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  She stretched out and began her jog, glancing downward. Half the court had been covered with tumbling-mats: an evening gymnastics class was about to start. Its participants were middle school girls, all storks’ legs and long necks. They gabbled noisily, awaiting their teacher.

  A man’s voice summoned the class to order. A new hire, presumably. Ellen looked toward the doorway below. There he was, beckoning the girls.

  All set? C’mon, let’s go!

  The girls lined up neatly at one end of a long padded runway.

  Okay! Who wants to try a flip?

  Ellen slowed down in order to watch the blonde-braided girl at the head of the line began to sprint. As the girl’s hands went down and her feet flew upward, one of the man’s hands reached for her stomach, the other for the small of her back. He moved with the girl as she inverted, releasing her after she’d flipped all the way over. In a few seconds she was upright again, balanced on the balls of her feet. She gave a formal curtsy.

  Nice! said the man, giving one of her braids a friendly tug as she passed him. Next! he called to her successor, shorter but more muscular. Come on—you call that running?

  The second girl picked up speed. Down-over-up, down-over-up: two flips in a row. Each time, the man’s hands were where they needed to be, to protect her.

  Excellent! he said after yet another girl had done a flip. See what happens when you pay attention?

  The girls gathered at the center of the court as the man explained the best way to go from a handstand to a bridge. To demonstrate, he took a few quick steps and inverted himself, toes pointing pertly at the ceiling. Slowly his feet fell backward; his knees followed. Over he went, feet touching ground, torso forming a perfect upside-down U. Then, kicking off lightly with one foot, he reversed himself: torso skyward, feet touching down again. Now into a crouch. Finally rising, bowing, his students clapping.

  Who did this guy resemble? Somebody in a novel . . . Yes—Emma Bovary’s lover. Not the man from Rouen. The other one, the guy who took Emma horseback riding and got her to gallop.

  Actually, this guy seemed more like a grown-up Peter Pan—to the girls, anyway. Now they’d formed two groups. Roy, called one girl, it’s my turn, will you flip me?

  Roy. Latino, was he? Mediterranean, possibly Arabic? His features and coloring were ambiguous. Not swarthy, but definitely not northern European, too olive-toned for that. Slightly wavy, dark-brown hair.

  A good face.

  2

  Resuming her jog, Ellen paused every few minutes to look down at the court.

  After forty minutes or so, the man made the girls perform a final set of stretches, then dismissed them. They filed off the court, voices rising as they entered the hallway. A door closed; the court fell silent. The man stood at its center, not moving. As though listening for something.

  Roy, called a voice. A kid’s, a boy’s.

  Ellen craned over the railing.

  Roy! the voice repeated urgently.

  Yeah, answered Roy. Speaking quietly into the air before him, he added: You okay, En?

  En? Was that an actual name, or the first letter of one?

  Ennio! Roy spoke again, sharply. En-ni-o! Come out now!

  No, replied the voice, firmly.

  Just come out, okay?

  I told you, no!

  The voice was coming from within some stuff in a corner—tumbling mats and rubber runways rolled like bales of hay.

  Now a rustling sound.

  You’ve got to come out, Ennio, said Roy. We can’t stay here.

  More rustling, then a small form shot out from behind one of the rubber bales: a child, not more than seven or eight years old, dressed in dark shorts, a yellow T-shirt, and sneakers. He flew across the court and through the open door at the far end. Running to catch him, Roy failed to stop the door before it clanked shut. He pulled it open and stepped out of sight.

  Where were they headed? Toward the locker rooms, or the gym’s front lobby? Or they could be in the stairwell connecting the basketball court and the Balcony.

  Ellen jogged toward the Balcony’s open door.

  Footsteps: someone ascending the stairs.

  She made it to the doorway just as the boy reached the top of the stairwell. Sprinting to her, he pressed against her, locking his arms around her waist. Then he moved behind her, clutching the waistband of her sweatpants.

  Roy was approaching, his footsteps rapid, deliberate.

  The boy’s sharp jaw was now against the small of her back. His breath felt warm. Then Roy materialized in the doorway, showing no surprise at her presence. Or at the fact that a young boy was pasted against her back.

  Whose kid is this, she asked.

  Mine, he answered.

  His eyes a deep hazel beneath straight dark brows. His gaze unwavering.

  The small body behind hers stiffened slightly. As if the child were drawing himself up, trying to make himself leaner.

  No, he’s not yours.

  Yes, he is.

  His tone was calm and direct, with no hint of pleading or anger. Addressing the child hiding behind her, he dropped his gaze to her midsection.

  Ennio, he said softly, listen to me. If you want to be safe, you’ve got to come with me.

  What’s going on here, said Ellen. What are you doing with this kid?

  Roy dropped into a squat, his face on a par with her knees as he murmured to the boy.

  En, you have to leave this lady alone, he said. Come on, gimme your hands . . .

  The boy didn’t respond. Roy sprang forward, planted a shoulder against one of her thighs, and wrapped one arm around her legs. With his free hand, he grabbed the child behind her. His head was nearly in her crotch. Softly and rhythmically, he began crooning the boy’s name: Ennio, Ennio.

  She raked her fingers through Roy’s hair. It was thick enough to gain a purchase; one sharp tug drew his head back.

  Let go of the kid!

  His arms loosened. As the boy began to pull away, Roy slipped sideways and dropped onto the floor, his left shoulder bearing the impact of a body-roll. So fluid, he was—how’d he gone from stooping to sitting? Or from being in front of her to behind her?

  En route, he seized one of the boy’s ankles. The child landed softly in Roy’s lap, legs splayed like a ragdoll’s. As if the whole maneuver had been choreographed? But it hadn’t been. Roy’s face communicated relief, the boy’s was unreadable. Hopeless, resigned, scared?

  None of those. Lost, it seemed. As if stuck inside some happy-painful memory.

  Now the boy wound both arms around Roy’s neck, burying his face in his chest. Sobbing quietly, he chanted: It’s not safe! Roy lowered his mouth to the boy’s ear and murmured yes, it is. Putting his hands under the child’s armpits, he urged him to his feet.

  The boy began quieting, tears still glazing his cheeks. His hands fisted and unfisted at his sides.

  Better? asked Roy, tousling Ennio’s hair.

  The boy inhaled deeply, then nodded. He was calmer now. He directed his gaze at her.

  Are you okay? he asked solemnly.

  Me? Yeah, I’m fine.

  Don’t ride any trains, all right? Only subways. Only the ones that stay underground. Those are safe.

  What?

  Thanks, Roy said to her, as though the child hadn’t just uttered something nonsensical.

  Look, she said, you need to explain what’s going on here. Don’t think I’m just gonna—

  —I understand, Roy replied evenly. I’ll explain, but not here.

  Let’s go downstairs. I want you to prove to me that you’re this kid’s parent.

  I will. The director will vouch for me. He’s in his office now.

  3

  The director confirmed Roy’s words. And Roy was apologetic.

  Sorry I scared you, he said.

  The boy stood to the side, gazing out the front windows of the gym. He seemed entirely tranquil, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  Wel
l, you have to admit it was a pretty weird scene up there with the two of you.

  Yeah, for sure. Looked at from the outside, I mean. Are you a regular here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before. I’ve been working here a few months.

  Yeah, I am, though I don’t come as often as I’d like. I guess I’m an irregular regular.

  There are plenty of those. And we interrupted your jog, didn’t we?

  Don’t worry, I was about to call it quits.

  Hey, said Ennio, moving to Roy’s side. Can we go outside? Let’s go to the park.

  He smiled, revealing a pair of dimples, the left more pronounced than the right. With the smile came a lifting of his eyebrows, dark and straight like Roy’s.

  The park? Ellen repeated.

  Yeah, the boy said. Before it gets dark. Why don’t you come too?

  Saying no might risk more tears, but saying yes meant risking—what? Nothing, in all likelihood. Dusk wouldn’t arrive for another hour. At the park’s Ninth Street entrance there’d be plenty of people around, in case anything felt strange.

  Okay, she answered. I’ll meet you out front. Give me a minute to get my bag.

  4

  Like a pair of obedient dogs, boy and man awaited her on the sidewalk.

  You need to tell me your names, said Ellen.

  Roy Lince, said the man, placing a hand on his chest.

  Ennio, said the boy, mimicking the gesture.

  Ennio what? Roy nudged him.

  Iandoli! he replied, grinning.

  Ennio Iandoli. That’s a mouthful. How old are you, Ennio Iandoli?

  Eight and three-quarters, he answered.

  Pushing nine, said Roy.

  Yeah, pushing nine! And your name?

  Don’t point, said Roy, it’s rude.

  I’m Ellen Portinari.

  You’re Italian, too!

  Sort of. Half Italian and half from other places—Ireland, England . . .

  She’s a mongrel, said Roy to Ennio. Like most everyone in this borough.

  We’re purebreds, said the boy. All Italian.

  Is that so? Ellen said. I never met one of those.

  Well, now you have!

  They walked up Ninth Street. At the corner of Eighth Avenue, Ennio pointed at the sidewalk.

  You are here, he read confidently. In confusion.

  The three of them gazed at the red C-note stenciled on the sidewalk.

  You read well, said Ellen.

  I learned to read when I was three and a half, Ennio stated.

  Really?

  Yep. I can speak and read Italian, too. In Italian, this would be, um . . . Sei qui, in confusione.

  His accent was beautiful. Not Bensonhurst but the real thing.

  Good for you! Ellen said. What about Spanish, you speak Spanish, too?

  The boy leaned into Roy. No, he said softly, no, not Spanish.

  Ellen glanced at Roy, who shook his head. Later, he mouthed silently.

  She shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. Below, a train’s arrival: light screechings, then silence.

  There it is again, said Ennio, turning his face into Roy’s side.

  It’s okay, buddy.

  Listen, Ellen said. Instead of going to the park, why don’t I buy each of you a glass of chocolate milk?

  5

  I love this drink, announced Ennio. Love, love, love it!

  He punctuated his refrain by flapping his elbows. Above his upper lip was a milky light-brown mustache. They were sitting in a booth in a new café on the corner of Ninth Street and Eighth Avenue. Three glasses of chocolate milk had cost a ridiculous twelve dollars, but the place was quiet and clean.

  Me too, seconded Roy. It’s really good.

  There was a small dip in the middle of his upper lip, a delicate indent. Picking up his glass, he drank in small sips, like a cat. Outside, the street-corner was busy with commuters returning from Manhattan.

  You like the park, right? Ennio asked. ’Cause we think it’s great.

  Of course. I live in Park Slope, how can I not like the park?

  He grinned.

  Do you live in this neighborhood, too, Ennio?

  Nope, we live in Bay Ridge. But we come here for the park. And the gym. He teaches there—Mr. Big-Shot!

  He poked Roy in the shoulder; Roy poked back. A flurry of poking ensued.

  So d’you take the subway here, or a bus?

  The subway! Not the F, though . . .

  Let’s see, for Bay Ridge you’d take the R, right?

  Yep. It stays underground.

  We don’t like above-ground subways, Roy said quietly.

  Only subways that stay in tunnels, said Ennio. We never take any others.

  Underground trains are best, Roy added. Not subways that run aboveground. Or regular trains. We don’t like regular train stations, either. Subway stations are fine, as long as they’re underground.

  His gaze held hers without flickering.

  Ah, she said. Okay . . .

  Listen, Ennio—Roy tugged at the boy’s sleeve—do me a favor and pop out to that blue box on the corner. See it? It’s got newspapers inside. Get me a copy of a paper called the Village Voice, all right?

  The boy peered out the window.

  I see the box, he said. Won’t I have to pay for the paper?

  Nope, it’s free. The Village Voice. Two V’s.

  I know, and two L’s in village! You think I can’t spell? I’m in third grade!

  6

  The boy scooted out the door and to the box. A woman and a small collie stopped to get a paper; the dog and Ennio introduced themselves, their shapes soft-edged in the dusk.

  Ennio’s father died, said Roy as he stared out the window at the boy. My sister’s husband. Just before 9/ll, that August—in a train accident.

  Oh, Christ . . .

  Outside, the boy was stroking the dog’s thin muzzle.

  I don’t normally tell people about all this, right off the bat. But what you saw up on the Balcony—it’s related to that accident.

  Where’d it happen?

  In England. Ennio’s father was traveling by train from London to Manchester. He was going to a conference. The train derailed.

  Was Ennio with him?

  No, but he’s got a vivid imagination. The other day, I was watching the news at my sister’s, and I didn’t realize Ennio was in the living room. There was a short segment about terrorism, bombs in public places, images of trains . . .

  Trains?

  Yeah. Two years ago this past March, some commuter trains were blown up in the center of—

  —Madrid.

  Roy paused. You know about it, he said.

  Yes . . . the story was all over the news.

  True, but people don’t always remember. For some, it’s as if 9/11 is the only terrorist event that ever happened. Anyway, those news clips really set Ennio back. He’s kind of edgy these days. I take him out of the house a lot, to distract him. We go to the gym, the park . . . It helps.

  He sipped his milk, gazing downward. Outside, the boy was shaking paws with the dog. Ellen pointed at him.

  He’s very sociable.

  Sometimes. He does like to chat with dogs and their owners.

  So, was Ennio’s father a native Italian? Is that why Ennio speaks the language?

  Yeah. Renzo came to the States when he was ten. Gina and I are Italian, too, but we were born here. We grew up in Bay Ridge and went to high school there. So did Renzo. That’s where he and Gina met.

  Lynch—that’s your last name? I figured Irish.

  Roy nodded.

  Most people do, because we pronounce it that way. But it’s L-i-n-c-e. That’s Leen-chay in Italian.

  Ah. What part of Italy is your family from?

  Near Lake Como, in the north.

  She nodded. My father’s family was northern, too. From Turin.

  You’ve still got people there?

  No, but my father moved back to Italy many years ago. He lives in
Cremona now. It’s about an hour from Milan.

  Must be nice to visit.

  Never been there, actually.

  Really?

  I haven’t seen my father in decades. He left when I was . . . right around Ennio’s age.

  And your mother?

  She died when I was twenty-two.

  That sounds . . . not easy.

  Yeah, well. It’s past.

  Finishing off his chocolate milk, Roy blotted his mouth with his napkin before speaking again.

  I’ve never visited Italy either. But my paternal grandparents spoke Italian at home, so I grew up with the sound of it.

  You’re lucky, I wish I’d had that advantage . . . So Ennio and his dad used to speak Italian together?

  He nodded.

  The kid misses that, he said. Along with everything else.

  7

  Outside, the boy was waving goodbye to the collie.

  Thanks, Roy said quietly. For dealing with what happened at the gym.

  What did happen? I mean, what exactly freaked Ennio out?

  It was the noise of the subway—you know, under the sidewalk. Just before we got to the gym, we walked across one of those sidewalk grates, and the F train made a loud sound, like when the cars go around a corner. Ennio can handle the usual rumbling, but not those shrieks. As soon as we walked into the building, he went for one of his secret places. He’s got several tucked-away spots where he feels safe. I decided to let him hide during class.

  But then he didn’t want to come out?

  Yeah. He can be . . . strange.

  The boy began moving toward the diner’s door, one foot directly in front of the other, as if on a tight-rope. Tottering, then righting himself. A little game.

  I imagine we must’ve looked like an odd pair, Roy added.

  There are lots of weirdos at the gym. You’re not the winners of that contest.

  But you had every right to wonder. Hey! Roy called out to Ennio, now entering the diner. It’s time to vanish, bud. We gotta let this lady go home to her supper—it’s almost nine o’clock.

  We ate already, Ennio said to Ellen. We always eat early before going to the gym. Not too much, though. Mr. Big-Shot doesn’t like to work with a full stomach.