John Finn

by Vincent McCaffrey

  Be direct. I was speaking to a successful lawyer. If I had learned anything from Des, it was to be direct.

  I said, “I fell in love with her a couple of months ago. I think she felt the same for me. Her disappearing doesn’t fit the picture.”

  He nodded. I could see his mind working. He was trying to deal with the fact of it. It took several seconds.

  “Well, we have something in common, then. I love Anne as well . . . Oh. Yes. We called her Anne here. She said she didn’t like Maggie. Or Margaret. We always called her Anne. I suppose she must have decided to change more than her address when she landed in Boston.”

  I decided right then that I would keep the name she had actually used to myself. It was suddenly something private.

  I said, “I’m trying to understand all this. I was hoping that it might make more sense after I talked to you.”

  He bit his lip again. “Yes. I thought a little about it myself. Not as much as you, I suppose. I don’t have that privilege anymore. She broke up with me, you understand. That was over two years ago. Almost three. I wouldn’t divorce my wife. She gave me time to consider the situation. And then she left.”

  Lawyer or not, he seemed to be telling the basic truth. There was not going to be a lot of room for chit chat here.

  I asked, “Did she ever just disappear during the time she was here?”

  “No. Not that I remember. She planned things. She was precise. She liked details. She liked her work. She was very good.”

  “Was there someplace—while she was here, was there anyplace she liked to go to get away?”

  Mr. Adams studied me for a moment, his chin up again. I wondered if this was a pose from his courtroom work.

  He said, “I suppose the problem I have with telling you is that she’s left you as well. Hasn’t she? Assuming she has simply left on her own. This is her choice. She’s moved on again. Whatever the reason. It’s her choice.”

  I offered the other side of the argument without much hesitation.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that. She didn’t just disappear when she left Houston. Something is wrong. Whether she ever wants to see me again or not, I think I owe it to her to make sure she’s okay.”

  Adams studied his own hand on the conference table as he flexed it—as if a cramp were causing him pain. It was a hand used to physical activity. I made the leap of deciding that he played tennis.

  He finally nodded. “Alright. I understand that. There’s a place in California she went back to several times on her own. Near La Jolla. She liked a particular bed and breakfast there. She wanted to move back to California someday, I think. She asked me to go there with her that spring before she left, but I wouldn’t. I think that was near the end of it for us.”

  I had no interest in pursuing this man’s personal life. He was an unfaithful husband. If that was all there was to it. But for Des, I was confused. Why had she allowed herself to get involved with a married man and then keep the relationship up for so long? How was I going to ask Jeff Adams such a question?

  I said, “She’s a smart woman. You know that. I’m curious why you think she allowed herself to get involved with you?”

  He could take that as an affront if he wanted. Or he could consider it a reasonable inquiry.

  He kept his chin up, “Well that’s a personal matter. It’s not your business. But let me say this—when it started—at the beginning, it was all very unplanned. An accident. Too much time spent together working on a couple of cases in a row. And my wife was living in New York then. We had separated. So I suppose there was some excuse for Anne because she knew that. But not for me. I never intended to get a divorce. And then, suddenly, it was all I could think about. I told her I would. So, I suppose you ought to forgive her for that. I have to take the blame. But there were kids involved. And when it was clear I was not going to do it after all, in the end, she left.”

  Adams was right. The catfish was great. I spent my time at the restaurant afterwards jotting down a few notes. Mr. Adams’s confession had moved me enough to make me feel a little better under the circumstances. At least about Des.

  That evening I sat in the motel and called every bed and breakfast in La Jolla, California. My approach to this was simple enough. I asked if Maggie Perry was there. I decided to use Maggie Anne, because she probably used a credit card. It didn’t help. No one knew her. But one woman told me there were dozens of places that didn’t even list themselves in the phone book. B & B’s was a popular business for retirees. There were a lot of ex-navy people nearby with kids who’d left home. They rented rooms.

  I figured, how big can La Jolla be? I could at least check it out.

  But when I called to buy a plane ticket I discovered I’d run through the credit limit on my card.

  So I called Connie.

  His first words were, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to find Des.”

  “In the Pacific Ocean?”

  “I hope not.”

  “How long are you going to take?”

  “I don’t know. Give Burley my shifts. He can handle it. But I need a favor.”

  “Another favor, you mean.”

  “Yeah. Another favor. I’d appreciate it if you’d deposit some money in my account. A loan. My debit card is dead.”

  “How much?”

  “Two thousand?”

  He didn’t give it half a second. He’s always been smart with money.

  “I can’t do it John. Come home. I’ll put a couple hundred in. Come home.”

  The shuttle bus from the motel back to the airport cost twenty bucks. I sat in a bar there and went over what might be important.

  What had happened to Des?

  The curtains in her apartment had been open. Of course, Detective Wise might have done that when he’d gone there the day before I did. I would have to ask. But if not, then perhaps Des had never even made it back to her apartment that Sunday night. Certainly, she spent little time there. She must have gone there after seeing me, at least most of the times, or else the books I had given her would not likely be there. Before that Sunday evening, she had stayed with me every time I had asked her to. But that night she would not.

  I knew almost nothing about this woman. The person I thought I knew was not very much of the whole. It was a piece, at most. A shard.

  I did not throw up on the plane back to Boston. I slept. About eight ounces of Jameson’s Irish whiskey was sufficient.

  12. Sligo man

  I thought of my dad as the ‘Sligo man.’ We were not sure what this meant other than the example he set himself, but we always believed it. He never put a foot in Sligo until he was seventy-four and then he was dead the next year. But his own dad was born in Sligo and we supposed it was an idea of what a man should be, and what we should be—a standard that my dad had grown up to believe in and he tried to pass on to us.

  It just didn’t take with me.

  I figured my brother Teddy was probably as close to that standard as anyone left now, but not the whole package. Now, not that much at all, as I think it through again.

  I remember the day I first stood eye to eye with my dad. Maybe I had grown a little more, but I think he had already started down. I was just back from college, in my third year, and he came in the door from work.

  The Fore River Shipyard was still open then and he was a foreman. An ‘outside man’. He was too big to work in close quarters. The day was cold, and his cheeks were burned red with that and with the many swipes of the wool sleeve of his heavy coat against his nose—a bad habit my mother teased him over.

  That would have been about Christmas, 1977.

  I was on my way out already, having kissed my mother and washed my hands and face at her command. I had someone to see. Probably Connie, because he had not gone away to college himself.

  Dad came up the back steps at a bound and I met him on the level at the top. And there we were, eye to eye.

  No hello.
Just a “Where you off to?”

  I said, “Out.”

  He said, “Did you see your mother yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then stay a moment and watch me take off my shoes.”

  I probably heaved with impatience. That’s me.

  He sat down on that stool at the back by the stove. Mom kept a geranium there, later, right on the stool, in a clay pot.

  He bent low from the waist and untied his boots. Slowly. Waiting for me to speak first. Always giving me the chance. And me not taking it.

  Then he sat straight. I had collapsed by then in a chair by the table.

  “You’ve grown some.”

  “Yes sir.” I said, “Or you’ve started to shrink.”

  That made him smile.

  “Things are alright at school?”

  “Alright.”

  “They sent a note, you know.”

  “Geez.”

  I had been skipping a required class. An English class taught by a woman who hated men and never lost an opportunity to make that clear. I was weary of Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein. I had tried to get into another class instead, but I had missed the chance.

  I said, “I’ll make it up. I told the dean. Next semester.”

  “Your mother was worried.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I fidgeted and heaved another great breath of impatience.

  He said, “You’ll be back for dinner?”

  I said, “Yes, sir.”

  But I wasn’t. That was the cause of the ruckus later on.

  I got back about nine. My dinner was on the table with a bowl over it. Fried pork chops. I could smell them before I had the back door open.

  So stupid. So careless. I sat right down and started to eat.

  Dad heard my knife and fork against the plate. He had the Herald still in his hand when he came to the doorway and stood there to watch me. Not a word. A Sligo man doesn’t do a lot of talking.

  I stopped eating, of course. Finally, self-conscious at what I had done.

  I said, “Sorry. I couldn’t catch a ride. We went down by Paragon Park. Connie had to leave early and suddenly I didn’t have a ride back.”

  “Park’s closed.”

  “There’s a pizza place there.”

  “You said you’d be home for dinner.”

  “Just a slice and a coke. Just a hangout.”

  “Connie went home to dinner. I called over. He answered.”

  “You called!” I was outraged. I said, “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  Dad’s face didn’t change.

  “Not your body, anyway.”

  I said, “That’s embarrassing”

  He offered a slight shrug. “Sure it was. I felt terrible. And for your mother too. But we’ll get over it.”

  “Goddamn it!”

  Of course, I had said it without thought, yet it was exactly the wrong choice of words. A curse and an affront to God all in a piece.

  He wanted to hit me just then. I could see it. But he knew his own anger and folded his fist on that. He wanted to shake me. He wanted to get through to the lout I was. And he had no way. He never hit me. Nor Teddy. And if we were beyond shame, then he had no hold on us. I imagine the frustration of it must have aged him where he stood.

  I saw a breath come. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a breath since he came to the door. He could be still like that. I remember the thought and a certain feeling of wonder at it.

  I said, “I’m sorry.”

  He answered, “Tell your mother. She’s the one you hurt.”

  I got up then at long last and went in to see her. She was already crying. She was crying at what she heard from the kitchen. The tone of voice, not the words.

  That might be one more reason I married Mary Ellen. She’ll cry at the tone of a voice. Words won’t do that trick.

  Mom stayed in her chair, her back to the door, hands folded on her book. She looked up at me over her shoulder as I came through. There was the tear, at the edge of her eye, that we all lived in dread of. She looked away.

  She said, “I understand. . . You’re young.”

  Long ago, ‘I was young.’

  The all-purpose excuse. And when I did the same sort of thing so many times again through the years, what was the reason then? All the times I came home late because there was something 'important' to do. Or never showed up at all.

  I can see Mary Ellen with her homework papers in two piles on her lap and me smelling of cigarettes and beer. Only she wouldn’t leave a plate for me on the table.

  With English tests you have to be careful of the spelling. And then there’s grammar. You have to read every word and catch some semblance of an idea purposely expressed as well. When I was teaching history, I just scanned the papers for key words: 1066, Alfred, William, Hastings—That’s an ‘A.’ Next!—Mary Ellen always thought it was unfair. I did the homework for my students in forty-five minutes. She took two hours. She was right. It was unfair to my students. That’s another reason I quit.

  I remember that once, Mary Ellen had asked, “Where did you go?”

  I said, “To Cleary’s, for a beer.”

  She had a red pencil in her hand, but it didn’t move.

  She said, “Sarah was looking for you.”

  I said, “I’ll go talk to her.”

  Mary Ellen never looked up. It was if she was ashamed to. As if my carelessness was somehow her fault. She said, “She’s asleep now. They’re all asleep.”

  I asked, “Was it important?”

  And she told me what I should have understood, “Everything is important when you’re seven.”

  Everything is important when you are thirty-seven. I just didn’t want to know it.

  I should have been there. I remember thinking, a Sligo man would have been there.

  I just didn’t listen.

  My brother Teddy listens. He can sell cars faster than anyone you ever saw and do it all day long because he listens. I’ve been over to where he works in Norwell more than once and seen it. I’ve watched. He’s like Dad, the way he listens. The other salesmen just talk.

  Dad had a bad back. Sometimes he would even sit on his stool to eat his dinner, just to avoid the lower chairs. He said it was because he liked the warmth of the stove and he got chilly. But that was a small lie. One of the few. He had a bad back and he didn’t want anyone to know. It was an infirmity.

  Often, he would come to the kitchen door and stand, with his forearm braced against the doorframe above his head, and he would listen to us talk. Listen to me talk. Listen to Mom. And he would never say a word unless he had to. That was a Sligo man.

  I was just thinking, as I wrote this, that I have seen that posture on a man somewhere else. And it has just come to me. In the movies. Dad’s favorite movie star was John Wayne. His favorite movies were “The Quiet Man” and “The Searchers.” He didn’t like TV all that much and didn’t go to the movies very often, but Teddy won a prize his first year at the Ford Dealership. A VCR. And he gave it to Mom and Dad for Christmas. That would have been around 1984. Something like that. Mom loved it. She got to see all the movies she had missed. It was her toy. Dad would watch from the doorway, behind Mom’s chair. With most movies he was gone by the second act and out under the light in the garage fixing something. But if she wanted him there beside her for the whole time, she could just play one of his favorites and he would hang there, as if suspended by that arm against the top of the doorframe. And now I realize that it was a pose that John Wayne often held. Only with dad, it was no pose. It kept his back straight.

  I suppose he was ‘a quiet man,’ then. But that does not stick to him the same way in my mind.

  He was seldom unhappy. In fact, I would say he was generally a happy man, with a ready smile—a small smile at the edges. Never the wide grin. He was always self-deprecating. When something went wrong, it was always his watch and he should have seen it coming.

  The unhappiest time I recall was during a stri
ke. He did not like his union. He called them thugs. But he liked his job. He was good at coordinating the work of a crew and did his job well, and when there was a strike he could not go to work and spent the days in the garage making a new molding or fixing some old thing ‘that would be better thrown away’ as my mother would say. During that time, it seemed Dad didn’t speak at all.

  Only once in my memory did he raise his voice. I know it happened more often than that, but I can only remember the once.

  He took us fishing that day. We were out by Peddocks Island off the end Hull near where the tide rushes through. We had gone there many times. But this time some idiot in a big stink-pot cabin cruiser came roaring through the gut with too much speed, and we could not get our little boat around fast enough. The wake from the stink-pot hit us broadside and the three of us were suddenly fighting for balance in that small awkward space. Teddy and I both thought it was a great treat. But I was the one who thought it smart to rock the boat even further, just for the ride. I was a great fan of the ‘Giant Coaster’ at Paragon Park. I stepped into the cradle of the motion. Only, I was stupid with my timing. Dad had just righted himself. Now that I think of it, his back muscles must have wrenched to keep himself upright. His fishing rod flew into the air like a catapult.

  “Jesus Christ God Almighty Damn!”

  You don’t forget it when it’s said with enough emphasis to echo off Peddocks Island twice before it dies in the drone of the passing boats on a Sunday afternoon.

  But when you are small—I mean eight or nine—a Sligo man is one who cuts his own lawn with a hand mower. He paints his own house. He washes his own car (with your help). He wears boots more often than shoes.

  I spoke at his funeral. I got the chance to say some of this then and mentioned how I felt about our Sligo man. Afterward, Mom came and took my arm. She has that way of bringing a moment with her. She watched my eyes to see if I was listening. We were alone then, and she said something I did not know.

  “He only meant it as a disparagement of himself.”

  I never knew that. I couldn’t speak with the realization of it. How do you suddenly address a lifetime of simple misunderstanding?