Law and Order

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  A pale ray of sunshine shone thin and vaporish as a moonbeam from the small window set high over his head in the thick wall. Too easily distracted, Brian watched the spidery shadows of the new-blossoming tree waver back and forth through the light to create shadows on the wall and along the shiny floor. A bird called out, then was silent. There was nearly total silence all around him. They were in a world removed, apart, remote. He thought of his brother Martin, who had chosen to live forever in such a world, and he felt a new, deep sense of awe and wonder and respect for the courage that such a decision took

  Brian jumped at the approach of the priest, Father McCarthy.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, son,” he was told in a warm soft brogue. “I just wanted to know if you are in need of any special assistance.”

  Gentle-voiced, Father McCarthy explained, “I just wanted to see if I could he of any special help and guidance in the examination of conscience. There are some here, you see, who haven’t been to church or to confession in a very long time and feel a real sense of fear. I didn’t think you were that remote from your Church.” Father McCarthy smiled vaguely and told him, “When you hear the bell toll, in about a half hour from now, just come from your cell and take your turn at one of the confessional booths in the chapel, lad.”

  Then he was gone.

  Later, Brian stood inside the chapel, face down, hands clasped before him, patiently shuffling along the slow-moving line, closer to the booth. His lips silently moved in prayer.

  “O Lord God, You enlighten every man who comes into this world; enlighten my heart, I pray You, with the light of Your grace that I may fully know my sins, my shortcomings and negligences and may confess them with that true sorrow and contrition of heart which I so much need. I desire to make full amends for all my sins and to avoid them for the future...”

  The touch on his shoulder was firm. It was Father McCarthy. He kept things moving, directed them into the confessional, led the confessed to some quiet corner for the private recitation of penance.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; it is one week since my last confession.”

  As he recounted his mortal sins in the sequence he tried to remember having committed them, the priest interrupted abruptly.

  “Using God’s name irreverently is a venial sin, my son. Now you should know that.”

  “But I called on God to damn someone, Father,” Brian explained. He knew the difference and felt a slight twinge of annoyance.

  “Very well, very well. Continue.”

  The slight edge of impatience put him off a bit; he knew the lines were long, but the minute examination of conscience led to the revealing of unexpected sins and a great desire to confess in detail. He felt a panic he hadn’t experienced since the third grade; he didn’t want to forget, willingly or unwillingly, any sin which might be crucial.

  He spoke of the unmentionable lusts of his flesh without detailing what had already been detailed; yet he’d never felt purged of Rita Wasinski, of his sinful desire for her.

  “Father, I...I’m not sure about something I did. I know it was wrong, but I’m not sure if it was venial or mortal.”

  There was a soft patient sigh, then the voice was renewed with kind perseverance. “Tell me about it, my son. Together we will examine it.”

  Miserably, he told of his encounter with Angelo DiSantini and the girl.

  After a short silence, the confessor said, “Neglecting one’s job seriously is a doubtful sin, my son. What is it that bothers you most about the fact that you didn’t take what you know are prescribed actions?”

  “I’m not sure, Father.”

  “Then I’ll pose questions and you find within yourself the answers, my child. Possibly, you are questioning your own motives. Did you feel pity for the boy because of his youth? His circumstances? Did you feel sympathy for the boy? Because you are friends did you grant him special privilege in violation of your vows as a public servant?”

  To all questions, rapidly thrown at him, Brian responded in the negative. He hadn’t felt pity for Angelo DiSantini. Angelo DiSantini was no friend of his; there had been no special reason he could fathom. And yet, tantalizingly close to the surface of his consciousness lurked the reason and still he could not quite fathom it.

  Carefully, finally, the priest asked, “You are young, my son, are you not? Not too long on the job?”

  “Twenty-two, Father.”

  “Well. Ah. My son, there are many circumstances you will come upon where you will have to use a special, separate discretion that you will acquire, that I believe you are in the process of acquiring, right now, even though you do not fully understand how or why this is taking place. I think you are sincere and concerned about fulfilling your job obligations with a good conscience, my son?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I think you will learn to handle these discretionary actions which will confront you all the years of your life. I think you will make wise decisions which sometimes you will not completely understand yourself. I think you must learn to put yourself more completely in God’s hands, for it is truly God’s work you seek to do, you in your vineyard, I in mine.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Have you sincerely made a true confession, my child? Do you sincerely regret your sins?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Brian knelt quietly in an isolated corner of the chapel, held the beads between his clasped hands, touched the crucifix to his lips briefly after making the sign of the Cross. Silently, lips moving over the words, he prayed.

  “I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth: And in Jesus Christ His only Son our Lord: Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, Born of the Virgin Mary: Suffered under Pontius Pilate: Was crucified, died and was buried: He descended into hell: The third day He rose again from the dead: He ascended into Heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty: From thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the Forgiveness of sins, the Resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. Amen.”

  He let the Cross slide from his fingers and he felt the first large bead, which automatically led to the recitation of the “Our Father.” Fingers and brain working together, steadily, completely and devoutly determined, Brian prayed the rosary with a slow intensity.

  Each word opened and revealed the full depths of meaning which had always been there but which he had taken for granted. Unaware of anyone else present in the chapel, Brian O’Malley felt within himself the presence of his God, his Savior and his Holy Mother Church.

  The voices were muffled and indistinct, the kind of voices heard in a dream. Brian knew it wasn’t a dream for he was totally, alertly awake. The hard narrow cot provided no comfort for his long body and he shifted restlessly from side to stomach to back until finally the sounds of conversation drew him from the bed to the window, which was high over his head.

  He slid the stool against the wall and hoisted himself up for a view into the moonlit garden. There was a group of men some ten feet from his window, some standing, some squatting, some leaning against trees in a semicircle. He couldn’t see their faces but there were two unmistakable clerical collars among them. Carefully, soundlessly, he pushed the leaded-glass window outward on its hinges and the voices became sharper and clearer.

  “Well, what the hell, there’s no need for that kind of organization and I don’t care what you say. There’s just a handful of Jews so it’s natural for them to organize. Everyone knows they want to stay with their own.”

  “But that’s not the point, don’t you see? You’ve got the guineas in their Columbus Society—”

  “Columbia, man, Columbia Society.”

  “Ah, well, all right then, whatever it is. Say, pass that bottle will you, Father.” A deep laugh followed. “Ah, I think the lads here keep me talking so’s I’ll miss my turn at that fine Scotch.”

  “No, Captain Henn
essy, not at all, not at all. It’s just that it doesn’t seem hardly necessary for us to organize when, for the love of God, the Irish are the Police Department!”

  “I’ll drink to that!”

  “Not on my round you won’t.”

  “And wasn’t Father Sebastian in rare form this afternoon, Father?” That was the captain.

  Brian recognized Father McCarthy’s voice. It seemed somewhat mellowed by whiskey. “Ah, yes, he’s a fine one, all right. Gets you so worked up there isn’t a man jack of you doesn’t want to stay in that confessional booth for an hour and a half. By the time he gets through with you lads, you’ve gone all the way back to confessing the time you wondered what was beneath Sister Ann-Jeanine’s flowing black habit, and that’s a fact. All very well for him,” the priest observed dryly, “he comes from his fine Jesuits and talks all hell and fire and leaves the bloody lot of you to us. My head aches for three days after the bunch of youse leave. Well, God knows, I need this bit of relief that you’ve kindly brought around with you. Here, now Sean, pass that over to me like a good lad.”

  Carefully, aware of the weight of his body along the straining muscles of his arms, Brian lowered himself to the floor. He leaned his forehead against the rough-textured whitewashed wall for a moment and felt the blood rush painfully with sharp needle bursts through the veins of his arms. He accepted the unpleasant sensation as penance for the unnatural pressure he had exerted on his arms; it was punishment for having listened to talk that did not concern him.

  It was an offering in hope that through the graceful acceptance of this physical reminder of his imperfection, he could he restored to the incomprehensible state of innocence and trust and faith and purity and belief in which he had dwelt for most of the evening.

  Or that he could fall onto the narrow cot and plunge into dreamless and uncomplicated sleep.

  He recognized the hulk and voice of the man from his shadowy view of the garden the night before. He recognized the deep-red flush, the small beads of eyes from some other time he could not immediately recall.

  “Jasus, I’d swear his father stood before me, he’s that much Brian O’Malley,” Captain Peter Hennessy said to the two men flanking him.

  “He is, oh, yes, indeed, Captain, he is that,” Patrolman Charlie Gannon eagerly agreed.

  Brian recognized Lieutenant Shea from his silent, alert presence at his father’s funeral more than three years ago.

  “Well, Brian,” Lieutenant Shea said easily, “you remember Captain Hennessy and Patrolman Gannon of course.”

  He did it smoothly and easily and Brian shook hands with the three men. “Yes, sir, of course. Captain, how are you, sir?”

  “On the job are you, lad?” Captain Hennessy asked pointlessly. His large, soft, fat hand was moist and held Brian’s for a moment.

  “Well, yes, sir. Class of’40.”

  Hennessy turned to Shea. “Well, what do you think, Ed? The living image, wouldn’t you say?”

  Shea nodded. Charlie Gannon’s eyes danced over Brian, then darted to Hennessy. He grinned. “Well, well, so here we have Sergeant O’Malley’s son. Yes, isn’t that fine, then.”

  “You’ve a lot to live up to, O’Malley,” Captain Hennessy said. “Wouldn’t you say so, Ed? Huh, Charlie?”

  Shea didn’t move or change expression. Gannon’s grin pulled uncertainly at the corners of his mouth until he caught the dead earnestness of the captain. “Oh, yes, indeed, Captain, for wasn’t poor Sergeant O’Malley a very fine man.”

  Gannon, at some barely communicated signal, retreated a few steps behind them. Hennessy motioned Brian to walk along the broad tree-lined path through the monastery grounds. Though they were supposed to be spending the hour before lunch in quiet, solitary contemplation, Brian noticed that most of the men had fallen into groups of three or four and some of the conversations were very animated, then suddenly broken off in realization of the inappropriateness of loud voices.

  Brian was uncomfortable in the presence of Captain Hennessy. The penetrating stare did not intimidate him though Brian knew it was meant to. But it seemed that something had been indicated without having been expressed, that Gannon and Shea and Hennessy searched him for something known only to them, each in his own way. Hennessy regarded him with a curious, open hardness; Shea with a subtle blankness; Gannon with quick uncertain glances.

  “Well, isn’t this a lovely place to be?” Hennessy said. “I’ll just stop and sit on this little marble bench for a moment and breathe in some of the fine clean air. Well, the Fathers of Holy Contemplation have a fine place here and that’s a fact.”

  Brian took his cue from Shea and remained quiet while Gannon, apparently unable to bear a moment of silence, nodded vigorously and agreed with the captain. “Yes. Oh, yes, indeed, lovely, lovely.”

  “Take a nice walk for yourself, Charlie, and we’ll see you at lunchtime,” Captain Hennessy abruptly instructed Gannon. Gannon nodded and took off immediately.

  Hennessy was seated in the center of the marble bench, which would accommodate three normal-sized men, but which at the moment accommodated the massive flesh of Peter Hennessy. He studied Brian, then asked him a series of abrupt, unconnected questions, as though testing his alertness.

  “And how is your mother getting on?”

  “Fine, thank you, Captain.”

  “There were a great number of Jews in your class at the Academy, weren’t there?”

  “Yes. I guess so.”

  “You’ve some younger children still at home, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. My oldest sister is married and has two kids of her own. I’ve a brother in the seminary and a brother and sister in school.”

  “Where is it they’ve got you working?”

  “Clinton Street station, Captain. Ninth Precinct.”

  “You’ve not been active in the Holy Name, have you, O’Malley? And why is that?”

  “Well...this is my first retreat. I guess I’m just getting around to it, Captain.”

  “You’ve got to he tough on the younger ones, lad. Got to keep them in line.”

  Brian licked his lips and played safe. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you’ve something fine to live up to, haven’t you, O’Malley? Dad was a regular hero then.” The small eyes radiated at Brian. “I was with him at the moment he died. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  Before Brian could respond, Captain Hennessy leaned heavily forward, one hand on each widespread knee. He exhaled a huge gasping sound and said, “We got them nigger bastards, don’t worry none about them.” His full mouth bunched as though he was about to whistle, but he didn’t. “Poor Brian, may he rest in peace. Did you ever see the young Jew was with your dad that night? His driver, if you please?”

  Brian could recall nothing and shook his head.

  “Levine was the little kike’s name. Your dad might be alive today if it hadn’t been for him, isn’t that a fact, Ed?”

  Brian noticed that Shea said nothing, neither confirmed nor denied.

  “Yes,” Hennessy went on as though Shea had given him full agreement, “your dad caught some bullets meant for Levine.”

  “Well, he got shot too, didn’t he, Captain?” Brian asked carefully.

  Hennessy’s face pulled upwards; his massive cheeks raised and the corners of his mouth pulled into a grimace. His eyes were lost somewhere in the flesh. He raised his arm and grunted as though he was strangling; it took Brian a moment to figure out what the gesture meant: Hennessy was pointing to his own back.

  “He caught a bullet all right, lad. He caught a bullet through the back of the shoulder. Notice I said through the back of the shoulder. Running from the scene, which shouldn’t surprise anyone’s had any dealings with the race. Maybe your father, may he rest in peace, maybe had one of his own been on the scene at the crucial time, he’d be alive and well and here with us in this holy place. Ah, isn’t this a fine, grand garden though?”

  Hennessy gazed around with pleasure, resettled his han
ds on his knees, then said, “Now this Patrolman Aaron Levine,” he drawled the name slowly, with distaste, “He’s got himself set up quite nicely. God knows how he pulled it, but somehow or other, he got himself assigned to steady midnights at a clerical job out in Brooklyn. In one of them nice quiet Jew neighborhoods where he can probably sleep his eight hours. And in the daytime, if you please, our Mr. Levine goes off to Brooklyn College. That’s where he goes, isn’t it, Ed?”

  For the first time, Shea spoke. “Yes, Captain. He’s got his bachelor’s degree and now he’s going for his master’s degree.”

  “God love us, whatever they may be, they’re not for the likes of us, for we’re but simple policemen trying to do our job with God’s help. Isn’t that the truth of the matter, O’Malley?”

  Brian had the uncomfortable feeling that Hennessy was playing with him, that he might be led to say something, anything, at any given moment, which would cause the small sharp eyes to pin him to the wall. He glanced at Shea: non-committal, expressionless. He nodded senselessly.

  “Ah, lads”—Captain Hennessy stood up noisily—”we are most fortunate to be here, to be part of this, hey?” His hand waved expansively and the gesture included not just the garden, the retreat, but the larger domain which Captain Hennessy claimed on their behalf.

  “I just thought of something, Captain,” Lieutenant Shea said. “I could use young Brian for that special assignment I’ve got coming up next Friday night.”

  Hennessy sucked air in, then blew it out through pursed lips before he turned his bright eyes from Brian to Ed Shea. “What might that be, Ed? Remind me; what assignment are we talking about?”

  “The senior dance for the girls at the Holy Mary Academy. I was to the wall. He glanced at Shea: noncommittal, expressionless. He at the school that night.”

  Hennessy nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, by God. He’ll do. He’ll just do fine. Give his C.O. a call when we get back, Ed. And you mind yourself, O’Malley, and something might be worked out for you.” He pulled his mouth into a wide smile which showed a collection of tiny teeth, then pursed his lips again; it hadn’t been a smile, just a characteristic tic. “We owe it to your poor dad, may he rest in peace, to look after his son. Isn’t that a fact, Ed?”