He visited the clinic once a week, one of his regularly scheduled activities in the City of Boston. A schedule, he’d learned, was a critical component of right living, one of the necessary conditions for healing to occur.
The priest at the megaphone was one he’d seen before, a big-bellied man with a booming voice. At first Anthony had liked this priest—his broad smiling face, the authority conferred by his portliness—but over time his affection had dimmed. Each time they met, the fat priest introduced himself. It was one thing to make no impression, another to be reminded of it continually. Still, he preferred the fat priest to the Franciscans, in their sandals and brown dresses, smug in their humility. The Franciscans had never given him the time of day.
In the beginning he’d been unsure where to stand, and hovered at the outer edge of the crowd. Now he took his place up front. He wanted to be close enough to see their faces, the women who’d come to kill their babies. He wanted to look them in the eye.
He found these interactions strangely exhilarating. As a boy, on a family trip to Cape Cod, he’d sat for hours in a traffic jam caused by a jumper on the Sagamore Bridge. Anthony would remember it for the rest of his life, the terrible proximity of death. Anytime he crossed a bridge, he felt a morbid thrill. Watching the pregnant women make their way into the clinic, he had a similar feeling. He was witnessing the final moments of someone’s life.
His phone was charged and ready. He kept his eyes on the door.
FROM THE CLINIC HE WENT TO TIM FLYNN’S, FOUR STOPS AWAY on the T. As per Tim’s instructions, he sent a text message from the T station: This is Anthony. I’m on my way. He made a point of using his given name, hoping Tim would take the hint, which never happened. Tim had never called him anything but Winky, for a childhood facial tic that acted up when he was nervous. Anthony hated the nickname, but from Tim he accepted it, understanding that being insulted was a part of friendship. After he bought his weed they’d smoke and have a conversation. Tim Flynn was his best friend. Buying weed was the highlight of his week.
Anthony followed him into the apartment. The massive TV was tuned to the Guide channel, an endless scrolling chart listing all the shows they weren’t watching because they were watching a list of their names.
They sat in silence, staring at the list. Finally Timmy chose a show about cops in Miami. It gave Anthony an idea of something to say.
“My ma is going to Florida. Didn’t you use to live there?”
Timmy grunted what could be a yes or a no. He reached behind his chair for a jar of weed.
“Jupiter, Florida. Is that a place?”
“I have no fuckin idea,” Timmy said.
“Her sister lives there. She’s going to stay for a month, until the snow melts.”
Timmy said, “I’ve seen this one before.”
The Miami cops were conducting a traffic stop. The driver, a scrawny dark-skinned guy with Rasta dreads, was asked to step out of the car.
Timmy said, “Dude is gonna run.”
Anthony had never been to Florida, or anywhere else.
“There he goes!” Timmy shouted, pointing at the TV screen, where the Rastafarian was running full tilt across eight lanes of traffic. “Did I tell you?”
“You told me,” Anthony said, reaching for his wallet.
When the excitement died down, Timmy double-bagged the weed and handed it over. Anthony took his pipe from his pocket and packed a substantial bowl. “How’s your sister?”
Timmy looked surprised. “How do you know Maureen?”
“From school,” Anthony said.
Timmy felt around for the remote and found it behind him. “She’s all right. Mick got a job in Nashua. Her husband.”