Chapter 6. The Waterfront
The Boston Police Department headquarters, located at One Schroeder Plaza, is named in honor of the Schroeder brothers, two police officers who were killed in the line of duty, in different years. The building is divided into two wings: west and east. An elevated walkway connects the two wings. Leadership officials sit in the west wing, the support and administrative staff sit in the east wing. Olivia's new office is located in the east wing.
After three months of bouncing from conference room to conference room, Cyrus Beene finally assigned an office to Olivia, if you can call the storage closet an office. Cyrus instructed Lawrence, the maintenance man, to clear out the brooms, mops, buckets, and cleaners in the small, windowless space and move in whatever desk and chair he could find for Miss Pope.
Lawrence doesn't like Mr. Beene, not even a little. He thinks the man is an arrogant snob who has little regard for the workers who sit in the east wing. When Cyrus instructed him to put the pretty lady doctor, that's how Lawrence refers to Olivia to his co-workers and friends, in that old musty closet when there are several vacant offices in the west wing, Lawrence knew the old closeted gay man was being spiteful. So, he took it upon himself to make the closet a real nice space for Dr. Pope.
He didn't want to use the smelly pine disinfectant he typically uses to clean the restrooms and the gym, so he went to a discount grocery store near his home in Dorchester and bought a bottle of lavender-scented cleaner with his own money. He scrubbed the closet from top to bottom, ridding the space of the smell of mildew and mold. One evening, when he was sure that all the white shirts were gone for the day, that's what Lawrence calls the officials because they all wear starched white shirts, he grabbed a desk lamp from a vacant office that was left behind by a lieutenant who resigned from the force and moved with his family to Wisconsin. Lawrence stuffed the lamp into his cart, under the cleaning rags and buckets. Then he set the lamp on Olivia's desk and plugged it into the wall socket.
Lawrence told his friend Phyllis, who manages the office supplies for the entire building, that the pretty lady doctor was going to need everything that Phyllis usually provides new employees on day one. Phyllis nodded her head knowingly. She loaded a cardboard box with ink pens of all colors, highlighters, boxes of No. 2 pencils, yellow legal pads, a stapler and extra staples, scissors, tape, paper clips, push pins, and an assortment of colored sticky notes. Phyllis told Lawrence to hide the small whiteboard and eraser and dry-erase markers at the bottom of his cart, under the cleaning rags, until he got to Dr. Pope's office. All new employees don't get a whiteboard. Phyllis said she would call him if she thought of anything else that Dr. Pope might need.
Olivia's eyes widened with surprise and filled with tears when she walked into the closet-office for the first time. The tiny storage space had been transformed into a real office; fully stocked, including a desk lamp and a whiteboard mounted on a wall. She had no idea who to thank for their generosity, so she mentioned her gratitude to one of the women she frequently sees in the restroom. She knew her thanks would circulate around to the proper angels.
What Cyrus meant for spite was a blessing in disguise, in more ways than one. The small, windowless closet-office is perfect for her. The migraines can be debilitating. Darkness helps. And, although she sits far, far away from the superintendents and other top officials, she has unfettered access to the heart and soul of BPD. These wonderful people are a treasure trove of information about the department's culture. The ladies' room is a good source for information and general gossip. In between the flushing of toilets and washing of hands, frustrated women relay incidents of sexual discrimination at BPD. Women and men who are fearful of retaliation, periodically slip handwritten notes under her office door, lamenting about the department's culture. Handwritten notes can't be traced back to their original source like texts and emails.
XXX
A few weeks ago, Olivia decided to change her approach to meeting with the superintendents. Meeting with them in their offices was not yielding new information. Often times they were distracted by phone calls or knocks on the doors. She explained to the men that getting out of the office would be a great way to think differently about situations. She suggested walking meetings around the campus or meeting in the cafeteria over a cup of coffee. She said that they should feel free to suggest other locations as well. That she would make herself available. All the men agreed to expand the meeting settings.
This afternoon Olivia is interviewing Fitz in the cafeteria, which is located on the lower level of the west wing, down the hallway from the gym. The cafeteria is a large, open space that reminds her of the cafeteria at her high school. Like the walls, the tables in the eatery are stark white. The tabletops are made of Formica. The hard plastic chairs placed around the tables are in the three primary colors: red, yellow, and blue. Someone apparently thought the combination was a creative design concept. However, they didn't think about how Formica chips and peels over time, revealing the unattractive substrate. They didn't think that the uncomfortable chairs would discourage employees from socializing for extended periods. Perhaps, that was the idea.
"Before these meetings started, I didn't get down here much," Fitz says, glancing around the almost-empty cafeteria.
"You should get out of your office more," Olivia says, snatching a few paper napkins from the dispenser to wipe up the sugar he spilled on the table. "Walk around the campus. Feel the breeze on that handsome face. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," not believing the words that came out of her mouth. A faint smile passes over his lips and Olivia quickly glances at her watch. "By the way, do you ever go over to the east wing?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "I have no reason to go over there. All of my staff sit in the west wing," he says nonchalantly. Olivia nods her head.
"Well, thank you for your time today, Fitz. I'll send you an invite for our next meeting," she says gathering up her tools from the table.
Fitz pushes up his sleeve cuff and looks at his watch. "We have fifteen more minutes," he says.
"I'm giving you back fifteen minutes of your life, Superintendent," Olivia says, standing from the red chair.
"Why? Don't you have more questions?" watching her pick up the recorder and drop it into the tote bag.
"I do, but I have another meeting across town. If I don't leave now, I'm going to be late." She picks up the yellow legal pad and stuffs it into the tote.
"I took your advice," he says hastily, his crafty way to delay her leaving. She takes the bait. Olivia stops packing the tote bag, turns her head, and stares at him with a confused expression on her face.
"What advice is that?"
"You suggested that I engage with recent grads from the academy. Get their opinions on training, duties, field activities…" He planned to tell her about the meeting at another time, but he wants to keep her there a while longer.
"Really?" her face bright with a smile.
"You don't have to sound so surprised," he says.
"How did it go?"
"It was good. I met with Officer Brendan McDevitt. He comes from a family of cops. In fact, the McDevitts lived in my old neighborhood. I know his uncles."
The glee slowly fades from Olivia's face. She slides the pencil case into the bag.
"When he walked into my office, it was like looking at a younger version of myself — a much younger version, of course. The poor kid was so nervous. His face was beet red."
"I see," Olivia says in a flat, disinterested tone. Fitz eagerly continues with the update.
"His leg was bouncing up and down the whole time. He's still a kid, but he has a lot of enthusiasm. I think Brendan has a great future ahead of him."
"Mhm," Olivia says, pulling on her jacket. Fitz stops fawning over Brendan when he sees the vacant expression on her face.
"What's the matter? You're not saying anything. You always have something to say."
"I'm listening."
"What's wrong?" he says, his stomach already churning.
"Nothing," she says, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "You can tell me about your meeting on the way to the elevator. I must get going."
"Something is wrong. The corner of your mouth twitches when you hear something you don't like."
"Watching my body language now, are you?" she says playfully.
"As a matter of fact, I am," he says, staring at her intently.
Olivia glances at her watch, rolls her shoulders slightly, then says, "I don't know Officer McDevitt, of course. I'm sure he's a fine young man and will be a really good policeman. Maybe even police commissioner in a year or two."
Fitz stares at her, silently demanding an explanation for the sarcasm. She diverts her eyes, searching the table for something to stuff into the tote. After a moment, she breathes out softly then responds.
"Forty-two cadets graduated from the last class of the academy. Twenty-six are white. Ten are African-Americans. Four are Latino and two are Asian-American and Pacific Islanders. By the way, there were four women in the class."
Fitz tilts his head, impressed how she effortlessly rattles off the statistics about the graduating class that he doesn't know.
Olivia continues: "All fine young men and women with a dream. Do you know all their first names?"
"Aw. Don't go there."
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm just saying, you were gushing over Officer McDevitt —practically giddy: "'It was like looking at a younger version of myself. He has a lot of enthusiasm. Brendan has a great future ahead of him.' After one meeting you're already vouching for him."
"Come on, Olivia."
"People who don't look like you —who didn't grow up in your neighborhood — are already at a disadvantage. Did you even consider how the other non-Fitzgerald lookalikes would feel when they learned that Brendan met with the superintendent and possibly the next police commissioner?"
"Should I not have met with him because he's white?" His turn to be sarcastic.
"Don't be a baby," she says without thinking. His head jerks with surprise. She ignores the expression on his face. "If you'd really thought about it, perhaps you would've made a different choice."
"You're making a big deal out of one meeting," he says, sounding defensive.
"One meeting that could possibly help to inform your thinking about future policing policies. You're an influential man, Fitz. If you're lucky, you might even become the next police commissioner."
"If I'm lucky?" his eyebrows stretch high on his forehead.
"The first one in gets to help lay the groundwork. Instead of doing due diligence —vetting all the graduates, you went with the familiar and comfortable. That happens everyday in government and business."
Feeling the heat on his cheeks, Fitz drops his eyes and fidgets with the empty coffee cup. The tongue-lashing stings.
"I really must go," she says, strapping the messenger bag across her chest.
"He was at my birthday party — a few months ago. I recognized his name on the graduation list." His admission halts her movements again.
"You're not helping your case," she says.
"I'm scheduling more meetings, Olivia," he says defeatedly. She stares into his puppy dog eyes for a moment, then softens her tone.
"This is merely an observation, not a reprimand. I'm sure your intentions were good. But sometimes good intentions, if not fully thought out, can do more harm than good."
"What is that supposed to mean?" he says. Olivia glances at her watch again.
"For you, it was just a meeting. For others, it's another example of the disparity in how people are treated. Historically, certain groups have had an unfair advantage over others in this department. It might be time to right the ship."
"Right the ship?" he says, his brow bunched in confusion.
"Boston has changed — is changing. Other groups want a shot at leading the police department and other city agencies."
"Other groups? Are you talking about Davis? Are you supporting him?" He stares her in the eyes.
"I'm not supporting anyone. I live in New York. Remember? I really must go."
"If you lived in Boston — would you support Davis?" he presses her.
"Fitz, this topic warrants a broader discussion, and I don't have time now. Have a good evening."
She grabs the tote bag from the table by the handles and turns to leave.
"Then let's discuss it more broadly. I'll send you an invite," he says, flashing her another smile. She nods her head then hurries out of the cafeteria.
XXX
Turning the corner of the cafeteria toward the elevator, Olivia literally runs smack into the wall named Edison Davis. Edison is a big and imposing man. In fact, all three superintendents are six feet or taller. She wonders if height is a criterion for becoming police commissioner.
"Edison?" she says, surprise filling her voice. She adjusts the messenger bag strap across her chest.
"Somebody's in a hurry. Hello, Olivia," Edison says. Those white teeth sparkling brightly.
"Hello, Edison," she says, reaching her hand around him to push the elevator button.
"We're scheduled to meet next week," he says. "You haven't forgotten, have you?"
"It's on my calendar," she says.
"How about dinner tonight? We can get a jumpstart on our meeting."
"I'm sorry, I can't."
"Why not?" Edison says, stepping between her and the elevator. Olivia silently groans when the elevator's doors close and traverses to the higher floors. "You're the one who suggested that we meet in other settings. I'm suggesting we meet over dinner."
"Edison, I have a meeting. I really need to go," pressing the elevator call button again.
"Where's your meeting? My driver and I can drop you off."
"That's kind of you, but my car is in the garage. I'll see you next week."
Olivia sidesteps around the wall of a man and hurries inside the waiting elevator. She presses the close door button repeatedly, before Edison can utter another word.
XXX
Still sitting in the cafeteria, Fitz slides his phone from his pants pocket and fires off a quick invite to Olivia — to discuss the broader issue. He leans back against the chair, thinking Olivia is right. He should've been more thoughtful when choosing who to meet with. If he is to be honest, he simply wanted to check the box. He wanted to impress Olivia with his so-called initiative. It didn't work out so well for him.
Fitz glances down at his buzzing phone, frowning when Mellie's name displays on the screen. She never calls me at work. She's frantic. Matty has been rushed to the hospital. Come to Mass General right away.
XXX
In the small waiting room on the seventeenth floor of Mass General, Matty's wife, Colleen, huddles on one of the two sofas with her two children: Hillary and Patrick. They comfort their mother. They need comforting, too. Mellie and Jerry sit together on the opposite sofa.
"Dad!" Karen yells when her father walks into the waiting room. She runs over to him and wraps her arms around his waist, burying her face against his chest. Fitz rubs her back and looks over at his sister-in-law. Colleen sees the fear in his eyes.
"He's fine. Matty is fine," Colleen says, immediately walking over to her brother-in-law.
"Thank God," he mutters.
"The doctor said one of the new medications didn't interact well with the old or the old with the new — I don't remember," she says sounding flustered. "They're keeping him overnight - just as a precaution."
Feeling the weight slip from his shoulders, Fitz nods his head. He presses a kiss to Colleen's forehead and steers her back to the sofa. He kisses his niece and nephew on their cheeks. Their faces are scorched from hours of crying.
"Are you guys all right?" Patrick and Hillary nod their heads. "Mellie, are you all right?" She nods her head, too. Fitz sits on the arm of the sofa and drapes his arm around Jerry's shoulders. Karen leans against her father, wrapping her arm around his neck.
"Have you been able to see him?" Fitz says to Colleen.
"Dr. Spanos said I could go in in about fifteen minutes — after they have him settled. Will you go in with me?"
"Of course. Does anyone want anything to drink — to eat?" he asks, scanning all the red, tear-stained faces. They shake their heads no.
For the next forty-five minutes, thirty minutes longer than what Dr. Spanos promised, they all sit with their private paralyzing thoughts. The gravity of what happened this afternoon has hit the Grant family hard. The once strong, self-appointed patriarch of the family has fallen.
XXX
Later that night, Fitz sits alone in the dimly lit living room. His heart is heavy. A strange sense of loss comes over him. Today was a false alarm; the next time might not be. He brings the glass of scotch to his lips and takes a long swig. He can't taste the smoky, peaty liquor. He breathes out heavily, wondering which is worst, the actual death or the anticipation of death. He closes his eyes and prays to his Heavenly Father to show his brother mercy.
A while later, he checks his watch. It's a little past 10:00 p.m. He has to take Colleen to the hospital in the morning. Matty is being discharged at noon. He downs the rest of the scotch, turns off the lights, then heads upstairs to bed.
XXX
A week after Matty was discharged from the hospital, Fitz sits in the high-back, red leather booth at DiMaggio's, waiting for Olivia to arrive. They're supposed to continue to discuss something, but he cannot remember the topic. He just wants to talk about anything to take his mind off of work and his brother's declining health. He slides a tin of Altoids from his pants pocket and pops two mints into his mouth.
"Back again?" Nichole says when Olivia hurriedly enters the restaurant. The snide remark does not go unnoticed by Olivia.
"Nice hair, Nichole," Olivia says, remarking on the young woman's latest hair color — hot pink.
"Thank you, Olivia," Nichole gushes. As usual, the sarcasm flies way above Nichole's head. "Go on back. Fitz is already here."
Fitz stands from his seat as Olivia approaches the booth. She immediately sees that something is wrong with him. His eyes are sad.
"I'm sorry I'm late. I got caught up at the library."
"No worries. I've only been here a few minutes." Her brow wrinkles at the somberness of his voice.
"I didn't realize the hour. I almost jumped from my skin when the guard tapped me on the shoulder saying the library was closing in ten minutes."
"Don't worry about it," he says tightly.
There it is again. The look of gloom clouds his face. He must've had a rough day at headquarters.
"It sounds like you were engrossed in something very important. Merlot?" he asks.
"I would love a glass," she says. Thinking about Nichole's comment, Olivia slides the yellow legal pad from the tote bag. She sets an ink pen on top of the notepad. All business. She doesn't want Nosey Nichole or anyone else to get the wrong impression about her meetings with Fitz. People are quick to jump to conclusions.
"Do you have another appointment this evening? Do you need to leave early?" he says when she glances at her watch.
"No. My father was a stickler for time. Being late was as close to heresy as one could get. At least in his eyes."
Fitz nods his head, thinking this is the first time she has ever mentioned her family. He waves the waiter over and orders her wine. He orders another pour of scotch for himself.
XXX
Sitting in his small office tucked in the rear of the restaurant, Frank DiMaggio, the proprietor of DiMaggio's Trattoria, casually leans back in the chair with his hands folded across his rotund stomach. He closely observes the activity inside and outside of the restaurant. The high-tech security system he installed several years ago gives him a 360-degree view of everything and everyone. He sees when the sticky-fingered bartender stashes money into his apron pocket. He sees Nichole escorting a group of eager tourists to their table. They probably read about the restaurant somewhere online. He sees his dear friend, Superintendent Fitzgerald Grant, sitting across from the lady that Nichole told him about. Nichole said the two looked awfully cozy and appeared to be flirting when they dined at the restaurant last month. For once, Nichole might be right. For a while longer, Frank watches Fitzgerald watch the mystery lady, hanging on to her every word. Having seen enough, Frank laughs out loud, then walks from the office and into the dining room.
"Commissioner Grant, to what does DiMaggio's owe the pleasure?" the booming voice nearing the table says. Fitz stands and the two men hug.
"Good to see you, Frank. You know I'm not the commissioner."
"Just a matter of time. A matter of time," Frank says, looking over Fitz' shoulder at Olivia.
"You're too confident," Fitz says, sitting back down in his seat.
"You know I only bet on winners. Who is this beautiful young lady you're dining with again?" The word again is not lost on Fitz. Frank is always precise with his words.
"This is Olivia — Dr. Pope. Olivia, this is Frank DiMaggio. He's the proprietor of this fine establishment. His family has owned the restaurant since — "
"1926," Frank interjects proudly.
"Frank is also a shrewd real estate developer. He owns a significant number of prime real estate in Boston's metropolitan area, and on the waterfront."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. DiMaggio," Olivia says, offering a handshake.
"Call me Frank, please. By the way, I never shake a beautiful lady's hand," bowing slightly as he brings the back of Olivia's hand to his lips. Fitz crosses his leg and stares down at the table. He spins the soup spoon around on the white linen napkin.
"You're a doctor?" Frank says excitedly, sitting down next to Olivia and across from Fitz. "My son Nico is a doctor. An excellent cardiologist. The best."
"No. No," Olivia says, waving her hands dismissively. "I'm not a medical doctor. I have a Ph.D. – in history. Please, call me Olivia."
"What a pity. I was going to ask you about this kink in my neck," Frank says, playfully rubbing the back of his beefy neck. "So, what university do you teach at here in Boston, Olivia?"
"Olivia isn't from Boston," Fitz says, answering for her. "She's here doing research for her next book," Fitz gushes.
"I see," Frank says, staring at Fitz with an amused look in his eyes.
"You have a beautiful restaurant, Frank. The food is fantastic. It reminds me of the restaurants in Italy," Olivia says.
"You've traveled to Italy?" Frank says, sounding impressed.
"Yes. I studied there for two semesters as an undergrad. One semester in Rome and a semester in Naples."
"You know the style of cooking in Southern Italy is quite different than that in Rome."
"I do. I loved the Cacio e Pepe in Rome and the Pasta alla Norma in Naples. And many more dishes, of course."
Frank nods his head up and down in approval as he prepares to retell his family's so-called bootstrap story. Many don't believe Frank's rags-to-riches narrative. Rumors abound that the DiMaggio family's success isn't just the result of hard work and homemade pasta. However, there aren't many old-timers alive who can dispute his claims or remember the truth.
Fitz smiles as Frank begins to once again tell the story of the DiMaggios' success.
"Olivia, my parents came to this wonderful country from Italy — ragged and penniless." Frank looks heavenward and crosses himself. "For many years, they sold vegetables from a cart down on Salem Street. My mother was a great cook. The smells of her food filled the neighborhood. Families cooked in those days, Olivia. But my mother's food was the best. When passersby smelled our dinner, they wanted to join us. We didn't have much, but mama shared with whoever asked. People started coming from all over the city to taste Gia's wonderful cooking. One day, someone suggested she open a restaurant so they could enjoy her wonderful dishes all the time. And the rest, as they say is history."
"That's such a great story. A lot of history. Ninety years in the restaurant business is no small fete," Olivia says.
"It certainly isn't. So, Olivia, where do you live now?"
"New York. Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn? Do you know Trattoria Carina?"
Fitz watches Olivia's whole face stretch into a smile. "The best Focaccia al Rosmarino e Aglio in town."
"My cousin Lorenzo owns Trattoria Carina. His mother and my mother are sisters." Frank crosses himself again. "They were the best cooks to come out of all of Italy." Frank reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. "The next time you're at my cousin's restaurant, give this card to anyone. They will take care of you. I'll break their necks if they don't," Frank says, letting out a raucous laugh.
"Thank you," Olivia says, sliding the business card into the tote bag.
"Well, I'll leave you to your meeting," Frank says, glancing at the blank yellow legal pad, then at Fitz. "Fitzgerald, you must bring Olivia back so we can discuss her stay in Italy. It was a pleasure meeting you, Olivia," Frank says, bowing again.
"The pleasure was mine," Olivia replies.
"Nicole. Nicole," Frank calls to his niece, waving her over to the table. The harsh tone of her uncle's voice prompts Nichole to immediately set her phone down on the hostess podium and scurry over to the table.
"Yes, Uncle Francis," Nichole says in her most sweet and innocent voice.
"Get Fitzgerald and Olivia another round of drinks. And, Nichole, Fitzgerald's money is no good here. You know that," glaring at her. He saw on video where she accepted Fitz' credit card for payment on his last visit to the restaurant.
"Of course. Right away," Nichole says, hurrying over to the bar to personally fill the drink order.
"Good help is hard to find these days. She's my sister's daughter. My niece. What am I to do?" Frank shrugs his shoulders. "Fitzgerald, I'll see you next Wednesday."
Fitz raises his glass in the air and nods his head.
"By the way, Olivia, don't let Fitzgerald take you away before trying the tiramisu," Frank says before turning to leave. Olivia and Fitz look at each other and burst into laughter. His eyes are still sad.
XXX
The absence of Frank's oversized personality creates a lull in the conversation, which Olivia sees as an opportunity to get answers to questions that have been gnawing at her since their first meeting. Sitting back against the booth, Fitz studies the conflict in her face.
"You have something on your mind," he says. Olivia sighs softly, puffing out her cheeks.
"You're getting too good at reading my body language, Superintendent."
"I hope so," he says.
"I hope you don't mind, but I've been dying to ask you something for a while. You don't have to answer if you don't want," she adds hastily.
"Olivia, you've been grilling me for months about policing policies. We've shared two dinners together. I think you've earned the right to ask me almost whatever you want."
"Forget it. It's probably inappropriate," she says, dismissing the thought with a wave of her hand.
"Ask me already," he says, urging her on.
"Well, we've had meetings in your office and in the BPD cafeteria."
"Don't forget here at DiMaggio's," he says, flashing a weak smile.
"Where's your stuff?" she spits out quickly. His head jerks back. "I respect the aggressive neatness of your office … but … there are no certificates, diplomas, or commendations hanging on the walls. I'm sure you have many. And … you don't have any tchotchkes."
"Tchotchkes?" he says with raised brow.
"You know, sports memorabilia, your favorite athlete bobble head doll …"
He genuinely laughs out loud. Nichole glances back at the booth with squinted eyes.
"What's so funny?" Olivia says, feeling embarrassed for asking what he apparently thinks is a silly question.
"I don't have stuff," he says nonchalantly.
"Everyone has stuff. I imagined you stashing everything into your desk drawers the first time I came to your office. But after all these months, still nothing; except a tin of mints, an ink pen, your laptop, and cellphone. That's all you have on your desk. And, you have a really old family photo on the table behind your desk. You should update that."
"You're very observant."
"It's easy to observe when there isn't much to see."
"I don't like clutter. It creates environmental noise — prevents me from focusing on what's important."
"I see," she says, disappointed in his bland, boringanswer.
"Is there anything else you would like to know about my bare office?"
"Yes," she says, needing to get to the bottom of what has bothered her most about his workspace. "The Altoid mints? Do you always keep mints on your desk? If so, why?"
He crinkles his brow. "I do. Not because I have bad breath," he says with a smirk. "Do I?" he adds quickly.
Olivia shrugs her shoulders. "I wouldn't know."
"The mints calm my stomach. That's why they were originally developed— to soothe intestinal discomfort. They were so strong the manufacturers decided to sell them as a breath freshener. A little history for you, Dr. Pope." He smiles slightly, but the sadness in his eyes persists.
"Fitz, is something wrong?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You seem … a little off tonight. Not yourself."
A look of pain moves across his face. He rubs his forehead with his thumb and index finger.
"What's the matter? What's wrong?" she insists, her eyes soft with concern.
Jawline clenched tight, Fitz hesitates as the words fumble around in his throat. He suddenly feels like he can't breathe.
"Fitz."
"My brother is dying. Inch by inch by inch." Olivia instinctively slides her hands across the table. Her hands barely cover his large hands.
"I'm so sorry," she says, her thumb stroking the back of his hand.
"It's just so damn hard to watch," he says, struggling to choke back the tears.
She stares into his eyes, gently rubbing his hand. "Tell me what you need."
XXX
Ferguson parks the SUV at Pier 12, near a little-known, undeveloped stretch of the forty-seven-mile waterfront. This is where the Superintendent sometimes comes to reflect. Fitz slides from the backseat and stretches out his hand to help Olivia climb down from the cruiser. He interlocks his fingers with hers as they meander around the edge of the waterfront. Ferguson slowly trails behind them in the SUV.
"There are thirty-four islands and peninsulas in the Boston Harbor Islands National and State Park," he says, sounding like a tour guide for the National Park Service.
Olivia's mind immediately skips to one of America's most famous acts of protest, the Boston Tea Party. Protesting both a tax on tea (taxation without representation) and the perceived monopoly of the British East India Company, colonists boarded the Company's three trade ships and threw the cargo of 342 chests of tea overboard into the harbor.
Protests are as American as apple pie.
"This place didn't always look like this," he says, staring across the harbor at the now touristy sections of the waterfront. "This whole area was barren when I was a kid. A dump. The smell was awful. For centuries it was used as a receptacle for the City of Boston and surrounding towns. Congress put an end to that with the Clean Water Act."
After walking in silence for a while, Fitz continues. "My brother made the best grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches," he chuckles softly. "After our mother died, my father started working insane overtime. He wanted to accelerate funding my college account. Matty's future was set. He would follow in dad's footsteps — join the police department. One day become police commissioner. I would go to USC — study law — specialize in civil rights. At least that was the plan," he says somberly. He gazes forward.
Olivia looks up at his profile with surprise in her eyes. She had no idea that he wanted to become a civil rights attorney. Research doesn't always reveal a person's inner hopes and dreams.
"We spent so much time together during those years. Some nights, when Dad worked late, Matty and I would ride our bikes down here. Matty loved the harbor. He said the water calmed his insides."
Seeing that he is still battling the tears that have been threatening to fall all evening, Olivia gently squeezes his hand.
"Up there," he says, Olivia's eyes following the line of his pointing index finger, "Matty nailed an old plastic milk crate to that tree. I'll never forget it. The crate was orange. He cut out the bottom with the hunting knife Dad gave him for his tenth birthday so we could play basketball. He was Larry Bird. I was Kevin McHale. Matty loved basketball, so I loved it, too."
A few minutes later they're standing in front of the now dead elm tree. The tree's limbs are splintered and the trunk is naked of its protective bark. The makeshift basketball hoop is long gone. The tears streaming down his cheeks proved to be the victor. Olivia strokes her thumb over the back of his hand. The human touch is a powerful balm.
"We'd sit right over there for hours," he says, pointing up ahead to the river-wall, "watching airplanes takeoff from Logan International Airport. We'd play a guessing game — imagining where in the world all those people were going. This was our secret haven. This is where we dreamed about our futures. We never brought anyone else here. Ever."
Olivia stares at the river-wall of cragged rocks and boulders intended to confine the harbor's overflow. She thinks about the two lonely brothers who came to this decrepit place and found solace and comfort in each other.
"My brother has been carrying around his personal jail for a long time. Something changed him, Liv. I don't know what, but he stopped being the brother who watched airplanes takeoff with me."
Fitz turns his face skyward, listening to the high-pitched whine of the jet's engine. Another airplane is departing from Logan Airport.
"I wonder where it's going. Paris? Hong Kong? California maybe?" Olivia looks up too, watching the airplane ascend higher and higher into the night sky.
"I don't know where this is going either," she says softly.