They first met in the Van Gogh room at the
Metropolitan Museum of Art. She was
focused on a set of the painter’s self-portraits when someone approached from
behind.
“A bit
full of himself, don’t you think?”
Kira turned to find a handsome, muscular man at her side. Dressed in a black T-shirt, blue jeans and
sandals, his dark hair and angular features suggested an Italian heritage.
“I
think he just wanted us to see his sadness,” she said. “Just look at those eyes.”
“I’d
rather look at yours,” he said. “Irish
eyes, I suspect.”
“The
red hair and pale skin must have been clues.”
She smiled and extended her hand.
“Kira Egan. I’m a grad student at
Columbia.”
“A
pleasure to meet you, Ms. Egan,” he said, kissing the top of her hand. “Tony Geraci, fireman, cook and patron of the
arts.”
Within an hour, they were sitting on a bench in Central Park, finishing
their hot dogs and sodas.
“You must come over this weekend and I’ll put together one of my special
dishes,” he said. “You like Italian
food, I hope.”
She
accepted the invitation, ended up spending the night and, within another month,
she was engaged.
Vows were exchanged at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, witnessed by his huge,
extended family, almost all of whom lived in New York, and a sizable contingent
of her own family and friends, down from Boston and Providence. The entire day was a dreamy blur of ceremony,
food, wine, dancing, family, friends and happy children. After a night at the Waldorf they left for a
week in St. Thomas.
Over
the months that followed, Kira and Tony settled into an idyllic life in his large,
open apartment that overlooked the Hudson.
On his off days, she’d return from classes to find a gourmet dinner
waiting, complete with a bottle of red, Italian wine. When he had to work, Kira would visit the
firehouse, bringing dessert for Tony and his mates. Free weekends took them to museums, the Park
or plays in the city and, on every Sunday, an afternoon dinner at his parents’
home. Always warmly greeted by Tony’s
family, she looked forward to these noisy, vibrant gatherings and, within a few
months, had acquired a limited ability to converse in Italian.
A
dramatic change would begin the following year, soon after Tony’s mother
succumbed to a stroke. Drinking more
than usual, he became belligerent at times, often declining to join her on
weekend excursions. Physical abuse soon
followed and makeup became a necessity, hiding bruises from family and
friends. Of course, Tony was always
remorseful when he sobered up but, within days, he would be on another
binge. When a broken wrist sent her to
the Emergency Room, police were called by a suspicious physician but, as Tony’s
friends and acquaintances, they steered her away from filing a complaint.
Staying with friends on weekends, she managed to avoid confrontations by
returning late from school.
Nevertheless, injuries continued and rape soon followed. On a Tuesday morning, she had secretly packed
her belongings and prepared to escape as he slept off the previous night’s
booze. But, before she could leave, a
phone call roused him from sleep and he was soon heading for the door, stuffing
his shirt into his jeans.
“Where are you going so fast?” she asked, attempting nonchalance.
“Shut
the fuck up and turn on the TV,” he said.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Ignoring his advice, she finished packing and nearly ran down the
stairs. But chaos greeted her at the
door and she never got off the island.
Tony died in Tower 2, forever an American hero.
