All Our Yesterdays

by Robert B. Parker

  Gus shrugged.

  “Do you ever want to?” Mary Alice said.

  “Fuck Peggy?” Gus made a brusque laugh. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Lot of husbands and wives like to do it,” Mary Alice said. She slid the omelet onto a platter and put the toast in. “You want coffee?”

  Gus shook his head. Mary Alice put out some jam and a bottle of ketchup, and served her omelet, cut in two, on two plates. The toast popped. She buttered it and put it on a plate between them. Then she poured herself some more white wine and sat down to eat. Gus drank some Scotch and soda. He was mixing them very dark now.

  “She can’t cook for shit either,” he said.

  Mary Alice was quiet. Gus poured some ketchup on his omelet. He took a bite and chewed it silently, and drank some more Scotch.

  “She used to have a tight little body,” he said. “And she was lively and cute, and chatty. I was kind of proud of her. She never liked sex that I could tell, but she let me because it was, you know, Catholic stuff. Wifely duty, and having a baby. All that shit. And then after Chris was born it was like, well, that’s done. And she didn’t want to do it anymore. Birth control was sinful and she had a tipped womb and her back hurt. And taking care of Chris made her exhausted. Truth is when I married her she was a cute little girl and she never got to be more than that. Except now she’s not cute.”

  Gus drank the rest of his Scotch and went for more. Mary Alice sat very still. Gus rarely talked to her about anything.

  “Bad back was a godsend to her,” Gus said. “Now she wedges herself into her fucking corset and straps herself in … like body armor … fucking chastity belt.”

  He brought the Scotch back and sat down with it and looked at her hard across the table. There was always that hard edge in Gus, always something a little frightening, a little exciting.

  “And she got fat,” he said. When he was drunk his speech slowed down, but he never seemed to slur. “A lovely sight in her corset.”

  He took a drink.

  “And when she takes it off you can see the grooves it made in her fat. Course, you don’t see her that much with it off, ’cause she dresses and undresses in the closet.”

  He drank again and stared into the glass while he swallowed.

  “We got twin beds now.”

  He drank again and stared at the wall past her head for a long time. It was an empty wall, no pictures, nothing to decorate it. Mary Alice sipped her wine, and finished her omelet. Gus’s omelet cooled on his plate with only a bite gone.

  “Why’d you marry her, Gus?”

  “Better than daily Mass with my mother…. And, I wanted a kid. I was all my old man ever cared about. Which wasn’t much.”

  “Why do you stay with her, Gus?”

  “After Chris? I left her, she’d have got the kid,” he said. His gaze stayed on the wall.

  “Maybe not,” Mary Alice said.

  “We’re Irish,” Gus said. “And Catholic. She’d have got the kid.”

  “What about now?”

  Gus shrugged.

  “Too late,” he said.

  And he stared at the blank wall as if it would stay confusion.

  Debbie McBride

  Girl Scout Troop 3 from Abington was just filing through the gate to see Old Ironsides when they heard the firecrackers. A man came running toward them from the direction of the Mystic River Bridge, and then a car came, going too fast, weaving among the orange-striped plastic barrels that marked the construction way, and there were more firecracker sounds and the man fell sprawling forward and they all heard Mrs. Simpson, who was in charge of them, say, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” And the car pulled away and the man didn’t move where he had fallen and it seemed very quiet. Then someone noticed that Debbie Mc-Bride had fallen down too. And she didn’t get up either, and Mrs. Simpson ran over to her and looked at her and they all heard her say, “Jesus.” And a cop came running from down by the museum and in a while there were ambulances, and police cars, and more policemen than there even were in Abington. And through it all the man in the street and Debbie McBride both lay very still, and didn’t move.

  Mary Alice

  “A fucking Girl Scout,” Parnell Flaherty said to Mary Alice Burke. “An Irish Catholic fucking Girl Scout from the suburbs.”

  He was walking back and forth in his office in front of the window that looked down on Quincy Market.

  “I knew it would happen. I knew those assholes would shoot a civilian.”

  “It could be worse,” Mary Alice said.

  “Sure,” Flaherty said. “It coulda been the pope, from fucking Rome.”

  “She didn’t die,” Mary Alice said.

  She was leaning her hips against the edge of Flaherty’s big conference table behind the couch. She had on a black silk suit with a short skirt, a cardigan jacket, and a man-tailored white shirt, open at the throat. There was a rope of pearls around her neck.

  “Isn’t that swell?” Flaherty said. “The plucky little dear can tell her story over and over again. And we can see pictures of her in her cute little hospital bed and hear her cute little interviews on the six o’clock news and the eleven o’clock news, and the noon news and the sunrise edition of eye-opener news. They killed her we’d have had to get through the funeral and then it would have been over.”

  Mary Alice smiled. “Mister Warm,” she said.

  Flaherty tossed his head.

  “Winslow has been killing me on crime in the streets. This is going to feed him for a year.”

  “Maybe it’s done,” Mary Alice said.

  “The O’Briens and the Malloys?” Flaherty shook his head. “Gus says it’s a blood feud.”

  “So it could happen again.”

  “And again,” Flaherty said. “And again. They don’t give a shit.”

  He turned and stared down at the Marketplace.

  “Crime Wave Sweeps Hub,” he said. “Fear Grips City.”

  “Any intelligent voter will know it’s not your fault,” Mary Alice said.

  Flaherty turned from the window and looked at her with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Yeah, sure. Both of them,” he said.

  “So what can you do?” Mary Alice said.

  “The electorate doesn’t like it when you do nothing,” Flaherty said. “Even if nothing is the thing to do. They like action. Even if it’s the wrong action.”

  “Granted.”

  “So we do something,” Flaherty said. He continued to stare at her, arms folded, motionless against the cityscape below his window. Mary Alice assumed he was posing, as he often did. “You got any ideas?”

  Mary Alice raised her eyebrows.

  “You’re a smart broad, Mary Alice,” Flaherty said. “I’m interested in what you got to say.”

  Mary Alice pursed her lips and was silent for a moment while Flaherty kept his pose in front of the window and waited.

  “You need a special prosecutor, or investigator, or commissioner, or whatever you decide finally to call it. Somebody appointed by you personally to bring a stop to this deadly gang war that threatens the very fabric of urban civility.”

  “Urban civility,” Flaherty said.

  He began to walk again, arms still folded, pacing back and forth in front of his window.

  “Urban civility,” he said again, as he walked.

  Mary Alice waited. Flaherty had his head down as he paced. His eyes were nearly closed.

  “So who?” he said.

  Mary Alice took in a deep breath and said, “Chris Sheridan.”

  Flaherty froze in midstride. His eyes slitted, his arms folded, his head down, he stood absolutely still while Mary Alice listened to the tick of the big old Seth Thomas clock on Flaherty’s desk. Then he slowly straightened and turned his head toward her, his eyes wide open now.

  “Gus Sheridan’s kid.”

  Mary Alice nodded.

  “He’s a lawyer,” she said. “A nationally known criminologist, son of a cop.” />
  “And he goes out with Cabot Winslow’s sister,” Flaherty said.

  Mary Alice smiled.

  “Would he do it?” Flaherty said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You been fucking Gus for ten years,” Flaherty said. “You must know something.”

  “I didn’t know it was common knowledge,” Mary Alice said.

  “It’s not. I know it. I know a lot of things. Would he do it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never even met him.”

  Flaherty nodded.

  “What do you think Gus’s reaction would be?”

  Mary Alice shrugged.

  “He loves the kid,” she said. “I know that.”

  Flaherty started to pace again.

  “You think Gus cuts any corners?” he said.

  “I’m not here to talk about Gus,” Mary Alice said.

  “Sure,” Flaherty said.

  Flaherty walked back and forth. The Seth Thomas clock ticked.

  “Gus is a handful,” Flaherty said. “You understand him?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t want him for an enemy.”

  “He’s not likely to be your enemy if his kid’s on your side,” Mary Alice said.

  Flaherty nodded.

  “How about you, Mary Alice? You got something going? You got some motive here?”

  Mary Alice smiled and shook her head without speaking.

  Flaherty tossed his head again and laughed.

  “Course you do. Everybody does.”

  Mary Alice remained quiet. Flaherty slapped his hands against his thighs to some internal rhythm for a moment. Then he smiled.

  “Let’s get Chris Sheridan in here,” he said, “and offer him the job.”

  Chris

  Grace sat across from Chris at a corner table in the bar at the Casablanca. It was an airy room for a barroom, with bright murals of scenes from the movie, and a long half-circular bar along one side of the room. They hunched forward a little as they talked to each other.

  “It seems like a good idea to meet like this once a week, and talk,” Grace said. “I think it’s important to keep talking.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sometimes I’m so worried about you, I can’t breathe,” Grace said.

  “But not quite worried enough about me to come back,” Chris said.

  She shook her head.

  “No. That’s not a reason to be together.”

  Chris nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  With both hands, Grace turned her wineglass slowly in front of her.

  “I think you need other relationships,” Grace said.

  “You mean dating?”

  “I mean open your life up. New friends, new relationships, men or women.”

  “You think I should start dating men?”

  Grace smiled.

  “No, I don’t think that’s your style,” she said. “But you need to see other people.”

  The Casablanca served Yuengling on draft and Chris was drinking it. His glass was empty and he looked for a waiter, found one, and gestured for a refill.

  “How about you?” Chris said carefully. “You seeing other people?”

  Grace smiled brightly and nodded. The waiter brought a new glass of beer and took away the empty.

  “I went to New York last weekend with a friend…. A guy friend.”

  Chris could feel himself start to sag. The weight of it settled at the top of his stomach like a stone. It was hard to swallow and he felt as if the air was too thin. Carefully he picked up the glass and carefully sipped some beer, and carefully put the glass down, fitting it exactly back into its ring of moisture on the napkin.

  “Must be a fine man if you’re with him,” he said. “Anyone I know?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Where’d you stay?”

  “The Pierre.”

  “Nice,” Chris said.

  “You all right?” Grace said.

  “Sure,” Chris said. “You want to go to New York and fuck somebody, your business. We’re separated. I don’t own you.”

  “You ought to open out your life, Chris.”

  “How was it with the guy? Better than what you’re used to?”

  “Both of us were quite scared. He’s married.”

  “Swell,” Chris said. “You can fuck up another relationship too. Way to go, Gracie.”

  “We can’t talk like this, Chris. It doesn’t do anyone any good.”

  “How am I supposed to talk? My girlfriend leaves me and goes to New York and balls some guy friend. I’m supposed to say bon appétit? You love this guy?”

  “No. Mostly, I’m trying to find out if I love you.”

  “Jesus,” Chris said. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Nor if you love me.”

  “You don’t know that?”

  “No. I need to find out. You do too.”

  “By fucking some guy in the Big Apple?”

  Grace stood.

  “I need to go,” she said. “I can’t let you beat up on me for too long.”

  “Maybe we should just say so long and let me get on with my life,” Chris said.

  “I’d like to keep talking, Chris.”

  Chris stared down at his beer.

  Grace turned to go.

  “Next Wednesday,” Chris said.

  “Yes.”

  Chris looked up from his beer and stared after her as she walked out of the bar.

  Gus

  Harvard Stadium was empty and dead silent in the late afternoon. Gus sat with Chris in the first row above the field, with the thin April sun on his face. Beyond the open end of the stadium the Harvard athletic complex sprawled along Soldiers Field Road. And across the river, the new red brick of the Kennedy School was bright through the still leafless trees.

  It was one of the ways they kept contact. Gus would come over once a week and work out with his son in the Harvard Gym. Chris did mostly light repetitions on the Nautilus machines, keeping his form. Gus lifted heavy. Usually they had little to say to each other, and the exercise made not talking easier.

  “I needed to discuss something,” Chris said.

  He sprawled beside his father in chinos and Top-Siders and a pale beige cashmere sweater—no shirt. The sleeves were pushed up on his forearms. His dark brown Harris tweed jacket was folded beside him on the stadium seat. Chris was taller than his father, as tall as Conn had been. His dark hair was longish and carefully cut. He was clean shaven, with the shadow of a heavy beard. If he were going out for an evening he shaved a second time. Gus’s beard, were he to let it grow, would be reddish, flecked with gray.

  He looks like my father, Gus thought.

  Chris’s eyes ranged over the empty stadium. Gus waited.

  “Parnell Flaherty wants me to be a special prosecutor on these gang murders,” Chris said.

  Gus was quiet. He sat with his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands clasped loosely.

  “I know it’s a way to pull Cabot’s fangs on the crime issue,” Chris said. “But it would be a hell of a break for me.”

  “Sure would,” Gus said. He looked carefully at his hands.

  “National coverage, a chance to deal with some actual crime, you know, instead of writing another flicking paper for JSPC.”

  “Theory and practice are different,” Gus said. “Doesn’t mean one’s more important.”

  “Yeah, I know. But being an academic criminologist is like being a literary critic. You know all about it but you can’t do it. I want to do it.”

  “Here’s your chance,” Gus said.

  “I know.”

  “So do it.”

  “I don’t know, I mean I’ll be sort of undercutting Grace’s family. Her brother wants to be senator, and the old man wants it more than he does.”

  “Tommy won’t object,” Gus said.

  Chris looked at his father for a moment as if he were going to ask something. Then he let it go.

  �
��I haven’t talked with Grace about it yet.”

  Christ, he’s talking to me first.

  “But she and her brother aren’t close. She thinks he’s ‘a dumb prig.’”

  Gus grinned.

  “You’re right,” he said. “They’re not close.”

  “So I think I’m okay there.”

  “Even if you aren’t,” Gus said, “you can’t decide based on what she wants. First you decide what you want to do, then you ask her how she feels about it and then …” Gus shrugged and turned his palms up.

  “Grace is hard to ignore,” Chris said. He looked at Gus. “What about you?”

  “Am I hard to ignore?”

  “Isn’t it sort of undercutting the homicide commander if the mayor appoints a special prosecutor to look into some murders?”

  Gus shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m five years from my pension. I’ll retire as a captain. There’s nothing to undercut.”

  “Part of the job is to see if the police are doing their job right. That means you.”

  Gus shrugged.

  “I thought you and Flaherty were pals,” Chris said. “Why would he put your own son in over you?”

  “I know Parnell a long time. Doesn’t mean we’re pals.”

  “But your own kid?”

  “Maybe Parnell’s doing me a favor,” Gus said.

  “It could be shrewd, I suppose,” Chris said.

  Gus was looking out the open end of the stadium now, squinting. In the openings among the buildings, across the road, he could see little splashes of the dark river. Chris was thinking out loud.

  “He gets me to defuse Cabot and at the same time avoids making you mad because it’s a good chance for your son.”

  “Un-huh. He also thinks he’s getting a Harvard Goo Goo that he can lead around by the nose.”

  “You think he’s right?”

  “No.”

  “Hope not.”

  “Remember,” Gus said, “he’s got to deal with both of us.”

  “I don’t need you taking care of me,” Chris said.

  “I was thinking we could take care of each other,” Gus said.

  They sat quietly for a time. Chris sprawled with his elbows resting on the seat behind him, Gus bent forward, his arms resting on his legs.