City Boy (42 page)

Mrs. Lacagnina regarded Jack, then surveyed the sidewalk between her and the corner. It was only haphazardly shoveled, with a layer of glaze that could send you straight to the nursing home with a broken hip. Mrs. Lacagnina allowed Jack to help her over the snowy curb and into the car. He put the grocery trolley in the backseat and took his place behind the wheel.

Mrs. Lacagnina’s feet, in black galoshes that reminded Jack of pony hooves, were exactly level with the floor mats. She had a new coat—her daughter must have argued mightily to get the old one off her back—with fur at the cuffs and collar, but she still wore the same
fringed headscarf knotted beneath her chin. He imagined her heart keeping its own stubborn, syncopated time. She stared straight ahead as if Jack were a chauffeur.

A new problem presented itself. Did Mrs. Lacagnina shop at the Jewel, which was closest, or the Dominick’s, a little farther on, or at some ancient corner store known only to Sicilian widows? How could you hope to pantomime the range of choices? There was nothing in the car to write with. Jack raised a hand to flag her attention, and when she turned to him he did his best to convey
Where to?
, quizzical eyebrows, shoulders up, hands agitating the steering wheel.

Mrs. Lacagnina gave him back a series of signals he did not understand, since none of them seemed to convey the name of a grocery chain. He shook his head, and Mrs. Lacagnina repeated herself, a bit of animation, even of theatrical disbelief, entering into her performance:
What’s the matter, Mr. Handsome, is the only part of that head you ever use the outside?
When she showed him for the third time he finally got it. The vast horizon, the skipping waves, the hand to her heart, the sign of the cross.

On the way he stopped and got them both coffee, guessing she took hers black and sweet. She held her cup carefully in her gloved hands. Jack drove to Hollywood Beach, nudged the nose of the rental car past the leavings of the snowplows, as close as he could get to the beach and the lake itself. Even on a day like this there were a few underdressed-looking joggers bounding along on the walking path, exhaling frozen clouds. Wind shook the car and sent waves thick with ice slapping against the concrete seawall.

Farther out, the lake had a gloss to it from the low winter sun, a path of watery shine. Mrs. Lacagnina settled herself into her fur collar, lifted her coffee to her lips but didn’t drink. She seemed content to sit there in the small space of comfort that the car provided, and Jack thought they might stay there awhile longer. He would have liked to ask about her husband. He would have liked to tell her about Chloe. It was the same story, really, for both of them.
One day a boat went out on the water and never returned.
And all you would have to do was write it down.

JEAN THOMPSON
is the author of
Who Do You Love
, a 1999 National Book Award finalist for fiction, and
Wide Blue Yonder
, a
New York Times
Notable Book for 2002. A recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Guggenheim Foundation, she lives in Urbana, Illinois.