The Lonely Witness

by William Boyle

  “You’re here just for the auditions?”

  “I had to meet up with my Aunt Cecilia yesterday. She owed my father a thousand dollars before he died, and I guess she wanted to feel okay about herself, so she scraped it together and gave it to me. She lives out on Long Island now. I took a fucking Uber there. Stopped at the cemetery to visit my folks. That sucked. Holy Garden’s so sad and ugly. Everything here’s sad and ugly to me. The money came at the right time, though. I didn’t know how I was gonna pay for this trip. I’ve got, like, six hundred bucks in my checking account right now.” Alessandra takes a sip of coffee. “You’re stalling. You’re not telling me shit about yourself.”

  “I work at a bank. I live in a little basement apartment. I still have a flip phone. I’ve been pretty happy.” Two truths and two lies. She’s not sure what the bank lie is all about. Alessandra won’t be impressed. It just seems like a good, easy cover. She had a crush on a Russian girl who worked as a teller once. And of course she wants Alessandra to think she’s been happy. That’s natural when talking to an ex, even in the throes of a crisis.

  “You seeing anyone?”

  “No. You?”

  “Not now.”

  “You were?”

  “This EMT. Sid. He was nice. I wreck everything. I wrecked that one good.” Alessandra pauses, motions between them. “I wrecked us.”

  Their food comes. Alessandra digs in. She downs half her egg cream in one long slurp. Amy picks at the edges of her sandwich.

  “I can tell something’s wrong,” Alessandra says, her mouth full. “You forget how well I know you. You forget what it’s like to be around someone who knows you so well.”

  Amy takes a bite of her sandwich and then spits it out into a napkin, nearly retching.

  “It’s not good?” Alessandra says.

  “It’s good,” Amy says. “It’s just me.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I saw something I shouldn’t have seen.”

  From Tom’s, they go to Prospect Park. Amy is harried, anxious, looking all around for Dom. She opens up to Alessandra. Tells everything there is to tell. Where she lives and what she does and how she really dresses these days. The ordeal with Vincent at Mrs. Epifanio’s a couple of mornings ago. Following him. Homestretch. The murder. Vincent’s apartment and the picture she found in the book. Her fear that she’s being followed. Diane. Identifying Dom as the killer and then running off to the city.

  “You’re fucking with me, right?” Alessandra says.

  “I’m not,” Amy says.

  “So, not only do you not usually wear a wig, you’re telling me that you normally dress like you teach kindergarten at a Catholic school and you go to church all the time and you just pretty much hang out with old people. Amy Falconetti, is that really you?”

  “You’re making fun of me. You think I’m being paranoid.”

  They sit on a bench near the Picnic House. The park is beautiful around them, but Amy can’t take it in or think about it.

  “I was afraid for a while after I saw that kid get killed,” Alessandra says.

  Amy remembers her first days with Alessandra, how they met at Seven Bar and went back to her place in Queens. How Alessandra almost got chased away by Merrill the next time they met up. And how, that third time, Alessandra came to her a mess after having witnessed Ray Boy Calabrese’s nephew, Eugene, get gunned down on the subway tracks. It was in all the papers. Alessandra’s name wasn’t, though. She was worried about the Russian who’d killed the kid coming after her. He’d told her to keep quiet. She told Amy about all of this at Seven Bar that very night over beers and shots. They wound up back in Queens, tangled in her bed again. They were inseparable after that. Alessandra trusted her. Amy kept quiet about it. No one else knew what Alessandra had seen. When Amy moved to Gravesend to live with Alessandra, it was as if none of it had ever happened. One of those things from the past that feels like it must have gone on in an alternate reality. After a month together, Amy told Alessandra about Bob Tully. And now there’s Vincent. Their history has linked them in this way. Both witnesses. Both with secret knowledge of the other.

  “You keep your head down, that’s all you can do,” Alessandra continues. “Don’t report it. Go throw the knife in the water. Just mind your own business. The things you did and saw that you shouldn’t have done and seen, just forget them. I don’t have to tell you that. I remember what you told me about that neighbor of yours in high school.”

  “I know,” Amy says.

  “You can drop this new church life if you want, Amy. You can drop the act.”

  “It’s not an act.” A beat. “I don’t think it’s an act.”

  “You following this Vincent, that was you subconsciously wanting out of this corner you painted yourself into. That’s all religion does, paints you into a corner. You got out young when your mom died, but you got tempted back, because you were looking for something to fill the void. There’s nothing to fill the void.”

  “Jeez, Al.”

  “I don’t think this guy’s following you. You’re imagining it.”

  “I witnessed a murder.”

  “You already have a membership in the club. You know what not to do.” Alessandra stands. “Let’s go to my hotel room.”

  Amy nods. “Okay.”

  She gets up, and they walk south. Some of the quiet trails through the park make Amy feel extra uneasy. Alessandra grips her arm. “There’s no one but us,” she says.

  A long walk to the hotel. Probably two miles. It occurs to Amy that she’s walked almost five miles today—walked off her hangover, at least. And if anyone’s following her, she’s giving them one hell of a workout.

  She feels safe with Alessandra. It feels good to be with her, natural, even in this part of Brooklyn, which feels so unfamiliar. This big, beautiful park that she couldn’t imagine living near. A neighborhood she’ll never be able to afford. Families wandering around with carriages and snacks, hopeful, happy-seeming.

  Once out of the park, they make a right on Fifteenth Street. They’re quiet now. Amy is listening to the sounds of the street. They’re passing plenty of good bars along the way. One dark little dive called Zito’s that looks like a fine place to hide out and drink a day away. Amy almost suggests it. She’s nervous about going back to the room. She’s not sure what’s going to happen. She hasn’t been with anyone since Alessandra. Alessandra’s probably been with lots of people. Women and men. Amy isn’t sure she wants to sleep with her. She isn’t sure it’s right or if she’s capable of it with all that’s going on. But she is in disguise. She tells herself there’s that, at least. Maybe she can continue to channel her old self, even if only for a couple of hours of pleasure. Alessandra’s leaving the next day. There’s no future here, no past to bring back to life for more than one night. Returning to what’s familiar for solace isn’t a crime. It’s human.

  On Fourth Avenue, they make a left. The sky is getting darker. It looks like rain’s on the way. The hotel is on Fourth between Twenty-Fifth and TwentySixth, close to the train. The building is modern, bright red brick, almost looks like a new wing of a hospital. Alessandra had called it Brooklyn Way, but a yellow-and-blue Best Western sign hangs over the front door. Brooklyn Way is probably just an alternate name to make people feel better about booking a stay at a Best Western. Next door is a C-Town supermarket. The Gowanus Expressway is one block west. Green-Wood Cemetery is one block east.

  Amy’s been over here a couple of times, because Our Lady of Czestochowa–St. Casimir Church is right around the corner on Twenty-Fourth Street. Another beautiful old church. She went to Mass in Polish there once with Monsignor Ricciardi. She doesn’t remember noticing this hotel.

  Alessandra’s room, on the third floor, is clean, small, and spare. Nondescript landscape painting on the wall. An unmade queen bed. The TV on. Heavy smell of that beach perfume she’s wearing. Towels crumpled on the floor. A bra hanging from the bathroom doorknob. Amy’s trying to remember the last time sh
e even stayed in a hotel or motel. Probably that time she and Alessandra went to Atlantic City for the weekend. They stayed at a Howard Johnson a few minutes’ walk from the Steel Pier. They’d gambled a little at the Showboat. They’d had a big fight that weekend and slept in separate beds.

  “I’ve got booze,” Alessandra says, locking the dead bolt and then snapping the door guard into place. She goes into the bathroom and emerges with a half-full bottle of Seagram’s gin.

  Amy sits on the bed. “I don’t know, dude. I tied a pretty good one on last night. I haven’t been drinking the last few years.”

  Alessandra unscrews the cap and takes a pull. She passes it to Amy. “Come on. Don’t make me drink alone. I drink alone way too much. I drink with the dogs. No shit. I keep a little pint of gin with me. That I don’t post on Instagram.”

  Amy takes a sip, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “My father also showed up.”

  “Your father? I thought he was dead.”

  “I thought maybe he was. I didn’t really know. I just knew he was gone.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Just to talk. To try to make things right.”

  “And?”

  “I couldn’t deal with him.”

  “I say, fuck that.” Alessandra reaches out and grabs the bottle back, takes a drink. “Guy can’t just waltz back into your life and expect to make amends.”

  “I know.”

  “Shit, you’ve had a lot going on the last couple of days.”

  “And now here you are.”

  Alessandra sits next to her on the bed. “Take off the wig. Let me see your hair.”

  Amy removes the wig, dropping it atop a tangle of sheets.

  Alessandra laughs at her in the cap.

  Amy swats her leg and plucks the cap off. Her hair, pinned up, is messy.

  “So dark,” Alessandra says. “Almost as dark as mine.”

  “I just wanted a change.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  Amy looks down at the carpet. “I haven’t dated anyone since you. I haven’t been with anyone.”

  “No one’s touched you in all this time?” Alessandra says.

  Amy shakes her head.

  Alessandra puts her hands on Amy’s neck, her fingers curling up into her hair, dislodging a couple of bobby pins. “I can’t believe that.”

  “No one,” Amy says.

  In the shower, their old rhythms return. Same bodies, under water. Same ways of touching. Same lips. Same ways of reaching for the gin in the caddy hanging over the nozzle. Same ways of passing the bottle back and forth and laughing. It feels like six years ago. It feels new. Alessandra touches Amy’s tattoos, as if she’s surprised they’re still there. Amy knows this won’t last. The joy she’s feeling is countered with melancholy. Tomorrow, Alessandra will go back to Los Angeles. Tomorrow, Amy will have to reckon with reality. But it’s not tomorrow yet. She’s lost in the nowness of now. She’s trying to convince herself to be happy. She is happy. Her arms are around Alessandra’s waist, her head buried in her neck. Alessandra’s hand is between her legs, moving. The heavy sound of the water. The water running into her mouth. The smell of that beach perfume. Amy missed this.

  Afterward, lying naked on the bed, they watch whatever movie’s on TV. Something with Anna Kendrick. Amy watches old movies now and then, but she hasn’t watched anything new in a while. She doesn’t have cable at her place. She doesn’t even have Internet, so she doesn’t stream movies on Netflix like everyone else. Alessandra talks about how much she likes Anna Kendrick. She says she just read her memoir; her friend Lucy let her borrow it. She says there’s this one movie with her—not this one that’s on now—called Happy Christmas that she loves. Anna Kendrick plays a character named Jenny she really relates to. She says she wishes she could land a movie like that.

  Amy gets cold and pulls the blankets up over them. She settles her head comfortably on Alessandra’s chest. Alessandra strokes her wet hair. Amy puts her hand on Alessandra’s belly.

  “You should come to LA for a bit,” Alessandra says.

  “I don’t have the money to make a trip like that,” Amy says.

  “I know.”

  “You don’t ever think about moving back?”

  “I can’t. Not again.”

  Amy’s feeling woozy, relaxed. Her eyes close. She’s slept very little in the last few days, but she doesn’t want to sleep now. She wants to talk to Alessandra. She wants to just be naked with her. Alessandra’s fingers in her hair are a drug.

  “You’re falling asleep,” Alessandra says. “Poor baby. You must be so tired.”

  Amy sits up and shakes her head, holding her eyes open. “But I don’t want to sleep.”

  “Rest. You need it.”

  Amy leans over Alessandra, nestling her head against her neck again. She kisses her chin. She kisses one shoulder and then the other. She kisses down her body. Such warm skin. She slides to her knees on the carpet, pulling Alessandra to the edge of the bed, hugging her legs, the sheets pushed away. Alessandra puts her hands on the back of her head. Amy flutters her tongue in the fluttering place. Alessandra is moving beneath her. Amy thinks of taking communion on her tongue. There’s laughter from the TV. Alessandra’s soft noises are making Amy want to cry. Not now, she tells herself. Not while doing this. Still, the tears come. Down her cheeks into her mouth. Their saltiness mixing with the taste of Alessandra.

  Another movie, legs entwined now. Amy’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. She’s afraid of letting Alessandra know how much this all matters.

  “Tell me more about your father,” Alessandra says.

  “It didn’t sound like you were interested,” Amy says.

  “Of course I’m interested. I’m just wondering how he has the balls to strut back into your life like this. What’s he look like? I want to visualize the fucker.”

  “He’s pretty sad-looking.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “He’s got that look that old alcoholics and stray dogs have. Like you just caught him eating out of the garbage.”

  “You feel bad for him?”

  “I don’t feel bad for him. I don’t know what to think. There was a time, after my mom died, when I would’ve … I don’t know, I would’ve at least wanted to give him a shot, I guess. I was a kid; I would’ve had to give him a shot.”

  The sound of rain comes suddenly from outside. The wind whips up. There’s something about the way wind swooshes against a hotel room window. It’s probably not even night yet, but with the curtains pulled and the hovering gloom from the storm, it’s dark in the room, except for the light of the TV. Amy cuddles closer to Alessandra.

  “That’s nice,” Alessandra says.

  “What?”

  “The rain. Listening to the rain.”

  “It is.” Amy presses her face into Alessandra’s hair. “I’m scared. I don’t know why I do what I do.”

  “Don’t be scared. You’re fine. Nothing’s wrong. You need to start new. I know you wanted to help people, but you’re killing yourself. You were better off in bars. You were helping more people serving them drinks.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You were. And you followed this guy for the same reason you followed your neighbor in high school. You’re in a rut. Getting close to the edge gets your blood pumping. Dating Merrill was like that, too.”

  The TV blips off. The room goes totally dark and still. Nothing but the sound of rain and wind.

  “Did we just lose power?” Alessandra asks.

  “We did,” Amy says.

  “That seems crazy. A little storm, and we lose power like that?”

  “I don’t know.” What Amy wants to say is, I hope the lights stay off. I wish we could stay like this forever.

  “Should we go out to a bar?”

  “Let’s stay here. You have more gin.”

  “Let’s go to a bar. They have umbrellas downstairs.” Alessandra’s hands around her waist, tugging at her a little.
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br />   “I don’t want to be around other people.”

  “You just want to be here in the dark with me?”

  “Right.”

  “I get it.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. I’m desirable.” Alessandra laughs. Her laugh is throatier than it used to be. Booming. Echoey. Probably from cigarettes. “Where’s the gin? I don’t see the gin.”

  “It’s around,” Amy says. “I can’t see anything.”

  “If we’re staying here, I need the gin nearby at all times.” Alessandra separates herself from Amy and gets up. She clunks around in the dark. Her feet on the carpet make a rustling noise. She’s headed toward the bathroom.

  Alone in the bed, Amy stretches out. She can’t remember the last time she’s stretched out like this in a big bed. With fresh-smelling sheets, no less. All she ever does is curl up on her little twin mattress on the floor, resigned to discomfort.

  “I found it!” Alessandra says from the bathroom. “I’m sitting on the toilet, and I’m taking a big fucking swig right now.” The sound of Alessandra starting on her stream mixes with her glugging down gin.

  “Come back,” Amy says. On the nightstand, she sees the small light of her phone, indicating she’s missed something. She picks it up and flips it open. A voice mail from Diane. She presses it to her ear in the dark and listens.

  Diane’s voice is cracked, broken-sounding. She says, “Amy? Please, call me. I want to ask you something about when you were at Vincent’s apartment. I’m so sick over here. Just call me when you get a chance, okay?”

  Amy feels a pull of guilt. Tomorrow. She’ll deal with it tomorrow. She closes the phone and powers it down, then puts it back on the nightstand.

  Alessandra stumbles back into the bed, the gin sloshing as she settles next to Amy. “Who were you talking to?”

  “No one,” Amy says. “I was listening to a message.”

  “From who?”

  “The mother. Diane.”

  “Christ, Amy, what are you doing?”

  “I don’t know. You think I’m nuts?”

  “Far be it from me to judge you, dude. I just want you to be careful. Say this lady goes crazy, after asking you to dig around in her dead son’s apartment like that. Forget the guy you think’s following you. Be afraid of this mother. She comes undone, watch the fuck out.”