Win for me. Win. Win. Win.
But when the team lost, that collective hope crumbled into shards and any illusion of unity you'd felt with your fellow parishioners went with it. Your team had failed you and served only to remind you that usually when you tried, you lost. When you hoped, hope died. And you sat there in the debris of cellophane wrappers and popcorn and soft, soggy drink cups, dumped back into the numb wreckage of your life, facing a long dark walk back through a long dark parking lot with hordes of drunk, angry strangers, a silent wife tallying up your latest failure, and three cranky kids. All so you could get in your car and drive back to your home, the very place from which this cathedral had promised to transport you.
Dave Boyle, former star shortstop for the glory-years baseball teams of Don Bosco Technical High School, '78 to '82, knew few things in this world were more moody than a fan. He knew what it was to need them, to hate them, to go down on your knees for them and beg for one more roar of approval, to hang your head when you'd broken their one shared, angry heart.
"You believe these chicks?" Stanley the Giant said, and Dave looked up to see two girls standing atop the bar all of a sudden, dancing as a third friend sang "Brown Eyed Girl" off-key, the two up on the bar shaking their asses and swaying their hips. The one on the right had fleshy skin and shiny gray "fuck me" eyes, Dave figuring she was in the peak of a tenuous prime, the kind of girl who'd probably be a great roll on the mattress for maybe another six months. Two years from now, though, she'd be gone hard to seed? you could see it in the chin? fat and flaccid and wearing a housedress, no way you'd be able to so much as imagine she'd been worthy of lust not all that long ago.
The other one, though?
Dave had known her since she was a little girl? Katie Marcus, Jimmy and poor, dead Marita's daughter, now the stepdaughter of his wife's cousin Annabeth, but looking all grown up, every inch of her firm and fresh and defying gravity. Watching her dance and thrust and swivel and laugh, her blond hair sweeping over her face like a veil, then flying back off again as she threw back her head and exposed a milky, arched throat, Dave felt a black, pining hope surge through him like a grease fire, and it didn't come from nowhere. It came from her. It was transmitted from her body to his, from the sudden recognition in her sweaty face when her eyes met his and she smiled and gave him a little finger wave that brushed straight through the bones in his chest and tingled against his heart.
He glanced at the guys in the bar, their faces dazed as they watched the two girls dance as if they were apparitions bestowed by God. Dave could see in their faces the same yearning he'd seen on the Angels' fans in the early innings, a sad yearning mixed with a pathetic acceptance that they were sure to go home unsatisfied. Left to stroking their own dicks in 3 A.M. bathrooms, wives and kids snoring upstairs.
Dave watched Katie shimmer above him and remembered what Maura Keaveny had looked like when she was naked beneath him, perspiration beading her brow, eyes loose and floating with booze and lust. Lust for him. Dave Boyle. Baseball star. Pride of the Flats for three short years. No one referring to him as that kid who'd been abducted when he was ten anymore. No, he was a local hero. Maura in his bed. Fate on his side.
Dave Boyle. Unaware, then, how short futures could be. How quick they could disappear, leave you with nothing but a long-ass present that held no surprises, no reason for hope, nothing but days that bled into one another with so little impact that another year was over and the calendar page in the kitchen was still stuck on March.
I will not dream anymore, you said. I will not set myself up for the pain. But then your team made the playoffs, or you saw a movie, or a billboard glowing dusky orange and advertising Aruba, or a girl who bore more than a passing resemblance to a woman you'd dated in high school? a woman you'd loved and lost? danced above you with shimmering eyes, and you said, fuck it, let's dream just one more time.
* * *
ONCE WHEN Rosemary Savage Samarco was on her deathbed (the fifth of ten), she'd told her daughter, Celeste Boyle: "Swear to Christ, the only pleasure I ever got in this life was snapping your father's balls like a wet sheet on a dry day."
Celeste had given her a distant smile and tried to turn away, but her mother's arthritic claw clamped over her wrist and squeezed straight through to the bone.
"You listen to me, Celeste. I'm dying, so I'm serious as shit. There's what you get? if you're lucky? in this life, and it ain't much in the first place. I'll be dead tomorrow and I want my daughter to understand: You get one thing. Hear me? One thing in the whole world that gives you pleasure. Mine was busting your bastard father's balls every chance I got." Her eyes gleamed and spittle dotted her lips. "Trust me, after a while? He loved it."
Celeste wiped her mother's forehead with a towel. She smiled down on her and said, "Momma," in a soft, cooing voice. She dabbed the spittle from her lips and stroked the inside of her hand, all the time thinking, I've got to get out of here. Out of this house, out of this neighborhood, out of this crazy place where people's brains rotted straight through from being too poor and too pissed off and too helpless to do anything about it for too fucking long.
Her mother kept living, though. She survived colitis, diabetic seizures, renal failure, two myocardial infarctions, cancerous malignancies in one breast and her colon. Her pancreas stopped working one day, just quit, then suddenly showed back up for work a week later, raring to go, and doctors repeatedly asked Celeste if they could study her mother's body after she died.
The first few times, Celeste had asked, "Which part?"
"All of it."
Rosemary Savage Samarco had a brother in the Flats she hated, two sisters living in Florida who wouldn't talk to her, and she'd busted her husband's balls so successfully he dove into an early grave to escape her. Celeste was her only child after eight miscarriages. When she was little, Celeste used to imagine all those almost-sisters and almost-brothers floating around Limbo and think, You caught a break.
When Celeste had been a teenager, she'd been sure someone would come along to take her away from all this. She wasn't bad-looking. She wasn't bitter, had a good personality, knew how to laugh. She figured, all things considered, it should happen. Problem was, even though she met a few candidates, they weren't of sweep-her-off-her-feet caliber. The majority were from Buckingham, mostly Point or Flat punks here in East Bucky, a few from Rome Basin, and one guy from uptown she'd met while attending Blaine Hairstyling School, but he was gay, even though he hadn't figured it out yet.