The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  Shan pressed on his temples to soothe the throbbing behind his eyes.

  “They were certain you’ve come down with a cold, sleeping in this late,” she said, then lowered her tone: “Even though you and I both know what really happened.”

  Through his clearing vision he noted her arms crossed, her expression reproachful. And with that, the whole night came flooding back. The drinks, the music . . . the couch.

  Oh, God.

  But how could Lina know?

  Shan resorted to ignorance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Really? Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a burglar who crept in at two in the morning. You’re not as quiet as you think. And even if you were, I could smell the smoke and booze from a mile. Speaking of which—jiminy, your breath smells like something died.” She turned her nose away and waved at the air.

  A fitting comparison, given how he felt.

  “I have to get back for class. There’s soup on the stove for you.” She started for the door. “If you want strong coffee, you’ll have to brew it yourself.”

  He relaxed into the pillow with the smallest bit of relief. If he could, he’d never leave this bed.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” She angled back at the doorway. “Nick called for you. He wants you to come by his apartment as soon as you’re up.”

  Once she disappeared into the hall, the words soaked in. Shan’s throat tightened. He couldn’t recall the last time Nick had extended an invite.

  “Did he say why?” Shan called out, hoping for a clue. More than that, an assurance.

  But Lina didn’t answer.

  All along as Shan prepared for the day, he treated the message like an archaeological find: pondering, analyzing, searching for meaning.

  He had left Josie’s apartment only hours ago. Why jump to a conclusion? He would simply go and see what Nick had to say.

  The plan seemed sound enough until Shan put on his overcoat and a discovery halted him: he’d left his hat at Josie’s.

  A clue that revealed nothing. It was a hat, he told himself. And even if the thing could speak, it would say they had shared a kiss. Fine—a few kisses. But nothing more.

  He concentrated on this reasoning for the entire ride on the streetcar, attempting to ignore the lie in it. The truth was, if not for the phone ringing, he couldn’t say they’d have come to their senses before it was too late. But just as true was his regret that they had gone as far as they did.

  At Nick’s apartment door, Shan pulled in a deep breath and let it out, a reliable routine before taking the stage. And then he knocked.

  He knocked again.

  From the lag of silence, he felt the dread and relief of stepping onto a scaffold in preparation to be hung, only to learn of a missing noose.

  “Hold on a sec,” Nick hollered from inside.

  Shan battled his mounting nerves as the door opened.

  “I was in the john,” Nick said of the delay. No trace of a smile. “Come in.” He turned just enough to permit Shan entry before shutting the door, then securing the lock.

  “I heard you called.” Shan aimed for light and inquisitive, a toe in the water. But Nick skipped to a command.

  “Have a seat.”

  Shan nodded and proceeded into the sitting area. Since his last visit, additional décor had enhanced the room. A claw-footed table now divided two Victorian chairs, all set upon an Oriental rug. One still-life painting had expanded to three, despite Nick’s usual disinterest in art, and peacock feathers filled a giant vase by a window.

  Shan lowered onto the settee, which appeared freshly upholstered. He waited as Nick sat on one of the chairs directly facing him.

  “Lina said you wanted to talk.” Shan was anxious to move things along.

  Nick propped his elbows on the armrests and laced his fingers. “It’s about what happened last night,” he said. “With Josie—and you.”

  The insinuation dangled between them, razor-sharp in the quiet. A reference to a five-minute interlude.

  In that way, it seemed ridiculous that the effects could amount to anything significant. But Shan also recognized the offering before him: to come clean on his own. If afforded the same opportunity, Josie and her old beau might have thwarted an irreversible tragedy.

  “Nick, I’m glad you asked me over.” He straightened in his seat, girding himself. “Because I wanted to tell you—”

  Nick flashed a palm. “Just hear me out, all right?”

  Shan hedged, and nodded.

  “Look, I know I was being a jackass. It’s just, I’m under a lot of pressure and I don’t wanna screw it up. I’m trying to make a good life for her, you know? So she can have everything she ever wants. I admit, sometimes I lose sight of that and don’t give her the attention she deserves. But I’d never cheat on her. And I want you to know”—he pointed his finger for emphasis—“I’d never hurt her. Not ever.”

  The change of direction left Shan without a voice. Yet his silence was interpreted as a need to hear more.

  “The thing is, last night you came to me trying to help, and I treated you like shit. I’m sorry for that. Really. About Lina’s birthday, too.”

  Shan could count on two hands the number of times he’d ever heard Nick apologize, and of those the truly sincere ones tallied even less. There was a dark irony in the fact that, under the circumstances, it was Nick who deserved the apology.

  “I guess I’ve gotten pretty wrapped up in this new job lately and all the responsibilities. It’s taken so much to get here, I just don’t want to lose it. And it doesn’t help when G-men are breathing down our necks . . .”

  Retrieving his thoughts, Shan tried again. “Nick—”

  “You’re right, you’re right. Getting off track.” Nick fluttered his hand and reclined a bit. “Anyhow, I just wanted to say this in person, with just the two of us. You know? To make sure we’re okay.”

  Shan’s guilt had only gained mass from Nick’s words. But realizing it could end as simply as this, he pushed himself to answer: “We’re fine.”

  Nick smiled. “Swell.” After an awkward pause, he said, “Well, that’s it from me. Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you got work to do.”

  Shan smiled back, even managed to thank him for the chat, before taking the lead toward the entry. Nick unlocked and opened the door, but when it came time to exit, Shan’s conscience grabbed hold.

  If he explained the incident in the broadest of strokes, certainly it wouldn’t sound so terrible. Nick of all guys knew how easy it was to misstep with a pretty girl—heck, that was just the sort of incident that had led to their own friendship. A relationship Shan shouldn’t underestimate.

  But just then, a man approached in the hallway. Tall in his suit, he had facial scars typical of smallpox. Shan had spotted him over the years as a business associate of Max.

  “Sal,” Nick said. “Wasn’t expecting you till later.”

  The man responded in a low tone. “Nick.”

  “You remember my brother?”

  Sal’s gaze skimmed over Shan without interest. “Sure.”

  It became evident then, from the man’s height and baritone pitch, that Shan also knew him from elsewhere. Sal had been the cool-headed robber at Carducci’s, the one responsible for letting Shan go.

  Shan smiled again to hide the revelation. The less he knew of Max Trevino’s affairs, the better. “Well, I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Nick said. “I’ll see you around.”

  Sal entered the apartment as Shan headed into the hall. He was almost at the stairwell when Nick called after him.

  “Hey, Tommy,” he said. “Why don’t you tell Ma I’ll be at supper on Sunday? Probably long overdue. Besides, I still gotta give Lina her present.”

  “No problem,” Shan said.

  “Say, maybe I’ll even bring Josie. It’s been a while since I’ve brought her over.” And with a wave, Nick headed back inside.

  30

  In five da
ys Shan and Josie would be sharing a family meal. Already he knew their interactions—or, more likely, lack thereof—would feel utterly transparent.

  As he rode the elevated train from Nick’s apartment, he muscled down the thought. He would have ample time to dwell on the mess once he’d cleared his head. For now, he wanted only to be back in bed.

  He had just transferred onto a streetcar when he recalled Mrs. Capello’s request. Since he was well enough to be out, she’d said, would he mind swinging by Carducci’s for tooth powder and laundry soap? He had gladly agreed, though planned to opt for another store. Now, however, he reconsidered. After his visit with Nick, the idea of righting any wrong suddenly held appeal.

  Soon he stepped off and approached the market. Through the glass door, he saw Mr. Carducci and his grandson playing a game near the register. Seated on the counter, little Henry held out his palms, an inch below those of his grandfather. After a few intent seconds, the kid swung his hands in an attempt to slap Mr. Carducci’s, but the man yanked them away too fast and Henry connected only with air. Mr. Carducci burst into laughter just as Shan opened the door.

  The bell jingled as it had for all the years he’d been welcomed with warmth. As always, the place smelled of oak from open barrels.

  Mr. Carducci glanced toward the door, and his amusement fell away.

  “Nonno, do it again!” Henry held his palms out.

  Mr. Carducci returned to the boy. “We do more later.”

  “Just one more. I almost got you.”

  “Basta, basta.” He lowered Henry off the counter and gave him a green-apple candy stick. “Upstairs you go. Let Nonno work, eh?”

  A woman with two jars arrived at the counter, and Mr. Carducci greeted her. Shan would wait to talk until he was ready to buy. He was partway down an aisle when Henry scampered past. Shan went to offer a smile, but the kid zipped straight to the stairs that led to the Carduccis’ residence and shut the door.

  By the time Shan collected the tin of tooth powder and box of Lux, the customer had departed. At the counter he set down his items. “Hello, Mr. Carducci.”

  “Buongiorno.” The man directed all his focus on his ledger, denoting the purchases, then placed them in a paper sack. “Fifty-two cents, please.”

  Shan produced two quarters and a nickel from his trouser pocket. Mr. Carducci deposited them in the till and slid over three pennies.

  “Mr. Carducci.” Shan waited to go on until the man raised his eyes. “I realize how it must have looked, when those thugs came in last week, giving you a hard time.” A jingle from the door rattled his thoughts, a brief distraction. “What I’m saying is, I want you to know—”

  “Excuse me,” a man called out. “Mr. Carducci?”

  Shan’s body stiffened. He knew it was Agent Barsetti without turning around.

  “Could you tell me again where you keep the baking soda?”

  Mr. Carducci gestured toward the far wall. “Three shelves down.”

  “Ah, that’s right. Always good to have a reminder.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Shan saw Barsetti stroll over to the shelves. The fact that the agent chose not to acknowledge him sent an unmistakable message. Barsetti had no intention of letting him be.

  Mr. Carducci stood across the counter, waiting for Shan to resume, but the opportunity had withered.

  “Merry Christmas,” Shan said, and left the coins behind.

  A voice drifted on a whisper. Shan would have dismissed it altogether, and continued up the Capellos’ porch steps, if not for a second attempt.

  “Tommy,” she said, “over here.”

  He traced the words to a neighbor’s overgrown shrubs. In her black cloche and fur-collared coat, Josie stepped into view. Shan glanced around to confirm the absence of an audience before ushering her to the side of the house, absent of windows.

  “Your mother said you’d be back soon,” Josie explained at a cautious volume. “I thought I’d wait around.”

  He blinked. “You talked to Ma?”

  “I just told her you left your hat at the club, that I was in the area and wanted to bring it by. I asked her to give it to ya.”

  Shan sighed and nodded. His grip loosened on the sack from the store as Josie fidgeted with her gloved hands. He withheld the urge to still them.

  She pressed, “Is it true you went to Nicky’s? That’s what your mother said, that you went to see him.”

  “He called this morning, asking me to come over.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I didn’t tell him.”

  Josie smiled and patted her chest. “When I heard you were there, I was just so worried.”

  Her assumption became clear: she’d assumed guilt had propelled Shan to rush right over and absolve his sin—if that was even what they’d committed. She didn’t realize they were still in a fix.

  “Josie, he wants to bring you to supper this weekend. All together, with the family.”

  She considered this for a mere second before she shrugged. “Then we’ll have supper. We’ll move forward. No reason we can’t do that.”

  Stunned by her certainty, he shook his head and looked away.

  “What? You got a better idea?”

  “I just don’t want to regret that we should’ve told him first. I keep thinking”—he lowered to a hush, respecting her trust—“about what happened with your father. How it was too late to set him straight.”

  “This ain’t the same,” she snapped, then caught herself.

  Shan stole a glance at the walkway to make sure the area was still clear.

  After a quiet moment, she edged closer and tilted her head until Shan connected with her eyes. “Look, Tommy. I can’t go back and change things I’ve done. That includes last night. What I do know is I love your brother. In fact, I realize that now more than ever. I don’t wanna lose him. I know Nicky and I got our trouble sometimes, like any couple. Especially down at the club. He can be different there—you’ve seen it. Tryin’ to be some biggie, a real tough guy. But deep down he ain’t like that, not when he’s away from it all. He’s got a soft heart. I know you know that.”

  Shan had to admit, today at the apartment Nick was again the friend he remembered. The person who stood by him when there was nobody else. Above all, he was the closest thing Shan would ever have to a brother, one he had no desire to hurt. As Shan had learned from his mam and her private past: there were times when caring for someone required the burden of a secret.

  And so he conceded. “All right.”

  Josie squinted her eyes. “You’ll . . . keep it under wraps, then?”

  It went without saying that in addition to a courtship, her livelihood could be at stake. But Shan also knew she was a survivor. The plea in her eyes said this was about Nick.

  “I won’t say a peep,” he promised.

  She broke into a grin, brimming with appreciation—gratitude he didn’t exactly deserve. “Tommy . . . I truly hope things won’t be strange between us. We’ve been friends a long time. We haven’t ruined that, have we?

  “Not at all, Josie. We’re just fine.”

  “Shake on it?” She pretended to spit on her glove before offering her hand, which Shan accepted with a smile. Before letting go, she said, “Thanks again for listenin’ last night. It felt good to get it out.”

  He nodded in understanding, and Josie angled to leave. Shan trailed by a few steps on his way to the front door, but she turned to him with a final thought. “I meant what I said, you know. You’re one of the good ones, Tommy. You really are.” She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. When she pulled her head back, she looked at the spot and giggled. “Ah, rats. Don’t move.” She retrieved a hankie from her purse and worked to wipe away the lipstick mark—but suddenly stopped. Directed past his shoulder, her eyes went dark.

  Shan followed her gaze.

  Mrs. Capello stared from the porch, a tote of empty milk bottles in her grasp.

  “Ma . . .”

  Ignoring
his meek effort, she placed the bottles outside for the weekly delivery, the glass rattling upon landing. Then she went back inside, uttering not a word.

  31

  There was no explanation Shan could conjure that wouldn’t sound downright pitiful. It’s not what it looked like. You’ve got the wrong idea. We’re nothing more than friends.

  Still, that wasn’t the primary issue keeping him from confronting Mrs. Capello. It was fear of facing the disappointment that surely waited in her eyes. And so they said nothing. They simply clung to their distractions, her with cooking in the kitchen, and Shan reading absently in his room.

  Soon Mr. Capello arrived with enough boisterous verve to draw Shan out. The man had dragged in a Christmas tree he’d purchased in the city. Shan swooped to his aid, raising the tree to lean upright in the corner of the sitting room. Pine needles left a trail.

  “Pop, you should’ve said something. I could’ve helped you.”

  “I hear you are sick.”

  Another scoop added to Shan’s heap of guilt. “Yeah, but I could’ve gone with you tomorrow.”

  “Why wait?”

  “Because it’s heavy, is why.”

  Mr. Capello grumbled about his being ridiculous. “Ah! Guarda!” He turned, alerting Shan to Mrs. Capello’s presence. “It is beautiful, no?”

  She sighed, hands on the hips of her apron. “Do not get sap on the floor,” she said warily. “I will get the broom.”

  Only slightly daunted, Mr. Capello spoke with a wave of his hands. “Always she worries I will make a mess of things.”

  Shan managed to smile, not pointing out that as of today Mr. Capello wasn’t alone.

  Not long after, Lina returned from school. At the sight of the pine tree, now secured upright in a stand, she beamed with delight and hurried off to fetch the decorations.

  Shan helped by topping the tree with a needlepoint star after Lina hung the ornaments. Most had been handmade by the two of them and Nick over the years, save for one fraying yarn angel from Tomasso. That one hung right at the center.