Part 4 (2/2)

By eight thirty, the heat was full on, and I stopped at a coffee shop in Lenox. Coffee Coffee, I thought. The paper. Do things that are normal The paper. Do things that are normal.

Outside by the steps, the sun glinted off the newspaper stand. And I saw, on the front page of every national and local paper, the headline, the wedding photograph. I stood for a long time, never making it past the steps. In the thickness of shock, I tried to puzzle out why this was in bold print, why this was news, why this was public. I hadn't understood until then that it was real. And that he would be mourned deeply by people who had never met him but whose lives he had touched all the same.

Plane debris had begun to wash ash.o.r.e on Philbin Beach near Gay Head by Sat.u.r.day afternoon. On Tuesday, at a depth of 116 feet, the fuselage was spotted several miles northwest of Nomans Land, the island you could see from his mother's beach. News broadcasts began to play the biographical montages mixed with grainy long-lens footage of the house in Hyannis Port, the wide green lawn, and the white tent for the family wedding that had now been canceled. On Wednesday, after the bodies were found, I took the train to New York to attend a memorial service that Friday-not the one filled with dignitaries and family members, with a reception in the Sacred Heart ballroom, but one arranged by his friends Jeff Gradinger and Pat Manocchia and held at La Palestra, an upscale gym he frequented near Cafe des Artistes.

When I walked in, I felt welcomed, even though I hadn't seen many of the people in years. Some of his cousins, including Timmy Shriver and Anthony Radziwill, had come directly from the earlier service. I embraced Anthony. He was weeks from the end of his fight with cancer. I hadn't seen him since his wedding in 1994, when he had spun his bride around the dance floor and everyone had applauded. Now he was fragile, his weight resting on a cane. ”I'm all cried out,” he said quietly when we spoke of the events of the past week. ”There's nothing left.”

When I looked across the crowded room, I saw disparate groups-lawyers, bankers, journalists, musicians, artists; friends from grade school, law school, boarding school, and Brown-the many tribes that John had knit together. There was anger, grief, and disbelief in that room, but also a celebration of the friend we'd lost.

People stood up to speak. Some attempted humor. Others told of exploits, athletics, bravery. I read a poem he'd once read to me, one his mother loved. But it was Christiane, our Benefit Street roommate, whose words comforted the most. They still do. ”He was an ordinary boy in extraordinary circ.u.mstances,” she said, her voice unwavering. ”And he lived his life with grace.”

After it was over, I went back to my apartment in the West Village, and for the first time in days, I wept. Then I went to the old chest. In it, I found a slim volume of Gray's Elegy Elegy. I brushed the dust from the sepia cover. My grandmother had given it to me when I was eleven, but I'd never read it. When I was young, I had no interest in graveyards or dead youths, ”to Fortune and to Fame unknown.” On the first page, in her careful schoolteacher's hand, she'd inscribed it FOR TINA WHO LIKES POETRY FOR TINA WHO LIKES POETRY. I turned one of the thread-bound pages, and a newspaper clipping, one she must have tucked there long ago, fluttered to the floor. Now yellowed, as fragile as a bee's wing, it was an artist's rendering of a commemorative stamp from the mid-1960s, a drawing of a three-year-old boy saluting a casket.

Deeper in the trunk, I found my copy of Winners Winners, and I opened it.

At the end of July, a week and a half before the play opened, John bought a red motorcycle. Bullet red with clean lines. There had been no hint of it in the weeks since rehearsals had relocated to the Irish Arts Center, so when he rode up that evening, it was a surprise. ”At least it's not a Corvette,” he quipped. We teased him, but really everyone was thrilled. It was a welcome distraction from the nerves before opening, and after rehearsal we stood on the sidewalk and he took turns giving us rides.

Robin got on first. She was tiny and settled in tight. Then Denise, the stage manager. She didn't want to, but John coaxed her. After that, Santina, the lighting designer, who'd also gone to Brown. They were good friends, and she'd directed him in two of his best performances there, Short Eyes Short Eyes and and In the Boom Boom Room In the Boom Boom Room. Next, Phelim, a lanky, red-haired boy with cowboy legs as long as the bike. He grinned when he got on board, and when they came trundling down the block, he pitched his legs out to the side and we all laughed.

I hung back, talking to Toni, the a.s.sistant stage manager. We stood by a chain-link fence that bordered the abandoned lot near the theater, a three-story converted carriage house on the north side of Fifty-first Street. It was late, but I could feel the afternoon's swelter on the bottoms of my sandals. I could smell the river a block and a half away.

I'd changed out of my rehearsal clothes-a short blue skirt and a red cardigan. It was 1985, the Madonna/Like a Virgin era. I eschewed the leggings, the bleached hair, and the ubiquitous skinny rubber bracelets, but sported a slinky black dress I'd gotten cheap at a street fair, a wide leather belt low on my hips, and a bronze-colored cuff on my arm. The cuff was a remnant of a costume from some Shakespeare play I'd been in, and I'd taken it as a totem. My hair was loose and long and out of the clip that turned me into seventeen-year-old Mag Enright. era. I eschewed the leggings, the bleached hair, and the ubiquitous skinny rubber bracelets, but sported a slinky black dress I'd gotten cheap at a street fair, a wide leather belt low on my hips, and a bronze-colored cuff on my arm. The cuff was a remnant of a costume from some Shakespeare play I'd been in, and I'd taken it as a totem. My hair was loose and long and out of the clip that turned me into seventeen-year-old Mag Enright.

The play had been going well since rehearsals had moved from Robin's apartment. John sometimes complained about the stepped-up hours (he insisted on having weekends off and won), but he always showed up after work ready to go. We'd had one squabble. It was over the word G.o.d G.o.d, a matter of where the pitch lay in the mouth and if and how the lips were rounded. It was slight, but I corrected him and we argued. For days, neither of us would back down. I knew I was right. After all, the year before, while John had been exploring India and Thailand, I had been learning all manner of dialects-from Afrikaans to c.o.c.kney to Czech-and could transpose them into IPA, the International Phonetic Alphabet. I'd also spent hours studying a tape labeled ”Donegal native speakers,” compiled and given to me by Tim Monich, the speech teacher at Juilliard. Finally, Nye Heron, the artistic director of the Irish Arts Center and a native Dubliner, was brought in to settle the matter. He would set John straight. But as it turned out, I was wrong. My version, Nye said, was correct-for a county or two over. But John had it down to the towns.h.i.+p. Humbled, I took pains from then on to say it exactly as he did, and I was grateful when he didn't gloat. His ear, the gift of any actor, was superb, and at least in the matter of G.o.d G.o.d, it had trumped mine.

In rehearsal clothes, we tumbled and wrestled on the small stage. There was ease, banter, and trust, and he'd lean against me when Robin gave notes. But over the past week, once we were alone and in street clothes, something was different between us. There was a seriousness, a glance too long, and, for me, the awareness always of where he was in the room. I couldn't stop thinking about him, and I fought it.

”Hey,” he called out from the bike. ”I'll give you a ride home.”

That night home was Brooklyn, the walk-up I shared with another actress on the outskirts of Park Slope. Not over-the-bridge Brooklyn, but eight miles as the crow flies and forty minutes on the D train-if it was running express. And that summer, it never was.

A trek to one of the outer boroughs didn't concern him. He flicked his wrist and the engine growled. ”Hop on,” he said. I pressed my sandal onto the rubber-wrapped metal foot peg and slid on the back of the bike, pulling at the slithery fabric of my dress. ”Hang tight,” he said as he revved the engine once more.

My hands-where to put them. Certain they'd give me away, I tried the silver hitch behind me on the saddle. No good; I'd fall. As they fluttered forward, I thought, He will know if I hold him. He will know by my touch He will know if I hold him. He will know by my touch. It was as though I had no memory of the hour before. Earlier, in the theater, we'd begun to rehea.r.s.e the kiss at the end of the play, the one we'd always marked or skipped over, a long kiss during the narrator's speech about death and drowning. Robin wanted it pa.s.sionate, extending well beyond what the script called for, and as we knelt on the itchy stage gra.s.s facing each other, she told him to grab me and he did.

On the bike, I touched his back lightly, then placed my hands at the sides of his torso. We waved goodbye to Robin and Santina and the crew, and took off down Eleventh Avenue, past the warehouses and tire shops.

A few blocks later, he turned right toward the river. At the stoplight, his legs dropped, decisive, to either side of the bike. He reached back, grabbed my arms, and placed them firmly around his chest, pressing twice so they'd stay put. And then, as quick as air, we swerved into the fast lane of the West Side Highway. If we hadn't-if the light had been a little longer or he'd hesitated, taking time perhaps to adjust the mirror or run his fingers through his hair-he would have heard a sharp intake of breath before I gave over and let myself sink into his back. Before I surrendered. Then I knew. It wasn't my hands that were telltale; it was my heart, pounding against the thin white cotton s.h.i.+rt he wore that night. I tried to slow it down, to slow my breath. He'll know, he'll know how you feel He'll know, he'll know how you feel. It didn't occur to me that he already did.

I knew that if we spoke of it, everything would change. It was like a dream. And you know that if you tumble forward into it, there will be no way back.

It was late, but the traffic was heavy. He dodged the taxis and potholes, and I held on, my knees wedged against his. Near the FDR Drive, he took the long, lean ramp up to the Brooklyn Bridge. The railings and cables were lit for the night. The sky was velvet. No stars. And the city moon, days from being full for the second time that month, scattered itself over the oily current of the East River like a soothsayer bestowing gifts. The wind flapped his s.h.i.+rt back, the cotton silk on my skin. I closed my eyes. And somewhere on the bridge, I rested my head against him and listened to the hum of the night.

When we hit the Brooklyn side, I directed him from Adams to Flatbush. We pa.s.sed Borough Hall and Junior's Deli (still open, bustling and bright), the shuttered storefronts, and the Beaux Arts facade of the Academy of Music. And when I saw the domed clock tower where Atlantic meets Flatbush, I knew it was almost over. I wanted to keep going, to take him farther into Brooklyn, all the way to Brighton and the sea.

”Here,” I said at Fourth Avenue. ”Turn.”

Union Street was wide and empty, and I pointed to a brownstone identical to many on the block. He parked the bike, and I slid off, dizzy from the speed, my eyes dry, my hair tangled. We stood close but apart, under the glow of a streetlamp, and he began to rock the toe of his sneaker against the curb.

”This is where you live.”

”It is. I feel like I have sea legs.” My face was warm, and I realized that if I said anything else, it wouldn't make sense.

But he nodded; it had been a long ride. Then I saw him look up to the door of the brownstone.

”I had a thought,” he said. ”What if we leave for Peapack on Thursday night after rehearsal instead of Friday morning. You know...spend the night, have the whole day?”

On Friday, the crew would be in the theater, and we were going to New Jersey to rehea.r.s.e on the hill near his mother's house.

”I thought I'd check with you before floating it by Robin,” he continued. ”Whatever you think...”

I fiddled with the bronze cuff, twisting it on my wrist. He watched.

”I think it's a great idea,” I said slowly. ”Are there horses there?”

”Yeah...there're horses.” He looked at me as if he was trying to recall something. He'd stopped fooling with his sneaker and we were still.

”So how do you feel?” I asked. ”About the play?” Although it wouldn't be reviewed and the setting was humble, it was a big deal. His New York debut and mine, and though we didn't know it, his swan song.

Although he'd mentioned that many of his cousins would be at the opening, as well as his mother's friend Mr. Tempelsman, and this made him happy, I knew his mother wouldn't be there, and neither would his sister. ”They're on the Vineyard.” I was quiet when he told me. Were the rumors true? Did his mother disapprove? But he quickly brushed it off. It was better this way, he said. If they came, it would only cause a fuss.

”How do you feel?” I asked again.

I imagined him not as he was, standing before me by a skinny tree on Union Street, but in his costume: the wool cap and leather satchel, and the striped schoolboy tie askew on the collar of his wrinkled b.u.t.ton-down. It was hard to make John look nerdy, but onstage, in our play, he did. He'd perfected the hangdog look, and in a blue blazer sizes too small, he stooped.

He was looking up at the tree, his lips pursed. ”I feel good. I feel okay. I mean, I'm nervous-with you I'm fine.” He nodded, as if trying to convince himself. ”But that speech I have about Kerrigan shooting the cows, sometimes I blank. Even though I say the words, I'm out of the scene.”

I smiled. He was wonderful in the role. ”Listen,” I said. ”I'm going to tell you something an acting teacher once told me. If you're in trouble-don't just keep going. Stop, take a breath, and look into my eyes. It will ground you. It may feel like it's forever, but it's not, it's just a moment. And you'll remember. I promise. You'll know where you are.”

”Okay,” he said, nodding again. ”I'll try. But same for you. Deal?”

”Deal.”

I reached out my hand and he took it. Our eyes locked. I wanted to hold him, to be back on the bike, but when my hand slipped down again, we were no longer smiling and he spoke so low I could barely hear him.

”It's heady stuff. Very intense being with you like this each night.” It was an offering, a way into new territory, and when I stayed quiet, sure and unsure of his meaning, deciding whether to dodge, play dumb, or lunge headlong, he kept on. ”I don't mean in a bad way. I just-”

”Oh, yes,” I began, astonished by my duplicity. ”Friel is amazing!” And I continued to rattle on breathlessly about the magnificence of playwrights and the transcendence of the theater, before I turned to climb the steps of the brownstone, leaving him to his journey alone across the bridge to Manhattan.

A week after the play closed, the motorbike was stolen, and in September the police found it abandoned in a field somewhere on Staten Island. I mourned the idea of the s.h.i.+ny new machine, but John seemed indifferent. He decided not to claim it. ”Anyhow, they're dangerous,” he said. ”A good thing it's out of my hands.” And the following spring, when we were together and I no longer retreated up brownstone steps away from him, the motorcycle, whether it was red like I remember or not, became part of the story we told each other. ”I didn't care that it was stolen,” he would announce. ”I bought it to woo you, and it was worth every penny.” He said this, whether it was true or not, always adding, ”I can't believe I took you all the way to Brooklyn, and you didn't even invite me up for a gla.s.s of water!”

”What's your favorite New York memory?” he asked. We'd met at noon on the steps of his old school under the guise that I would help him find a present for his sister. And now, hours later, we had walked in circles all over the Upper West Side. It was four days before Christmas, and the city was crammed with tourists and shoppers. The tree sellers were out in full force, drinking steamy coffee at their makes.h.i.+ft stands, and the sky was clear, although the news called for snow.

It had been more than four months since the play had closed, since he'd kissed me by the McDonnells' horse barn, and we'd seen each other only a handful of times.

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