‘Let no one, unwise and unlearned, presume to ascend the seat of judgment, which is like unto the throne of God, lest for light he bring darkness and for darkness light, and, with unskilful hand, even as a madman, he put the innocent to the sword and set free the guilty, and lest he fall from on high, as from the throne of God, in attempting to fly before he has wings.’
28
Failure is a fixed point, a mooring in the current that keeps hauling you back. Back to this place, to this time. Back to the moment of error, when all the branchings of the stream radiated out in front of you and the choice was still yours. You return as a spectator, melancholy, reproachful, to say, This is what I should have done or This is what I should have said.
Twelve hours after my encounter with Braxton, I awoke in a hospital bed, plagued by reproaches. Should I have told the Bostonians about my mother from the start? Was I ridiculous to then go after Braxton alone? Or was I just desperate to prove that Braxton — or anyone other than me — was guilty of Danziger’s murder?
Outside, there was quiet bustling in the hall. Smells blended in the air, the distinct hospital potpourri: ammonia, bleach, alcohol, urine. I lay still, pretended to sleep. A bubble of respect surrounds sick people as they sleep, and I was anxious to preserve that privacy while I sorted through the events of the afternoon.
The church with its nippled dome. Teetering toward Braxton, clasping his arm, then letting him go so he could slip down that makeshift rope and dash out of the church. I recalled: When it was over, cops swarmed the building. Skittish, on high alert. Afraid to move me, they took turns kneeling and looking into my eyes. They parroted doctorly advice, much of it contradictory, ‘Don’t move’ then ‘Can you move?’ Two EMTs arrived and, after a bewildering quiz to establish my brain was still essentially intact (’What day is today? Who is the president?’), they helped me to my feet and escorted me out. On the sidewalk, someone handed me a towel. I caught my reflection in a car’s side mirror. My ear, neck, and shoulders were smeared with blood. There was no sign of Braxton.
In my hospital bed, I walked through these events over and over, shuffled and reordered them.
A man cleared his throat to announce his presence. I struggled upright to find John Kelly sitting by the foot of the bed. There was a pen in his long fingers, The Boston Globe Sunday crossword on his lap. He wore little half- glasses that made him look rather old and distinguished.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Visiting a friend in the hospital.’
‘Right, but… haven’t you heard? I killed Danziger. That’s what everybody thinks.’
‘Yes, I did hear that.’
‘You don’t believe it?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t believe or disbelieve it. I don’t have enough information.’
‘So you think I might have?’
‘There’s that possibility.’
‘That I’m a homicidal lunatic’
‘I don’t think you could be. I don’t believe you could do it, Ben Truman. But I may be wrong. We’ll see how it goes.’
I grunted, hunh. Kelly returned to his crossword puzzle.
I slipped in and out of sleep. When I awoke again I asked, ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost two.’
‘What hospital is this?’
‘Boston City. They kept you here overnight for observation. You’ll be out in the morning. How do you feel?’
‘Like in a cartoon. You know, when someone gets hit with a frying pan and his head vibrates and he gets those shaky lines around him?’
Kelly squinted. What? ‘They gave you something for the pain. It’ll make you drowsy’
I sank back into the pillow. ‘Braxton helped me.’
‘He decided not to kill you. It’s not the same as helping you.’
‘No. I fell over the rail. I was going to fall. He pulled me back.’
‘I’m sure he did what he thought he had to do. Let’s not go give him any medals.’
‘Right. Mr Kelly, why did you…?’
‘Why did I what?’
‘You keep disappearing. I needed you. Where do you go?’
‘To my daughter’s grave.’
I remembered the pale little girl with the cowl of black hair in the photo in Kelly’s living room. ‘Theresa?’
‘Theresa Rose.’
‘Caroline’s…?’
‘Caroline’s little sister, yes. She was not like Caroline, though. She was more delicate. More gentle.’ He smiled. ‘Not that Caroline isn’t delicate and gentle.’
‘She won’t talk to me, you know.’
‘Can you blame her?’
‘No. Well, at least you’re here. You don’t think I did it, do you?’
‘I just told you.’
‘Tell me again.’
He slipped off his glasses, wiped his eyes with his thumb and index finger, then put the glasses back on with a soft sigh. ‘I don’t think you could have done it.’
‘Good. Because I didn’t do it.’
My eyes closed.
When I woke, I said, ‘How did Theresa Rose die?’
‘Cancer.’
‘How old was — Do you mind talking about it?’
‘No, it’s alright. She was eight when she got sick, ten when she died.’
‘I’m sorry’
‘Cancer devours you, did you know that? It’s a living thing. It feeds on you so it can grow.’ For a moment Kelly seemed lost and ineffably sad. ‘Well, it’s not an excuse. You’re right. You were my partner, I should have been with you. It’s the First Commandment. I’m sorry.’
‘How often do you go to her grave?’
‘I try to stop by every day, if I can.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘Just sit.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it makes me feel she’s closer.’
Since the funeral, I’d never gone back to my mother’s grave. ‘Doesn’t it just make things worse?’
‘It gets better with time, Ben Truman. It never quite goes away, but it gets better.’
It was not clear what part Theresa Rose Kelly played in her father’s decision to come to my bedside that night. But I thought she was part of it. An impotent father’s urge to protect. To defend me, his ward, against the latest arbitrary supervening danger.
By this point Kelly and I were both getting uncomfortable with the topic of dead relations, and an awkward moment passed between us. To fill it, I asked how he was doing on the crossword puzzle.
‘Oh, this. I found it in the waiting room. I’m awful at these. You know a four-letter word for kiln, begins with O?’
