John Finn

by Vincent McCaffrey

  ​Herb waved at the stove, “We’ve got meatloaf from Sunday. We’ve got some chicken from Saturday. Sandra’s taken the last of the ham from yesterday. But we have smashed potatoes from every night. We have smashed potatoes aged to perfection. You can fry up some of that. Cheddar cheese on the counter there. I left some grease in the pan. It’s just bacon grease. Still good.”

  ​Sandra said “Hi.” Her mouth was full when she said it and Mrs. Johnson lightly slapped her daughter’s hand in passing.

  Herb Johnson was much like his son in character. He was not given to social amenities. I wrote that down to an overreaction between generations. Herb’s father had been a porter on the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad. According to Burley, his grandfather was over-polite. A perfect gentleman. Wore a tie and an ironed shirt every day of his life. Never cursed loud enough to hear. Tipped his hat to ladies on the street. Always got up when a woman entered or left the room. That sort of thing. Burley’s father was respectful of the old man, but he was from another generation. Even so, I always saw that neatly trimmed mustache as a small token of respect. You can see the very same mustache in any of pictures of his old man, dressed in his gray porter’s uniform.

  In any case, Mae Johnson had waged a lonely war since the old man died, keeping a semblance of civility in the house. Manners were important to her. She bothered to tell me once that she liked the fact that I always took my hat off at the door. Of course, my own old man would have cuffed me if I didn’t.

  I washed my hands in the sink and then dolloped a large spoonful of potatoes into the pan. No immediate explanations were in the air, so I just started asking.

  “Where’s Burley?”

  Mae said, “Out somewhere. He hasn’t been home for two days. But he called. He says he was okay.”

  I said, “What’s he up to?”

  Mae had an assortment of leftovers in her plate and touched each part with her fork without taking a bite. Her eyebrows went up to speak, before dropping again as if weary of the effort. As if she had not quite found the words yet to say whatever was on her mind, or maybe she was just tired. Her job as a nurse at the Boston Medical Center can often run two shifts back to back. She had that look. After pushing her food around for a second time, she simply shook her head.

  Burley’s sister is a good-looking woman. Sandra has her Master’s in something I can never remember—some sort of social psychology. I had heard she was laid off last summer and had moved back home during the fall.

  The Johnsons have the entire first floor of the building and it’s a large space even for a full-blown Dorchester triple-decker. There are maybe eight rooms, so there’s enough space, but Burley was already living at home again and having two grown children in the house was a strain on Mae. I already knew all this too.

  But then Sandra had been making things worse of late. She had a boyfriend. She liked to have him over. This had already caused several major confrontations with both Herb and Mae. Burley had told me all about those as well. He had been playing referee. When you are on a job together late at night and there isn’t anything else going on, you tend to talk about such things.

  Sandra took the initiative when her mother didn’t answer, “Burley’s with his girl. She’s white, and he’s embarrassed to bring her home.” This was Sandra being cute. When she wasn’t being cute, it could be far worse.

  Herb let his fork drop.

  Mae looked at me over the top of her glasses again and ignored her daughter.

  “He’s in love.”

  Herb’s eyes rolled up in his head before they closed, eyebrows arched high, mustache low, his jaw drawn down. I wasn’t sure whether this was skepticism or chagrin.

  Sandra said, “She’s an actress. She was in some play he did last year. Now she’s in whatever it is at the Colonial. She’s very pretty. I saw her picture on-line. She has her own website. Very good-looking girl.”

  All of this fit perfectly. Burley had begged off several night jobs for Connie in the past few weeks. That was a good part of Connie’s business. So, if I wanted to find Burley, all I had to do was look up what time the show let out at the Colonial and be there at the stage door.

  I asked, “Why do you think he has his cell phone turned off?”

  Mae looked up wearily. “Because he couldn’t pay the bill.”

  The edge of this fact gave Herb his voice.

  “I told him I’d pay it.”

  Sandra shook her head. “You told him you’d pay it if he got a full time job.”

  Herb tilted his forehead in at his daughter without looking at her.

  “He had a perfectly good job. If he’d stuck it out at UPS he could have retired in another ten years. He was all set.”

  Sandra said, “He wants to be an actor, not a delivery boy.”

  Herb said, “So, he’s a gigolo.”

  Mae said, “He’s in love.”

  Smoke arose from beneath my potatoes in the pan.

  I actually knew something about all this as well. Burley never talks about his love life. That’s another leftover from his grandfather. It’s just not something a gentleman does. But I was there when Burley and Therese hooked up again.

  We were at a brew-pub over in what’s left of the West End, a couple of blocks from the Garden. We had worked a Celtics promotion together for Connie. Burley won’t eat meat. This can be a large pain in the butt when you want to go out for a beer. The closest most bars come to a vegetarian menu item is a plate of nachos.

  The Patriots game was on the big screens and into the first quarter and we still had the menus in hand when the waitress came over to our table just as Burley started his complaint.

  “I hate cheese.”

  ​I said what I usually say, “So don’t order cheese.”

  ​In no time, Miami was ahead by seven points and I was more interested in the game than being sensitive to Burley’s idiosyncrasies.

  ​He says, “I had corn chips for lunch.”

  ​The Patriots are driving down the field and Tom Brady is looking sharp, and the crowd is getting louder. I say, “For Christ sake, order a side of onion rings and a side of potatoes and a salad and stop complaining. It’s your friggin’ choice to eat innocent plants instead of some nasty old pig.”

  ​Gronkowski, just back from an injury, converted a fourth down to keep the drive alive. The crowd in the room suddenly gets religion.

  The waitress is still standing over us in the din of barstool enthusiasm. Somehow, she’d been able to hear our conversation. She says, “We have a mean pumpkin pie. Vicious. The pilgrims ate pies for dinner, you know. Freshly killed pumpkins. And the apple pie is rather nasty as well. Made from cute little apples. I read somewhere that people used to eat apple pie for breakfast. But we don’t mind. We serve it all day long.”

  ​This was a wry wit, but she did not break a smile and the delivery was totally cool. It reminded me of Mae Johnson right then. Burley has had his head in the menu before this and finally looks up at her, ready to offer some feedback, but he stops and squints.

  ​“Therese?”

  ​She jerks upright from a slouch. “Burley?”

  ​Burley is up from his seat in a bolt. Shane Vereen scores a touchdown, pulling the Patriots even 7 to 7, and the bar erupts in general jubilation, but Burley is as quiet as he gets. He’s just standing there. The waitress is giving him the eye and nodding like she can’t believe it’s really him. But no smile. I’m watching all this out of the corner of my eye, trying not to intrude. But it’s hard to stay quiet.

  ​I’ve known Burley a long time. I’ve met just about all his girlfriends through those years. I don’t know Therese. That would mean she could be an old high school friend. But she doesn’t look that old. Thirty to thirty-five at most. I’m guessing thirty. She’s blonde. Tall. Generally good looking but nothing special in that way. She has a dimple at one side of her mouth that gives her face a little different look.

  ​I stand up as well and stick out a hand. “Hi. I’m Joh
n Finn.”

  ​Burley wakes up from his stupor. “John, this is Therese Williams. We did a Horton Foote play out in the Berkshires a couple of summers ago.”

  Gostkowski boots a three to end the quarter and put the Pats ahead.

  ​Now I know just who she is. Burley was hang-dog for months after that. At the end of the season she’d gone to New York on a promise of work in a new production there and left him behind.

  ​Somebody at the table in back of us is suggesting that we sit down. The suggestion is impolite, and Burley turns an eye on them. In any case, I can see someone at another table trying to get Therese’s attention, so I sit down anyway.

  ​Burley sits down real slow, so as to make it clear he doing this on his own time, and Therese finally smiles. I see she actually has two dimples. The smile is lopsided and pretty cute.

  ​When she’s gone to do her duty elsewhere, I look at Burley for more information, but he’s only pretending to watch the game.

  ​By the time Rob Gronkowski makes a fabulous run for over thirty yards, Therese is back with an over-size piece of apple pie for Burley and a barbeque sandwich for me.

  ​There was still a lot of eye contact between Burley and Therese but few words after that. Just as well.

  In the second half it’s all Fish. Brady can’t make his plays. Burley remained quiet through the whole collapse. I should have known this was a serious matter right then. But I have my own concerns, of course.

  ​After dinner Burley and I walked all the way to Park Street for no other reason than to be doing it. Burley told me a little about Therese on the way, but still not enough for me to really know anything more than that he thought it necessary to say anything at all. By then, I already knew it was serious.

  ​Therese is from Chicago. She studied drama there and came east for better work.

  ​And what I also know is that Burley would never bring Therese to his parents’ home for anything but Sunday dinner. He and his sister Sandra are as different as that.

  Girls are tough. They can be full of bullshit about being independent and totally lose their common sense. But then, most of everything is a matter of context.

  That’s not to say things are relative. I’m not talking moral relativism. I’m just saying it’s okay to do some things in private that you would not do on the street, or at your parents’ house. You don’t bring your girlfriend home to stay overnight at your parents’ house unless she’s wearing your ring. And more especially, if your parents are Herb and Mae. Sandra is razor sharp, but she has no common sense at all.

  Sandra says, “He’s embarrassed. Ashamed. No offense, John, but she’s as blonde as corn. What’s he going to do—”

  Mae grabbed her daughter’s wrist and says, “Shut up, Sandra.”

  Herb leaned forward, with his mustache in a straight line from side to side.

  “You remember the day Burley first dragged you in here, John?”

  I did. Very well. “Yes, sir.”

  Herb‘s eyes shifted up to my forehead. “I still see the scar there above your eyebrow.”

  I said, “I see it every morning.”

  Herb takes a good breath to gather the rest of his thought. “There was a time back then—just a brief time—when I had the idea things would be better. Like we’d gone over the worst of it. Things between people were getting more civilized. And then my boy drags in this big white lunk with blood all over his face and asks his momma to fix it up. And I’m thinking, here it is again. Here we are back to it again. But no. It’s just a good old-fashioned bar brawl and race has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. And just as quick as that I’m thinking, good God almighty, maybe it will be okay. Down and up. Just like that. I got to laughing. The down and up of it made me start laughing. Mae was furious. What was I laughing at with this poor boy all bloodied up?”

  The moment came back clearly to me. “I remember that.”

  Mae is looking quizzical now. It’s all over her face. “What is Herb talking about now?”

  Herb turns to his daughter.

  “I always thought you were the radical, Sandra. You were the one always coming home with the new ideas. Always preaching the need for change. But your brother has it all over you. For all your talk and all your new ideas, you’re really just yesterday’s news. You’re stuck in the past, girl. You and your boyfriend are just full of yourselves. You’re still working old ground, while your brother is out taking on life as it comes. I wish to hell he’d stayed with his job at UPS, but I’m more proud of him for trying to do something with his dreams. Meanwhile, you’re still sitting around on you hands worried about who’s white and who’s black. Yesterday’s news.” Herb picked up a salt shaker and set it down again in the exact same spot to punctuate his thought. “Like the newspapers my daddy used to bring home from work. Used to pick up three or four different papers every day from the empty sleepers. Never bought a newspaper in his life. He’d be sitting there in his high back chair when I came home from school. ‘That ball game is over,’ I’d say. He’d say, ‘Don’t tell me who won. I’ll get to that tomorrow.’ He was always reading yesterdays news. Always worried about what had already happened and what was done with.”

  Sandra sat through all this with a fork still in her hand and her face blank. Somehow, she had stepped into something she did not expect. She didn’t have a ready quip for any of this.

  For my own part, I had wandered into a battle in progress without knowing it. I kept my own mouth shut.

  28. The way you’d want it to be

  ​I figured I had an excuse. I wanted my cap back. Besides, the drive isn’t so bad. A straight shot down I-95. Most the time is spent on the ferry out of New London, and now I know there’s a good little diner there where I can get some breakfast. Getting the early boat was not so bad either. Not a bad time to be on the water if the weather 's right.

  ​I called Mrs. Arnold first, of course. Last night. She was a little surprised to hear from me.

  ​She said, “I thought you’d come back for the hat, but I was thinking it would be that very day. You’re lucky. I almost donated it to the Salvation Army last week.”

  ​I said, “It’s a nice cap. My kids gave it to me for Christmas years ago.”

  ​She said, “It’s a little worn out, don’t you think? It’s Christmas again. Maybe you should ask Santa for another one.”

  ​I said, “Sentimental value. Besides. I thought you might be willing to chat with me again.”

  ​She was okay with that.

  ​Unfortunately, a blustering cold wind had everyone huddled inside on the ferry during the trip. Long Island Sound was rolling with the gusts. I’m not good with that on a full plate of bacon and eggs. It had me thinking about the return trip. Then a young woman in an Army uniform, who had been in line with me coming up from where we parked our cars, said it was about to blow over and not to worry. I saw her standing outside by the rail later on and she seemed to enjoy it. I wished I was younger and could go out there and enjoy it with her. Nevertheless, my breakfast eggs were not sunny side up any longer.

  ​Greenport is looking a bit beaten. There’s been some snow in the few weeks since I was there last and this has turned grimy in the gutters and made the roof edges a bit raggedy. Small houses don’t take the trappings of weather the same way the grand ones do.

  ​Betty Arnold meets me at the door before I can ring this time. She’s wearing a dark green dress with a silver necklace that picks up a bit from her hair, or visa versa. She looks pretty good. Tall women can look elegant without a lot of trouble.

  ​Oddly, from the start, I get the same impression I had on my first visit. I feel like she’s flirting with me right from hello. But then, I figure I was wrong the other time, so I try to dismiss it as the delusions of a middle-aged guy looking for attention.

  ​The first thing I notice as I’m taking off my coat is a small photograph of Des on the table in the foyer. I’d swear it wasn’t there before. It makes me realize t
here are no photographs anywhere else that I can see. Of anyone. I wonder if maybe there may be something in the bedroom or on the refrigerator door. Anyway, this one is small. Probably a high school picture. Des looks very young and innocent.

  ​I see my cap there on the coffee table by the couch, and I put the hat I wore this morning next to it. She sits a little sideways on the couch as if to make room for me there, but I sit down in the chair across.

  ​I say, “I’m sorry to be bothering you again. I really don’t want to be adding to your worry about Des. I’m just trying to put some more pieces together.”

  ​She flicks a hand in the air. “That’s perfectly alright. I’m just happy someone else cares enough. It doesn’t seem possible that someone can just disappear, does it? . . . I have coffee ready this time. Would you like some coffee?”

  ​I’ve had my share already, but I have to say yes. She’s up with a bounce and back again with a tray already prepared. She probably has the schedule for the ferry and knew right about when I’d be showing up.

  ​So, I have to begin somewhere. I say, “I know there hasn’t been much time since I called, but I was wondering if you’ve found anything else. Or remembered something. Maybe a few letters?”

  ​Betty Arnold studies my face as she answers. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Then she says, “Actually, yes! Just a couple. I’m not a terribly sentimental person, you understand. Maggie’s father always said so. One of his regular jibes. I suppose Charlie was right about that, at least. I throw most things away as soon as I’m through with them. I don’t have any letters from California at all. But Patrick, my last husband, kept everything. Every nut and bolt. Not for sentimental reasons, he used to say, but for economy. Patrick was very practical. And he kept a couple of letters Maggie sent me from Portugal. She was there quite a while, you know. Maybe two years. I was already living out here then, you understand. Patrick put both of them in a folder in his desk. I really think he hoped that Maggie and I might patch things up as she got older. He always wanted a family of his own. He really just wanted to be a grandfather, I think. Poor Patrick.”