Twice, page 18
It was horrible.
The story was cruel. The main character was despicable. For some reason, I thought Alfie would be a lovable playboy who you rooted for through his romances. No. He was a cad. A louse. Insensitive. Mean. Referring to women as “birds.” Leaving them as soon as they developed feelings for him. He said his understanding of females only extended to their pleasure. When it came to their pain, he didn’t want to know.
I realize it’s just a movie, Boss, but as it went along, I felt worse and worse about myself. Maybe because I kept hearing female characters call the name “Alfie!” in frustration. Lying there, motionless, I thought about the various deceptions I had used with the opposite sex, from young Adrian and our kiss in the closet, to high schoolers like Natalie and Jo Ann Donnigan and Lizzie, to college women like Maisie and Danielle, to Nicolette Pink, and, of course, mostly, to Gianna. The woman who told me “destiny is patient.”
I had tried, over the years, to put our relationship in a box and hide that box somewhere far from my heart. But in that hospital bed, with Alfie cavorting on the screen, the memories of what I’d had and what I’d lost came back with a fury. I wanted the film to stop, but I couldn’t reach the remote. I couldn’t call out.
So it kept playing until the final scene, when Alfie turns to the audience and delivers the summary of his existence. He says when he looked back on how he’d behaved, especially with women, you’d think he’d gotten the best of it. But what did he really gain? He kept his freedom. But he had no peace of mind. And without that, he had nothing.
“So, what’s the answer?” he wonders in the final lines. “That’s what I keep asking myself—what’s it all about?”
Then that familiar song starts playing. By the time it did, tears were streaming down my face. I tried lamely to swat them away with my one good hand. And I wondered if this was how I would spend my final moments on earth, alone, with no one who cared about me, in a sterile hospital room, the only sounds being the muted conversations of strangers in a hallway.
What’s it all about, Alfie? After all these years, it turns out that lyric was referring to a sad, lonely, pathetic man. A man without love. I wept in that hospital bed, because I had become my namesake.
✶
Now I will add these final paragraphs.
I have been writing this notebook story for a long time, Boss. To confess. To explain. But mostly to say I am sorry, beyond sorry, for the foolish things I did to you. To us. To our love. I beg your forgiveness.
I have said my stroke happened this month. And it did. This month—in another lifetime. I went back and repeated many decades. But they have passed now, and that stroke is looming again. It will hit me very soon, and my voice will be gone. I had planned for you to read these pages after I died. But things have changed, and there is still much to tell you.
I have lived today more than once. The Bahamas. The casino. Being arrested. Detective LaPorta, who, despite his bluster, I sort of like. All of it, up to the moment that this notebook is about to be taken from me and, I can only pray, winds up in your hands.
If it has, if you have read this far, then this is my final request: let me finish this story in front of you. There is a landmark here on the island called the Queen’s Staircase. I will be there tonight, at 11:30. Don’t worry about how I escape custody; you can do a lot when you know what’s going to happen.
The Queen’s Staircase.
Please come, Gianna.
I can explain everything if you do.
If you choose not to, if this is all too much, I understand. I have lived a lifetime with you just out of reach. I can die that way as well.
Nassau
Mike Kurtz had been sitting at Gate 9 of the Lynden Pindling International Airport, awaiting a flight to Miami, when security identified him. He was handcuffed and driven to a police station in downtown Nassau.
Around the same time, the roulette croupier, whose name was Solomon Augustin, was arrested returning to his apartment two blocks off Bay Street.
Both men, and Toussaint, the Haitian casino dealer, were questioned in separate rooms by Vince LaPorta.
The croupier again denied knowing Alfie. But he reacted differently when asked about Mike Kurtz. With a prior misdemeanor on his record, he was worried about a second offense. He agreed to confess in exchange for leniency.
“Talk,” LaPorta said.
The croupier said that Kurtz and two cohorts had approached him with a proposition. They’d managed to get a magnet under a roulette wheel in the casino and wanted him to slip a special ball in it during a moment when the security cameras were blocked. In exchange, they offered the croupier a large cut of their winnings.
“How did this ball work?” LaPorta asked.
“A computer chip inside. And magnets, one in the ball, one outside.”
“Where was the outside magnet?”
“Mike wore it.”
“Where?”
The croupier tapped his hip. “Under his pants. If he stands close enough, and the man with the computer programs it right, the magnet pulls the ball to the number they bet.”
LaPorta rubbed his forehead. He had heard of magnet use, but computer chips were a new frontier. This was high-level cheating. He wondered how he was going to stay ahead of it.
“So where does Alfie Logan fit in this?”
“Who?”
LaPorta banged his finger on the iPad photo.
“The guy who placed the bets! The guy who won the money! Him!”
“I told you, I don’t know that man! He comes from nowhere, sits down, and plays the numbers that this Mike guy programmed.”
“But the footage never shows Mike Kurtz betting.”
“He wasn’t supposed to. His partner was. But when this man—what’s his name?”
“Alfie—”
“When this Alfie put so many chips on that number, Mike’s man got scared. When he did it again, Mike got scared, too. He called it off. They left.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. You see? Nothing happened. I am innocent.”
“You put a loaded ball into a rigged roulette wheel. That’s not innocent.”
But LaPorta’s mind wasn’t on charging the croupier. He still had no answer for Alfie’s actions.
“What about the third time? When Alfie won the two million?”
“I told you! I don’t know nothing about this Alfie!”
LaPorta rose, yanked open the door, and marched down the hall. He pushed into another interrogation room, where Mike Kurtz was seated, rapping his knuckles on a table. He was tall, muscular, and unshaven, with dark, thinning hair and an earring. His shirt was one of those flower print things tourists buy in overpriced hotel shops.
“Alfie Logan!” LaPorta barked. “What’s your connection with him?”
Kurtz scowled. “Don’t ask me about that prick.”
“Why not? He won the money you were supposed to win. With your magnetized ball.”
Kurtz sneered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We know what you did, Mr. Kurtz.”
“I didn’t do anything, Detective. I didn’t take a dollar out of your casino. Why don’t you chase down Alfie? He’s the one who did the betting.” He turned away, then mumbled, “Stupid kiss-ass.”
“What’s that about?”
“Nothing.”
“You better talk to me, Mr. Kurtz. Or you’re not going back to America anytime soon.”
Kurtz took a deep breath.
“I need a smoke. Is that OK?”
LaPorta nodded. Kurtz pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. LaPorta resisted the urge to ask for one.
“Look, Detective, Alfie thinks he’s my wife’s protector, OK? He’s more like her manservant. He’s always around, always getting her every little thing she needs.” He placed a cigarette between his lips. “Makes me look bad.”
“Don’t you mean your ex-wife?”
Kurtz pulled a lighter from his jacket. “Yeah. My ex-wife. So?”
“You broke up with her in college, right? Where you played soccer? Goalie? Why did you two get back together?”
Kurtz glared. “Where are you getting all this?”
“Oh, I know plenty about you, Mr. Kurtz.”
The truth was, LaPorta only knew what Alfie had written in his notebook. But if it helped solve the case, he planned to use it.
“Now, one last time. How was Alfie Logan part of your scheme?”
Kurtz set his jaw. “I told you. I don’t know what scheme you’re talking about.”
LaPorta rose from the table. “Have it your way. But you’ll be staying here for a while.”
He went to the door, then turned back.
“It must really piss you off though, huh?”
“What?”
“That Alfie won two million bucks betting the numbers you rigged.”
Kurtz’s eyes widened.
“Oh, that’s right. You bolted before his last bet. He put all those chips down a third time, and hit a single play. Two million. Funny thing is, he sent it all to your ex.”
Kurtz threw his head back. His neck muscles bulged.
“You sure you don’t want to tell me how you two were connected?” LaPorta asked.
“For the last freaking time, I don’t have anything to do with Alfie Logan!” Kurtz shouted. “I wish he was dead!”
THE QUEEN’S STAIRCASE
Gianna, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, walked quickly along Elizabeth Avenue, hands in her pockets, a hood pulled over her head. In the moonlight, she saw the dark outline of Fort Fincastle, built in the eighteenth century to protect the island from pirates. She saw its tall, cylindrical water tower nearby. The landmark staircase Alfie had mentioned was just below, surrounded by high walls. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 11:30 p.m.
She had persuaded Detective LaPorta to let her return to her hotel, on the promise that she would remain there until tomorrow for further questioning. But an hour ago, she had slipped through the sliding doors of her room’s private patio and snuck out through the resort’s rear hedges.
She felt bad about lying. LaPorta had driven her back himself, firing endless questions about Alfie’s story.
“He’s suffering from delusions, Detective,” Gianna kept saying. “You can’t make sense of a sick mind.”
Privately, she was less than sure. Yes, this whole invention of magical second chances was crazy. But so many early memories Alfie had written about were accurate. Why was the rest of it fantasy? Especially the parts about the two of them? They were never lovers. Clearly never husband and wife.
The truth was, when they graduated college, Gianna was headed to Patagonia to photograph wildlife, and she figured Alfie would pursue his music in New York. But, lacking any concrete plans, he asked if he could accompany her. “One last vacation,” he had called it. He was a big help with the equipment on that trip and provided friendly conversation in the otherwise lonely hours away from home.
When Gianna sold the photos, the magazine that bought them offered her a new assignment in Glacier Bay, Alaska. She asked Alfie if he wanted to repeat his role. They continued on from there. The Galápagos. The archipelagos in Norway. The rain forest in Borneo. Several years passed. Gianna’s reputation grew. She shared some of the money she was making with Alfie. And pretty soon, photography was her full-time job and Alfie was her full-time assistant.
They were good travel companions and enjoyed the easy dialogue of longtime friends. They laughed constantly. They finished each other’s food. Over time, Gianna trusted Alfie with everything—her car, her house, her ATM card. She kept encouraging him to pursue his music, and he often said he would but never did.
When she met Mike again at her ten-year Boston University reunion, they rekindled their old romance. Alfie had been leery. When they got engaged, Alfie wouldn’t look at her.
“Why do you hate him?” she asked.
“I don’t hate him. I just don’t want him to hurt you.”
“He’s not going to hurt me, Alfie.”
“He did once.”
And, of course, he did it again. Gianna put up with Mike for fourteen years, because she thought a marriage meant enduring, and they’d been pretty good at the beginning and she’d hoped they could start a family. But it didn’t happen. Mike had a decent job in medical sales, then lost it because of his drinking. He lost another one when he cursed out his boss in front of a roomful of clients.
He turned to gambling. Casinos. Horse races. Gianna stuck by him. Even tried to find him a new firm. But when she discovered he’d secretly used her money to purchase a speedboat which he’d used to take a waitress on a three-day trip to Key West, she’d had enough.
Their divorce was long and ugly and, as the breadwinner, Gianna had to pay Mike alimony. He used the funds for gambling, while she downsized to a small property by the beach in South Carolina. Alfie moved into a guest house behind it. They’d lived there ever since.
Alfie was a sounding board for Gianna’s gripes about Mike, work, or anything else. He handled her shooting schedule and her equipment. He fixed whatever was broken around the property. And, now that she thought about it, she had rested her head on his shoulder many times and cried on it often. But she had always taken that as friendship, not intimacy. Not romantic love. Never that. Or so she told herself.
Now, hurrying to meet a man she thought she knew so well, and realizing she didn’t know him at all, she wasn’t sure where one emotion ended and another began.
✶
Alfie Logan sat on the bottom tread of the historic staircase, built by hand out of solid limestone. It was an astounding construction, the work of many enslaved people. The surrounding walls were nearly a hundred feet high and draped with vegetation. While the area was often crowded during tourist hours, it was dark and silent now, with only moonlight as illumination.
Alfie’s heart was racing. Would she come? Had she read the pages? Although so much of his life was a rewind, this was all-new. He had no idea how the night would end, only that he would suffer a stroke at six minutes after midnight, according to his calculations. He hadn’t allowed for much time with Gianna. That was deliberate. If she was open to hearing his confession, it wouldn’t take long, and he could endure what came next with a certain peace of mind.
And if she didn’t show up? Well, he didn’t want a lot of time brooding while he waited for a blood vessel to burst in his brain.
“Alfie?”
And there she was, walking toward him, bathed in blue moonlight. The one true love of his life.
She lowered her sweatshirt hood, pushed two hands through her hair and smiled like she always did when she saw him, as he croaked the words, “Gianna. You came.”
“Of course.”
She sat down next to him. Her voice dropped. “Alfie? What’s going on?”
He realized she now knew everything. The notebook had revealed a lifetime of secrets. What’s going on? The question seemed too big to answer.
“Please, Alfie. You can tell me. Are you sick? Has something affected your . . . thinking?”
“My thinking is fine,” he said softy.
“But what you wrote in that notebook—”
“It’s true.”
“Alfie.”
“All of it.”
Gianna placed her palms on the sides of his face. He inhaled with her touch.
“Oh, Alfie,” she whispered. “You’re not well.”
“Don’t feel bad for me, Gianna. I’ve been blessed. I got to be with the woman I loved for more than forty years.”
Gianna raised her eyebrows.
“Me?”
“Of course.”
“But we were never . . . in love.”
“Speak for yourself.”
He took her hands. They were cold, and he squeezed them together.
“Gianna, listen. When I was in the hospital, after my stroke, I felt like I had wasted my life. I missed you so much. I missed the way you greeted me when I came home, the little notes you left me on the piano, the touch of you in the morning, the way we used to make love.”
Gianna felt dizzy.
“Alfie, that never happened.”
“It did. Once. Sharing a bed with you was such a privilege. Losing it left a hole inside me forever. But in that hospital room I realized, even if I could never receive such love again, I hadn’t lost the ability to give it. To shower you with it from afar.”
He smiled. “There’s no rule against that.”
Gianna looked down, but Alfie lifted a finger under her chin until her eyes again met his. “That’s what I did, Gianna. As soon as I’d recovered enough to croak out a single syllable, I chose the one word that’s defined my whole insane life.”
“Twice?” she whispered.
“Twice. And I went all the way back to 1978, that day in Philadelphia, during the thunderstorm, remember? Only this time, knowing you could never care for me the same way, I never took that elephant necklace out of the bag. Never said ‘I love you.’ Never kissed you through the glass.
“We hung out, as friends, and from that point on, I did everything I could to stay close to you. I became your sounding board, your confidant, your lens-carrier, your midnight pizza-cutter . . .”
Gianna, despite herself, began to smile.
“Your runner-to-the-drugstore, your morning coffeemaker, your electrician, your caulker, your B12 shot-in-the-thigh-giver . . .”
She was laughing now.
“Your chauffer, your toilet-unclogger, your temperature-taker, your one-phone-call-away assistant—”
“My everything,” Gianna whispered.
“Everything I could be, except the one thing I couldn’t.”
Gianna dropped her head. She saw their feet lined up together, her two white tennis shoes, his two brown loafers.
“You really believe this,” she murmured.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s the truth.”
He waited until she looked up again.
“If you can’t accept the stories of my many lives,” he said, “just accept the message that runs through all of them.”
