All He Saw Was the Girl (27 page)

    "My
mother died when I was a freshman in high school, lymphoma, cancer of the lymph
nodes."

    "So
you know what it feels like," Angela said.

    "I
thought it was unfair, but I didn't feel sorry for myself. I didn't think poor
me. What can you do? You force yourself to stop thinking about it, move
on."

    "What
about your father?"

    "He's
a retired ironworker. A few years ago he was on a job, trying to maneuver a
thirty-foot I-beam into position. It had been drizzling that day and the steel
was wet and he fell forty feet and landed on top of a plywood pedestrian
walkway. Broke his hip and shoulder on the left side and his pelvis. He was supposed
to be wearing a safety harness, but wasn't. He was in critical condition for a
week and eventually got better and came home but he couldn't go back up on the
high steel, and retired at forty-five on a modest pension."

    She
touched his hand that was flat on the countertop, sliding her fingers over his.
He lifted his hand and turned it around and lightly gripped her palm, gliding
his fingers over hers now.

    She
said, "What is it about holding hands."

    "I
know what you mean," he said.

    She put
her wine glass down on the counter and put her arms around his neck and kissed
him. He brought his hands up under her tee-shirt, and reached behind and
unfastened her bra. She raised her arms and he pulled the tee-shirt up over her
head. He glided his fingers over her breasts, bent down and kissed her nipples,
hand sliding down her flat tan stomach, reaching into her capris, fingers
probing and sliding into her.

    Then
they were pulling at each other's clothes, trying to take them off, like they
couldn't do it fast enough, and went down on the rug on the kitchen floor,
Angela on top now, breasts pressing against his chest, feeling the heat from
his body. Angela kissed him and reached between his legs, holding him and
guiding him inside her.

    She
traced the scar over his left eye. They were upstairs in bed, McCabe on his
back, sheet angled across his chest, Angela next to him on her stomach. He
could feel her body against his, and the light touch of her fingertip on his
face.

    Angela
said, "How did this happen?"

    "I
got hit with a puck," McCabe said.

    She
made a face, looked concerned like it had just happened and he was in pain.
"How many stitches do you have?"

    "Fifteen."

    "Fifteen?
That is a lot."

    She
kissed the scar. He had another one on his right cheekbone, a white ridge of
tissue that snaked down under his jaw. She touched it, moved the tip of her
index finger over it. "What about this one?"

    "High
sticking," McCabe said. "I played for the Muskegon Fury in the United
Hockey League. Also called the U-Haul League because we were hauled around in a
bus. It's a couple steps below the NHL. We played the Rockford Ice Hogs and the
Fort Wayne Komets and the Bloomington Prairie Thunder." He could see she
had no clue what he was talking about. "Instead of hockey, it should've
been called boxing on ice. "

    "Is
this where you learned to fight?" Angela said.

    "No,"
McCabe said, "but I got a lot of practice. There were four or five fights
every game. Ever thrown a punch on skates?"

    "Let
me think," Angela said, rubbing her jaw for effect. "No, I don't
think so."

    He
liked her smartass attitude, and the way she looked at him. "We beat Fort
Wayne in the finals, won the Colonial Cup my first year. That's like the
Stanley Cup of the UHL, if that makes any sense."

    "I'm
impressed," Angela said.

    "You
should be. I was making four hundred dollars a week as a rookie, living the
good life." He grinned to show her he was kidding. "We had a salary cap,
a limit of $250,000 for the whole team. That's all the league allows. To put it
in perspective, the lowest paid player on the Detroit Red Wings makes
$475,000."

    "If
you didn't play for the money," Angela said, "why did your

    "I
loved the game, and it's a pretty good life for six months a year. I lived in
Muskegon, the beer tent capital of the world, a rundown blue-collar town on
Lake Michigan. We traveled by bus and stayed in cheap motels - what a surprise,
huh? We played at Walker Arena in front of five thousand fans. There isn't a
lot to do in Muskegon in the winter, so people came to see us."

    "The
United Hockey League does not sound so good."

    "It
was a blast and it was a legitimate way into the NHL." He paused. "My
goal since I was a little kid was to play for the Red Wings."

    Angela
said, "How old were you?"

    "Nineteen,
one of the youngest guys on the team. I played defense."

    "Were
you good?" She rubbed her hand through the hair on his chest.

    "I
was rookie of the year," McCabe said. "But the beginning of my second
year I got checked on the boards and tore my AC joint." He pointed to his
shoulder. There was a long ropelike scar that started at his collarbone and
angled over his left shoulder where he'd had the operation — ligaments and
tendons damaged. "That was it, the end of my hockey career."

    She
touched his shoulder gently with her fingertips. "I'll try not to hurt
you."

    He
couldn't lock her in the bathroom and he couldn't trust her, so sleeping with
her seemed like a good compromise. They made love again, slower this time.
There was no hurry. McCabe liked her dark eyes and hair and olive skin that
looked like she had a natural suntan. He liked the way she smelled, and liked
her body, the way they fit together, like they were made for each other.

    McCabe
opened his eyes and saw the sheet folded back He got up and put on his jeans
and went downstairs, walked barefoot through the main room into the kitchen.
She wasn't there, either. He went outside, stood on the pebble drive. The car
was gone, and now he felt like a fool.

    He
went in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, picked up a bottle of
Pellegrino water and took a swig. She could've been back in Rome. He could hear
her saying, "I turned on the charm and he fell for it." Without her
the show was over. What had happened between them seemed real. If she was
acting, she was a pro. He thought back about what he did and what he might've
done differently, and decided there was no reason to second-guess himself now.

    Viterbo
was four or five kilometers away, La Quercia maybe half that distance. He could
walk and catch a bus back to Rome, and figure out what to do from there. He was
upstairs getting his things when he heard the car, looked out the bedroom
window and saw his rented Fiat coming up the driveway, pulling in next to the
house. He walked in the kitchen as Angela Entered with a basket of groceries,
singing a song he'd never heard, or maybe it was because her voice was so bad.

    "It's
market day," she said, studying him. "What's the matter?"

    McCabe
just stared at her, trying not to give anything away, but she saw something,
sensed his concern.

    "You
looked so peaceful I did not want to wake you," Angela said. "You
thought I went away?" She studied his face.

    "You
did. I can see it in your eyes. If I was going to do that I would have done it
before."

    He
went over and took the basket from her. It was heavy. He looked inside and
counted four bottles of wine, cheese, fruit, meat and bread. "How long you
think we're going to be here?"

    "You
never know," she said.

    "I
called Joey after you fell asleep, told him we'd be ready tomorrow. I said you
have the money? He said, 'Wait and see.

    Angela
said, "What did you say?"

    She took
the wine bottles out of the basket and lined them up on the counter, two reds
and two whites.

    "I
said, you want Angela back? He said,'
Succhiami ilcazzo!"

    Angela
said, "You know what that means?"

    McCabe
said, "Uh-huh. I didn't think he spoke Italian."

    "He
doesn't."

    She
took the cheese and meat out of the basket and put the packages in the
refrigerator, closed it and looked at him.

    "How
well do you know him?" McCabe said.

    "He's
my cousin. I met him when I was thirteen. My father sent me to visit my aunt
Angela, Joey's mother. I flew to Detroit with Carmella, my nanny. Uncle Joe and
Aunt Angela picked us up at the Metro Airport and drove us to their home in
Bloomfield Hills. Joey came over the first night and had dinner with us. I
could see he was interested in Carmella, but that was all. Nothing happened.

    "The
next day we visited the famous places of Detroit: Greenfield Village and
Motown, where the music was recorded. We saw the factory where the Model T was
built and the General Motors Building. There is not so much to see. We went to
a baseball game. I had my first hotdog."

    "What
did you think?"

    "I
loved it."

    McCabe
said, "How do you think Detroit compares with Rome? I mean
architecturally, culturally."

    "You
are funny," Angela said. "We drove with my aunt and uncle to Harbor
Springs on Lake Michigan."

    McCabe
said, "Where the rich people go."

    "They
have a big house on the water with a sand beach and a motor boat. Joey came to
see us and was there for a couple of days, staying because of Carmella.
Thinking back, he was insecure, you know, because she was so beautiful. He
reminded me of a schoolboy. He liked her but didn't know what to say to her or
how to act. He would make fun of the way she spoke English, and the way she
dressed. Joey is not a good person."

    "That's
the impression I get," McCabe said. "How old was Carmella?"

    "Twenty-two.
And Joey, at the time, was twenty-five. The last night we were there he went to
her room in the middle of the night and he forced himself on her."

    McCabe
said, "Why didn't you go to your uncle?"

    "You
would have to understand how they thought of him. Joey was their little
prince."

    "What
did Carmella do?"

    "What
could she do? She was embarrassed. She was ashamed. Who was she going to talk
to? What was she going to say?'

    McCabe
said, "Tell them what happened."

    "Do
you think my aunt and uncle would have believed her? Would have taken her word
over Joey?" She paused. "I tell you this because Joey is not going to
make it easy. I hope you know that."

    "Don't
worry" McCabe said. "I'll be ready."

    Joey
was sure McCabe had someone helping him too, another student maybe. How could
he have done it by himself? How could he have gotten her out of the apartment
without anyone seeing them? Joey and Mazara had knocked on every door in her
building, and asked if anyone had seen Angela leave the night before, Mazara
doing the talking, telling the neighbors Joey was her cousin from America, and
he had come a long way to see her. One guy said he saw her walking down the
stairs about 8:40 p.m., but didn't see her again. Nobody else could remember
seeing her at all.

    Joey
had told Mazara if he did exactly what Joey said he'd help square things with
the don. What could he say? Joey liked being in Italy now, liked the action,
catching a buzz on what was happening.

    Mazara
had picked him up at the Excelsior, and now they were on the autostrada heading
for Viterbo, Mazara driving, Joey relaxing in the front passenger seat,
checking out the countryside, feeling good about himself.