, that now they both know all there is to know, and in the quiet that consumes the house, Lara is aware that her parents are watching her. Then it comes to her like a blow, a phantom rage that brings her upright.

  There are voices, her mother’s and father’s, at first roaring, then gentle whispers. Music, she can hear someone giggle, she is certain she hears someone cry.

  The voices have found her. It is the first time, but they will come again, and again. In the not-so-distant future they will take up permanent residence in her brain. Lara lowers her head and puts her finger across her lips. “Be quiet,” she whispers to the voices that shout, Murder!

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Lara is sitting in the front seat of an unmarked government car as it rolls slowly up the street. Her gaze moves to the smoldering hulk on the driveway and then to her family’s house. Mark slows the car a moment, deciding something, and then picks up speed.

  “Will I ever come back here?” Lara asks.

  “Sure you will,” Mark tells her.

  “Where are we going?”

  Mark glances at her. “I know that your mom and dad would want you to be with me.”

  They ride south on the interstate, the late afternoon turning dark. They stop at a McDonald’s for Lara to use the restroom and get something to drink. Then they drive into darkness.

  “It’s okay,” Mark says.

  Lara has been weeping quietly for most of the ride. “I’ll never see my parents again.” The thought oppresses her; there is no promise of relief. “Never ever,” she says.

  “Close your eyes. Concentrate on your mom and dad. Concentrate. Can you see them now?”

  Lara nods.

  “Grab onto that. Believe they are here. I promise you,” Mark says to her, “you will never have to go through anything like this again.”

  A moment drifts by, neither of them speaking.

  “I promise you,” he repeats.

  The whispering voices come to her again, like insects buzzing around her head. Murder, she hears, no accident, murder.

  “It was not an accident,” she tells Mark.

  * * *

  Mark, Lara, and Hannah stood awkwardly on the porch of Mark’s house. Hannah Perino was medicated—not heavily, just enough so her expression seemed as though she was hearing pleasant music in her head.

  What truly infuriated Hannah was the loss of her thick, lustrous strawberry-blond hair, taken by the radiation and chemo. She had a face as pale and beautiful as any Lara had seen. Even with the silk black scarf covering her head, you could see this. Hannah Perino’s eyes locked with hers and all at once something shifted inside Lara. She remembered that her mother was gone and felt a horrible thrill of grief.

  “Lara will be staying with us for a bit,” Mark said.

  “Well then, c’mon in, sweetie.” Hannah held the door for Lara.

  Up close Hannah smelled familiar. White Linen, Lara’s mother’s favorite. Inside the large colonial room with a fireplace and bookshelves, a sad Sinatra song played. She was aware of the exhaustion now. After a short time, she followed Mark to the guest room.

  Mark explained to Hannah that Lara’s parents had been killed that morning. He told her, “She saw her parents burn alive.”

  “The poor child,” she said, “my God.”

  “There is no family. Do you know what the system will do with her?”

  “We can’t keep her forever,” Hannah told him.

  “No, just long enough for me to figure out my next move.”

  “I’ll be okay. You’ll do what you have to do, what is right. You talked to them, the police and the Bureau?”

  “They talked to me.”

  “And you’re going to try to hang onto the girl?”

  “For the time being.”

  Hannah seemed to understand.

  * * *

  Lara rested for a few days, Mark made clear that they needed the solitude, he did and Hannah did and certainly Lara did. They pretended that in time life could go on in an almost normal fashion. Wit
hin a day or two, Mark found that Lara was no ordinary twelve-year-old. There was a touch of caution and a certain menace in her.

  After the third day, Hannah asked, “Do you think we can keep her?” Mark liked the question and liked the way Hannah smiled when she asked it.

  On their fifth night together, not quite a week after the bombing, Lara sat at the dinner table and said, “I think you know something you’re not telling me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like who killed my mother and father. I mean, you’re an FBI agent.”

  Mark explained that he couldn’t be positive, not yet, but he’d know soon enough. It was proof, Lara thought. The murder of her parents was proof positive that what the nuns had told her was true. Satan’s evil grip was running free in the world. The voices confirmed it.

  Hannah complained that rainy night—her sickness, the awful pain of it, drained her of all faith, all belief, she told them.

  In the ensuing weeks Mark got himself an expensive and cunning lawyer; together they fought off all attempts to turn Lara over to the state.

  In Lara’s heart there was space set aside for her mother and father; as things began to go bad for Hannah, she found space for her as well.

  In Lara’s teetering mind all this was one bad dream. “Why?” she asked Hannah over and over again. “Why you?”

  Drugs were Hannah’s only answer for her pain. Morphine was good, but the Olneyville street heroin was better. Carboplatin was forced on her. Poison. It killed cells, all her cells. It was a magnificent killer. The doctors said that it was up to her to go on with this.

  With what?

  For many months Hannah had been a fighter; then abruptly the battle was over. She could no longer take the pain in her back and stomach. Her day was: lay down, vomit, get up, diarrhea, again and again. Everything closing down, the last stages. Mark shouting at God: “Heartless bastard! You do this to a good woman?” The shouting made Lara cry.