Bridge of Sighs

expected her to drive.
    “Slide across,” Noonan told her, suddenly very impatient. She hadn’t even acknowledged his father’s existence.
    “Easy,” his father said.
    Noonan ignored this. “Where will you be?”
    “At the diner,” his father said. The lights, Noonan noticed, had just come on down the block, and Larry was once again moving around behind the counter. “You hungry?”
    Noonan decided to tell the truth for once. “Yeah,” he said, looking at him.
    He smiled. “If her old man doesn’t shoot you, I’ll buy breakfast.”
             
     
    S INCE T HIRD WAS one of the few East End streets that had been plowed, Noonan took it, even though it meant passing by Ikey Lubin’s. He was not anxious to run into any of the Lynches, who would put two and two together if they saw him with Nan at this hour of the morning. It was about the time Ikey’s opened for business, and sure enough, Big Lou Lynch was lumbering across the intersection.
    “Just keep going,” Nan said, purposely looking off in the other direction.
    He considered this. The man was probably half asleep and wouldn’t recognize the car anyway. Then again…He slowed, rolling down his window. “Hi, Mr. Lynch,” he said.
    Lucy’s father broke into one of his big, goofy smiles. Then he saw who it was, and the smile disappeared, which meant the Lynches had also gotten a middle-of-the-night phone call. Big Lou peered across at Nan, then back at him, clearly wounded that she hadn’t said hello.
    Noonan could tell he was wondering if this meant she wouldn’t be coming to Ikey’s anymore. “I’m taking Nan home,” he said. “But I’ll swing by on the way back and help you dig out.”
    “We can manage okay, I guess,” Mr. Lynch said, still regarding Nan fearfully.
    “It’ll be an all-day job,” Noonan told him. They’d have to shovel not only the sidewalk in front of the store, but paths out through the snowbanks and the parking lot. “Another shovel will make it go a lot quicker.”
    “What about your own house? Won’t your mom—”
    “My brothers will take care of that.”
    “Bobby,”
Nan said. She was crying again.
    “Okay, then,” Mr. Lynch said, stepping back. “I guess we could use you.”
    “He knew,” Nan said as soon as the window was rolled up.
    “Knew what?”
    “What we did.”
    “Nan,” he said, “it was just sex. You were the one who wanted to.”
    “We’re supposed to be married first.”
    “Well, we weren’t. I’m sorry.”
    “My husband’s going to know,” she said, crying harder now.
    Noonan had no idea what to say to that, but it was a relief to know that whatever future she was imagining didn’t include him.
             
     
    T HE SKY WAS LIGHT by the time they arrived at Nan’s. All of the Borough streets, even the little ones, had been plowed, and there were half a dozen pickups with snow-blade attachments opening up driveways. The Beverlys’ elbow-shaped drive was already plowed, so he pulled right up to the house. Mrs. Beverly, wearing an overcoat, was standing like a statue between the inner and outer doors. Seeing her there, Nan opened her door and stepped out before the car had come to a complete stop. It was so slippery that she almost fell, but then she found her balance. “Wait,” he said, taking his key out of the ignition, though she was already running to her mother, who pulled her inside and quickly closed the door, as if the air outside were not just cold but poisonous.
    That left Noonan sitting by himself in the drive, wondering whether duty dictated that he follow and knock on that emphatically closed door or be grateful for the clean getaway that apparently was his for the taking. Before he could decide, he saw Mr. Beverly in the rearview mirror coming toward him from the general direction of the garage, its door wide open. Noonan got out to meet him, maybe even offer to shake hands, and struggled to get his footing on a mound of packed snow, still holding on to the handle. Instead of waiting for him to come around the vehicle onto a level surface, Mr. Beverly, his face twitching with anger and fatigue, not to mention, Noonan supposed, a nonstop litany of wifely abuse, came up to him on the bank of snow beside the car. Mr. Beverly was several inches taller and had an athletic build, though according to Nan the only sport he managed gracefully was water-skiing. Staring at Noonan’s busted lip, he said, “Did you strike my daughter?” as if the