getting pregnant. The coroner said death was instantaneous, she didn’t suffer.
Small mercies.
She lifts the photo to her mouth, kisses the sunglass-ed image of Morgan.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She puts the photo back in the box and sets the box on the bed.
She wants to punctuate this moment, singe the night into her memory. She remembers the pack of cigarettes that Stephanie left in her purse. She goes back to the kitchen, finds her purse, and fishes a cigarette from the pack. She lights it on the stove top and then goes back to the office. She opens the sliding door and steps onto the terrace.
It’s cold outside. The rain has stopped, but the cement on the terrace is still wet beneath her bare feet. The terrace extends around the corner, back around to where Wade is still sleeping in the master bedroom. A covered gas grill and a few throaty pigeons are her only companions.
Tina can hear the city below. She walks to the corner of the terrace. Even at this hour, thousands of tiny lights illuminate the city. She can see the harbor through other buildings. She can see Brooklyn, the Verrazano, the ferry terminal, the hilly North Shore of Staten Island, the last-century industries of the Jersey waterfront. She feels the flesh on her legs ripple with goose pimples. She takes a drag of the cigarette.
She’s never felt smaller than she does at this moment. The enormity of the city, the space and significance of it, overwhelm her. She sees herself from a mile away, a fleck of nothing on one terrace on one floor in one tall building of thousands.
She lowers the lit end of her cigarette into a puddle on the railing. She flicks the stub out into the cold air and watches it plummet into the cradled space between buildings.
The color of the night is shifting from black to deepest blue. Dawn is coming. The daylight will break over Long Island first, make its way over the boroughs, illuminate Staten Island last. Her gaze fixes on Staten Island and its low, whispering darkness. The only place she’s ever called home. She wishes she could hold back the dawn, prevent the light from crossing the Verrazano, hold back the day and its inevitable sadnesses for all those she loves.
But her wishes are useless. The dawn’s march is steady, executed without mercy or cruelty, and even this colossus of a city is powerless against it. In mere minutes, the dawn has passed and left the pristine blueness of a perfect day in its wake.
Chapter 3
A QUARTER COME TO REST IN A QUIET PLACE
G ail is already awake when first light reaches the house. She skimmed through sleep, like a stone skipping over water. Strange dreams skittered away when she woke, the retreat of their dark tendrils leaving her anxious. She shifts to a sitting position, massages her closed eyes with the palms of her hands.
She puts on an oversized FDNY sweater and a pair of gray sweatpants, walks across the hall to Bobby’s room. She lies on his bed, hoping to cajole her body into another half hour of shut-eye, but it’s useless: she’s up. Nothing short of a case of Chianti will remedy that.
She goes downstairs to the kitchen, takes a Tupperware container out of the fridge, grabs a fork, and sits at the table. She uses the side of the fork like a knife, carves off a sliver of meatball. She goes back to the fridge, finds a container of sauce, and pours some in with the meatballs. She stares, bleary-eyed, out at the street. It rained in the night; she could hear it from bed. The street is still slick with it and the air smells thick and lush.
They didn’t go into the city last night. She told Michael she was too tired. She didn’t tell him about Tina’s new fella. Soon enough.
A pocket of drizzle descends on Wirra Lane. Across the street, one of their new neighbors, Dmitri, runs out from the old Grasso house to his car. He is thin, tall, Russian. The wife, Ava, seems nice; her face always carries a smile, but she speaks very little English. They have two young kids,
Small mercies.
She lifts the photo to her mouth, kisses the sunglass-ed image of Morgan.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She puts the photo back in the box and sets the box on the bed.
She wants to punctuate this moment, singe the night into her memory. She remembers the pack of cigarettes that Stephanie left in her purse. She goes back to the kitchen, finds her purse, and fishes a cigarette from the pack. She lights it on the stove top and then goes back to the office. She opens the sliding door and steps onto the terrace.
It’s cold outside. The rain has stopped, but the cement on the terrace is still wet beneath her bare feet. The terrace extends around the corner, back around to where Wade is still sleeping in the master bedroom. A covered gas grill and a few throaty pigeons are her only companions.
Tina can hear the city below. She walks to the corner of the terrace. Even at this hour, thousands of tiny lights illuminate the city. She can see the harbor through other buildings. She can see Brooklyn, the Verrazano, the ferry terminal, the hilly North Shore of Staten Island, the last-century industries of the Jersey waterfront. She feels the flesh on her legs ripple with goose pimples. She takes a drag of the cigarette.
She’s never felt smaller than she does at this moment. The enormity of the city, the space and significance of it, overwhelm her. She sees herself from a mile away, a fleck of nothing on one terrace on one floor in one tall building of thousands.
She lowers the lit end of her cigarette into a puddle on the railing. She flicks the stub out into the cold air and watches it plummet into the cradled space between buildings.
The color of the night is shifting from black to deepest blue. Dawn is coming. The daylight will break over Long Island first, make its way over the boroughs, illuminate Staten Island last. Her gaze fixes on Staten Island and its low, whispering darkness. The only place she’s ever called home. She wishes she could hold back the dawn, prevent the light from crossing the Verrazano, hold back the day and its inevitable sadnesses for all those she loves.
But her wishes are useless. The dawn’s march is steady, executed without mercy or cruelty, and even this colossus of a city is powerless against it. In mere minutes, the dawn has passed and left the pristine blueness of a perfect day in its wake.
Chapter 3
A QUARTER COME TO REST IN A QUIET PLACE
G ail is already awake when first light reaches the house. She skimmed through sleep, like a stone skipping over water. Strange dreams skittered away when she woke, the retreat of their dark tendrils leaving her anxious. She shifts to a sitting position, massages her closed eyes with the palms of her hands.
She puts on an oversized FDNY sweater and a pair of gray sweatpants, walks across the hall to Bobby’s room. She lies on his bed, hoping to cajole her body into another half hour of shut-eye, but it’s useless: she’s up. Nothing short of a case of Chianti will remedy that.
She goes downstairs to the kitchen, takes a Tupperware container out of the fridge, grabs a fork, and sits at the table. She uses the side of the fork like a knife, carves off a sliver of meatball. She goes back to the fridge, finds a container of sauce, and pours some in with the meatballs. She stares, bleary-eyed, out at the street. It rained in the night; she could hear it from bed. The street is still slick with it and the air smells thick and lush.
They didn’t go into the city last night. She told Michael she was too tired. She didn’t tell him about Tina’s new fella. Soon enough.
A pocket of drizzle descends on Wirra Lane. Across the street, one of their new neighbors, Dmitri, runs out from the old Grasso house to his car. He is thin, tall, Russian. The wife, Ava, seems nice; her face always carries a smile, but she speaks very little English. They have two young kids,
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