Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (25 page)

Watching Yary talk, become animated and sincere, I
decided he scared me more than Rick with his automatic.

Finally, Yary said, "So what do you think?"

"What do I think?"

"Yeah. About the Trust, the Movement."

"I think from your rap sheet that you're not as
nonviolent as you make out."

"That was then, man. This is now, you know? I
learned my lesson, learned it real good. Now I'm into friendly
persuasion."

"I think Rick and the others are thinking about
taking the Trust in a different direction."

Yary clouded over. "The fuck you telling me?"

"When I visited the old clubhouse today, I got
an armed response."

"Armed? With what?"

"A Colt forty-five."

"I don't believe it. I don't fucking believe
it."

"Yes you do. You just don't want to admit it."

"They wouldn't do that. They're not that
stupid."

"They're that stupid, Gun. Stupid and impatient.
Not everybody's interested in waiting out the revolution."

Yary started to tell me how it wasn't a revolution,
but just the people taking back what was theirs. I cut him off by
walking over to the foreman, who had started toward us.

The foreman said hopefully, "He giving you any
trouble?"

"Sorry. Model prisoner."

"Shit."

"Thanks for letting me take him for a while."

"Take him forever, you want to."

Yary walked by us, eyes straight ahead. As he
rejoined the crew, he said something and laughed. One guy paid no
attention, but the other laughed too. With Yary, not at him.

The foreman said to me, "Fucking judges, make me
feel like shit," and spat over the railing.
 

=21=

"MERRY CHRISTMAS, JOHN."

Nancy had put on a fuzzy mauve robe before she'd gone
into her kitchen. Now she was at the side of the bed, holding a
carrying tray in front of her, steam rising from coffee cake and
ceramic mugs.

"What's in the mugs?"

"Your leftover cider concoction. Waste not, want
not."

I'd mulled the cider, with cinnamon sticks and orange
sections, the night before as Nancy made popcorn and strung the
product on threads like a rosary, whole cranberries playing the Our
Fathers. After lacing the cider with bourbon, we'd looped the strings
of popcorn and cranberries over lights and ornaments on the short,
full spruce tree we'd spent a cold hour selecting at a Lions' Club
lot in Brighton. Shopping for the tree reminded me that I had to act
on Bo's advice regarding a Gore-Tex running suit. Late December was
feeling more and more like the tundra time of February.

I hadn't seen Bo for a week or so, but I'd been
training religiously without him. Following my talk with Gunther
Yary, the case for Maisy Andrus had slowed down, as some cases will.
After checking to make sure all the people she'd offended were
staying home for the holidays, I'd contracted out to another
investigator who needed someone to spell his people on an extended
surveillance. I did stay in touch with Inés Roja by telephone, me
confirming there were no further notes, she advising that the
professor and Tucker Hebert sounded happy and relaxed on Sint Maarten
the two times she'd heard from them. Andrus wanted to meet with me
when they got back, Inés and I agreeing on a breakfast conference
for January 18. Around bites, Nancy said, "You realize this is
the best Christmas I can remember?"

She snuggled close enough for me to inhale the herbal
shampoo still clinging to the roots of her hair. After decorating the
tree, we'd agreed to exchange gifts in the morning and slipped into
bed, making slow, drowsy love as the lights twinkled five colors in
computer-chip sequence.

"Where are my presents?"

Nancy took another gulp of cider. "Under the
tree, junior."

"I want my presents."

"And here I thought you were finally showing the
patience maturity is supposed to bring."

"I want my presents now."

"Okay, okay. Smallest to largest?"

"The only way."

We traded gifts, one at a time. Silly ones,
thoughtful ones, middling-expensive ones. A Garfield the Cat calendar
for her, a T-shirt with the legend BODY BY NAUTILUS, BRAIN BY MATTEL
for me; a video of Adam's Rib for her, a video of The Maltese Falcon
for me; a leather briefcase with shoulder strap for her, a teak desk
set for me. And so on.

Finally, Nancy said, "Time for the big ones?"

"Uh-huh."

The boxes were remarkably similar in size. about
right for a man's suit.

Nancy opened her present, a geometric sweater in five
colors from an exotic store on Newbury Street. She held it up, arms
stretching arms, chin pressing down on crew neck. "It's
beautiful, John."

"Genuine yak fur from the Himalayas?

"Your turn."

My box came open. It contained a man's suit, all
right. Ebony Gore-Tex, drawstrings on the jacket and Velcro cuffs on
wrists and ankles.

I looked up at her.

Nancy said, "One of the guys in the office runs.
He helped me pick it out. If the size is wrong — "

"It's perfect, Nance. Does this mean you've
decided I'm not so stupid about wanting to run the marathon?"

"No. It means I don't want you getting what my
friend calls 'penile frostbite.' Do you know what that is?"

We showed each other there
was nothing to worry about.

* * *

The week between Christmas and New Year's was
miserable weatherwise: temperature in the high thirties with frequent
if not constant rain. The Gore-Tex kept me both dry and ventilated,
but there was still no sign of Bo, which worried me a little.

Fortunately, December thirty-first turned bright and
sunny. Everything dried out toward a crisp, low-forties First Night.
First Night has really caught on in Boston. Originally designed as a
way to discourage drinking on New Year's Eve by offering performing
arts alternatives, the idea has blossomed into an annual festival of
ice sculptures, fireworks, and general revelry. Just strict enough to
discourage public carousing, just tolerant enough for hip flasks
discreetly tupped.

Nancy had bought us each a button, a blue bird on a
black background. The button allowed the wearer to attend almost all
the holiday entertainment. We cooked an early dinner at my place,
planning over dessert the events we'd visit. Most
were repeated on a staggered schedule during the evening.

Out on the streets, the crowds, all ages and sizes,
jostled happily. Cloth coats to fur wraps to ski outfits. Mardi Gras
costumes, glowworm necklaces, tinsel tiaras. Women with painted
faces, guys with long plastic trumpets. Nancy wore her Himalayan yak
fur sweater, which pleased me. I didn't wear my rapidly ripening
Gore-Tex suit, which pleased her and everyone around us.

We began at the First Baptist Church on Commonwealth.
Minimalist decorations hung beneath conservative rosette windows and
dark joists and trusses. There were no kneelers in the pews, and only
the barest of cushions on the benches. I browsed through a red-bound
hymnal on the rack in front of me as we waited in the swish of people
seating themselves.

The four performers were the Mystic Consort.
Renaissance music from soprano and bass singers, a right-angled lute,
and a harpsichord the size of a hippo. Most of the twelve works
involved all four, some a single singer with accompanist or an
instrumental solo. A perfect, gentle kickoff.

Our second stop was the Old South Church on Boylston
Street. We joined a thick line of nine hundred people moving slowly
past port-a-potties. At the doorway we were among the last folks
ushered politely into the sanctuary to hear the Old South Brass,
Timpani & Organ. The sanctuary walls were done in rose and
lavender, an opening-flower motif that was repeated in the carpet.
Ornate detail work crept over ivory marble facades. Lustrous beams
arched upward, like the ribs of a great sailing ship capsized
overhead, just below a center cupola and skylight. Curled chandeliers
were attached to the ceiling by brass balls and chains. Overall, I
had the feeling of being in Constantinople.

The musicians played trumpets, trombones, and tuba in
addition to the timpani and organ, the last a 1921 dinosaur of nearly
eight thousand pipes. The conductor moved the crowd without
manipulating it, starting with a rousing National Anthem and
progressing through various pieces I didn't know to one I did. An
arrangement for organ of Barber's Adagio for Strings, the signature
theme of Oliver Stone's Vietnam movie, Platoon.

The Barber music took me back, back two decades to a
New Year's Eve in Saigon, a turn of the calendar a month before the
lunar new year, a month before Tet, when most of us still thought we
were winning.

"John?"

I looked down into Nancy's eyes, suddenly aware she'd
been tugging on my sleeve and whispering to me.

"John, are you all right'?"

"Yes. Why'?"

"I thought you were zoning out on me. You were
moving your lips and had this glassy look in your eyes."

I closed my hand around hers. "I'm fine."
And I was.

Our third stop was the Arlington Street Church, the
one that most reminded me of a Catholic cathedral. All white,
elaborate barrel vaults, fluted granite pillars, stained-glass
windows with interior shutters. A massive walnut pulpit enclosed in
riddled wooden gates dominated the altar. Undecorated pine trees
contrasted with garlands and floppy red velvet bows. The pews had
café doors and miniature kneelers like shoeshine boxes.

The performing group was the Muir String Quartet.
About halfway through the first entry, which sounded a hell of a lot
like "Baubles, Bangles, and Beads," I noticed someone
familiar on the far side of the church. He was partly in the shadow
of a pillar, but I was pretty sure it was Del Wonsley, Alec Bacall's
companion, sitting next to a man a little shorter and more stooped
than Bacall. Nancy played finger games with my hand through the
remainder of the program, a nice mix of the poignant themes a string
quartet can evoke. As we were shuffling out, the stream from the
other side of the church merged into ours, and I was startled. I
recognized Del Wonsley for sure, but that wasn't what startled me.

The stooped, older man next to Wonsley was Alec
Bacall. There was a hollowness in the pouches above and below his
cheekbones, as though someone had let the air out of his face. It had
been only three weeks since I'd driven Bacall to South Boston after
the library debate.

Wonsley said, "Oh. John, right?" The brown
eyes were soft but a little unsure of what to say next.

I introduced Nancy while Bacall bundled up, a heavy
scarf over his throat and mouth like a Berber tribesman.

Bacall said, "Got a bit of a cold, I'm afraid."

I nodded, and Nancy preempted an awkward silence by
taking Bacall's arm and leading him into the foyer, leaving me with
Wonsley several steps, and intervening people, behind.

I said, "Is Alec all right?"

Wonsley's expression didn't change. "He's having
problems with his insulin dosage. It's not working right sometimes.
In fact, this is the first time since before Christmas we've been
out. Alec wanted to . . . we met, sort of, on First Night, last
year."

"Has he been to see a doctor?"

"Yes. At the . . . a clinic. He recommended Alec
have some tests."

Wons1ey's expression still didn't change, but the
eyes got softer. He didn't say what the tests would be for, and I
didn't ask.

We said good-bye briskly on the sidewalk. As Wonsley
and Bacall moved away, I asked Nancy if she'd mind cutting our
celebration a little short.

=22=

IT WAS A MILD MORNING SEVERAL WEEKS INTO THE NEW
YEAR, temperature in the mid-fifties, Boston nearly basking in the
January thaw. I chanced wearing just a sweatshirt and shorts. I
spotted him from the Fairfield footbridge to the river. Sitting on
his bench, legs crossed, left arm draped over the backrest, right
hand on the bench seat. From a distance he looked the same as before.
Up close, the tweed jacket had been mended, the glasses newly taped,
and the hair freshly cut.

"John." Neutral tone, a substitute for
hello.

"Bo. I missed you."

He glanced away, toward the MIT dome. "Been
traveling."

The first time Bo had opened up at all. I didn't want
to crowd him. "Whereabouts?"

"D.C. area." His eyes rolled up toward the
emblem on his Redskins cap. "I used to teach there, John. And
coach. Private school."

I leaned against a tree, keeping my shoes on the
macadam and out of the mud. "Get tired of it?"

"No."

Bo moved his left hand over to his right wrist, and I
was afraid I'd pushed too far. Then he said, "You ever been
married, John?"