The Flaming Corsage

by William Kennedy

  “I don’t plan to stay,” she said to Jimmy. “I only want this filled with ale,” and she pushed the growler toward him. He didn’t touch it.

  “Ladies generally come in the other door and sit in the ladies’ section,” he said. “And ladies never come in without an escort. For politeness and protection.”

  “I shall be very polite, I assure you. And I need no protection.”

  “Ladies sit back there, Ma’am, no matter what.”

  “Is there a bar back there where I can get my ale?”

  “No, Ma’am. This is the only bar.”

  “Then I’ll stay here, and when I get it I’ll leave.”

  “But we don’t serve ladies here, Ma’am. House rule.”

  “And a silly one, I must say. My father-in-law is dying, and the ale is for him, and for Father Loonan when he comes to perform the last rites, ten minutes from now.”

  The men nodded at the solemnity of use to which this ale was about to be put.

  “You probably know the man who’s dying,” Katrina said. “Emmett Daugherty is his name.”

  “Ah, Emmett. So that’s who it is,” Jimmy said. “I knew he was ailing.”

  “Emmett is dying?” said one of the men. He was tall and brawny and wore a brown derby with a hole in it. He took off his hat, looked at it reverentially, then put it back on. “I’ve known him all my life. A grand man.”

  “He’s very close to death,” Katrina said. “Now may I have this container filled?” She put a dollar on the bar.

  Jimmy McGrath uncovered the growler, put it under the ale spigot, and pushed the dollar back to Katrina.

  “Tell Emmett this round is on Jimmy,” he said.

  He capped the full growler, put it in Katrina’s basket, lifted it and came around the bar to hand it to her.

  Outside, a dog yelped in pain. Katrina looked out to see a man kicking a collie dog tied to the tailgate of a wagon loaded with red bricks.

  “That man is kicking a dog,” Katrina said, and all the men came to the window to look at the spectacle. The man kicked the dog again. A heavyset woman, sitting on the wagon and holding the reins of the two horses, watched the kicking.

  “Somebody should stop him,” Katrina said. “Help that poor animal that can’t help itself.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” said the tall man with the derby. He went out the saloon’s screen door and spoke to the dog-kicker.

  “You oughtn’ta kick that dog,” said the tall man.

  “It’s my dog. I’ll kick him all I want,” said the dog-kicker, and he kicked the dog again. He was short and muscular from lifting bricks, and he wore a sleeveless undershirt.

  The tall man effortlessly shoved him to one side, then reached down and untied the rope that held the dog. The dog ran away. Katrina came out of the saloon with her basket.

  “You did very well,” she said to the tall man. “I thank you, and I’m sure the dog does too.”

  “You better go bring my dog back,” the dog-kicker said.

  “No, I ain’t gonna do that,” the tall man said. “You’d only kick him some more.”

  The dog-kicker swung his fist, but the blow only reached the left side of the tall man’s neck. The tall man threw two short, powerful punches, one with each hand, and knocked the dog-kicker backward into the street. When he went down, the back of his head hit the granite-block pavement. He started to sit up but fell back and stayed down. Everybody stared at him. The woman climbed off the wagon. She was as burly as the man on the ground (Katrina thought of them as a matched pair), and wore a man’s shirt with sleeves rolled, her muscular arms bare well above the elbow. She lifted the fallen man up onto the sidewalk and raised him with a hand under his back. His head wobbled.

  “You killed him,” the woman yelled at the tall man.

  “I didn’t kill him,” the tall man said. “He hit me and I hit him.”

  “He shouldn’t have kicked the dog,” Katrina said.

  “Who asked you?” the woman said. “Maybe he shoulda kicked you. Maybe I oughta kick your tail across Broadway.”

  “I’m harder to kick than a tied-up dog,” Katrina said.

  “You think so?” the woman said, and she flexed her right bicep, the size of a grapefruit, and walked toward Katrina. She tightened the muscle and held it and the veins stood out like branches of a tree. She stared at Katrina and tensed the muscle, splitting a vein and spurting blood onto Katrina’s yellow dress; then she raised the bloody bicep in front of Katrina’s face.

  “I don’t have to kick you,” the woman said. “I’ll squeeze you like a bunch of grapes.”

  The tall man stepped between the women. “Nobody gonna squeeze this lady.”

  “I’m gettin’ the cops after you, Mister,” the woman said.

  “That’s good,” said the tall man. “I’ll be waitin’ for ’em here in the saloon. You go along, now, Miss,” he told Katrina. “This ain’t your business to worry about.”

  “If you need a witness, my name is Katrina Daugherty. Second-last house on Main Street.”

  “Okay, Miss Daugherty, and we thank you,” the tall man said. He tipped his hat. “You tell Emmett, but only if he’s really dyin’, that Hoggie Ryan wishes him a happy death.”

  “Does he know you, Mr. Ryan?”

  “He seen me fight bare-knuckle many a night.”

  “I shall certainly tell him. Hoggie Ryan. Thank you.”

  Katrina shook hands with Hoggie and then walked toward Ronan’s grocery to buy a lemon. She saw the collie sitting in the shade of a porch. As she passed, the dog wagged its tail.

  Katrina put a chiffon scarf around her shoulders to hide the blood on her blouse; then she and Annie carried the ale and three glasses to Emmett’s room. Katrina gave a glass to Edward, one to Dr. McArdle, and put one on a table for Father Loonan, drawing an instant rebuke from Emmett.

  “Do you think I wouldn’t have a glass meself?” he asked. “And one for each of you.” The speech cost him strength, and he coughed, and slumped, then closed his eyes to rest for the next challenge.

  “I’ll go,” Annie said, and while she went for more glasses, Katrina spread a white table scarf on Emmett’s bedside table, then set out the paraphernalia Father Loonan requested: the holy water, a tablespoon, glass of water, wad of cotton, salt cellar, heel of bread, lemon sliced in two, two candleholders with blessed candles, the crucifix, and the palm fronds she undid from behind the torso of Jesus. The table was so crowded that she and Edward brought down a long table from the attic to give proper space to the final necessities.

  When Annie came in with the glasses Emmett opened his eyes. “Is no one goin’ to pour the ale?” he asked.

  “At your service,” said Dr. McArdle, and he poured for those in the room, giving the first to Emmett, who took the glass and looked at it, then set it beside a blessed candle.

  “I think you did this just to have a drink your doctor couldn’t object to,” Katrina said. “You don’t look like you’re dying.”

  “Half me life I didn’t look like I was livin’. It evens out,” Emmett said. And he closed his eyes again.

  When Annie came back with Father Loonan, Doc McArdle poured an ale and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?” the priest asked.

  “I know you like your ale,” Emmett said.

  “I never denied it,” the priest said. “But I never had any with the last rites.”

  “It goes good with everything,” Emmett said.

  “Emmett Martin Daugherty,” Edward said, “we’re all present and accounted for. What’s your pleasure? Where would you like your body anointed first, on the inside or the outside?”

  “First I want to know what he does with that lemon,” Emmett said.

  “It cleans the oil off my fingers,” the priest said.

  “That’s clever,” Emmett said. He reached for the ale and raised the glass to the light. “By God that looks good. We’ll just have a taste.” He took a sip and others in the room did likewise. “
All right,” Emmett said, “get it over with.”

  “I was told you were dying,” the priest said. “But I’m not sure you’re dying.”

  “That’s what I told him, Father,” Katrina said.

  “I’m dyin’ nevertheless,” Emmett said. “I can’t stand on me pins anymore, and with every breath there’s a pain, and when I close me eyes I see somethin’ comin’.”

  “What does it look like?” the priest asked.

  “Like the inside of a fireman’s boot.”

  “That’s not what heaven looks like.”

  “Then I’m goin’ someplace else.”

  “Since you’re able to talk, we’ll want to have a confession,” the priest said, and turning to the others he said, “If you’d all please leave the room . . .”

  “There’s no need,” Emmett said. “I’ve nothin’ to confess.”

  “You’re a saint, then, is that it?” the priest said.

  “Not hardly, but I’ve nothin’ to confess.”

  “Confess the sins you forgot and I’ll forgive those.”

  “I forgot none I ever committed. The memory of them kept me smiling for forty-five years.”

  “I’ll forgive those. Anything else?”

  “I let my wife work too hard.”

  “You’ve got company on that one.”

  “And I thought too little of meself,” Emmett said. “I paid too much attention to the work, and the trees in the yard, and Reilly the dog, God rest his soul.”

  “Dogs don’t have souls,” the priest said.

  “This one did,” said Emmett. “He went to mass every Sunday with me. And he never ate meat on Friday.”

  “And did he do his Easter duty?”

  “He did. On the parish house lawn.”

  “Is that all the sins?”

  “I could make some up,” Emmett said.

  “No need for that,” and he made the sign of the cross, saying, “Te absolvo in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. For your penance say one Hail Mary and have some more ale.”

  Emmett blessed himself, closed his eyes for a ten-second prayer, then reached for his glass and took one long swallow, all he could tolerate. Father Loonan did likewise, then opened his prayer book and said, “Now we’ll get on with it,” and, holding the holy oil, read in the Latin: “Per istam sanctam Unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti . . .”

  Emmett said to him, “Will ye say it in English so I know what’s goin’ on.”

  And the priest spoke the formal prayers of Extreme Unction, anointing, with holy oil on cotton, Emmett’s eyes, ears, nose, lips, hands, and feet, the sensory entrances of sin, saying to him, “Through this holy Unction; and of His tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatsoever sins thou hast committed by thine eyes . . . thine ears,” and repeating it on through to the chrismal swabbing of the foot from heel to toe, whereupon Emmett spoke up and said, “There’s no need to bother with the toes. I never sinned with any of them.”

  Katrina giggled, then broke into sobs she tried to stifle. This gallant man really was dying and by loving him she felt like a traitor to her own dead, for he loathed her father and spiritually worked against him all his life, and against the world that had shaped her family and her life. She looked at Edward and her sobbing intensified: my husband who put my sister and father in their graves, guiltless, honorable man now losing his own father. And all her love for Edward seemed remarkable and perverse. This Main Street, this North End, where the Daugherty seed took root, was, in all its guises, a foreign place, and yet its river and its foundries and its traction barns and its Lumber District and its dying canal were the sources of life that sustained her family in all its lineages—the Staatses, Bradfords, Taylors, Fitzgibbons, Van Slykes. Here were the wellsprings of power and wealth that had gilded the heart, soul, and lifetime of Katrina Taylor Daugherty, weeping child of the new century, wounded by the flames of hellish flowers, who can now find no substitute in life for her loss, her diminishment, her abasement known so intimately: loving and losing Francis Phelan, that angry, lovely boy who defeated the abstraction of power with a flung stone. Katrina, faithless, sobbing wretch, you are adrift in this Irish Catholic fog that envelops your elegantly patrician self. (That woman with the bloody bicep must be Catholic. She would be all wrong as an Episcopalian.) What does your poet say to you now, Katrina? He says that the world goes round by misunderstanding, the only way people can agree: for if they understood each other they would never agree on anything, such as marriage to the enemy: that man across the room whom you say you love, who woke you into a terrifying nightmare, who had you screaming for release before you even made the bond with him, who led you, docile woman, out of fire into salvation; that man who is the son of this virtuous man dying in front of you. What part of this dying father has passed into that living son, do you know? When the soul’s light goes out forever, what is the loss to those who have stood for so long in that light? Your sobs are evidence of an uncertain mind, Katrina. You should not cry at the death of a beloved man to whom you once gave only hostility. Your allegiance is as fickle as the rain. Your giggle at his sinless toes is a proper response.

  The priest ended the sacrament and made the sign of the cross over Emmett. Katrina breathed in, straightened her back, and raised her glass in emulation of Edward’s celebratory gesture.

  “All praise to Emmett Daugherty,” she said. “All praise to a great man, I say. The truly great men are the poet, the priest, and the soldier, and Emmett Daugherty is a soldier of the righteous wars.”

  Then, between sobs, she willfully drank all of her ale.

  CULBERT (CULLY) WATSON, known in Albany for years as a hotel sneak and petty hoodlum, was hanged from a telegraph pole in the French Quarter of New Orleans last night after being taken off a train at gunpoint by four men in kerchief masks. Watson was en route to New Orleans for trial on an attempted-murder charge, and was in custody of two New Orleans detectives when the four masked men disarmed and tied up the detectives, and fled the train with Watson.

  His corpse was found hanging on Bourbon Street, near the hotel where ten days ago, police say, he raped, robbed, and left for dead a twenty-seven-year-old woman. She had been smothered, but revived to find the room filled with gas from an open jet. She said she’d seen her attacker working at the hotel desk as night clerk. Police said the attacker had gained entry to and left the woman’s room through the transom, and that Watson was slim and agile enough to accomplish this. He has a known history of such unlawful entry and assault on women.

  Police caught Watson with the woman’s diamond brooch and $2,000 in cash as he stepped off a train at Memphis. To bargain with police, Watson told of his connection to the infamous Love Nest killings of 1908, when a prominent Albany physician, Giles Fitzroy, murdered his wife, shot and wounded the Albany playwright Edward Daugherty, then killed himself. The shootings took place at the Millerton House in Manhattan, where Watson was then working. He disappeared after the killings.

  Police said Dr. Fitzroy and Daugherty testified against Watson at a hearing into a river-barge brawl in 1906, and Watson may have held a grudge against them. Police have a lengthy statement from Watson about the Love Nest case but have disclosed no details about Watson’s role in it; but they did say that others may be involved.

  EDWARD, IN HIS white suit and white Panama with the flowerpot crown, walked at sunbright morning with a stream of other men, women, and children down Columbia Street past the new Union Station. Where the goddamned Delavan stood. Handsome new building and they used plenty of the Delavan’s scorched bricks. Some things can be salvaged from any wreckage. Katrina?

  He headed toward the old red bridge that spanned the Albany Basin, then out toward the pier, where two covered, double-deck barges, and the tug that would pull them, rested at anchor in the placid water of the Hudson. He saw Maginn coming toward the bridge from another direction, and he waited for him.

  “You’re alone,” M
aginn said.

  “So are you,” said Edward.

  “I’m always alone, except when I’m with a beautiful and accessible woman, which I fully expect to be before this day is over.”

  “My own beautiful woman decided not to come.”

  “That’s truly a pity,” Maginn said. “How is she? I haven’t seen her in months.”

  “She’s all right. You know she doesn’t favor the drinking.”

  Despite Edward’s arguments to Katrina that today they could celebrate something together for a change—the river’s summer glory, the gift of a lustrous day—she said she couldn’t abide all that family sweetness, all those dowdy biddies, all the rowdiness. So she stayed home. Avoiding the class struggle.

  “Then we’re a couple of bachelors for the day,” Maginn said. “Like the old days. Tent city at the State Fair, when you were still a lowly reporter? Remember?”

  “Things have changed since then,” Edward said.

  “Not I. I find myself a lowly reporter still. And I still dandle the doxies, don’t you, old man, once in a while, just for the hell of it? Tell the truth.”

  “Part of my past,” Edward said.

  “You’ve tamed the tendril. How resolute.”

  At the gangway, a policeman was backing a man down the ramp, poking his chest with a billy club. Five others backed down behind him. Edward recognized the cop, Willie Glass.

  “It’s not a free ride,” Glass said. “Buy a ticket.”

  “Go scratch your ass, Glass,” said the ejected man, who was short, wiry, and thirtyish, with long black hair parted in the middle, a full mustache, and sufficiently irregular good looks that Edward judged him a pimp. He mumbled to the men with him and they went away.