Miss Powell was uncomfortable here, though. Jimmy could tell. After she’d said a few words to Dave and touched his face and kissed his cheek—she kissed him twice—other people moved in, and Miss Powell stepped aside and stood on the cracked sidewalk looking up at the leaning three-deckers and their tar paper curling up to expose the wood underneath, and she seemed younger and yet harder to Jimmy at the same time, as if there was something suddenly nunnish about her, touching her hair to feel for her habit, button nose twitching and ready to judge.
Jimmy wanted to go to her, but his mother was still holding him tight, ignoring his squirms, and then Miss Powell walked to the corner of Rester and Sydney and Jimmy watched her wave desperately to someone. A hippie-looking guy pulled up in a hippie-looking yellow convertible with faded purple flower petals painted on the sunbaked doors, and Miss Powell climbed in the car and they drove off, Jimmy thinking, No.
He finally wrenched free of his mother’s hold. He stood in the middle of the street, watching the crowd surround Dave, and he wished he’d gotten in that car, if only so he could feel some of the adoration Dave was feeling, see all those eyes looking at him like he was something special.
It turned into a big party on Rester Street, everyone running from camera to camera, hoping they’d get on TV or see themselves in the morning papers—Yeah, I know Dave, he’s my best friend, grew up with him, you know, great kid, thank the good Lord he’s okay.
Someone opened a hydrant and the water jetted out onto Rester like a sigh of relief, and kids tossed their shoes to the gutter and rolled up their pants and danced in the gushing water. The ice cream truck rolled in, and Dave got to pick whatever he wanted, on the house, and even Mr. Pakinaw, a nasty old widower who fired a BB rifle at squirrels (and kids, too, sometimes, if their parents weren’t looking) and screamed all the time for people to just be fucking quiet, will ya—he opened up his windows and put his speakers up against the screens and next thing you know, Dean Martin was singing “Memories Are Made of This” and “Volare” and a lot of other shit Jimmy would normally puke if he heard, but today, it fit. Today the music floated down Rester like bright streams of crepe paper. It mixed with the loud gush of water from the hydrant. Some of the guys who ran the card game in the back of the Pork Chop Brothers’ store brought out a folding table and a small grill, and pretty soon someone else carted out some coolers filled with Schlitz and Narragansett, and the air turned fat with the smell of grilled hot dogs and Italian sausage, the wafting, smoky, charred smell and the whiff of open beer cans making Jimmy think of Fenway Park and summer Sundays and that tight joy you got in your chest when the adults kicked back and acted more like kids, everyone laughing, everyone looking younger and lighter and happy to be around each other.
This was what Jimmy, even in the pit of his blackest hates after a beating from the old man or the theft of something he’d cared about—this was what he loved about growing up here. It was the way people could suddenly throw off a year of aches and complaints and split lips and job worries and old grudges and just let loose, like nothing bad had ever happened in their lives. On St. Pat’s or Buckingham Day, sometimes on the Fourth of July, or when the Sox were playing well in September, or, like now, when something collectively lost had been found—especially then—this neighborhood could erupt into a kind of furious delirium.
Not like up in the Point. In the Point they had block parties, sure, but they were always planned, the necessary permits obtained, everyone making sure everyone else was careful around the cars, careful on the lawns—Watch it, I just painted that fence.
In the Flats, half the people didn’t have lawns, and the fences sagged, so what the fuck. When you wanted to party, you partied, because, shit, you sure as hell deserved it. No bosses here today. No welfare investigators or loan shark muscle. And as for the cops—well, there were the cops now, partying along with everyone else, Officer Kubiaki helping himself to a hot-’n’-spicy sausage spuckie off the grill, and his partner pocketing a beer for later. The reporters had all gone home and the sun was starting to set, giving the street that time-for-dinner glow, but none of the women were cooking, and no one was going inside.
Except for Dave. Dave was gone, Jimmy realized when he stepped out of the hydrant spray and squeezed out his pant cuffs and put his T-shirt back on as he waited in line for a hot dog. Dave’s party was in full swing, but Dave must have gone back in his house, his mother, too, and when Jimmy looked at their second-story windows, the shades were drawn and lonely.
Those drawn shades made him think of Miss Powell for some reason, of her climbing in that hippie-looking car, and it made him feel grimy and sad to remember watching her curve her right calf and ankle into the car before she’d closed the door. Where was she going? Was she driving on the highway right now, the wind streaming through her hair like the music streamed down Rester Street? Was the night closing in on them in that hippie car as they drove off to…where? Jimmy wanted to know, but then he didn’t want to know. He’d see her in school tomorrow—unless they gave everyone a day off from school, too, to celebrate Dave’s return—and he’d want to ask her, but he wouldn’t.
Jimmy took his hot dog and sat down on the curb across from Dave’s house to eat it. When he was about halfway through the dog, one of the shades rolled up and he saw Dave standing in the window, staring down at him. Jimmy held up his half-eaten hot dog in recognition, but Dave didn’t acknowledge him, even when he tried a second time. Dave just stared. He stared at Jimmy, and even though Jimmy couldn’t see his eyes, he could sense blankness in them. Blankness, and blame.
acknowledgments
During the writing of this novel, the following people provided advice, criticism, encouragement, and enthusiasm for which I’ll always be more grateful than they could possibly know:
John Dempsey, Mal Ellenburg, Ruth Greenstein, Tupi Konstan, Gerard Lehane, Chris Mullen, Courtnay Pelech, Ann Riley, Ann Rittenberg, Claire Wachtel, and Sterling Watson.
About the Author
DENNIS LEHANE is the New York Times bestselling author of Mystic River; Prayers for Rain; Gone, Baby, Gone; Sacred; Darkness, Take My Hand; and A Drink Before the War, winner of the Shamus Award for Best First Novel. He lives in the Boston area.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Acclaim for A DRINK BEFORE THE WAR WINNER OF THE SHAMUS AWARD FOR BEST FIRST NOVEL
“Once you begin A Drink Before the War, you’ll resent every minute you have to spend away from it.”
St. Petersburg Times
“Harsh and chilling…an absolutely terrific story.”
Boston Sunday Globe
“Dennis Lehane sets off some real fireworks…Old Boston politicos and young Uzi-toting warlords…Lehane handles it all with a veteran’s aplomb. The violence of his story is balanced by the grace of his prose and the morality of his characters.”
Orlando Sentinel
“What a first novel! Smart, hip and moving…I’m betting Lehane is going to be a name to reckon with in years to come.”
James W. Hall
“Witty, strong, and evocative…a powerful story and a superbly written one…Lehane does everything well…Kenzie and Gennaro are beautifully crafted protagonists…Some of the best prose I’ve read this year.”
Mystery News
“With a single stroke, Dennis Lehane has established himself as a player to watch in the business of crime literature.”
John Dufresne
Books by Dennis Lehane
CORONADO
SHUTTER ISLAND
MYSTIC RIVER
PRAYERS FOR RAIN
GONE, BABY, GONE
SACRED
DARKNESS, TAKE MY HAND
A DRINK BEFORE THE WAR
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to ac
tual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A DRINK BEFORE THE WAR. Copyright © 1994 by Dennis Lehane. Excerpts copyright © 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2001 by Dennis Lehane. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
First HarperTorch paperback printing: December 2000
First Avon Books paperback printing: July 1996
EPub Edition © April 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-201565-5
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