“And I’m one of the people you sleep around with.”
“Yes.”
“But not the only one.”
“There’s something wrong with me, Conn. I can’t … if I think there’s only one man, I—I despair…. I can’t.”
Holding her drink in her left hand she fumbled the rest of the buttons open with her right hand.
“So there’s nothing to talk about, after all,” Conn said. “Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.”
“We have a deal,” Hadley said. “You protect my son, and I fuck you every week. A deal’s a deal.”
Conn slapped her. Even in his anger, he pulled it, and it didn’t knock her down. But it sent her glass flying across the room, and it made her lip bleed. She took a step back and shrugged out of her dress. Her eyes glittered. She made no effort to wipe the blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth. Conn’s voice was hoarse.
“You are a mortally sinful bitch,” he said.
She stepped gracefully out of her slip and placed herself against him. Her eyes were bright and hot and her voice was almost guttural as she looked up at him and spoke.
“And you are my punishment,” she said, and jammed her mouth against his.
Gus
Lying on the bed in his room, Gus listened to the sixth game of the World Series, on the brown plastic GE table radio that Conn had just bought him for his fifteenth birthday. When it was over, he came out of his room, excited, and went downstairs to see if Conn was home, and had heard the game. Conn was sitting at the kitchen table with his coat off and his sleeves rolled, drinking whiskey. Gus was surprised. His father rarely drank at home.
“You hear the game?” Gus said.
“Part of it,” Conn said.
“Bevens had a no-hitter,” Gus said, “going into the ninth. And Lavagetto hit a double off the screen in right and Miksis and Gionfriddo both scored and the Dodgers won. One hit.”
“Sonva bitch,” Conn said. And Gus realized his father was drunk.
“Where’s Ma?” Gus said.
Conn jerked his head toward the den.
“Get a glass,” Conn said. “Have a drink with me.”
Gus glanced toward the den. His mother was usually in there, with the shades down, rocking, reading her missal. Gus got a water glass from the kitchen cabinet and sat down again. His father took two ice cubes from the half-melted refrigerator tray sitting on the table, and put them in Gus’s glass and poured some whiskey in over them. Gus sipped some without flinching. He and his friends drank beer when they could get someone to buy it. But his father had given him whiskey before, and he was used to the taste. His father drank with him. He was solemn.
“You’re a good kid, Gus.”
Gus nodded. He didn’t know what to say.
“Too bad I’m not as good a father as you are a kid,” Conn said.
“You’re a good father.”
“Maybe all a man can hope for,” Conn said. His voice was slow, and he was looking past Gus, out the kitchen window at the bright October afternoon that was slowly fading into evening. “Just have a kid comes out all right.”
Conn poured some more whiskey for himself. Mellen came from the den and stood in the doorway, her arms folded. She wore a gray housedress and white shoes. A hole was cut in the right shoe to relieve pressure on her small toe. Her gray hair was pulled back tight, and rolled into a small bun at the back. When she spoke her voice was barely inflected.
“It’s bad enough you bring your bad habits home, Conn, without you should be inflicting them on your son.”
Conn looked at her and Gus was a little scared by the look in his father’s eyes.
“Well, Melly, darlin’,” Conn said. “Don’t you look fetchin’ this afternoon.”
Mellen’s mouth thinned, and her face tightened with disapproval. Gus knew the look.
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“I certainly hope so,” Conn said.
Gus sat very still.
“Go to bed, Conn,” Mellen said.
“With you?”
“Conn, not in front of the boy.”
“Why not?” Conn said. “He’s already shavin’. Probably getting laid too.”
“Conn!”
“You getting laid, Gus?”
Gus said, “Jesus Christ, Pa. In front of Ma?”
Mellen said, “Augustus Sheridan, don’t you use that kind of language in my house.”
“My house,” Conn said, and laughed. There was no amusement in the laugh. “You hear that, Gus? My house. I bought it. I pay the fucking mortgage every fucking month, but it’s her fucking house.”
Gus said, “Pa!”
Mellen lunged at him from the doorway, her face pale and tight with anger. She bent from the waist to put her face in front of his.
“Don’t you speak that way to me, as if I was one of those cheap women,” she said. “Don’t you dare speak to me that way.”
Conn appeared to ignore her.
“If you’re getting laid, kid, don’t knock them up. You have to marry one, you’re in for a long, ugly life.”
Mellen punched him in the chest with both fists. Conn stood in one smooth motion and pushed her away. The force of it staggered her against the wall. She leaned against it for a moment, dazed. Then she began to scream. Conn took a step toward her. Gus stood and pushed in front of his father.
“Leave her alone,” he said.
Conn looked down at his son.
“Sonva bitch,” he said. “You are a good kid.”
“She’s my mother,” Gus said.
“You can’t stop me yet,” Conn said. “Someday, but not yet.”
“She’s my mother,” Gus said again.
“Yeah,” Conn said. “I know.”
Conn stood silently looking past his son at Mellen, who was holding her face in her hands and making low shrieking sounds. Then he looked at Gus.
“You’re doing what you should,” Conn said.
Then he turned back toward the table and finished his drink. Mellen was still leaning on the wall screaming. Her nose was bleeding.
“Remember,” he said to Gus. “Fuck ’em and run. Don’t love ’em.”
“Pa,” Gus said, “get out of here till you’re sober.”
Conn nodded.
“Fuck ’em and run, kid. Fuck ’em and run.”
Conn took his coat off the back of the chair where he’d hung it and walked out of the house.
1952
Conn
At fifty-two, Hadley still looked good, Conn thought, as he watched her undress. The curve of her backside had softened a little, but her stomach was still flat and her breasts were holding up. She hung her clothes up neatly in the closet, and went into the bathroom, and ran the water in the tub. She stood naked in the bathroom door while the tub filled.
“How is your son?” Hadley said, her face softening artfully. “You never speak of him.”
“He’s in Korea,” Conn said flatly. “Twenty-fourth Infantry Division.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Gives Mellen something to pray about,” Conn said.
“I hope he’ll be all right.”
“Yeah.”
“He will be, Conn. I know he will.”
Conn didn’t speak. Hadley was tanned except where her bathing suit had covered her, and the contrasting whiteness seemed to highlight her sexuality.
“Tommy’s coming home,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“The doctors say he is cured.”
“Sure.”
“His father wants him to start in the bank so he’ll be ready when Thomas retires.”
Conn shrugged.
“Is it all right?” Hadley said. She seemed heedless of her nudity, as if it were her natural condition. How many Thursdays, in how many hotels, Conn wondered, had he looked at her naked?
Conn shrugged again.
“No problem,” he said. Maybe he is cured.
She smiled brightly and turned and got into her bath. Conn
went to the window to look out at Commonwealth Avenue. It was June. The trees were in foil leaf along the mall. The avenue looked orderly and pleasant. Hadley came out of the bathroom drying herself with a towel. When she was dry, she dropped the towel on the floor and lay on her back on the bed. Conn stared down at the trees. Hadley waited quietly. Conn turned and looked at her. The tan body, the white highlights, still slightly damp, her face empty. Slowly he loosened his tie. He didn’t want her, really. It was almost as if he were doomed to do this, to pound futilely at the temple door, and never gain admission. The hell with the temple door, he thought. Settle for the pussy.
1954
Conn
They were on Harrison Avenue. Knocko was driving, as he always did.
“Gus joined the forces of law and order?” Knocko said.
“Yeah. City Square. Gets credit for Korea.”
“Good deal for these new kids,” Knocko said. “Two years head start on the pension.”
Conn had a big paper cup fall of black coffee. He took a pint of Irish whiskey from his coat pocket and poured some into the coffee.
“For Crissake,” Knocko said. “It’s eight in the fucking morning.”
“Get my heart going,” Conn said. He sipped the coffee. Knocko turned off of Harrison Avenue and parked near Tyler Street.
“Collection day?” Conn said.
“Friday morning, time to make the rounds,” Knocko said. He got out of the car and walked down the alley to the mah-jongg parlor. Conn drank coffee and waited for Knocko. When the cup was half empty he added more whiskey. Knocko came back up Tyler Street and got in the car.
“Been collecting money from this place for twenty-five years,” Knocko said. “For protection.”
“Sure,” Conn said. “Protection.”
“Well,” Knocko said sadly, “now we gotta earn it.”
“I thought we did earn it,” Conn said. “I thought we were getting paid to protect them from us.”
“Last six, seven years,” Knocko said, “bunch of new gooks coming in. Deserters, mostly, from Chiang’s army after the Commies chased him out.”
“Land of opportunity,” Conn said.
Knocko jerked his head toward the mah-jongg parlor down the alley. “They’re trying to take Chou over,” he said.
“So let’s tell them not to,” Conn said. His coffee cup was empty.
“You all right for this?” Knocko said.
“Sure,” Conn said. He took the whiskey from his pocket and had a drink and offered it to Knocko. Knocko shook his head. Conn capped the bottle and put it away. Knocko started the car and they drove two blocks and parked on Beach Street in front of a small variety store with Chinese characters lettered on the window. Knocko looked at Conn again.
“In there,” he said. “Guy we want is named Lone.”
“Like in Ranger,” Conn said.
“Yeah,” Knocko said. “Like in Ranger.”
They got out of the car.
“You okay for this?” Knocko said again.
“I was born for this,” Conn said.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t. So don’t be a fucking cowboy.”
“Hi yo, Silver,” Conn said, and they walked into the store.
It was dim inside, and smelled of odd things. Some smoked duck hung on hooks near the front window, and a variety of peculiar looking roots and unrecognizable vegetables lay on a narrow table across the back. A slender Chinese man stood behind the table counting money. He wore a white shirt open at the neck. A maroon silk scarf filled the opening. His movements were graceful and precise as he transferred bills from a large pile into smaller piles separated by denomination.
Knocko took out his badge.
“You Lone?” Knocko said.
Without looking up the Chinese man nodded. He separated a twenty from the big pile and put it on top of a smaller pile with the other twenties.
“Boston Police Department,” Knocko said.
Lone continued to count his money.
“You know a guy named Chou runs a mah-jongg parlor on Tyler Street?”
Lone nodded, concentrating on his counting.
“We got a complaint.”
Lone nodded again. He took the pile of twenties and pushed them across the table at Knocko.
“Okay?” he said.
Knocko grinned.
“Good idea,” Knocko said, “but we been taking Chou’s money for years. We sell him out first chance we get and who else will give us money?”
Conn was leaning against the door frame looking at the smoked ducks.
“No?” Lone said.
“No,” Knocko said.
Lone nodded and brought his right hand up from below the table. In it was a .45 automatic, the hammer already back. He must store it cocked, Conn thought hear me say we’re policemen? You’re threatening two policemen, Lone.”
“You go.”
Knocko frowned.
“Hey, Lone,” Conn said from the doorway.
The muzzle of the gun deflected slightly toward Conn. Conn grinned. He thought of the last time he saw Mick Collins. You were born to be shot.
“Fuck you,” Conn said, and walked into the gunfire.
Gus
Up front in Holy Cross Cathedral, Mellen in her new black dress prayed audibly along with the priest, kneeling beside her son at the funeral mass that Gus knew Conn would have laughed at. Knocko Kiernan was there with Faith, and most of his children. The police commissioner and the mayor were in attendance, and all the members of the City Council. Afterwards they gave Conn a full killed-in-the-line-of-duty burial. Police from all over the state were in the burial procession. A bugler played taps. A volley of shots was fired.
At graveside Gus stood with Mellen on his arm by the pile of newly turned earth, which had been covered with a tarp. Across the grave, somewhat apart from the crowd of mostly official mourners, Gus saw a middle-aged blond woman wearing a black hat with a veil.
She must have been something when she was young, Gus thought.
After the burial, while Mellen was at the center of a great circle of condolences, the blond woman came to stand beside Gus.
“I’m Hadley Winslow” she said softly. “I knew your father.”
“Thanks for coming,” Gus said automatically.
“He was a better man than he may have seemed,” Hadley said.
Gus turned to stare at her. She smiled at him, patted his upper arm briefly, and walked away. Gus stared after her.
Probably was, he thought.
Gus
“How’s your mother?” Knocko Kiernan said to Gus.
“She’s in there with the rosary beads. Her and God.”
“Better than nothing,” Knocko said.
Gus shrugged. They were sitting at the table in Mellen’s kitchen. Each with a glass of whiskey. There was a bottle on the table between them.
“It wasn’t police business,” Knocko said. “We was there to protect a guy was paying us.”
Gus nodded.
“I figured that,” Gus said.
“Yeah?”
“You hear stuff,” Gus said. “I’m glad you killed the gook.”
“Me or him,” Knocko said. “First guy I ever shot.”
They were silent, looking at the whiskey, not drinking it.
“My father never cleared his piece,” Gus said.
Knocko shook his head.
“Gus,” Knocko said, “I … to tell you the truth, Gus, it didn’t seem like he tried.”
“Just walked into it,” Gus said.
Knocko nodded. “He was always like that, never seemed to give a shit.”
“I know.”
“Conn was a stand-up guy,” Knocko said.
“Conn was crazy,” Gus said.
“Hell, Gus.”
“He was, the old lady too.” Gus jerked his head toward the bedroom. “They drove each other fucking crazy all my life.”
“I knew him before you was born. Before he met your mother. He was a g
ood man, Gus. It was just … he just had, like a part missing, you know?”
“Yeah.”
They were silent. Each looking at the whiskey. Neither drinking it.
“He gimme something to give you,” Knocko said. From an old brown briefcase, on the floor, between his feet, he took a large manila envelope and put it on the table in front of Gus.
“What is it?”
“I dunno. He never told me what it was. Just said it was your insurance policy. Said give it to you if he died.”
“When’d he give it to you?”
“Six, eight years ago,” Knocko said. “It was Jackie Robinson’s rookie season, I remember that, ’cause we were talking about him when he give it to me.”
“Nineteen forty-seven,” Gus said.
“Yeah.”
“And you never looked?”
“No. Was for me, I’d a looked. Conn said this was for you. Nobody else, not Mellen or nobody.”
“Lot of people would have looked,” Gus said.
“I ain’t one of them,” Knocko said.
“No,” Gus said. “You’re not.”
1955
Gus
When Gus came home from work, his mother called to him from her chair in the parlor, “Is that you, dear?”
“Yes,” Gus said. He took off his uniform jacket and hung it up in the front closet.
“You going to come in and tell me about your day?”
“In a minute, Ma.”
Gus went to the kitchen and opened a can of Ballantine ale. He took a swallow, and then took the can in with him to see his mother.
There were no lights. It was early evening, and there was snow outside, which made everything brighter, so that the room was less dim than it often was. Her Bible was on the table near her, and her rosary. A loosely crocheted lap robe sprawled over the back of the Boston rocker that she sat in. She wore her housedress. She had a number of them and they all looked the same to Gus, though he knew she changed them regularly.
He gave her a kiss on the forehead, and went to sit across from her on the couch.
“I wish you wouldn’t drink so much,” Mellen said.
Gus sipped his beer.
“You ought to try it,” he said. “Loosen you up a little.”
All Our Yesterdays Page 14