by Paula Cox
It’s not the same because I didn’t care even one-tenth as much back then, but it’s similar to when I let Anna’s parents ship her away. I just let her leave, swept away to a rehab clinic to cure her after her stint with me. See, I think bitterly, that’s what you do to people. Anna didn’t need rehab for the drugs, Jude. She needed rehab from you.
“You alright, man?” Tool asks.
I realize I’m rapping the table over and over with my knuckles.
“Fine,” I grunt. “Just my mind is making me crazy. Keep thinking of all the things that could be happening to her, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. I get like that about my kids. Make myself mad over it. That’s how you know you really give a shit about a person.”
“It doesn’t feel great.”
“Not when you’re apart, no.” Tool laughs. “But that’s life, man. Better get used to it.”
“The bakery,” I mutter, after a pause.
“Bakery?”
I jump to my feet. “That’s where she might be. I’m going to check. See you later, Tool.”
He holds up the bottle. “Don’t you want it?”
“Nah, keep it.”
“I told you, man, you’re a damn good person!” he calls after me as I leave the bar.
Please be there, I think as I pace down the street. Please be there. Please be safe.
Chapter Thirty
Emily
“Well, you’ve been a help, old man.”
I rise to my feet. The old man stands up almost at once. He turns to me, a concerned expression on his face, almost like the expression of a father regarding his daughter. It makes me feel weird, as though a puzzle piece has been slotted into a long-empty place inside of me. The look this old man gives me, this stranger, is a look I’ve yearned for my entire life. A look Patrick never gave me. The look a loving family member is meant to give.
As he stands, his coat clings onto his knees, tugging his neckline down. I see his tattoo, which I only half-noticed when we first met. It’s the same as Jude’s tattoos!
I take a step back, stunned.
“You’re . . .”
“Mickey O’Donnell,” he says, extending his hand. “And you’re Emily Ness. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He walks to the edge of the pond, watching the ducks. I join him, standing at his shoulder. “We’ve been talking for over an hour. Didn’t you think it would’ve been a good idea to let me know who you are?” I pause. “Wait a second…Did Jude send you?”
Mickey laughs. I try to find some hint of murder, sadism, in the laugh, but his voice is still the kind old man’s voice. Discovering that he’s Jude’s boss, the leader of one of the most dangerous crime families in America, does little to change my perception of him.
“Of course Jude sent me,” he says. “But I’m not here to take you back. I won’t even tell Jude I found you.”
“So why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He turns to me with a fatherly smile. “I’m here because Jude cares about you a whole lot, and Jude’s my family. That makes you family, too, girl.”
A tingle moves over me at the word. Family.
“I shared a lot with you,” I murmur.
“You did. And did it help?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I think so.”
“Then my work here is done.”
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“I have an intricate network of homeless people,” he says. “I put out an announcement, you were spotted entering the park, I was contacted. Don’t tell anyone, though. I’m pretty sure most of the men think I’m psychic or something.” He taps his nose in a keep-a-secret gesture.
I can’t help but laugh.
“I like you, girl,” Mickey says. “You don’t deserve all the nasty shit that’s happened to you. I’m sorry about that.”
“Were you telling the truth?” I say. “When you told me about your dad. About the girl.”
He nods somberly. “Oh, yes. I was telling the truth. I’d ask you to keep that a secret, too, if you don’t mind. Not many people know about it.”
“Of course.”
He looks deep into my eyes. “Jude’s a good man,” he says. “Jude’s the best man I know, Emily. Tool told me once he thought Jude would’ve been a vet or something like that in a different life. Maybe a nurse like his sister. I don’t know about that, but I know that boy; there’s more to him than appears at first glance.”
“Isn’t that the same with all of us?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Mickey shrugs. “You’re family now, girl, but I won’t overstep and tell you what to do. All I’ll say is this. Jude’s a good man and he cares a great deal for you. Oh, he tries to hide it, of course. But he’s like a teenager trying to hide a crush. He’s been different these past weeks, even if he himself hasn’t realized it. You can almost smell the love radiating from him. He only wants you to be happy.”
“He’s said all this to you?” My tone is disbelieving; I could never imagine Jude offering all this up to anybody else, especially a man in the life.
“No. But he doesn’t have to. It’s written on the boy’s face.”
We pause, watching ripples and ducks and leaves floating on the breeze. “You’re different than I expected you to be,” I say.
“We all are. No person in this life is evil. At least, few are. There are the Barrys of this world, of course, but they’re few and far between. Mostly we’re just men with a job to do. That’s something else I need to tell you, girl. You’re my family now. If Jude’s my son—and in many ways he is—you’re my daughter-in-law. I will never have a quarrel with you. But I have one with your brother, Patrick. You should think about distancing yourself from that brother of yours before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late.” I don’t feel the pang of confusion and grief I felt before talking with Mickey. Strange, how one conversation can change so much. “He’s dead.”
“He’s not dead.”
“What?”
He tells me; it was Barry’s blood. Barry’s the one who’s dead.
“Then why…” I reel all the way back to the bench and drop into it. I lean my forearms on my legs and let out panting breaths. “Then why didn’t Jude tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Both for the same reason, I expect. We wanted you to let him go. We wanted you to see that those black eyes of yours outweigh all the supposed good he’s done for you. Judging from our conversation, I’d say it was a successful venture.”
“It was.” I breathe heavily. “But…I thought he was dead!” I massage my temples. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.”
Mickey walks to the bench, standing over me. “There is no easy answer to that one, I’m afraid,” he says. “But I think you’ll find some kind of answer, if you really look.”
With that, he leaves me.
After around fifteen minutes, I stand up and make my way through the park.
Despite everything, I feel stronger, braver. The old man—Mickey, I correct myself—has helped me see something that was there all along. He’s helped me see my steel.
I’ll get my last paycheck from the bakery, I think, smiling despite the madness of the last couple of hours, and then I’ll return to the apartment. I need Jude. I need him badly right now.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jude
I’ve just walked into the street when my cellphone buzzes. I’m so eager to see Emily that I wrench the small mess of plastic and circuitry from my pocket with the ferocity of my drunk, killer’s hands. It flies into the air, spinning, and almost crashes into the wall. Only throwing myself against the wall and hefting it like a football prevents it from doing so. I smile at myself, thinking, stupid, and then answer the cell without checking who it is.
I’m sure it’s Emily. She’s returned to the apartment and now she’s there waiting for me. I imagine her propped up on the couch, legs folded beneath her, watching one of her documen
taries with her cellphone held in her small, pale hand. I imagine her glancing at the door, curious about where I am. Most of all, I imagine I’m back there now. We don’t even fuck; we just sit together. I hold her. Damn, this is different. I feel like a fucking alien or something.
But the voice which snaps at me down the line isn’t Emily’s; it’s Moira’s.
“It’s good to see you, too,” she says dryly. I can’t get anything past Moira. She senses my moods like a bloodhound senses blood.
“I was expecting somebody else.”
“Emily,” Moira says.
“Yes. How did you know?”
I lean against the wall of the bar, watching the almost-empty street. Resident New Yorkers know better than to walk by this bar, but every so often a tourist or somebody not in the know will wander by. As I watch, two Brits carrying rucksacks and wearing I Love New York baseball caps stroll by. They glance at the bar, at me, and then hurry along, talking loudly in Queen-like accents.
“I just got off the phone with her.”
“You did?” I lean up. The Brits twist their heads, flinch, and walk with quicker steps.
Moira laughs tightly. “Yes, I did. And I have to tell you, Jude, I don’t like talking about this side of your life, but as strange as it may seem, I’ve come to like that girl a hell of a lot. I know, I know,” and here Moira goes into overdrive speech mode, something I’ll never get used to, her words thumping into my ear like pellets, “I’ve only known her for an afternoon. But we clicked, you know? Sometimes, in life, people just click. She’s smart, though she’s never been allowed the chance to use her intelligence. More importantly, she’s enthusiastic and she actually cares. Do you know how rare that is, Jude, to find somebody who actually cares?”
“Yeah.” I pant the word. “Sure. Where is she, Moira? Where’s she heading?”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
I drop against the wall. “Then why are you calling me?” I can’t hide the old sibling snapping from my voice.
“Don’t take that tone with me!” Moira cries. For a pained moment, I’m thrown back decades to when Mom was alive. Mom could bring that same fiery note into her voice when she wanted, too, and it chilled me then as it chills me now coming from Moira. “You’re my brother and Emily is my friend. I think I have every right to do a little poking around.”
“Fine.” I sigh, massaging my forehead. The whisky pounds against the surface of my skull, a sleepless hangover on its way. “It’s just, I need to see her, is all. There was a misunderstanding and it got way out of goddamned proportion.”
“I know. She thought you’d killed her brother, turns out you’d killed some rapist-slash-pervert instead.” Moira’s voice goes tight as she ventures into the life, rare territory for her. Moira never judges me, but I know she doesn’t agree with how I make my living. Hell, can’t blame her. She spends her life fixing people; I spend my life breaking them.
“Okay, fine. So the fight’s over, then.”
“Well…sort of…”
“Goddamn it, sis, what do you mean?”
“I get the sense that you still want to kill her brother.”
This again.
“Moira, how much do you know about her brother?”
“You know how much I know. You told me all about it, remember?”
I wince. “Ah, yeah.” I often forget how often Moira and I share with each other—excluding the bloodier portions of my life. Moira’s a constant, always just there. “Okay, so you know that he’s a piece of shit who deserves to die.” My tone goes cold, but Jude Kelly’s particular brand of icy cold won’t work on Moira Kelly. I’ve tried it before. Secretly, I’m pretty sure Moira’s the tougher sibling.
“I’m sure the man deserves punishment,” Moira says tentatively. “But can’t you understand that he’s also her brother, Jude?”
“This argument again!” I bark.
I spring away from the wall and begin pacing up and down the street. Tool pokes his head from the bar, narrowing his eyes at me. “All good, man?” I mouth fine and he retracts his head. I go to the other end of the street, clenching my fist around the cellphone so hard I’m sure it’s going to break.
“Yes, this argument again,” Moira mutters. “Look, I agree that Patrick is a bad man. You’d have to be a fool not to see that, from the outside. But remember, Jude, that Emily isn’t on the outside. Emily has been on the inside her entire life. Every day of her life, she’s lived with that man. Every day of her life—or almost every day, or at least often enough to make it routine—she’s been beaten and insulted and abused. Don’t you see, Jude? It’s violence. She’s lived with violence for as long as she can remember. So from her point of view, it’s the norm.”
“I don’t see your point,” I say. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t do much to heal her black eyes, does it?” Only Moira can bring out this little-boy tone in me. I sound petulant, I know, but I don’t care. It’s like the world is stacked against me. All I want to do—and, more importantly, what the family needs me to do—is take out an abusive bastard and everyone seems to have a problem with that.
“My point is,” Moira says patiently, nurse-like, “that for Emily the violence is just another part of her life. The only constants in her life have been Patrick, and violence. And whilst she’s slowly coming out of her shell, coming to terms with her abuse, do you really think taking away Patrick is going to make it easier for her? Do you really think more violence is going to fix it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do. Once the threat is removed, she’ll have the space to move on.”
“You think with your fists,” Moira says.
“That’s true. You’re two for two, sis.”
“Now you’re being an asshole.”
“I just don’t understand why the whole world has collectively decided that Patrick is a nice guy.”
“I never said he was a nice guy. I just said you need to see it from Emily’s point of view.”
“I try, I really do, but all I see is a man twice her size battering her with his fists. Maybe she is under his thumb, maybe she is twisted and manipulated, but that doesn’t mean anything Patrick does causes her any less harm. He’s a monster and that’s all there is to it.”
“That’s never all there is to it,” Moira says. “You should know that, more than anybody.”
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“Many people would see you as a monster, Jude.”
I laugh, but it sounds forced, even to my own ears. “I take out the trash; he beats women. I’m sure anyone can see the difference there.”
“Many people wouldn’t, I bet.”
I sigh for what feels like the twentieth time.
“I need to go and find her,” I say. “We can sort all this out then. I’m not in the mood to play runaround anymore. Wait a sec—you said you spoke to her?”
“Yeah.”
“How? She left her cell at the apartment.”
“She called me. Maybe from a payphone.”
“Damn. Anyway, sis, this has been enlightening and all, but I’ve got to run.”
“Jude,” she says, in that Mom-like voice again.
“What?”
“Just think about what I said.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Jude!”
“What?”
“Think about what I said!” she snaps.
“Okay,” I say. “Fine. I will.”
“Promise?”
“Dammit! I promise!”
“Good. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Bye.”
I hang up and make my way down the street, toward the bakery. I’ve walked no farther than half a dozen steps when I spot Mickey walking toward me, alone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Emily
I remember Moira’s cellphone number by accident, just by stuffing my hands into my pockets as I walk. I finger the folded-up piece of paper as I walk down the street, not remembering what it i
s until I pass by a phone booth. I don’t think I’ve used a phone booth ever, in my entire life, but luckily there’s some change in my purse.