“I’ve never seen that kid smile since the day he was born. Okay, Ma, watch.” Brian puffed out his cheeks, rolled his eyes and roared, “Ho, ho, ho, Billy boy! Here’s your Uncle Brian playing the fool for you. Now smile!”
Billy stared, held his breath, stiffened his small body, turned his face toward the ceiling and screamed until he nearly choked.
“See, Ma,” Brian said innocently, “what did I tell you? I try to be nice to him, but that kid is plain nasty. He’s like his old man.”
Margaret pressed the child to her body as she danced around with him. She alternately comforted the child and scolded Brian. “Hush, now, there, there, Billy. There’s no one to hurt you. You ought to be ashamed, Brian. He’s just a tiny child. It’s not funny, teasing a little one like that. There now, there, sweetheart. Uncle Brian didn’t mean to frighten you. Come on now, Grandma will dance you right into the kitchen and we’ll get lunch all made up. Kit will be home soon, Billy. You’ll be seeing Kit.”
As though on signal, Kit and Bobby Kelly burst through the entrance hallway, shouting and arguing over who had won the race from school. Little Billy Delaney, at the sound of Kit’s voice, changed into a smiling, laughing, slightly hysterical worshiper. He craned his neck for a better view of his young aunt and reached sturdy arms toward her.
Kit swooped down suddenly, grabbed him roughly under the arms and whirled him around the living room. “Hey, Bobby,” she yelled, “here, catch!”
Margaret had visions of the child flying through the air and landing on a cracked skull. “Give him here, Kit. Stop playing the fool. He’s just a small baby.”
Kit crashed her forehead against her nephew’s. “I’m gonna throw you on your head, Billy-o-boy! Right on your big dopey head!”
Billy shrieked and gagged with excitement and struggled for Kit when his grandmother pulled him away.
“Oh, now you’ve waked the baby with your howling and you’ve gotten this child so worked up he won’t eat his lunch.”
“Hey, Ma,” Kit said, “Bobby left his lunch home this morning and nobody’s at his house. Can he eat here?”
“When would there ever not be an extra sandwich or two on the table? But wash your hands or you’ll both go hungry. There now, Billy, sit down on the couch for a minute while Grandma gets things in order in the kitchen.”
Kit charged from the bathroom and grabbed Billy by the shoulders and shook him. “Did you throw my battleship down the toilet?” She held the dripping toy between her fingers and her nephew’s pink face puckered and his lower lip trembled. “Don’t you touch my ships, Billy, or I’ll put you down the toilet and flush you away and you’ll drown. Glug! Glug!”
By now Billy was laughing hysterically and Margaret came and dragged him off to the kitchen. Kit carefully blotted the battleship on the inside hem of her jumper.
“Hey, slob,” Brian said disgustedly, “what are you doing?”
“It took me a long time to get that painted just the right color. Gee, Brian, that rotten kid. I’ll break his arms if he touches my warships.”
“Keep those damn things out of the tub, Kit, or the next time the whole fleet will end up down the toilet.”
Kit glared at her brother. “You did it? Well, listen, Brian, you just keep your hands off my things.” She examined the ship carefully. “I bought them all with my own money and they’re mine, so you just keep your hands off them, that’s all.”
Brian stretched his legs in front of him. “Or what?” he asked provocatively.
“Well, I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.” With a sudden change of pace, Kit scanned his face. “Hey, Brian, are you in a good mood or a bad mood?”
“You know, Kit, you’re a dumb kid. That’s a helluva dumb question.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said impatiently, “but it’s important for me to know.” She backed away from him and shifted from one foot to the other. “See, if you’re in a bad mood, then I won’t tell you about my shoe.” She held her right foot up and the sole of her shoe flapped as she jiggled up and down. “They don’t make shoes the way they used to, Brian. Now, if you’re in a good mood, you’ll give me a quarter and I can get the sole sewed back on at the shoemaker’s.”
“For Christ’s sake, didn’t you get those shoes new about two weeks ago? Come over here and let me look at that.” She tossed the shoe to him. Not only was the sole loose, but there was a large, soft, round worn spot in the center of the sole. “Jesus, Kit, I ought to let you go barefoot. Didn’t Mom tell you to change to sneakers after school?”
Kit held her right ankle behind her knee and hopped across the room. “Hmm. You’re in a bad mood. It’s okay, Brian. I’ll line it with cardboard and paste it with Elmer’s Glue and probably become a pathetic cripple by the time you get in a good mood and gimme the money to get it fixed. I gotta go get lunch now before Kelly eats everything on the table.”
She was a whirling dynamo, spinning and hopping and wisecracking good-naturedly. There was a smear of dark-blue water paint on her knee, where the hem of her school jumper brushed her leg. She zoomed around the room on one foot, turned her warship into a war-plane which dove at tables and lamps.
“Hey,” Brian asked suddenly, “where’s your brother?”
Kit came to rigid attention, the foot still clamped behind her. She raised her dark brows, let her mouth fall open stupidly. “Huh? Who? Me?”
“No, the girl in back of you. Come on, stop being a little wise guy. Where’s Kevin? Doesn’t he come home with you at lunchtime?”
Kit shrugged elaborately, released her ankle, tested it for pins and needles. “How do I know where he is?” she asked flippantly. “What am I, my brother’s keeper?” She roared at her own joke, then dashed toward the kitchen as Brian tossed the shoe at her.
The shoe missed Kit but caught little Billy Delaney right in the face as he toddled into the living room.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, kid,” Brian said miserably. “C’mere, come over here, Billy. I didn’t mean to hit you. Hey, Ma, you better come in here. Roseanne’s kid is holding his breath and turning blue.”
Brian wandered aimlessly up Ryer Avenue, rubbed his neck, which was prickly with dark hair. Good day for a haircut; overdue haircut. Maybe later; maybe tomorrow.
He heard the schoolboy voices, softened by distance, muffled by the three-story tan brick building between Ryer Avenue and the small schoolyard on Valentine Avenue.
He remembered what it felt like being a schoolboy on a spring afternoon with the starched white collar held close to his damp neck by the navy-blue tie. He remembered how the sun filtered through beams of dust in odd-shaped patches through the windows on one side of the room and how the chalk smell was heavier and mustier and older in spring sunlight.
Sister Mary Philomena would pull the dark-green shades down to the window sill at the first signs of spring fever in the fourth grade. Brian gazed toward the grade school and on the second floor, Room 206, the shades were down, and behind them, he visualized, were boys and girls in long straight rows who pretended to care about geography and religion and arithmetic while Sister Mary Philomena pretended it wasn’t spring.
St. Simon High School was a separate building attached to the grade school, and the schoolyard was shared by all the kids from first grade through the twelfth. It was a small, compact building with slightly larger classrooms and larger desks and the initials carefully cut into the undersides of desks were done by more expert hands.
Brian raised one hand and his fingers settled on the wire-mesh fence which surrounded the schoolyard. Kevin didn’t spot him; he was too intent on his game of basketball. He was quick and sharp and never seemed to get out of breath. He darted and pivoted and faked it, turned his shoulders and hips in opposite directions, pretended confusion but never lost control of the ball or sight of his target. Kevin had shot up spectacularly in the last year or so; he seemed all long legs and arms, but he moved with a small boy’s coordination. He brought the ball down the court, looke
d for a screen, then finally one-handed it into the basket.
Brother Gerard blew the whistle, then let it fall. It was a silver glisten against his drab brown monk’s habit.
“O’Malley’s team, eighteen; Garrett, your guys better get a hustle on. They’re murdering you.” He took the whistle from around his neck and handed it to one of his students. “Here, Cleary, you ref for a while. And I don’t want any arguments. Cleary’s word is it while he’s the ref.”
Brother Gerard walked to the fence and smiled his strange tight smile at Brian. “Your brother’s coming along, Brian. He’s a little too cocky and sure of himself but he’s not bad. He’s got to cut out trying to be the whole show but I think I’ll be able to smooth the rough edges.”
It was one of Brother Gerard’s favorite expressions: smooth the rough edges.
The soft white hands seemed harmless enough, thumbs hooked inside the thin leather belt which loosely circled the broad waist. The belt was tied in such a way that in one motion Brother Gerard could untie it, double it over and swing on any target with the minimum amount of effort and the maximum amount of effect. Brother Gerard had been Brian’s last teacher at St Simon and even with the years between them and the fence between them and the circumstances of life between them and their last encounter, Brian still remembered the sting of that belt and the terrible, helpless humiliation. He felt a rigid wariness.
The sky-blue eyes peered at him quizzically through the triangular pattern of the fence. “Well, so you’re on the job now, are you, Brian?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s fine, just fine. And what are we going to do about your cousin John O’Malley?”
Brian’s fingers tightened and he consciously forced himself to let loose of the fence. “What do you mean, do about him, Brother Gerard?”
The large, fleshy face regarded him with an expression that had confronted hundreds of boys behind the closed door of Brother Gerard’s study: Don’t play dumb with me. Don’t play wise guy with me; not with me.
In a reasonable voice, Brother Gerard said, “Why, he’s getting to be a big boy, Brian. Seventeen years old and sitting in the classroom with boys and girls two years younger. Have you or any of your uncles any trade in mind for the boy?”
Brian pulled away from the fence and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, then pulled them out again. “Well, my Uncle Peadar and my Uncle Gene have something in mind but they’re not set on it just yet.” The lie was heavy and thick in his throat and he gazed over Brother Gerard’s shoulder to avoid the knowing round stare.
Brother Gerard turned and watched the basketball game for a moment, then called in a hard, clear voice, “All right, Garrett, I saw that. Since you like physical contact so much, I guess basketball isn’t the game for you, after all. Stop by my study this afternoon at three. We’ll see if we can’t come up with a more appropriate game for you.”
Brian felt a wave of sympathy for the unfortunate Garrett. The tall, sweaty-faced boy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, started to protest but thought better of it. He squatted along the sidelines and watched his replacement proceed to complete the loss to Kevin O’Malley’s audacious if somewhat showy theft of the ball.
Brother Gerard blew his whistle decisively as soon as they heard the hell inside the school building. “All right, into line. O’Malley, you and Sweeney bring in the equipment. The rest of you, remember you’re entering a school building and behave accordingly. I don’t want to have to remind you.”
He marched into the building and the boys followed.
Kevin held two basketballs against his chest and bounced the third. “Hey, Brian. You see the game? Pretty good, huh?”
“Not all that good. But not too bad.”
“Not too bad? Listen, by the time I’m a senior, the scouts will be driving St. Simon’s crazy with offers for me; phone calls in the middle of the night, all pleading for Flash O’Malley.” He dribbled and raced toward the basket, got his shot, then turned to his brother. “Neat, huh?”
Brother Gerard’s face appeared from a window on the top floor. “O’Malley, do you need a special invitation to rejoin the class? If you do, I have a special invitation all ready and waiting for you.”
Kevin held up the balls and called out, “Gee, Brother Gerard, I’m on my way. They slipped and I been collecting them.”
The window slammed down hard and Kevin muttered, “Cheez, he’s always riding me. He’s a real bastard.”
“Kevin, don’t let me hear you call Brother Gerard or any other Brother or priest a bastard,” Brian said. Kevin’s good mood disappeared; his bright grin turned downward; he ducked his head down. “Hey, Kev,” Brian called and gestured him toward the fence. Kevin glanced up at the window, then trotted over to Brian. “You know something? Brother Gerard is a real bastard.” He winked at Kevin’s grin. “I can say it, not you. And you better get your ass upstairs or he’s really gonna give it to you. Hey, wait a minute. How come you didn’t come home to lunch?”
Kevin pivoted quickly and his large bony hand directed the bouncing ball close to his body. “I ate a coupla Yankee Doodles, Bri. Gives me more time to practice.”
“Well, let Mom know if you’re not coming home. When I ask where you are, I want to know where you are.”
Kevin caught the ball on a high bounce and pulled his mouth down. “That damn Kit. I told her to tell Mom. I’m gonna belt her one, Brian. She never does anything she’s told.”
The window on the top floor was suddenly flung open and Kevin stood, mouth opened, doom descending.
“O’Malley,” Brother Gerard called out coldly, “stop by my study at three o’clock. We’ll have a discussion about the proper way to collect athletic equipment.”
Kevin whispered, “Oh, shit.”
Brian stood in the vestibule of the subway car, and as he watched Debbie Gladner, he experienced a shameful lack of control over his body. He tried to ignore the drawing tightness along the inside of his thighs and into his groin but could not distract himself. Irrevocably, his eyes slid along the row of seated riders but returned to the golden, clean, straight-backed girl.
He tried to discredit her and devaluate her through her choice of companion: a pimple-faced, ferret-eyed, book-toting, nose-twitching, hand-waving, small-boned, Brillo-haired little Jew with one of those round little skullcaps set on the top of his head. What the hell could that guy be saving that would be of any interest to Debbie Gladner?
Her eyes never left her companion’s face. She leaned toward him earnestly, nodded frequently, spoke, listened, agreed; at one point, she reached for his sleeve, let her hand linger on the scrawny arm.
Debbie Gladner’s touch went unnoticed, totally unregarded by the recipient, which was a measure of his worthlessness and total incapacity to realize the potential of the warm smooth-skinned body, the firm-fleshed legs. Words; that was what the juiceless little bastard seemed to thrive on and what words was he using to create the radiance on Debbie Gladner’s face? Christ, Brian would give anything to know.
When the book-clutching, foot-shuffling, round-shouldered creep got off the train at 86th Street, Brian heard him call back into the car, “Okay, Deb. I’ll see you later tonight.”
Brian closed his eyes in the darkness of the steel tomb and longed for Debbie’s body, alive and eagerly responsive to his own. His hands would cup and hold and shape and teach. The train lurched to a stop and he opened his eyes to reality.
This was kid stuff, no longer necessary. He would go to Arthur’s place after his tour. Rita’s body could be Debbie’s. Or any particular body he desired her to be. It was all in his mind and he could act it out any way he wanted.
He glanced into the car again, drawn by the hazy honey color of her hair. It was strange and he hadn’t noticed it before but Debbie Gladner’s hair was the color of Rita’s hair when Rita used the rinse he’d bought her. Debbie’s face was down into her book and she didn’t seem to be bothered by the jolting start and stop of t
he train. But something made her look up, and for one single moment, Debbie Gladner stared, expressionless, directly at him.
Brian stopped himself from leaning back and edging away from her recognition. She blinked rapidly, frowned, then smiled and he casually waved and started toward her, but Debbie stood up and came into the vestibule.
“Well, hello, Brian. How are you?”
He wondered how she could speak in so normal a voice and how he would be able to respond. Yet he answered and he sounded casual and almost normal.
“Hello, Debbie. You on your way to school?”
She pressed her collection of books against her chest. “Very astute observation. But then, you’re a policeman now, aren’t you?” She held her head to one side and smiled. “What’s the matter, Brian? Don’t they allow you to ride inside the car? Or are you working now?”
“I like to ride in here,” he said. He was grateful for the darkness which hid his shame and self-anger and anger at her. For being. Just for being. He wanted to ask her who the creep was, what they had been talking about, why she had given all her attention, her concern, her promise of a later meeting, her touch, her essence to someone so obviously unworthy.
He wanted to reach out and slowly move his hands through her heavy long hair and down between her shoulder blades and along all the warm and secret places of her body. He wanted to find a way to tell Debbie Gladner that he had something to share with her, that he was worthy of her consideration. He wanted to tell her that she could no longer use that mocking, lilting, knowing tone and small, maddening, derisive smile when she spoke to him.
“Well, how’s the cops-and-robbers business, Brian? You a gang-buster yet?”
The wrong words, unbidden, leaped from his mouth: an offering, foolish and unacceptable. “Why don’t you stop making fun of the job, Debbie? You know, there were a lot of Jewish guys in my graduating class. In fact, one of my best buddies is a Jew.”
“One of your best buddies is a Jew,” Debbie said softly. She mouthed the words contemptuously, threw them back at him with a mysterious tough pride which contained an angry secret knowledge he could not even begin to comprehend. She shifted her stance, leaned her books on one hip and twisted her mouth at him.
Law and Order Page 23