By late afternoon Saturday, the second day of the retreat, Captain Hennessy was rushed to the nearest hospital by ambulance for emergency treatment of a bleeding ulcer. As the two ambulance attendants, assisted by a white-faced Charlie Gannon, struggled with the dead weight from infirmary to ambulance, Hennessy turned his face to one side and with hardly a sound vomited a huge puddle from which emanated powerful whiskey fumes.
Rumors of a fistfight between two detectives from the Bronx made the rounds. There are many versions of what had occurred and they ranged from several good punches thrown to a .38 detective special being pressed against the loser’s forehead and an apology the price for its withdrawal. Speculation as to the cause of the altercation included mention of a certain female who had bestowed her charms on a rotating basis between both men.
Those who knew the true facts didn’t tell; those who didn’t know caught on to bits and pieces and concocted their own more complicated versions.
Father McCarthy wandered the grounds distractedly, hands clenched and lips moving. The young seminarians watched from beneath lowered eyelids. Father McCarthy explained to them, though some were the sons of policemen and needed no such explanation, that their weekend retreatants were a rough group of men, used to facing up to violence as a way of life and it was a miracle and a blessing that they even made any attempt at all periodically to try to get their souls in order somewhat.
“We can’t judge them harshly and that’s a fact,” Father McCarthy said as he eyed a group just behind the outdoor statue of St. Francis. The gestures and postures of the men could hardly be mistaken for piety. “Well, there’s not many of us would stand in their shoes and it’s not for us to judge them, lads.”
Brian blinked and squinted against the strong sunlight, made stronger by contrast to the darkness of the small chapel where he had spent the last hour and a half. He had listened in a paralysis of rapidly dissipating good intention and steadily growing boredom to some heavily accented, middle-aged, monotoned monk who called upon them to devote the first Monday of every month to the recitation of a rosary for the conversion of Russia. In a calculating glance at the few others present beside himself, Brian figured maybe one guy would keep the pledge they all made to the monk. And that was a tall, bald guy with rimless glasses named Joseph Burns.
Joseph Burns was born Joseph Bernstein. When he married an Irish girl some twenty years ago, he took instruction and was simultaneously converted and disowned by the Bernstein family. Though legally his name had been changed to Bums, and his six children were all born to that surname and into the faith and were educated in parochial schools, Bernstein the convert was always spoken of, somewhat derisively, as Bernstein the convert. He never missed Mass, attended every Communion breakfast, every retreat, gave to the parish and to the missions. It was said his oldest daughter had a vocation. If at times a somewhat bewildered exasperation filled him, Bernstein the convert could hardly be blamed for not understanding what more it was his colleagues and coreligionists wanted of him.
They could not put it into words themselves.
As Brian walked across the sun-blazing quadrangle toward the meal hall, he was surprised when Tommy Quill, the P.B.A. delegate, caught up with him. Tommy Quill was generally sought after, not a seeker. He could rarely be found alone; he was generally at the center of an earnest circle.
“Hey, O’Malley. How you doing, kid?”
Quill ran to flesh around the middle, which made him look older than he was because of his poor posture; shoulders hunched forward, knees bent, head ducked down. “Hey, you been in there listening to old Brother Reubin having at the Red Communists? Jesus, the stories I heard about him. I heard that he was a distant relative of the Czar of Russia and once tried to claim some of them jewels. You know, like that nutty dame who keeps popping up and claiming to be Anna something, one of the daughters.”
“Really?” Brian said, noncommittal, wondering what Quill wanted.
“Well, kid, how’s it going?” Quill said again.
Brian shrugged, which was always a safe response when you weren’t too sure what the question was. “Nice place here, Tommy.”
“Yeah, sure,” Tommy said absently. He jabbed at Brian with an elbow and winked. “Hey, you’re pretty cute, O’Malley, huh? You catch on fast.”
“What do you mean, Quill?” Brian asked in a tone of voice that indicated he knew exactly what Quill meant, even though he didn’t have the slightest idea. He’d learned that much: Pretend knowledge, never ignorance.
Quill winked again slowly, held the wink, nodded like an owl, snapped his eyelid up on a startled gray eye. “I seen you walking with Captain Hennessy and Lieutenant Shea this morning after Mass. Smart, kid, smart.” Quill tapped his forehead. “Them guys are always good to have on your side, if you know what I mean.” Quill glanced over his shoulder, jerked a thumb toward the men who waited for him. “Jesus, these guys don’t lemme alone for a minute. Everybody got something he wants done. It’s good to see a kid who can take care of himself, O’Malley. Well, duty calls.” He sighed wearily but Brian knew it was an act. Quill loved every minute of the attention which was showered on him. “Well, back to the wars, God help us. No rest for the worthy, right, O’Malley?”
Everybody was wheeling and dealing. Practically nobody attended any more of the scheduled talks although everyone strolled the grounds with the printed program of events either clutched in a hand or tucked in a back pocket for easy visibility. Men talked in small groups and the sharp observer could quickly size up the key man in any group. He was the one who affected a bored or blank countenance, upon whose shoulder friendly hands were placed, into whose unwilling ears confidences were offered, pleas were whispered, contracts were arranged.
No one looked anyone else directly in the eye; distances were scanned rapidly and continuously as though in search of hidden and deadly enemies. Out of hearing range, it was difficult to ascertain exactly who was talking to whom; men seemed to address vacant space from lips hidden by cupped hands, as though great and terrible secrets were being cast out for grabs.
The informal meetings began as the reluctant participants were en route, in good faith, to a scheduled talk. Slowly, languidly, kicking pebbles from the path in semblance of serious spiritual contemplation, the policemen, dressed casually and comfortably, moved toward one building or another but were detoured by the call of their name, by the touch of a hand; were drawn into discussions of assignments, details, commendations sought, wrongs inflicted, rights demanded, a little favor or consideration to be arranged. They wandered, drifted, vaporized, never reached their sincerely sought original destination.
The cold salt air had a slight tar flavor, and the raindrops, as they mingled with the spray, tasted to Brian of the ferryboat itself. He didn’t want to sit inside the smoky cabin where most of the men were. He felt slightly queasy and his head ached with the constant drone of conversation, which somehow, inside his brain, mingled with the toneless chant of prayer.
Too much of anything was bad for you, whether it was whiskey or women or talk. Taken as a large, uninterrupted dose, the retreat had been too much for Brian. He had attended every lecture, every talk, every Rosary, every confession, every Mass, true to the vow he had made his first night. Though his intention had been pure, the actual quality of his presence violated that intention.
Through narrowed aching eyes, Brian looked toward Manhattan: Sunday-dark concrete forms disconnected from the vast green sweep of Staten Island. He fell into a sad, vacant uneasiness, aware yet disinterested that the clumsy vessel made thudding contact with the heavily padded slip, first one side, then the other. There was a decisive roar of engine, a dark churn of water beneath his feet, then he felt the solid joining of ferry to dock.
“Well, it’s always good to get away from all this, to have a chance to straighten yourself out with God,” Bernstein the convert said quietly at his elbow.
Brian turned toward the rain-dampened, slightly tense face behind th
e glinting eyeglasses. He nodded and as noncommittally as possible he said, “Yeah. Yeah, sure is.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE HOLY MARY ACADEMY stood dark and ominous, a medieval stone castle covered with twisting ivy which nearly obscured the stained-glass windows set high and unobtrusively. From where he stood, the building could have been a mausoleum.
Brian ran a finger inside the collar of his tunic, loosened the hook and eye which bound it closely around his throat. For this crummy assignment, he’d gotten his uniform dry-cleaned and pressed. And his mother had washed his white cotton gloves so that they practically shined in the dark. He studied the fingertips; they were filthy from his thoughtless, admiring touch on the fender of a shining black Chrysler. Most of the cars were Chryslers or Oldsmobiles. There were one or two Lincolns and Cadillacs.
From the parking lot behind the school, Brian could see nothing of the bright lights which pierced the damp May night like slashes of jewels, filtered spotlights of red and blue and gold shining from a rotating disk on the ceiling of the gymnasium. He could hear faint bits of music, just a high flight of trumpet occasionally, then, after a while, the hum of faraway applause.
Special assignment. Big-deal special assignment. Standing guard over the fancy shined-up cars of a bunch of spoiled rich girls. The sergeant, a guy named McCallahan, addressed them like they were hand-picked troops, which they were, of course, but what the hell had they been hand-picked for? To be car-lot attendants, doormen, play nursemaid to a bunch of rich kids, make sure nobody got out of line and if some kid had more to drink than he could handle, smooth it over, take care of things.
Well, Jesus, they all looked spit and polish and not one of them under six feet tall or over twenty-five. What the hell did the school do, put in an order, select them to specification?
“Your job,” Sergeant McCallahan had said, “is to insure the safety and well-being of these young people, whose parents are some very important people and who will take a personal interest in how well this here assignment is carried out.”
Brian kicked his shoe against the heavy rubber tire of a year-old four-door navy-blue Chrysler sedan. Damn parking-lot attendant who couldn’t even risk sitting on a back seat for a break because the s.o.b. sergeant gave him a look every forty minutes or so. That’s how much he had to do.
“Hey, you O’Malley?”
He turned, coughed to cover the fact that he’d been taken by surprise. “Yeah, that’s me.”
A hand was thrust at him and Brian returned the hard handshake. “Hi ya, I’m Ed Shea,” the familiar but slightly off-center face told him.
“Ed Shea?”
“Yeah. I’m from the Forty-eighth. Sergeant McCallahan sent me out to relieve you. They’ve got some sandwiches for us in the basement.” He pulled a mouth, then grinned. “Better than nothing, but that’s about what they’re better than. I understand the young ladies made them with their own dainty hands. Don’t try the devil’s food cake—tastes like the devil’s revenge.”
“Okay, thanks for the warning.” Brian hesitated, then asked, “Ed Shea? You related to Lieutenant Shea?”
“Only by birth. He’s my father.”
“Jesus, you’re a ringer for him.”
Shea took off his hat and scratched his curly dark head. “I’m himself less twenty years,” he said good-naturedly. “Well, what do you think of this special assignment, O’Malley?”
Brian shrugged, careful.
Shea, who was slightly taller than Brian and thinner, jammed his hat back on his head and held out his arms expansively. “Sure it’s a wondrous thing, protectin’ all them marvelous automobiles from the plunder of pirates and such kind!” His imitation of McCallahan was good and funny. Brian liked Shea.
“What are the girls like, Ed?”
“These are not ‘girls,’ O’Malley. These are young ladies. In fact, these are the daughters of some of the most very important people on the face of the earth, if you take my meaning, lad.” He cupped his hand over his mouth and said, “Mostly a hunch of dry-looking sticks. Half of them go stiff as soon as the music stops, when they realize they’re actually in some guy’s arms. You never saw such fast disengaging of couples in your life. Not that they get really close, there are more damn parents and nuns fluttering around. In fact and in summation, not a good lay in the house!”
Brian shrugged. “Can’t win ’em all. How’s the music. I can’t hear a damn thing out here.”
“Let’s put it this way, O’Malley. They try very hard. The sax isn’t bad but thank God they keep the trumpet muted. The poor bastard gets all revved up for a high note and can’t get anywhere near it. They’re all pretty good at facial expressions though. You know, all that narrowing of eyes stuff that’s supposed to get to the girls.”
Shea posed, hands in front of him, fingering keys, eyes narrowed and lashes batting. “You play anything, O’Malley?”
“I used to blow bugle.” On a sudden impulse, because Ed Shea was so relaxed and easygoing, because it had been a long and lonely night and he was restless and felt like making noise, Brian brought his fingers to his lips, held the imaginary bugle, tilted his head back and played the invisible instrument. He felt his lips tingle with effort as he forced out “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”
“Oh, Jesus, on Memorial Day, down the length of the Grand Concourse,” Ed Shea said. He hoisted a huge weight, sketched with his arms the bass drum, which had been his instrument. “Shea the dumdum man, boy wonder, who sets the marchin’ feet to marchin’ for St. Martin’s of the Holy Cross!” He made a banging motion and emitted a hollow sound from his chest. “Thud! Thump! Thud! Thump!”
They didn’t realize how loud they were in the silence of the parking lot.
Lieutenant Shea had a hand on each of them before either of them was aware of his presence. Brian froze with a terrible sense of humiliation and shame; his hands were poised foolishly at his lips, his head tilted back. He closed his eyes and wished reality away.
“Now you know where the real fun is,” Ed Shea said calmly to his father.
Brian opened his eyes as he felt the hard hand relax on his shoulder. He glanced quickly at Ed, then at Lieutenant Shea. He felt his face turn hot
“Well, I’ll tell the pair of you this,” Lieutenant Shea said quietly. “You’d be written off as a pair of fools or clowns if it was Sergeant McCallahan and not me came upon you. And you’d be taken as a pair of easy incompetents were I an auto thief. I’d have been able to make off with my choice beneath the beating of your drum and the tooting of your horn. What the hell tune were you attempting, anyway? It sounded nothing but noise to me.”
Brian ran a hand quickly across his mouth and said, “Well, I think we were probably playing the ‘Tools’ March,’ Lieutenant. And I guess we made a pretty good job of it.”
Lieutenant Shea regarded him for a moment, then smiled tightly and nodded. He looked from Brian to his son, then told them, “Well, the pair of you could end up on report, larking like a pair of schoolboys. I didn’t expect better sense out of you,” he told his son totally without rancor, “but Brian O’Malley, I thought you were more of a grownup. Go on now, are you on meal relief or what?”
At the entrance to the car lot, Brian met Sergeant McCallahan. “Did you hear some noises back there, O’Malley? Sounded like some kids.”
“Couple of kids walking down the street, Sergeant. They were playing parade.”
The sergeant’s face screwed into a puzzled expression. “Playing parade? What the hell does that mean, ‘playing parade’?”
Brian shrugged. “You know how kids are, Sarge. They were tooting on make-believe horns and banging on make-believe drums.”
The sergeant made a disgusted sound. “Ought to be home in bed. They’d get their asses kicked if they were mine, out this time of night, playing parade. I’d play them a parade.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
The nun behind the long gray-painted table in the basement of the Holy Mary Academy
dispensed chopped-egg and tuna-fish-salad sandwiches as though she were rendering a great charity to those accustomed to grabbing with both hands.
“One of each,” she instructed Brian as he held the paper plate over the meager supply of food. “You’re entitled to one of each and some potato salad”—a finger pointed out each item as she named it—“and some coleslaw, but go easy on that, please. We’ve four more policemen besides you to feed and the policemen who ate on the first shift weren’t very considerate of their fellow officers. Besides,” she advised him, “you’re late, seems to me.”
She blinked her thick, short red eyelashes over her pale-blue eyes and faced Brian with her accusation. He immediately declined both the potato salad and the coleslaw and her mouth pursed in disapproval for she had no more patience with martyrs than she did with gluttons.
All the physical signs indicated that Sister Margaret St. John was a warm, jolly, robust young woman with a friendly and open manner. She was large-boned, heavy-fleshed and the pale skin of her broad-nosed face was splashed with deep-orange clusters of freckles that looked like water paint. The backs of her hands were similarly stained, and from the heavy dark-orange eyebrows, there was no question that her hair, what was left of it cropped beneath her habit, was as riotously bright as any red hair could be. Physical appearances aside, she was a dour, sharp, cold, alert and antagonistic woman accustomed to dealing with a roomful of adolescent girls who were accustomed to being told what to do, when and how to do it.
“It’s been provided for you men,” she said as she spooned a scant amount of salad next to Brian’s sandwiches, “and we’ve no wish to have it left over.”
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