It’s Boston. Of course they’re here.
Right over there. In the spring breeze sun. At a table with a view. Spencer with a dark beer, Susan drinking something pink and of course Hawk has champagne. Robert B. Parker’s characters. If you close your eyes you can see them. Spencer like a hulking tree trunk. Hawk dressed impeccably, drawing eyes from women who rarely take the time to look. And Susan, a richness of soul and smart in those eyes that will never really age.
Hawk feels the clicking silence of the first bomb the moment just before it blows.
Glances at Spencer who takes Susan’s hand, and the three of them start to run straight towards where the blast will be.
Those in the vicinity of what’s about to happen can feel these characters, these spirits of Boston arrive, like something in the wind, or the call of distant terrified birds.
Then the blast. Then another. And in the glassy chard crunching sounds and splattering that no human being should ever really have to see, in that place beyond horror that no words can ever really touch, these three spirits start to hold the hands of the injured, sing to the dead. Deliver what’s unknowable in the face of what’s undescribible.
Spencer catches a movement, just a shadow on the perimeter that no one else can see. Looks at Hawk who says, “I believe you see what I see.” Susan cradles one more bleeding head.
In the coming days, weeks, months across a place where there is no time, Boston will make strong again a torn and bleeding soul. Hawk and Spencer will make some calls. A country of Boston Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins and Patriot fans will come running. A country now learning what it means to run towards the fire, towards the blast. A place where hearts, minds and spirits all flow to Boston.
Just watch. Hawk and Spencer and Susan will make some calls.
Then what will happen then is that one day, one of Boston’s iron tough finest will be talking to someone. Someone who knows the meaning of “not on my watch.” Let’s say it’s a phone call. Then as it if came from nowhere, the woman or man on the phone will put two pieces of information together and draw a conclusion. There will be this, “Why didn’t I think of this before?” thought. That thought will lead to another. Then another. Then another.
That thought process. That conclusion. Coming seemingly from nowhere, as if there was help that had come from an unknown source, will lead to those who made and set the bombs, “feeling the full weight of what they did.”
When that happens, Spencer will put down the phone.
Parker’s Spencer, Susan and Hawk. Of course they’re here.
We all are.
This is Boston.