a little time.
"But you're not saying I couldn't feel that way?"
"No," I said. "I'm not."
Paul nodded. I could see him thinking some more. "Do you feel that way?" I said.
"I don't know," he said. "And I feel like I ought to, because you do."
"No need to be like me," I said.
"Who else, then?" he said. "Who would I be like? My father? Who did I learn to be me from?"
"You're right," I said. "I was glib. But you know as well as I do that you can't spend your life feeling as I do, and thinking what I think. You don't now."
"The way you love her makes me feel inadequate," Paul said. "I don't think
I can love anyone like that."
Susan was chopping fresh mint on the marble countertop.
"One love at a time," she said.
"Which means what?" Paul said. "My mother?"
Susan smiled her Freudian smile. "We shrinks always imply more than we say."
"There's nothing necessarily bizarre in wanting to find my mother."
"Of course not, and when you do it will help clarify things, maybe."
"Maybe," Paul said.
I sipped a little more of my Catamount Gold and thought about Dale Carter, whom I hadn't seen in so long. It wasn't the first time I'd thought about her. I looked at Susan. She smiled at me, a wholly non-Freudian smile.
"We'd have found each other," she said.
"In fact," I said, "we did it twice."
CHAPTER 13
HAWK, wearing white satin sweatpants and no shirt, was hanging upside down in gravity boots in the Harbor Health Club, doing sit-ups. He curled his body up parallel with the floor and eased it back vertical without any apparent effort. The abdominus rictus tightened and relaxed under his shiny black skin. He had his hands clasped loosely behind his head, and the skin over his biceps seemed too tight.
Around him men and women in bright spandex were working out with varying success. All of them and two of the three trainers that Henry Cimoli employed were glancing covertly at Hawk. His upper body and his shaved head were shiny with sweat. But his breath was easy and there was no other indication that what he was doing might be hard.
I said, "You stuck on that apparatus, boy?"
Hawk grinned upside down and did another situp.
"Damn," he said. "Can't seem to reach my feet." He put out his hand upside down and I gave him an understated low five.
"When you get through struggling with that thing," I said, "I'll buy you breakfast."
"Sure," Hawk said.
We worked out for maybe an hour and a half, and took a little steam afterwards. Then, showered and dressed and fragrant with the cheap after-shave that Henry put out in the men's locker room, we strolled out across Atlantic Avenue toward Quincy Market. It was still early in the day, only 9:30, and the autumn sun was mild as it slanted down at us, only a few degrees up over the harbor, and made our shadows long and angular ahead of us.
"Market's nice this time of day," Hawk said.
"Yeah," I said. "Hasn't turned into a five-acre dating bar yet."
"Get a chance to meet a lot of interesting people from Des Moines," Hawk said. "After lunch."
"And some dandy teenagers in from the subs," I said.
We sat at the counter in the nearly quiet central market building. I had some blueberry pancakes. Hawk had four scrambled eggs and toast. We each ordered coffee.
"I thought you quit coffee," Hawk said.
"I changed my mind," I said.
"Couldn't do it, huh?"
"Decided not to," I said and put a spoonful of sugar in and stirred and drank some carefully. Life began again. Behind us along the central aisle thefood stalls prepared for the day. One would never starve to death in Quincy
Market. Behind us was a shop selling roast goose sandwiches. To our right was an oyster bar. A few tourists strolled through early, wearing cameras, and new Red Sox hats made of plastic mesh that fit badly. Mixed in was an occasional secretary on coffee break, and now and then, resplendently garbed, and moving with great alacrity, were young brokers from the financial district picking up a special blend coffee for the big
"But you're not saying I couldn't feel that way?"
"No," I said. "I'm not."
Paul nodded. I could see him thinking some more. "Do you feel that way?" I said.
"I don't know," he said. "And I feel like I ought to, because you do."
"No need to be like me," I said.
"Who else, then?" he said. "Who would I be like? My father? Who did I learn to be me from?"
"You're right," I said. "I was glib. But you know as well as I do that you can't spend your life feeling as I do, and thinking what I think. You don't now."
"The way you love her makes me feel inadequate," Paul said. "I don't think
I can love anyone like that."
Susan was chopping fresh mint on the marble countertop.
"One love at a time," she said.
"Which means what?" Paul said. "My mother?"
Susan smiled her Freudian smile. "We shrinks always imply more than we say."
"There's nothing necessarily bizarre in wanting to find my mother."
"Of course not, and when you do it will help clarify things, maybe."
"Maybe," Paul said.
I sipped a little more of my Catamount Gold and thought about Dale Carter, whom I hadn't seen in so long. It wasn't the first time I'd thought about her. I looked at Susan. She smiled at me, a wholly non-Freudian smile.
"We'd have found each other," she said.
"In fact," I said, "we did it twice."
CHAPTER 13
HAWK, wearing white satin sweatpants and no shirt, was hanging upside down in gravity boots in the Harbor Health Club, doing sit-ups. He curled his body up parallel with the floor and eased it back vertical without any apparent effort. The abdominus rictus tightened and relaxed under his shiny black skin. He had his hands clasped loosely behind his head, and the skin over his biceps seemed too tight.
Around him men and women in bright spandex were working out with varying success. All of them and two of the three trainers that Henry Cimoli employed were glancing covertly at Hawk. His upper body and his shaved head were shiny with sweat. But his breath was easy and there was no other indication that what he was doing might be hard.
I said, "You stuck on that apparatus, boy?"
Hawk grinned upside down and did another situp.
"Damn," he said. "Can't seem to reach my feet." He put out his hand upside down and I gave him an understated low five.
"When you get through struggling with that thing," I said, "I'll buy you breakfast."
"Sure," Hawk said.
We worked out for maybe an hour and a half, and took a little steam afterwards. Then, showered and dressed and fragrant with the cheap after-shave that Henry put out in the men's locker room, we strolled out across Atlantic Avenue toward Quincy Market. It was still early in the day, only 9:30, and the autumn sun was mild as it slanted down at us, only a few degrees up over the harbor, and made our shadows long and angular ahead of us.
"Market's nice this time of day," Hawk said.
"Yeah," I said. "Hasn't turned into a five-acre dating bar yet."
"Get a chance to meet a lot of interesting people from Des Moines," Hawk said. "After lunch."
"And some dandy teenagers in from the subs," I said.
We sat at the counter in the nearly quiet central market building. I had some blueberry pancakes. Hawk had four scrambled eggs and toast. We each ordered coffee.
"I thought you quit coffee," Hawk said.
"I changed my mind," I said.
"Couldn't do it, huh?"
"Decided not to," I said and put a spoonful of sugar in and stirred and drank some carefully. Life began again. Behind us along the central aisle thefood stalls prepared for the day. One would never starve to death in Quincy
Market. Behind us was a shop selling roast goose sandwiches. To our right was an oyster bar. A few tourists strolled through early, wearing cameras, and new Red Sox hats made of plastic mesh that fit badly. Mixed in was an occasional secretary on coffee break, and now and then, resplendently garbed, and moving with great alacrity, were young brokers from the financial district picking up a special blend coffee for the big
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