Law and Order

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  Margaret turned, uncertain and anxious, to Father Donlon and Captain Hennessy. “Couldn’t they bring him here direct, then?” It was a soft, tentative question, without thought or consideration of what she was asking.

  “Ah, Margaret, let Tommy Farley do the job. We’ll bring Brian home to you all fixed up grand and just as you’d want to see him,” Hennessy said, oblivious of the shudder that suddenly shook the young widow. To the old one, he said, “Come on now, Mother, don’t be making it harder on yourself. Spare yourself a bit of the hardship.”

  “Don’t call me Mother; I’m no mother of yours,” Brian’s mother said sharply. The old face became shrewd and knowing. “Ah, Tommy Farley is it? And isn’t he a cousin of yours, Peter Hennessy? A fine relation that is to have, and him living off of the dead.”

  Margaret raised a helpless hand but Captain Hennessy moved his head to one side: it was all right He knew how difficult an old woman could be.

  Father Donlon asked, “Do you suppose you could fetch me a cup of tea, Mrs. O’Malley?”

  “Do you suppose you could fetch me my son home, Father Donlon?”

  The priest sighed. “He’ll be home by noon and it will ease you to see how fine he’ll look.”

  She muttered something they could not make out and walked off to the kitchen. Captain Hennessy wiped a hand over his face. It came away wet with perspiration. His eyes darted to Margaret’s face, then away.

  “Well, I’d best get back to Tommy’s, Margaret. I’ll just take along the uniform I came to fetch.”

  She brought the uniform, neat and brushed, on a heavy wooden hanger and handed it to him with a vague, polite smile. There was a blank, uncomprehending look about her.

  “And how are the children, Margaret?” Hennessy asked.

  “Fine, just fine,” she answered automatically, then stopped. Her hand touched lightly at her heavy dark hair and she shrugged. “Oh. You mean about Brian? Well. They’re young, you know. They’ll be just fine.” Her eyes sought Father Donlon.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Father Donlon said. “The young get over things. They’re healthy, fine, strong children.” He turned to Hennessy. “Well, Peter, you’ve had a long night of it yourself and here it is almost daylight. You’d better be off to Tommy Farley’s.”

  “Yes, Father. I’ll see you later in the day, Margaret. When we bring Brian home.”

  “Yes,” she said with that vague disbelief. “Yes, thank you very much, Peter. We’ll see you later. Yes.”

  “You should at least have the decency to tell me what the hell happened, Peter. There’s not a sign of a gunshot wound, and you must admit that the corpse is certainly in a strange condition.”

  Peter Hennessy viewed the tiny wisp of a man who was somehow the son of his mother’s brother with the scorn reserved for one who fed on the dead. Every day of his life, Tommy Farley had some total stranger stretched out in his front parlor and sat himself down in the next room and ate his dinner with his wife and kiddies ranged around him. He even tried to talk families out of waking their dead within the confines of their own homes, argued that his facilities could accommodate great numbers of mourners comfortably. He had endless folding chairs, baskets just waiting to be filled with flowers, and he would highly recommend Gallegher’s as florist, for which Gallegher would of course give him a handsome kickback. It had even been whispered about that if the deceased was an unloved bastard, Tommy Farley could, for a price, provide a fair number of loud weepers and wailers, and, indeed, he wore a professionally mournful expression himself, regardless of his acquaintance with the corpse.

  “What exactly seems to be bothering you, Tommy?” Hennessy asked. He knew the effect he had on his small wizened cousin; he enjoyed watching the quick, intimidated licking of dry lips, the shift in expression, the attempt to set matters right.

  The shrug was nervous and uncertain and self-effacing. “Well, after all, I’m no coroner and I suppose it isn’t my business at all.”

  “Well, you’re right on both counts, Tommy.” Hennessy leaned back heavily in the small wooden kitchen chair. His large hands, folded and motionless, rested on the table before him and he offered nothing more, just waited.

  Tommy’s pale eyes darted about the kitchen, as though searching for some friendly item, perhaps the loudly ticking clock or the silent radio, to vouch for him. “You know me, Peter. I’m not one to be blabbering. But...but there’s no gunshot wounds on the man at all. And, you know, there’s...well—” He stopped speaking abruptly. The frightened eyes raced crazily, came back for just an instant to meet his cousin’s, then fled around the room again. His small, almost dainty hand formed a cup around his mouth and he leaned forward and whispered, straining for some delicacy, “Well, Peter, the thing of it is, Mother of God, but there’s a part of Brian that appears to be missing.”

  This terrible confidence given, Tommy Farley seemed to hunch into himself. His small, frail shoulders rose up and forward as though to protect his chest against some expected blow.

  Peter Hennessy leaned farther into the chair, felt the joints give a little inside the glued sockets. “And is that what it is that’s got you all concerned, Tommy?”

  Farley nodded, not just once or twice, but eagerly, his head bobbing up and down.

  Hennessy stood up and looked down from his great height. “Well now, Tommy, surely we can remedy your problem and give some peace to your agitation. The last thing, man, I want to do is cause you any agitation.”

  “Well now, that’s very kind of you, very kind indeed.” Farley had absolutely no idea what his cousin was up to but every instinct warned him and the warning systems of his body tightened all his muscles and sent blood pounding through him with alarm. “Well now, Peter, wait, now just a moment. Where are you off to?”

  He lurched after his cousin, who calmly opened the door to the basement and didn’t look over his shoulder at Tommy Farley or acknowledge that he was even there.

  “Here now, Peter, that’s my preparation room down there. Here, now, you don’t want to see him just yet.”

  He ran after Hennessy, amazed at how quickly he moved once he’d a mind to.

  “Jesus, it stinks down here,” Hennessy said.

  “Well, it’s the chemicals and such, you see,” Farley told him with a mixture of nervousness and pride. It was a unique and special thing he did; it was his profession. He reached up to adjust the shade of the light and stood beside Hennessy and looked down at the naked and chalk-white body that had once been Brian O’Malley. Unasked, he began explaining what was taking place. “You see, it takes a while to drain all the natural fluids from the body, and then we replace the fluid with a preservative. Peter! Peter, what are you doing?”

  Calmly, wordlessly, Peter Hennessy slid his revolver from his holster. He pulled the hammer back, squeezed the trigger twice. One bullet entered the corpse in the area of the groin. The second bullet entered the throat. With each shot, the corpse jumped slightly on the table.

  Hennessy put the revolver back in his holster, then for the first time looked at his cousin. “Well now, do you have any other problems, Tommy? Speak up, lad. Is there anything else I can do to ease your mind?”

  Tommy Farley shook his head rapidly and his voice, thin and reedy, assured Hennessy, “No, no. Oh, no. No, no problems at all. Everything is just fine, Peter, yes, just fine. No, no, no problems.”

  “Well, isn’t that grand, then. I guess you’d better go and finish your breakfast, Tommy, and then get to work on poor Brian here. I promised his family you’d have him home by noon.”

  SIX

  WHATEVER SENSE OF HERSELF she had was mercifully fleeting because it was a deep sense of shame at her reaction to those who tried to be kind to her. She tried not to stiffen against the hands and arms that reached out to embrace her, tried not to go deaf against words whispered in her ear, tried not to go blind against the sight of all the sad faces which were thrust at her. She told herself that all of those who entered and took possession of h
er home did so with the best of intentions.

  The men, Brian’s brothers and friends, were strong and certain, each knowing exactly what to do, as though they’d rehearsed it. The furniture had to be moved, some of it taken from the house completely, and they assured her it was stored safely and she was not to worry about it. She wanted to tell them she had not a worry in the world about her furniture and what in God’s name were they talking about anyway?

  Whatever she touched turned out badly. The tea spilled as she poured from kettle to cup and no one allowed her to wipe up the mess she’d made. They took cloths from her hand, told her to sit and not worry about it. She cut a piece of bread and the knife somehow went deep into her index finger and someone, yes, Brian’s brother Gene, grasped her hand, applied pressure, then wrapped the cut so tightly that it throbbed and pounded inside the gauze. She’d cut her fingers many times before; all her fingers had scars of one kind or another. Why then was this cut so special and such a fuss made of it? They all fussed about her so, she wanted them to let her be.

  In the center of all that was happening around her, Margaret O’Malley had one wish, one swift vision of escape. If only she could walk, alone, alone, along the narrow high road of home. If only she could sit where she wanted to sit, her knees up to her chin, the cool late breeze on her face, the green smell sharp and clean; scan the pale purple covering the rich lodes of peat, the bright-yellow flowers, appearing all innocent but harboring their cruel little thorns to protect themselves. If only she could reach out and run her hand through the thick and matted coat of some beige glassy-eyed, sweet-faced, stupid and complaining young sheep and gentle it with her own soft voice and lead it back down the hillside to its own mother to be chided and bleated over and pushed against in that funny way they had.

  “They’re bringing him in now, Margaret,” Father Donlon said. His voice was crackling and old. Father Donlon was getting old and she hadn’t noticed it until this very moment. She studied his face with alarm; he had a terrible look of anxiety. She reached out, took his arm and he patted her hand, misunderstanding. She sought to comfort him.

  “It’s all right, Father. I’m fine, truly.”

  He pressed his rosary on her and she took it absently. Her eyes sought her children. Kevin stood, slouched in that new way of his, face down but his eyes not missing anything. Martin stood straight and tall and solemn; he held his small sister’s hand, while she, Kit, stood awkwardly in her Sunday dress, biting on her lower lip and blinking. The scabs at her knees looked bloody again. She must have been picking at them.

  Roseanne stood just behind the others. The girl was so thin and pale with nothing to fall back on but her own bony self and memories of harsh words with her father: about that boy. Oh, God, it was strange, but Margaret could not remember the boy’s name; could see his face but not find his name. She studied Roseanne intently, as though the name would come from her daughter’s face. Instead, the girl misread her searching gaze and came to her side, put an arm about her.

  “Ma,” she said in her familiar little-girl voice, “oh, Ma, what’s going to happen to us now?”

  From her depth of calmness, Margaret found Roseanne’s hand and squeezed it, and without even being aware of her words, she said, “Sure, now, we’ll be fine, won’t we though, dear? Sure, now, we’ll be just fine.”

  Chant words, crooned to a sick child, over and over, the sound of s them more important than the words themselves. Automatic mothering words which filled her with a sense of herself and the beginning of reality. Wasn’t she the fool, thinking herself a small child again when here she was, mother of this lovely girl and those other fine children?

  The women suddenly swelled around her as though the worst part of all of this would he for her to see the men place the large coffin in the room. Margaret let them surround and comfort her for it made them feel useful. Her own sister Ellen, married to Brian’s brother Matthew, pressed against her, shielded her face, spoke to her in the same crooning way she had spoken to Roseanne.

  “There’s no need for you to watch this part. Sure, it’s just men’s work, darling. Sure, it will be all right, darling. Just hold to my hand; it’ll he all right now, sure.”

  She felt remote and untouched. “I’m all right, Ellen, really, dear. How is the old woman, poor soul?”

  Ellen’s broad clear good face had to work at sadness; her natural manner was happy and her natural voice contained a laugh. She bent close to her sister and whispered about their mutual mother-in-law, “Ah, that one. Sure, she’s just in there making a great fuss about herself. We’ll let her have her moment, then quiet her with a bit of whiskey. Don’t let her upset you, now you know what to expect.”

  They let the old woman, the mother, have her moment first and they were all prepared and she didn’t let them down and then they took her into one of the bedrooms to quiet her. During the lament, the piercing cry, Margaret held to her sister and drew herself inside, all tight and dry.

  “Ellen,” she said in a suddenly vital, real panic, as the thought occurred to her. “Ellen,” she repeated into her sister’s ear, as Ellen leaned to her, “what about my Brian?” There was a terrible impatience as her sister drew back and stared as though she’d gone mad. She shook her sister’s hand. “Young Brian, I’m talking of. My God, his letter. It was on the top of the radio and they’ve carried it off somewhere and it contained the address and...”

  Ellen’s strong hands held her to the chair. “It’s taken care of, love. I’d forgotten to tell you. No, truly, now, it’s all taken care of. Peadar telephoned the priest your Brian named in the letter.”

  Anxiety filled her, a sense of time lost. “But there’s money to be sent for train fare. The boy hasn’t the fare home and he’s got to see his dad before...before...”

  “It’s all done, Margaret, it’s all taken care of. He’ll be here; he’s on his way this very minute. I swear he’ll be here.”

  “All right, then. All right,” Margaret said.

  After the old woman was taken from the room, everyone seemed to move back, to press away and clear a path for her. Father Donlon helped her to stand and again she was stricken with a sense of his fragility; his old man’s arm beneath her fingers was so surprisingly slender and she didn’t know if the trembling was from her or from him.

  She knelt on the little velvet-cushioned prayer stool, her eyes locked against the sight of her husband. She prayed quickly, without a sense of words, then, finally, she opened her eyes and stared at the locked stranger’s face inside the massive coffin. He wore Brian’s uniform but he wasn’t Brian at all. Too small. She looked away from the body; it was surrounded by flowers. Baskets and wreaths ranged alongside and behind, all about, carefully placed as decorations. Standing at the head of the coffin, she just noticed, was Tommy Farley, looking sad but somehow eager and expectant. His small eyes were bright on hers and she felt he wanted something from her but couldn’t imagine what until his glance flicked from her to the corpse and then back to her.

  She moved toward Tommy Farley and said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Farley. You’ve done very nicely with him.”

  Tommy Farley glowed, his eyes sparked with an expression of pleasure. He reached for her hand, muttered, “Sorry for your trouble, Mrs. O’Malley.”

  Margaret withdrew her hand sharply. His palm was terribly cold and moist.

  Each of her children knelt before the coffin, said a prayer, then moved away, and Margaret O’Malley knew without knowing how she knew: None of this has come home to us yet; we don’t really accept it yet as something that’s happened.

  SEVEN

  AARON LEVINE TENSED AGAINST his parents’ visit to the hospital room. Through the warm, floating nothingness, his mother’s voice penetrated. She pounced on him not with actual words, but with sounds, deep, strangulating laments. Her face went from red to dead white; her eyes, focused on him, rolled hack in her head and she passed out cold on the floor. He tried to lean over, to see, but he was hound to the bed not
only by his total lack of energy but by a series of tubes that had been inserted into and out of his body at various locations.

  After the commotion with his mother, when she had been removed, revived, quieted, secreted away to some remote room where she wouldn’t upset anyone or herself, his father returned alone, slightly embarrassed, slightly apologetic. As always.

  “Aaron. So. How are you?”

  His father looked a little blurred. Aaron moved the fingers of his uninjured hand and his father took the hint and reached for it and stood awkwardly. Generally, he stood behind his wife; it was she who held hands and touched and surrounded. Alone, he seemed slightly at a loss.

  “So, you’re okay, Aaron?”

  There was a deadness in his father’s voice as he searched for words; his father was not an articulate man but Aaron sensed what was happening to him. He was struggling, choking on words that did not come easy.

  “Papa, I’m okay. Look, this whole thing—it’s going to be all right.”

  David Levine fingered the brim of his hat restlessly. “Everything is going to be all right,” he said flatly. He addressed the floor or the bed or his hat “Bullets in my son’s body, and everything is going to be all right.”

  “Papa, it was just one bullet. Not bullets.”

  His father spoke to the floor again. “Not bullets. Just one bullet in my son’s body. That makes a big difference.”

  He began to choke, the words turned into one huge but silent sob, and he pressed his hands and his hat over his face. The sounds that escaped, the words, were what Aaron had been afraid of. “Mine fault...my son...a policeman...wrong...from the start...mine fault.”

  Finally, his father snorted into his handkerchief, pushed at his reddened eyes, turned to Aaron, patted his cheek. “They taking good care of you here, Aaron? You need something maybe?”