THE BRO-MAGNET (29 page)

“If this has been going on for years, then why wait until now to tell me?”

“Oh, that. We were waiting for the kid to grow up. And then, you know, the pheasant died.” Big John pauses. “Don’t be alone all your life, Johnny. It’s not bad, certainly not the worst thing that can happen to a man, but it also kind of sucks.” He pauses again. “Helen’s a keeper. Don’t louse it up.”

* * *

Those words echo later in the evening as I’m bidding my guests goodbye one by one. Oh, not the “Don’t louse it up” part. I’m pretty adept at running that self-recriminatory loop in my own sorry brain. But the other?

“Helen’s a keeper,” Sam whispers in my ear on her way out.

“Helen’s a keeper,” Lily whispers, even though she barely knows me let alone Helen.

“Helen’s a keeper,” even Alice whispers.

As I close the door on the last guest, I turn to Helen and realize that every single one of them is right. Helen
is
a keeper. Still, marriage? I know I’ve thought about it for a long time, but for these past months since meeting her, I’ve just been focused on making the next date work and the next. But really, marriage?

Then it hits me.

I’m thirty-three years old and my dad’s going to remarry before I even marry once.

I’ve got to move fast, step this puppy up. 

The day after Labor Day it’s back to work, which finds me hitting Leo’s for an early caffeine fix before getting on the road proper. It’s a few weeks since I’ve been in here because most nights now I sleep at Helen’s or she sleeps at my place and we have coffee together instead.

“What’s the good word, Leo?” I say when it’s my turn to order.

“There isn’t one,” Leo says grimly.

This makes no sense. Leo’s always got a good word for me plus a smile, which is sadly absent now.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It’s The Little Lady.”

“The Little Lady? What happened – did you two have a fight about you forgetting a significant date? But I thought your anniversary wasn’t until November.”

“We didn’t have a fight,” he says. He stops working on my coffee long enough to meet my eyes and that’s when I see the tears. “She went and died on me.”

“Leo!” I’m… I don’t even know what I am right now. What do you say to a man, a
friend
who’s lost his wife of over seventy years? “How?” is all I can think to say. “When?”

“Early last week. In her sleep. Good for her. Bad for me.”

What do I say to him? “I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be for you, but you’ll get through it, Leo.”

“No,” he says, “I won’t.” There’s not a shred of self-pity in his words. He’s just stating the awful new fact of his life. “I’ve always liked to think of myself as an optimist, Johnny. Did you know I was in World War II?”

I shake my head. I’ve known Leo for years and yet for the first time I realize how little I know about his life. What do I know about him? His coffee shop. The Little Lady. The fact that he’s always been kind to me.

“It’s true,” he says. “The European Theatre, the Pacific Theatre, everything from Anzio to the Philippines, which was where I was on a boat when the war ended. I had a buddy, a series of buddies, each one equally sure that every day when they got up, that was the day they were going to die. Some did, some didn’t. Me, I never thought like that once. Each day, no matter how bad it got, I was sure I’d survive and that when the war was over, the world would be a better place. I don’t feel like that anymore. The world is no longer a good place, not for me.”

“Leo.” I don’t care that customers are piling up behind me. I reach across the counter and put my arms around Leo.

He leans into my embrace and whispers fiercely in my ear, “I
knew
her. And she knew
me
. Whatever else happens, I’ll never know another person like that, never again.”

* * *

For the remainder of the week, I make a point of stopping by Leo’s every morning, sometimes making a second stop on my way home in the afternoon. We don’t talk anymore about what life is like now for Leo without The Little Lady. Oh, I would if he wanted that. But I let him lead the conversations, wherever he wants. Mostly, he wants to talk about the Mets. They’re looking like they actually have a shot at the playoffs, something no one ever would have guessed back in the spring.

He doesn’t seem like he’s in a state of despair or depression. He doesn’t even seem particularly unhappy. But somehow he doesn’t seem like Leo anymore either.

Friday afternoon I stop by on my way home. We talk for a bit and as I’m leaving with a coffee I don’t really need, Leo shouts, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

That used to be his daily warning to me but I haven’t heard it once since The Little Lady died.

“I wouldn’t even dream of trying!” I call back, my standard response, feeling heartened by our old exchange.

He smiles, I smile back, and the door closes behind me.

* * *

The next morning is Saturday, no work, and even though Helen slept over the night before and is still in my bed, I leave her there to go have my coffee with Leo.

When I get to the shop, the lights are all out and a sign on the door says: “Closed due to death of the owner.”

The Little Lady, a woman whose name I never even knew, was Leo’s pheasant. And once she was gone, his heart just broke and then he died.

* * *

I’m thinking this again three days later as I watch Leo get lowered into the ground, Helen by my side, when it hits me:

I’ve spent years hoping to find
a
woman who would be able to tolerate being with me enough that she’d be willing to spend her life with me. There were moments when it seemed like just about any woman would do. But it never occurred to me until this moment that what I needed wasn’t just
a
woman, not just
any
woman. What I needed was to find someone who would be The Little Lady to my Leo,
just one specific woman
who
I
wanted to spend my life with.

One.

Just one.

Helen
is
my pheasant. I want to spend my life with her, like Leo did with The Little Lady, until one of us is no more, the other dies of a broken heart, and we both return to the earth.

But then I think of the words Leo spoke.

“I
knew
her,” Leo said. “And she knew
me
.”

And I realize that, yes, I want to spend my life with Helen, but not like this, not if it means not being myself.

Frankie and Mary Agnes’s wedding is coming up and between now and then there are all the pre-wedding things to get through: fittings for tuxes and gowns, showers, bachelor parties, rehearsal dinners and all the etcetera. I’ll wait until after the wedding. Because if I tell her beforehand and she’s disappointed – which, I’m guessing, she might be, since I’ve basically been living a lie right under her nose – it’ll spoil the wedding party. I mean, can Frankie really have me be Best Man if his sister breaks it off with me? I’m thinking no. And I don’t want to ruin their big day for Frankie and Mary Agnes. They seem like nice people. Pheasants, even.

So I’ll wait.

But after the wedding?

I’ll tell her who I really am. I’ll say I’m fine with remembering all those significant dates if it makes her happy – they’re significant to me too – and that I’m interested in everything she has to say. I don’t even mind keeping the cat. But I’ll also tell her that I like wearing a baseball cap, backwards, that I love sports, baseball and the Mets in particular, and that while I’ve gotten used to being called John, I vastly prefer Johnny. I’ve been Johnny my whole life. And if she can’t accept me for who I really am? If really
knowing
me puts her off, makes her love me less?

Well, maybe we weren’t meant to be pheasants together after all.

I’ll say one thing for the Troys: they sure know how to throw a wedding. No bizarre tux color combos for them. The men are all in classic black suits with white shirts and silver-gray ties while the bridesmaids are all in close-fitting ice-blue satin gowns with one-inch straps. When I see Helen in hers, what with her red hair, she looks amazing.

Yes, I’ve made it to the church on time, bringing Big John and Aunt Alfresca with me because when the Troys met them at some extended-family get-together, Mary Agnes added them to the list. But as I stand with all the bridesmaids in the vestibule, all those bridesmaids looking unaccountably nervous, there appears to be some kind of problem. Then Frankie comes out, claps his hand on my shoulder, as the rest of the brothers circle round.

“I’m sorry, man,” he says. “I thought I could, but I realized I just can’t do it.”

“Marry Mary Agnes?” I’ve heard of pre-wedding jitters causing people to change their minds. But isn’t he cutting it a little close?

“Not that,” he says. “The World Series. Who would have ever guessed the Mets would make it all the way to the Series and that if they did, that it would go to seven days?”

You’re telling me. I’ve been kicking myself about this all day. I’ve been waiting since 1986, waiting since I was nine years old for this day to come again, for twenty-four years I’ve been waiting for the magic to come back, for the Mets to have their big shot. How can I spend this day at a wedding? And yet I promised Frankie and Mary Agnes. Not to mention, what would Helen think if I blew off being her brother’s Best Man in favor of watching what she’d only regard as just another stupid baseball game? She’d never forgive me. Our relationship would be over.

“I can’t miss this game,” Frankie says when I don’t say anything.

“So what are you going to do?” I ask. “The wedding’s supposed to start at the same time as the game.”

“I called Mary Agnes on her cell. She says she understands completely. She told me to just watch the game and that we’d get married as soon as it’s over. She doesn’t want me to see her in her wedding dress until the proper time, so she’ll watch the game in the Bride’s Room. She did say that if the Mets play lousy, I’m not allowed to pout afterward.”

That’s certainly reasonable of her. But this is all so unconventional.

“But you’ve got a church full of people,” I say. “What about the priest?”

“Oh, that.” Frankie waves away my concerns. “Everyone wants to see this game. I mean, come on, it’s the Mets. We could all be dead before this happens again. As for the priest, he was relieved when I told him. As a matter of fact, he got his housekeeper to bring over his big-screen TV and they’re setting it up in the Community Room right now.” Frankie consults his watch. “Shit, the game starts in two minutes.” Realizing what he’s just said and where he was when he said it, he looks up at the ceiling. “Oops, sorry, God.” He starts heading toward a door, brothers in tow.

At the door he stops and turns. “John, Hel, you coming? Come on. It’s the Mets. I’ve got a game to watch so I can get married.”

I can’t even begin to describe how badly I want to see this game. It’s one of those so-bad-it-hurts things and even beyond that. But then I look down at Helen, see the sad look on her face – she’s probably thrown by this sudden change of events, not understanding how someone could delay their own wedding over a stupid game.

“No, that’s OK,” Helen tells her brother. “You know we’re not interested in that stuff.”

I take Helen’s hand firmly in mine and it takes all that’s in me to echo her words, “Yeah, Frankie, you know we’re not interested in that stuff.

* * *

“So what shall we do for the next few hours?” I say once the others are gone.

“I don’t know,” Helen says. “I think there are some chairs in the hall outside the Community Room. Maybe we should just sit there in case, I don’t know, someone needs us for something?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

So that’s what we do. We sit on folding chairs outside the Community Room holding hands while on the other side of the double doors everyone else is watching the game. Occasionally someone will come out for a cigarette break or whatever, but of course I can’t ask what the score is, if there even is one yet. All I can do is hear the crowd reaction through the gap in the doors.

We’ve been sitting there for about fifteen minutes, not even speaking, when Helen abruptly gets to her feet.

“I’m going to go see how Mary Agnes is doing,” she says. “I know Frankie said this was all OK with her, but it is their wedding day.”

As soon as Helen’s out of sight, I duck into the Community Room. I figure she’ll be with Mary Agnes for at least five minutes so I manage to see two batters before heading for the door again. No score yet.

“Come on, Johnny,” Big John calls out, forgetting he’s not supposed to call me that in front of these people and briefly confusing everyone regarding who he’s talking to because Helen’s youngest brother goes by Johnny. “You don’t want to miss this.”

“It’s OK, Dad,” I say, “really.”

I’m back on my seat in the hall by the time Helen returns.

“Mary Agnes OK?” I ask.

“She’s fine. Still no score.” Then she adds, “I only noticed because Mary Agnes was glued to the game. I guess it’s keeping her mind off things.”

Another fifteen minutes go by and Helen excuses herself, this time to the bathroom which I assume is down the hall and around the corner since that’s where she heads. I’m tempted to duck into the Community Room again but don’t dare risk it. Helen going to the bathroom shouldn’t take her nearly as long as going to check on Mary Agnes. What if she returns and I’m not here or, worse, she catches me coming out of the Community Room?

So I just sit, wait for her return.

No sooner is she back than suddenly
I
have to go to the bathroom. I guess it’s the power of suggestion. Talking about bathrooms has made me have to use one.

“Men’s Room that way too?” I ask.

She nods and I’m off.

But two minutes later, as I’m exiting the Men’s Room, I notice that right across the hall from the bathrooms is another set of double doors to the Community Room. I allow myself a quick peek – bottom of the second, Mets down by one; shit – before heading back to Helen.