MULTI-TASKING, guest post Parker
I'm in the cab. I'm going back and forth with my literary agent on Blackberry, trying to push my galley date back a little. Why? How do I explain to her that I've fallen in love and I just have less down time to write? The publishers really don't care if I'm lucky or happy or miserable or on the verge of suicide. They only want me to be productive. I'm on my way to a meeting and now my cell rings. I answer, cradling it on my shoulder as Brog says, "Where are you?"
"I told you. I have a lunch date."
"I know. But your mystery over your lunch date is making me nuts. If you won't tell me who it's with, won't you at least tell me where you're going?"
I smile. He's such a control freak. He doesn't really think I'm cheating on him, he knows me better than that, but he is so curious about this lunch date and my evil side is encouraging that curiosity. "Are you with Clara? You're supposed to be going home to let Clara out."
"Don't try to deflect, Parker. I'm in the dog park right now. So where are you?"
"In a cab."
"I'm warning you, Park..."
I laugh. "Why are you so nosey? Can't I have lunch with someone without you pick pick picking at me?"
"You're the one who made it into a mystery!"
"I'm going to Fiorello's. Does that tell you anything?"
He's silent for a moment. Thinking it over. Finally he says, "No."
I smile. Thought not. "If you show up there, I'll smack you."
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not spying on you."
"Good."
"Are you coming back to the office?"
"Yes, I have a class this afternoon, remember?"
"See you later, asshole."
"Hug Clara for me, Nosey."
We disconnect. Fiorello's is a nice Italian place across from Lincoln Center. Nothing particularly charming about it, but the food is authentic and very, very good. The scent of garlic overwhelms me as I enter, tucking my electronic devices into various holsters and pockets. What a geek. I scan the leather booths, looking for my lunch date. The wood paneling is dark, and the room is not particularly well lit. The maitre de approaches me, but I tell him I see my companion and I walk over to the booth where he's twisting a stem of wine between his palms. I want to tell him the heat from his hands will warm the delicate flavor of the wine, but decide not to lecture him when he probably knows more about wine than I ever will. He reaches out a hand to shake mine and I slide into the opposite side of the booth and prepare myself for this encounter.
Brian Kinney looks typically elegant in a Brioni suit, cut close to his trim frame. He can wear anything well. I hate that about him. I look skinny no matter what I put on. He looks slim. There is a difference. Why did he ask me to lunch? We decided on this place because it's about midway between his downtown location and my uptown university. "Don't mention it to Brog until after we meet," he suggests. "Otherwise he'll be calling me every five minutes to ask what's up."
He is absolutely right. "What's up?" I ask in place of my lover.
Brian pushes a menu at me. "We may want to order. I don't have a lot of time. I'm crashing on a project."
And so we order. Is this yet another protective best friend moment? I don't think I'm interested in that. But he surprises me by saying, "I want to talk to you about your fireman."
Thank God my wine arrives. I take a long gulp as something within me cramps. My Hero cramp. "Why?"
"Why do you call him Hero?"
"It was a joke between us. Fireman...hero...not so big a stretch. And he was a hero, as a matter of fact. He died a hero." What in the hell is he getting at? Why does he want to discuss Jimmy?
"Do you believe in God?"
I stare at his handsome face. What the hell? If this is a game, it's a cruel one. "Not so much. Used to. Not so sure now."
He nods. "Do you believe in the afterlife?"
"Same answer. What the fuck are you getting at, Brian? Are you trying to hurt me? To bring up painful memories? Isn't that a little low for you?"
He reaches across the table and places a hand on my arm. It startles me, this gesture. I don't move. He says, "He was Irish, right?"
"Obviously, yes."
"Maybe it's the Irish in me, I don't know, but sometimes I seem to be senstive to things other people can't see."
I pull out from under his touch. Now he's creeping me out. What the fuck? He shakes his head. "I debated telling you this. I know how crazy it sounds. I realize I might hurt you more than help you. But...look. Here it is. When I bought that jail, I inherited a ghost. Laugh if you want, I don't care. But there was a ghost in that building. He'd been there for decades. Trapped. A Jewish guy, my landlady's nephew. We talked. He told me about his apartment in her building, in fact. He couldn't find his way out of limbo."
I wonder if Brian's on something, but other than the words coming out of his mouth, he seems perfectly rational. I decide to let him talk. He continues. "It's not the first time I've seen a ghost, my grandmother saw them too, but Sherm, that is his name, was the first ghost with whom I developed a friendship. Anyway, the thing is..." our food arrives. It looks fabulous and the steam coming off of it is fragrant and fresh. Neither of us lifts a fork. When the waiter leaves, he goes on. "That night I ran into you and we walked through the jail together, remember?"
"Yes."
"That night your fireman showed up at the jail."
I don't know what expression is on my face, but inside, I think every organ just turned to cold cement. "W-what?"
"I know, I know. He seemed to be drawn there by you. He had red hair and he was tall and had a big smile with a slight gap in his front teeth."
Brog could have described Hero to him, I realize. He could have looked him up. There were photos in the paper of fireman lost in the terror. I want to leave, but I absolutely can't move. Brian sighs. "Bear with me, Parker. He wore a fireman's uniform, but under his helmet, his hair was partially covered with a kerchief that was the colors of the gay pride rainbow. You could see it peeking out."
How would he know that? That wasn't in any pictures. That was Hero's way of saying 'fuck you' to any homophobes in the department. How could he know? "Why are you doing this?" No one could be this cruel. No one. No one could resent me this much for loving his friend.
"Hear me out. He also wore a twisted, braided bracelet on one wrist that was green and white, looked homemade."
A lucky charm. Not so lucky, as it turned out. Made in Dublin from thread said to be blessed by the Pope. Another fact Brog wouldn't know and that wouldn't show up in official photos. I'm too numb to be angry now, just stunned by this man. Brian says,
"He brought with him an intense sensation of compassion and strength. Calm, quiet, strength."
That's Hero. He says,
"No one else saw Sherm, that I know of, but the fireman walked right up to him. They could touch. I couldn't touch Sherm, he had no solid mass. The fireman told him he shouldn't be afraid, that he was there to take him home. He had a very broad New York accent."
"And then?" I manage to say.
"And then he took his hand and they were gone. Sherm never came back. He's gone for good. Your fireman collected his soul."
"Are you telling me that Jimmy is some kind of grim reaper?"
"I'm telling you he is still saving people from their hopeless fate."
I lean back. I believe him and yet I don't believe him. It sounds like something Hero would volunteer to do after death. "If Hero could appear to anyone, it would be me."
"What makes you think he could control that, Parker? He wasn't there to appear to me. He was there to collect Sherm and for some reason I could see it happen. Maybe because of my connection with Sherm. But why Hero and why that night? I suspect you brought him."
"Me?"
"That he watches over you or something. I don't know. I don't believe in this shit either. But it happened. And I had to tell you. I hoped it would comfort you in some way, knowing that he is not only at peace, but is still doing good. Even now."
"Excuse me," I manage to find my legs and hobble to the bathroom. I think I may throw up, but nothing happens. I lean against the sink, waiting for the shaking to stop. I stare at my pale, haunted image in the mirror. What the hell is he doing? And why? Why such an elaborate story? Why tell me any of this? I splash water in my face, and let it drip into the sink, the cool liquid failing to revive me. I towel it off and then the door opens and Brian walks in. He blocks the entrance, leaning against the door, his arms crossed at his chest.
"Are you okay?"
"Are you insane?"
He shrugs. "Maybe. I don't know why this shit happens to me, it doesn't often. But everything I told you is the God's honest truth. Take it or leave it, it's true."
"If this is some lame, vicious trick to somehow drive a spear into Brog and me, I fail to see the connection!"
He remains perfectly calm. "Nothing to do with Brog."
"I've already made myself crazy with grief over Hero, you can't add to that."
"I'm trying to do the opposite. I'm trying to give you hope. Peace, I don't know."
I stare at that cool, handsome face of his and I see something I remember seeing in Hero's face. That blunt, take it or leave it, straight forward Irish honesty. He's not lying. Whether it was some trick of his mind or imagination, I don't know, but he believes what he's saying. I grip the sink as my strength wanes again and he puts a strong arm behind me, moving quickly from the door to support me. I let him. I need his help right now. He leans his mouth close to my ear and says in a low voice, "Believe."
My Blackberry vibrates in my pocket. I need the distraction. I pull it out and click open. It's a reply from my agent. It says simply, "Believe." I stare at it in confusion as another message quickly comes in. Her again. It reads: "Sorry, for some reason the damned thing sent before I hit the button! I was saying, "Believe the publisher will give you four weeks but that's it, you have to get that book finished, Parker. Call me."
I shove it back in my pocket, unanswered. Coincidence. I walk out of his one-armed embrace and stare at this Irish clansman of my fallen hero. "Will you help me?"
He nods.
"I need to go somewhere, but I don't think I can do it on my own."
I know he has a busy schedule. I know he has a project he's working on. But he doesn't hesitate. He throws money on the table near our uneaten food and we share a cab. We have a long drive to what New Yorkers call the Isle of the Dead, a small island off Manhattan where people have been buried for centuries. I don't come here often. Hero isn't here. Like so many who died in that terror, his body was never recovered. But the family and I put this marker up to commemorate his life and death. It's in his family's plot. A stone Celtic cross. His name. His date of birth and September 11, 2001. Under that engraving is one word, HERO. I send flowers often to mark this empty grave, and there are some dried, dead blooms and fading green ribbon covering it now. Brian stands back a little. I pick up the dead flowers and toss them in a nearby receptacle. As I brush the surface of the grave with the flat of my hand, I feel a ridge and I squat down to uncover it. I pick up a ragged, dusty, green and white braided bracelet, frayed at one end, still knotted where it was attached. I know this bracelet. I stand. I blow the dust from it. I hold it close to my face and breathe it in. Smoke, sweat, dust, blood, Jimmy. I squeeze it in my fist as my eyes close tightly against the impossibility.
"Let him go," I hear Brian say, his voice cut by a sudden chilly wind. I loop the bracelet though one of the open fretwork sections of the cross and tie it tightly in place. I press my fingertips to my lips and then to the bracelet.
"Keep up the good work, Hero," I say softly and Brian holds a hand out to me. I take it. I keep holding it as we walk out of the land of the dead together to rejoin the living in utter silence.