Read Online Serpents in the Cold by Thomas O'Malley - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas O'Malley
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so old, Jimmy.”
“I got a good wife. That helps.”
“Yeah. I guess it does.”
“How old are you, son?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Hate to say it, but you don’t look so hot.”
Cal laughed. “I’ve been told that.”
“Since the end of the war I’ve seen lots of guys look like you. You were over there, I’d guess. Could tell the way you limped over to the truck. Where were you?”
Cal was quiet for a moment as he looked out the window, feeling the gray and the cold seep into his bones. He gestured to the city around them, to the tenements, warehouses, triple-deckers, the sea always off to their right. “All over,” he said. “I was all over.”
“You’ve got a wife,” Jimmy said matter-of-factly, and Cal glanced down to check for his wedding ring; he often forgot whether he was wearing it or not.
“Sure.”
“I bet she’s a good one.”
“What’s that?”
“Your wife. I bet she’s a good one.”
Cal looked at him.
“She’s stuck by you, hasn’t she?”
“She tries to.”
“Sure she does. Through thick and thin. Sickness and sorrow. Till death do us part. All that bullshit.”
Jimmy nodded, chuckled to himself. “Don’t get company much. I live in my own world so much, I tend to forget some of the more social graces. I ain’t making apologies or nothing.” He shrugged. “But I shouldn’t be butting into no one else’s business. You’ll have to excuse that. I didn’t mean any offense.”
The truck’s right-front tire hit a pothole, the crashing thud jolting the front end. The sharp reverberation penetrated up through Cal’s legs into his scarred hip and thigh, stirring up a sudden pain that made him briefly wince. He gritted his teeth as the truck, downshifting, its engine a roaring backwash, bellowed down through the empty canyons of Dorchester Ave. They turned into Andrew Square, and Cal glimpsed through the fogged window the Polish American Social Club, and then they turned onto Albany and rumbled toward the South Street warehouses, adjoined on the east by the city’s central train tracks. In the distance he could make out the square tower and strange medieval turrets of Boston City Hospital. A fucking web, he thought, everything in Boston connected in some way to everything else. Every one, too, for that matter. It reminded him that he needed to give Fierro and Owen a call after this next stop, and hope Dante, wherever the hell he was, could get both himself and the car home in one piece.
12
_________________________
Cambridgeport, Cambridge
THE TRAFFIC ON Massachusetts Avenue was sluggish. Behind him and in front of him, impatient drivers laid on their horns as if the shrill noise would make everything move. The BPW plows hadn’t done a good job clearing the roads; chunks of icy snow lay scattered on the street, and patches of ice grew where the trucks hadn’t sanded. A white Buick in front of him slowed and then came to a complete stop.
As he crossed the bridge, the Charles River reflected the high sun that momentarily forced its way through the clouds, stretching its glare across the marbled ice. Below it, he imagined a vast cold current of nothing, and Sheila trapped inside the dark waters, her eyes sealed shut, her throat a frozen gash.
“I’m a fucking mess,” he said aloud, wiping his knuckles across his wet cheek, tears he hadn’t been aware of. A weight continued to press on his chest. That he hadn’t seen Sheila in so long got to him. It had been late July, a month after he’d been released from the hospital, and he’d gone to the Pacific Club to hear Sonny Stitt and his trio. From his usual spot standing with his back to the bar, he’d glimpsed her sitting at a small ringside table with a guy wearing a broad-shouldered suit that matched the color of his black pompadour. He’d watched her from across the red-lit room, noticing how she leaned into the guy every time he spoke, the gentle touches she placed upon his arm, the smile and the sly
“I got a good wife. That helps.”
“Yeah. I guess it does.”
“How old are you, son?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Hate to say it, but you don’t look so hot.”
Cal laughed. “I’ve been told that.”
“Since the end of the war I’ve seen lots of guys look like you. You were over there, I’d guess. Could tell the way you limped over to the truck. Where were you?”
Cal was quiet for a moment as he looked out the window, feeling the gray and the cold seep into his bones. He gestured to the city around them, to the tenements, warehouses, triple-deckers, the sea always off to their right. “All over,” he said. “I was all over.”
“You’ve got a wife,” Jimmy said matter-of-factly, and Cal glanced down to check for his wedding ring; he often forgot whether he was wearing it or not.
“Sure.”
“I bet she’s a good one.”
“What’s that?”
“Your wife. I bet she’s a good one.”
Cal looked at him.
“She’s stuck by you, hasn’t she?”
“She tries to.”
“Sure she does. Through thick and thin. Sickness and sorrow. Till death do us part. All that bullshit.”
Jimmy nodded, chuckled to himself. “Don’t get company much. I live in my own world so much, I tend to forget some of the more social graces. I ain’t making apologies or nothing.” He shrugged. “But I shouldn’t be butting into no one else’s business. You’ll have to excuse that. I didn’t mean any offense.”
The truck’s right-front tire hit a pothole, the crashing thud jolting the front end. The sharp reverberation penetrated up through Cal’s legs into his scarred hip and thigh, stirring up a sudden pain that made him briefly wince. He gritted his teeth as the truck, downshifting, its engine a roaring backwash, bellowed down through the empty canyons of Dorchester Ave. They turned into Andrew Square, and Cal glimpsed through the fogged window the Polish American Social Club, and then they turned onto Albany and rumbled toward the South Street warehouses, adjoined on the east by the city’s central train tracks. In the distance he could make out the square tower and strange medieval turrets of Boston City Hospital. A fucking web, he thought, everything in Boston connected in some way to everything else. Every one, too, for that matter. It reminded him that he needed to give Fierro and Owen a call after this next stop, and hope Dante, wherever the hell he was, could get both himself and the car home in one piece.
12
_________________________
Cambridgeport, Cambridge
THE TRAFFIC ON Massachusetts Avenue was sluggish. Behind him and in front of him, impatient drivers laid on their horns as if the shrill noise would make everything move. The BPW plows hadn’t done a good job clearing the roads; chunks of icy snow lay scattered on the street, and patches of ice grew where the trucks hadn’t sanded. A white Buick in front of him slowed and then came to a complete stop.
As he crossed the bridge, the Charles River reflected the high sun that momentarily forced its way through the clouds, stretching its glare across the marbled ice. Below it, he imagined a vast cold current of nothing, and Sheila trapped inside the dark waters, her eyes sealed shut, her throat a frozen gash.
“I’m a fucking mess,” he said aloud, wiping his knuckles across his wet cheek, tears he hadn’t been aware of. A weight continued to press on his chest. That he hadn’t seen Sheila in so long got to him. It had been late July, a month after he’d been released from the hospital, and he’d gone to the Pacific Club to hear Sonny Stitt and his trio. From his usual spot standing with his back to the bar, he’d glimpsed her sitting at a small ringside table with a guy wearing a broad-shouldered suit that matched the color of his black pompadour. He’d watched her from across the red-lit room, noticing how she leaned into the guy every time he spoke, the gentle touches she placed upon his arm, the smile and the sly
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