Law and Order

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  Gene O’Malley leaned against the refrigerator and raised his brows. “Well, is that a fact now? And what’s your particular knowledge of the girl?”

  Peadar’s large heavy fist smashed down on the table and the coffee cups raided. “This is not time for a bunch of smart aleck remarks,” he said. “We know the girl’s reputation, by God. The point of the thing is that the old guinea bastard caught poor John, right outside the door of their apartment. His precious daughter’s hand was inside the damn fool’s pants and I’ve no need to tell you what was in her filthy hand or what the condition of that something was.”

  “And Caprobella actually thinks we’d let John marry her?” Brian asked.

  “Not just thinks it, lad. He’s those three hulking apes of sons of his brought poor John over to Father Donlon at one this morning and woke the poor man with the commotion similar to the end of the world and announced that first banns were to be published this very Sunday. And didn’t I have to get over there and fetch our Johnnie home and try to make some sense out of the whole mess.” Peadar shook his head in disgust and with weariness. He’d been up half the night.

  “He’s a simple-minded fool, our John,” Gene commented. “Christ, hasn’t anyone ever spoken to the kid about...things’?”

  Brian felt accused and angry. “Don’t look at me, Uncle Gene. I’ve got enough to do taking care of the kids and giving John house-room every time his nut mother takes off.”

  Matthew spoke for the first time, slowly, quietly. “Well now, there’s no point in anyone getting all worked up and blaming anyone else. The thing of it is, you see, there’s the situation and we’ve to find the solution to the whole thing as of where it is now.”

  Gene jerked his thumb toward his older brother and said caustically, “He’s all for wedding bells, isn’t that a fact, Matt?”

  The milkman sucked on his pipe for a moment, shrugged and spread his hands. “Well, I think the girl’s been talked about a great deal more than the facts might warrant. She doesn’t come from a bad family. They’re all hard workers and honest enough and concerned for her future.”

  “Concerned?” Peadar roared. “And it’s us should be concerned. They’re trying to palm off used goods on our poor John and that simple boy has no one but us to protect him.”

  “Well, what did poor Johnnie say to you, Peadar?” Matt asked reasonably.

  Peadar made an ugly derisive sound. “What does he know, the poor damn fool. Seventeen and letting himself be caught with that girl. Nineteen if she’s a day and the talk of the neighborhood since she’s been thirteen. And where was her concerned family all them years?”

  “But when did all this happen?” Brian asked.

  Matt explained it. The others were too angry to speak in any continuous strain. “‘Well, the girl was hanging around outside the candy store and our John came along last night on his way home from the rehearsal of the school play. Kevin went on home without him because there was some confusion as to where our John was headed. Mary the Widow’s been home for some days now. Peadar’s been to see her and Ellen too and your mother. From all reports, she’s been sober but ‘strange.’”

  “Yes,” Peadar interjected, “she’s strange, indeed, very quiet and far-off.”

  “Well, but it’s John we’re discussing now,” Matt insisted. “At any rate, Brian, no one really missed John for your mother figured he’d be at his own home. And our Johnnie stood fooling with the lads until there was no one left at all but the girl, and didn’t she tell him she was afraid to walk home alone, of all things.”

  Gene snorted angrily. “Afraid, the filthy thing. Ah, Christ, it’s our Johnnie should have been afraid.”

  Matt ignored the interruption. “And he walked the several blocks home with her and she began to get close to him and all that sort of thing, and as luck would have it, the old man opened the door and there was the situation as Peadar described it and as luck would have it.” Matt rubbed his neck and told them softly, “It’s not as if it was one of our other lads, you know. Any of the others, like Brian here, or my own boys or yours, Peadar, or John the Wop’s, were they older, would have had better sense. But the thing here, it seems to me, is that everyone’s getting all excited and no one’s looking at some side of the whole thing that’s occurred to me and to Father Donlon as well.”

  Peadar stood up angrily and jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. “Father Donlon didn’t have any such thing to say to me in the wee hours this morning as you’ve discussed with him today. He just wanted me to get John out of the rectory and away from the Caprobellas.”

  Matt remained unruffled. He spoke to Brian. “I went to Father Donlon’s after my rounds this morning and we sat quietly and discussed the whole thing without all the passion and the tempers flying. Now, the girl’s family has their fruit market over on Bathgate Avenue and the one brother has his own small business in coal. The old man had indicated they’d find a place for our John amongst them, plus he could continue working for me the few hours in the morning.”

  Gene shook his head. “Jesus God, would you look at this fool, selling his own dead brother’s son to the passel of Eye-talians!”

  Matt moved with an economy of speed and effort that astonished Brian; he came from his chair, reached for his younger brother’s shirt, had it bunched around his throat before Gene’s hands could go up reflexively. The large, strong hands did not relent although Gene’s face went purple.

  Matt’s voice revealed none of the passion of his action; it was low and steady and controlled, but deadly. “Now I’ve had enough of you and your remarks and your useless, stupid insults. I’ve a mind to throttle you to get some sense into your head, though I’d just as soon not have to bother for it’s all rather pointless, but I will if I must.” He shook Gene without seeming to exert any effort. Gene’s hands couldn’t pry the murderous grasp from his throat.

  Peadar leaned against the white enamel sink and watched his brothers without a flicker of concern. Brian had never seen his Uncle Matt display even the potential for violence. He felt his heart race and his mouth go dry and he wondered if Peadar realized that Matt held his brother’s life within his grasp. It was a long moment before Peadar tapped Matt’s shoulder; his hand remained on the milkman’s shoulder.

  “Let him be, Matt. There’s no point our fighting amongst ourselves, is there?”

  “There’s no point in our fighting at all, is how I see it,” Matt said dryly. He dropped his hands and Gene fell back with a gasp, but Matt turned his back on him; any remarks from that quarter would not be worthy of serious attention.

  “Well, Brian,” Peadar said, “you’re more of an age with poor John than any of us. Let’s hear from you, then. What would your thoughts be?”

  “About letting John marry Anna Caprobella? Uncle Peadar, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  Peadar glared at Matt. “Well, between him and Father Donlon they seemed to feel it’s not a bad solution.”

  “Now I didn’t say it was a good thing, Peadar. I never said that. But after all, we know John can’t stay in school forever; he’s a good enough boy and willing to work hard. The girl’s family is willing to help set them up. He’d be close by and all...”

  “But, Jesus. What did John say about it?” Brian asked.

  Matt rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Ah, well, when Father Donlon put it to him straight out, he wrinkled up his nose and said, ‘But, Father, she smells so funny.’ Christ, with all the garlic and oily things them people eat, who wouldn’t smell funny?” Matt slid his pipestem between his teeth and his face was sad. “Ah, as if that’s all was involved with marriage. He’s just a boy, after all.”

  “Well, that’s what I’ve been telling you, Matt,” Peadar said, quieter now. “We’ve talked about getting him into the Navy, Brian.”

  “The Navy? John?”

  “Well, it’s not a bad idea,” Peadar said. “The thing is, it’s better than the other side of the coin. Father Donlon’s own sister’s s
on has just joined up and Father Donlon could call the Bishop to take a hand and get the boy started on his way immediately, so the two lads would be together. He’s a good sort, Tom Steele, the nephew, and he could keep an eye on our John.”

  “And what about John?” Brian asked. “Did you ask him about it?”

  “Ah, Brian, the lad fancies himself in a uniform as much as anything else,” Peadar said brightly. “I’d rather he had a bit of a look at the world than end up behind a counter surrounded by those guineas for the rest of his life. And with that Anna Caprobella waiting for him at home.”

  The idea suddenly encompassed Brian, appealed to him with a force he did not understand. An escape, a way out of everything, of all things, all responsibilities, all entanglements, all known places and faces and lives and routines and memories. It was the offering of a new life, a fresh start, with the cleansing effect of being a newly emerged communicant, all past sins forgiven, washed away, the vile made clean, the broken made whole, the guilty made innocent.

  “What is it, lad?” Peadar asked. “You’ve a strange expression on your face.”

  Brian reached for a cigarette and brought himself back into the room. It was John, after all, who was being discussed and not himself.

  “I think it would be the best thing for John,” he said dishonesty for he’d given no thought to his cousin. “I think that really would be the best.”

  “Well, we’ve pretty much decided amongst us then,” Peadar said. “Matty, you’ve no real objections to this decision, have you?”

  Matt shrugged. “No, I just felt we should consider the other possibility. After all, it’s the lad’s whole future we’re talking about here. We want what will be best for our John.”

  “Ah, the Navy’s the good choice, then,” Peadar said heartily. “Let’s eat these sandwiches the wife’s left. I’m due to visit with Father Don-Ion at one-thirty and he’ll get right to the Bishop. Well, Brian, how goes the job with you, lad?”

  The eight-hour tour was both endless and timeless, a compression of hours and an expansion of hours, filled with the dim circle of light, hazy and yellow, over the charts which were shadowed by his own hunched shoulders. Sergeant O’Connor’s voice droned; his words rose and fell into sound without meaning. The only fact that penetrated was that Patrolman Mackay would return to his job the next tour and Brian would be out on the street again.

  Midnight came as a surprise. It was as though he had spent eight hours suspended in limbo.

  The fantasy of Rita Wasinski moved through him with the relentlessness of necessity, and as he walked toward Arthur’s apartment, he conjured an endless, repetitive series of confrontations, none of them satisfying.

  Arthur jerked his head up and his hands spasmodically leaped on the surface of the newspaper which had fallen over his chest. “Oh, Brian. I fell asleep,” he explained unnecessarily. His voice was thick and he struggled to snap himself awake.

  Brian had never given a moment’s thought to the possibility that Arthur might be present. Everything shattered into disoriented splinters; the familiar apartment turned strange, as though Arthur’s intrusion turned it into another place altogether.

  “I’ve got a pot of coffee on, Brian. I’ll just put a light under it.”

  Arthur was on his feet, the newspaper still in his hand. He seemed sharp and alert, intensely aware. It was Brian who felt confused and somewhat dizzy, as though he’d been in a deep sleep.

  “Sit down, Brian,” Arthur said firmly. “We have to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Arthur.”

  “Sit down.”

  The little son of a bitch actually pushed him; the thought filled Brian with a dull amusement and he let himself fall into the chair.

  “We’re going to talk about it,” Arthur said.

  Brian leaned into the crazy sling chair. Arthur pulled up a wooden chair, turned it backwards, straddled it, poked his face at Brian. His eyes turned inward and his hands grasped the top of the chair.

  “There isn’t a damn thing to talk about, Arthur. That fucking little whore!” His clenched fist tapped on his knee lightly, then a little harder. He pounded his knee with a fierce series of blows, totally unaware of the pain, surprised at his lack of self-control, but it was Rita’s betrayal he pounded at.

  Arthur said nothing. Words suddenly burst from the depths of Brian, from the twenty-four hours of unspoken sorrow and unending visions of Rita’s body. He had visualized her beneath the bodies of all the men he had ever known and all the men he had never seen but who had touched her, known her.

  “I want to kill her, Arthur,” he said thickly. “Goddamn it to hell, she isn’t worth it, but if she was here, right now, so help me God, I’d I’ll her.”

  Arthur waited him out. The words slowed, fell away finally to silence, then finally Brian was drained. Arthur got him a cup of coffee.

  “It’s hot, Brian,” he said. “Use the handle.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

  Arthur sipped from his own cup, then carefully placed it on a table. “Brian,” he asked carefully, “what is it you expected of her?”

  Brian leaned forward, spoke to the floor. “She was in the precinct last night. She was in the goddamn precinct, locked up for prostitution. Did you know that, Arthur? Did she tell you that?”

  “I went bail for her, Brian. She called her cousin Stella, and Stell didn’t have any money, so she came to me. I gave her the money to get Rita bailed. Rita told me that you were there, that you’d seen her.”

  “You went bail for her? Jesus Christ, you went bail?”

  “She doesn’t have anyone else,” Arthur said calmly.

  Recklessly, Brian said, “Oh, but she’s got you, huh, Arthur? Holy Christ, have I been a dumb, stupid bastard. All the time, she’s been screwing both of us. I never even gave it a thought.”

  Arthur’s gray face tightened; his fingers clenched the edge of the wooden chair. His voice was high and reedy. “You’ve got it wrong, Brian. I’m going to straighten you out, once and for all. I told you, right at the very beginning. Rita is a friend. If you find that hard to understand, I’m sorry for you but that’s the truth. I’ve never touched her, never been to bed with her, never ‘screwed’ her, if that’s how you want me to put it.”

  “The hell you haven’t. Why else would you...”

  Arthur moved his head from side to side but his eyes stayed on Brian’s; the movement of his head made his eyes seem to roll within the sockets. The left eye, the weak one, turned in more than Brian had ever seen before.

  “Brian, I’m sorry if it’s outside your experience, but that’s how it is. Rita is my friend. Not my lover or my bed partner or my whore or whatever else you choose to believe.”

  He believed Arthur. It was irrational, not believable, impossible, implausible. Yet he believed Arthur. It puzzled him and mystified him that he did believe Arthur.

  “You never got around to answering my question, Brian,” Arthur demanded relentlessly. “What is it you expected from Rita?”

  The unanswerable question cut through all his feelings and all his anger. He shrugged and swallowed some coffee and wiped his mouth and studied the ceiling, the walls, the pictures, the books, looked anywhere but at Arthur, who waited, implacable.

  “Oh, shit,” Brian said shortly.

  Arthur rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, lightly, carefully. “Brian, you still have some growing up to do.”

  “Oh, but Christ...”

  “Oh, but Christ,” Arthur mimicked him. “You figured Rita would stop turning a buck, stop making her living, stop paying rent, bills, helping to support her old aunt, all because she had something special, something extra going with you?” Arthur reached out roughly for Brian’s sleeve. “Don’t keep looking at the ceiling, Brian. Damn it, look at me. Look at yourself. Look at reality.” It was the closest Brian had ever seen Arthur come to anger. It wasn’t really anger either. There was something pained and hurt and sad about Arthur. “Okay, it was
rotten the way it happened last night Sooner or later it had to catch up with you, Brian. That was probably the worst way possible. But come on, kid, that’s life.”

  “I really am dumb, you know, Arthur? I mean, I thought we had something really special going. Now that sounds like a goddamn dumb kid, doesn’t it?”

  “Brian, you did have something special. Whatever went on between you and Rita belongs only to the two of you.”

  “And any guy with two bucks, right?”

  Arthur clicked his tongue and stood up. “God, you really are a baby, Brian. Exactly what do you think a guy can buy with two bucks?”

  Not the endless hours of exploration; the fun and games and creation of a secret private language of sensation and action and reaction and unstated messages and completed communications and feeling of physical wholeness and newness and rising, growing, endless, boundless pleasure.

  He followed Arthur into the kitchen, watched him rinse the cups in the chipped square sink.

  “Arthur,” he said miserably, “I want her. I still want her.”

  Arthur turned the water off, carefully dried the cups and put them into the cupboard, then dried his hands. He raised a finger at Brian, as though instructing a child.

  “You can’t see her again, Brian. Not ever.” Arthur blinked rapidly and wet his lips. “I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for you and I’m sorry for Rita. But it is a part of your life that you had and now...it’s finished.”

  Brian started to say something, to argue, to deny, but the words stayed in his throat, strangled him with futility.

  Arthur reached out, pressed Brian’s arm. “Rita doesn’t exist anymore, Brian. It’s as simple as that. And as tough as that.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  BRIAN SIGNED UP FOR the Holy Name Society weekend retreat to be held in Staten Island. He’d had a terrible time of it in the confessional, finally had confronted his own guilt, his own lustful sins. Father Donlon agreed that the retreat would be of tremendous help. His flesh still yearned, still wanted, still longed with a terribleness he had not anticipated.