And yet, the smell of the incense from the censer was the smell of the incense of old, and the stately movement of the priests in their robes as they walked down the aisles swinging them, sending the pale smoke into the air, their free hands placed gently over their hearts, was as it had always been. At his shoulder, Jacob’s bowed head and thin folded hands reassured him somewhat (and told him the three hundred a year for four years that he’d spent on his Catholic high school might actually have purchased the boy something). Beside Jacob, Clare had lost her initial, openmouthed fascination with the saucer-shaped ceiling and was now simply studying her sister’s hand (which Annie, limply, had allowed her to take into her lap), studying especially the latest boyfriend’s thick high-school ring, which Annie had made smaller with a welt of yellow yarn. Beside her, Michael sprawled in the pew (three hundred a year for three years with not much to show for it), his eyes cast down not in prayer but in a kind of wry embarrassment for how utterly mistaken everyone around him, everyone who had ever had a hand in the construction of this place, seemed to be.
As soon as the priest said, “The Mass is ended” (“Thanks be to God,” was the only response Michael joined in on, saying it loudly and sarcastically and always adding, just loudly enough for his siblings to hear, “Let’s cruise”), Michael was in the aisle, out the door, the first to grab a fresh Sunday News from the pile outside of Krause’s store.
He carried it and his ritual bottle of Sunday-morning root beer back to his parents’ car. They were delayed, touring the new church (his father testing the confessional’s sturdy doors, his mother with the girls on either side of her clucking her tongue at each white and nearly indiscernible depiction of Christ’s suffering). Sitting on the warm hood of his father’s car, Michael watched the people leaving the church, getting into their own cars, pulling out. He saw Lori Ballinger walking behind her parents, her legs tan, her hair glossy in the sun, and he raised the bottle of soda in a debonair salute. She waved back, smiling.
When Jacob joined him (“They’re talking to people,” was his only explanation for their parents’ further delay), Michael said that he had seen her. “She’s cute,” Jacob said.
“A nice girl, I hear,” Michael added, emphasizing nice so that Jacob would know he hadn’t said “good.”
Jacob knew, and showed that he knew with a slight smile. He put out his hand and his brother passed him the soda, although he said as he did, “Get your own.” Jacob took a drink and then passed it back. It was a taste that made him feel ten years old.
“Where the hell are they?” Michael said. He leaned back on the hood, his knees raised. “Why the hell didn’t you take your car?” The sky was clear blue above them, hardly a wisp of cloud. He felt sometimes that all he did anymore was wait. He put his hand in his pants pocket and found a stubby pencil from the golf course where he caddied. He sat up. “Let’s walk home,” he said. “I’ll leave a note.” He wrote across the clean border at the top of the Sunday comics. Propped the entire paper up on the windshield and secured it with a wiper, left the empty soda bottle beside it. His father’s car, a ’65 Ford, was, he told Jacob, a piece of junk.
Jacob shrugged. This summer, as a graduation present, his father had given him three hundred dollars toward his own car, a little Capri. The puzzle he had studied in high-school religion classes—why the rich were so ungenerous, why the suffering of the poor, the fixable suffering, was so seldom fixed—began to solve itself for him the first time he drove off alone, in his own car. There was want, as the Brothers at St. Sebastian’s had referred to it. But then there was, he suddenly understood—alone, unfettered, pressing the accelerator, palming the wheel—I want.
His brother leaped off the hood—the percussion of the metal bending in under his palm and then bending back again. “Let’s cruise,” he said again.
They walked together, down the alleyway that ran in front of what they still called the new gym, past the modern entryway. Saint Gabriel, with the shoulders of his folded wings rising up over his head, was mere shadow behind the plate glass. They emerged from the alleyway into the sun, passed Krause’s store, where there was still a crowd of customers inside, pressed against the door. They cut through the parking lot of the strip of stores beside the school, turned toward home. It was the route they had walked together for years, when they were students at St. Gabriel’s and then again when they had come to this corner to meet their high-school bus. That was over now. Jacob was starting St. John’s in the fall. Michael would be hitching a ride to St. Sebastian’s with some friends, his senior year.
Jacob said, when they had reached the orderly streets where the houses, each nearly identical, began, “I called her once.”
“Who?” Michael said. He was thinking of how much money he’d lost today, not caddying. Giving in to his parents’ request that they all go to the first Mass at the new church.
“Lori Ballinger,” Jacob said.
Michael looked at him. He was about four inches taller than Jacob, and still growing, he was sure. He straightened his shoulders. “You asked her out?”
Jacob nodded, smiled a little crookedly, making fun of himself. Given the look, he didn’t have to say how it had turned out, but Michael asked him anyway.
“She turned you down?”
“Yeah,” Jacob said. “She said she was busy.”
Michael considered this. He considered saying, Well, that took courage. Instead he said, “When was this?”
“Last year,” Jacob said. “Junior prom.”
He stood still on the sidewalk. His brother kept going. “Holy shit,” he said. “You asked Lori Ballinger to your prom?”
Jacob shrugged, shaking off Michael’s astonishment. Michael caught up with him. “She was dating football jocks in grammar school, man.”
“Really?” Jacob said.
Michael fell into stride beside his brother. “You should have asked me,” he said. “I would have told you to forget about Lori Ballinger.”
Jacob shrugged again.
The route was all familiar—gray sidewalks and driveways, green rectangles of lawns, cars, bicycles, houses, and trees. The familiar streets. He and Jacob could name nearly every family as they passed. The O’Haras’ house, the Krafts’, the DeLucas’, Levines’, Persichettis’. They’d been in most of their kitchens or front hallways, they’d collected paper-route payments or candy on Halloween, gotten glasses of water or Kool-Aid from them on hot summer days. As he walked beside his brother, Michael’s recollection of those days made them all seem soft-focused and gentle, an easy roundness about things that had since given way to something thinner, something grown sharper in a threadbare sort of way. Maybe it was the clean-edged aluminum siding that had replaced the aging shingles on most of the homes, or the sleeker cars, or the sun catching the chrome on Tony Persichetti’s motorcycle in the driveway, where he once would have left his bike. Maybe it was just the sense of it coming to an end, his time in this place, his childhood. Maybe it was that the place had worn thin only for him, that he was already worn out with waiting to leave it and get on.
He said to his brother, “I can’t wait to get out of here. One more year.” He said, “I don’t know how you can stand it, not going away.”
Jacob shrugged again. His father had told him: “I can pay for private-school tuition, or I can pay your room and board. I can’t do both. There are four of you to put through college.”
“I don’t mind,” he said.
Michael looked at him again. Someone, some girl, had told him once, “Your brother’s nice.” And then added, as if it pained her, “Too nice, if you know what I mean.” He hadn’t, not exactly. He thought again of Lori Ballinger. Jacob had made a plan and worked up the courage and called her and asked her to the prom and she had shot him down and through it all, he’d never said a word. About any of it. Through it all, he’d pulled his blankets up over his shoulder and faced the wall. Michael would hear him sometimes, the mattress, the deep sighs. No doubt Jacob heard him, t
oo, when his turn came. Tempting as it had been to say, across the short space between their beds—“Are you jacking off?” “Are you crying?”—Michael never had. Not out of any kindness, he knew, but in exchange for future consideration, when the agitation under the covers, the tears, would be his.
“I think the new church is bullshit,” Michael said. He had only the slightest hankering, like the first hint of hunger, to start a fight.
Jacob shrugged again. “The other one was falling down.”
“They could have fixed it,” Michael said. “Instead of spending all that money.”
Jacob said nothing. They were almost home. The Rosenbergs’ house, the Lavins’. “Putting the screws to guys like Dad,” Michael said. “Making them cough up the dough to make McShane look good. It’s bullshit.”
“You gotta have a church,” Jacob said.
“Why?” Michael asked. The MacLeod house, him with the musical aspirations and the Orange Crush hair. Michael was certain that if Jacob had told him what he was thinking, he would have said, There’s no way you can go with Lori Ballinger, give it up. He would have saved him from whatever it was he had felt when she said, No, I can’t. “Why do you have to have a church?” More belligerent than he’d intended.
Behind them, they could hear Clare calling, jokingly, “Oh, boys.” She was hanging out the window of the car. The car was slowing down, passing them. “Yoo-hoo,” she said, waving her headband toward them. In the front seat, their mother and father were laughing.
They both waved back. The car swung into the driveway ahead of them.
“People need a place to go,” Jacob said.
“Why?” Michael asked again. “What for?” And when Jacob shrugged, but smiling this time, as if he knew they both knew the answer, Michael said, once more, “It’s bullshit.”
JOHN KEANE LAY IN BED and held a running argument with the pain. It was a terse, dismissive argument, the kind he might have with some idiot shop clerk or dishonest mechanic, the kind of hopeless, useless, beneath-your-dignity argument that you know you should walk away from but don’t. Can’t. Raising your eyebrows at any bystander or eavesdropper as if to say, Can you believe this idiot? Can you believe I’m bothering to talk to him?
The boys, before they left for their summer jobs—Jacob was cutting lawns again this summer, Michael caddying by day and pumping gas at night—had knocked together a number of two-by-fours and, following his instructions, had rigged it with a pulley and a rope. They had then wrapped the rope around one of his old, paint-spattered army boots, across the instep and up through the laces, and weighed the other end with a dictionary and half a dozen volumes of their grocery-store encyclopedia. Following his instructions (they were good kids, both of them), they had slipped the boot over his right sock, adjusting the whole contraption until his leg was pulled taut, nearly suspended over the damp mattress, and the pain that had woken him two nights ago, all unbidden and unaccountable, met its match with this new pain—a disciplined, intentional pain—intended to be the cure.
Michael had hesitated at the bedroom door. This was at about eight fifteen this morning, Mary downstairs getting the rest of them out of the house. If anyone was going to say this two-bit attempt at traction was an eccentric, half-assed scheme, it would be Michael the wise guy. But Michael merely waved his arm—a long, thin arm, softened, nearly blurred by the fair hair that covered it—and said, “Take care.”
He had lifted his own arm, the mold from which the other had been formed, and said, “Sure I will.”
He had a bottle of aspirin by the bedside, a cold cup of tea, a tube of Ben-Gay, even, his wife’s idea, a tumbler of scotch, but he resisted resorting to any of them just yet. Yesterday, the boys had moved the portable TV into his room, close enough so he could reach the dial and the antenna (another jerry-rigged affair with rabbit ears and a coat hanger and aluminum foil), but he resisted that as well. The house was empty now—the boys at their jobs and his wife and the two girls off to a matinee in the city—and silent but for the whir of the fan on the dresser, which by now had become a part of the silence as well. This was the beginning of his second day of sick leave, the first two he had taken in more than twenty years, and he didn’t like the vertigo he felt at this sudden suspension of his routine any better today than he had yesterday. (He raised his chin at the army boot, at the pale blue pant leg of his pajamas: I don’t like it.)
It wasn’t that he was a company man, he was happy enough to use up his three weeks of vacation time every year—one week to work around the house in the spring, two in summer to take the kids to the shore. He was just mostly healthy, and found a couple of aspirin or a cold tablet taken in the morning far preferable to the silence and boredom of a sickroom. And he didn’t like doctors. Mary Keane rolled her eyes every time she heard him say it. She understood that what he didn’t like about doctors had less to do with what he called their arrogance and more to do with the diplomas on the wall, the golf-course tans—the disadvantage, the particular kind of humiliation a man with four children making fifteen thousand a year endured while sitting with his bare legs dangling, those missing toes, in his boxer shorts and T-shirt before a diplomaed man in a good suit who had been to Columbia University or Cornell. Once a year, he went downtown for his company physical and every year he got a clean bill of health—as had (he was quick to point out) his brother Frank two weeks before he died, which told you something about doctors.
He was convinced anyway that lingering illness and curable, or incurable, disease was not likely to get him. His end, when it came, he was certain, would be swift and unavoidable. The black coach. The sudden fall. Like Frank’s.
He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, palms pressed to the mattress to ease the pressure on his tailbone. He moved his foot inside the boot. This morning, when he had shown the boys the sketch he had drawn during the sleepless night, Michael had muttered, “It looks like a guillotine. Or the rack.” He had raised an eyebrow and flicked an imaginary cigarette and said in a squinting, lip-curling German accent, “Foolish man, ve have other vays to make you talk.” But Jacob, who if he had been another kind of oldest child might have had the courage to dissuade his father, to point out that they were not setting a broken limb, that this was not the Wild West and it was high time a doctor be consulted, said simply, “Dad thinks it will help,” and then led Michael to the basement where there was still a small, leftover pile of two-by-fours tucked away in the furnace room.
It might have been more fitting for them to have rebelled, and he suspected that were he a younger man, a younger father, they would have. But the solemnity with which the two of them had come, one after the other, into his bedroom yesterday morning revealed something. Here he was out sick for the first time in more than twenty years and here they were standing over him, dumbstruck and wary, their fear of his dying sprung into their faces as if from the very moment their mother had awakened them with the news that sometime during the night, something had gone wrong with Daddy’s leg. He suspected that they followed his instructions for the weights and the pulley and the contraption that was to support it not so much to humor him in his pain but to coax themselves into believing that he was still in charge, that they were still under his care.
And then the sound of them pounding the wood reached him from the basement, and it was all he could do to cast aside as utter nonsense his own morbid thoughts regarding coffins and crucifixes. It was only a bum leg, after all. Sprung on him in the middle of the night.
He stirred again against the mattress, tilted his head back against the mahogany headboard. He tried to gauge the movement of the sunlight across the white ceiling. There were the blue shadows cast by the valances of his wife’s curtains, the reflection of light in the mirror above her dresser, in the glass of the children’s school photographs, in the blank face of the TV. The pain stretched its own legs for a few seconds, reached up over his thigh and across his back and into his chest and arms. In response, he moved the toe of the boot, th
en bent his knee to lift the weight of the books that pulled against it, matching pain for pain, the unbidden with the intentional, in some vague theory that the one would defeat the other, that the one was preferable to the other. When he reached for the aspirin on the bed stand, he saw that his hand was trembling and he whispered a quick “Son of a bitch.” It was an ongoing and unwinnable argument with an idiot.
And yet it was an argument he could not resist.
He swallowed the aspirin without water, tossing them one at a time into the back of his throat, the second one catching on his tongue. What he was hoping to put off for as long as possible was the inevitable slipping out of the boot and off the bed, the awkward, gimping trip across the hallway to the bathroom.
There was an old hockey stick on the other side of the bed, another basement resource the boys had fetched for him, meant to serve as a crutch, although using it had made him feel like some Old Testament prophet leaning on his staff.
“Like Charlton Heston,” Michael had said from the doorway of his own bedroom last night. It seemed to John Keane that over the past two days, one or the other of his sons was always lounging casually in the doorway whenever he got himself up and hauled himself across the hall to the bathroom. Had he been a younger father, they might have simply thrown him over a shoulder and carried him across.
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