Free The Empire of the Dead by Tracy Daugherty Page B

yellow smock. She’d tied her hair in a lazy bun; it wasn’t going to stay, and he found himself gleefully eager, waiting for the soft and sexy tumble.
    The film—an old, scratchy print—broke twice, blurred. Beauty looked as bristly as the beast. The crowd booed. Bern didn’t care. He was happy, holding Kate’s hand. He cried at the end when the handsome lovers kissed.
    Afterward they walked to a hamburger shop to split a basket of fries (“I’m craving grease,” Kate said, “platters and platters of grease”). Kitschy paintings of Marilyn and Elvis lined the light-green walls, old 45s (“Telstar,” “My Boyfriend’s Back, “Love Potion Number Nine”) stocked the restored, ancient jukebox, and a pair of fifties car fins crowned big silver doors marked “Guys” and “Gals.”
    The Cokes came in thick glass cups with paper straws.
    Bern loved the good-old-days décor, the laughter, the talk. Men and women at play. “They do nostalgia very well here,” he said. “Kind of romantic.”
    Kate nodded.
    â€œAnything wrong?”
    â€œNo. Well. Gary and I used to come here.”
    â€œOh,” Bern said. “Of course. Of course. We can go somewhere else.”
    â€œIt’s not the place, Wally. Really. I like it. It’s … when you mentioned nostalgia …”
    â€œWhat?” He touched her arm.
    â€œThat was Gary’s whole deal. I mean, look around.”
    He considered the tables, the curved booth seats, plump leather angles spilling people into each other, accommodating the body’s desires. “I’m not a kid. But here I am, in this neighborhood, right in the middle of the Nikes and the back-assward baseball caps. Why?” She shook her head. “Gary wanted to ‘stay young.’ He liked living like these New School students. Reminded him of his best days, as a fraternity jock.”
    â€œFootball?”
    â€œSoccer and track.” She slurped her Coke. “And fucking.”
    Bern squeezed her fingers.
    â€œI knew of at least a couple of affairs he had after we were together. He’s probably having one now.” She rubbed her eyes. “He doesn’t want a baby because he’s an immature little piss-ant.”
    â€œA deadbeat.”
    â€œA son of a bitch.”
    They laughed together.
    Anyone who’d strand ample Kate …
    â€œWell,” she said. “It’s a weary old story.”
    â€œNot to you. It’s your life.”
    She looked at him over the cooling basket of fries. “You’re a nice man, Wally.”
    â€œI like you.”
    â€œI know.”
    They walked back to her place in misty, prickling rain, bright from reflections of buzzing curbside signs. On the sidewalk in front of her apartment building, her bun finally unraveled, a shock, a gift. “Kate,” Bern whispered, and kissed her lips.
    In bed she rubbed his thighs. He spread almond oil on her belly. “That’s wonderful,” she said. She closed her eyes. “My doctor says some women, when they’re pregnant, lose all interest in sex.”
    Bern tickled her navel: a pink, oval bloom. “Yes?”
    She took his face in her hands. Fertile Kate! “Wally. We’re still going to be chaste, okay?” she said. “But bring that oil over here.” She lay back and unbuttoned her blouse. “My breasts are a little sore. Go easy.”
    â€œHow’s this?”
    â€œMmmm.”
    â€œYes?”
    She nestled in his arms.
5.
    On Saturday morning, Bern took Kate to the Irish Hunger Memorial. She had always wanted to see it, to “get in touch with my heritage … you know, especially now the baby’s on its way.”
    From Vesey Street it appeared to be a castle’s ruins. Up close, it resolved into a craggy, manmade hilltop overlooking the Hudson on one side and the financial district on the other. Plants