“No.”
“Are you…on drugs?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what is this? You’re like a crazy man already. What’s going on with you?”
“I just don’t like your boyfriend, that’s all.”
“Stop calling him my boyfriend. You sound ridiculous.”
“What should I call him? ‘Daddy’?”
“You call him Brendan. That’s his name, it’s what you’ve been calling him for thirty years. And you better watch your tone with me, young man. I’m still entitled to a little respect even if your father’s not here to keep you three in line.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. We have Brendan to keep us in line now.”
“Michael, come here. Sit down here now.”
He sat beside her on the bed. The adjacent night table, Joe Senior’s night table, was littered with trash, crumpled tissues, a paperback novel thick as a beefsteak, a nearly empty water glass.
“Michael, you have to stop this. Whatever it is you have against Brendan, it’s time to put it away, you hear me? I can’t stand this. I don’t recognize you anymore. It’s like you’re another person. Where’s my Michael, hm?”
“Do you love him?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference. It makes all the difference.”
“Why? I don’t get you. Why?”
“Because you had a husband.”
“Had. He’s dead, Michael. I’m not. Did you want me to jump into the box with him and the both of us get buried?”
“I want you to act-I want you to act like you respect him.”
“Of course I respect him. I was married to him for thirty-three years. How could I not respect him?”
“Then what are you doing with this…pig?”
“Pig! Michael!”
“You’re right. That’s not fair. There are plenty of perfectly respectable pigs out there.”
“Michael, where is all this coming from? This…hate? You’ve known Brendan your whole life. Your father-who you seem to think was some kind of saint-”
“I didn’t say that. Not a saint. Not a saint. Just a decent guy. Showed up for work every day, never cheated, did right by his family, that’s all I’m saying. And after that, after forty years almost of being with a good guy, you settle for this? Brendan Conroy isn’t worth the half of my father and you know it. You can’t even compare the two. It’s like apples and…a pig.”
“Brendan is a good man.”
“Oh, stop. He’s an obnoxious blowhard. And worse, Ma, believe me. Much worse.”
“Worse?”
“There’s things you don’t know.”
“Oh, pssh. Now you really do sound like a mental case.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that Brendan was there the day Dad died?”
“No.”
“That the man you crawl into bed with, who puts his hands on you, who touches you, is the last man who saw your husband alive?”
“Michael, stop this!”
“Then he told some cock-and-bull story about a kid they never found? Your husband was murdered and Brendan was there and they never found the guy. That doesn’t bother you?”
Michael shuffled to the bureau. His fingers sought out the small items she had collected there on a painted tin tray: a Hummel figurine, hair clips, her rosary, coins. In the top middle drawer, which was open, the brown handle of Joe Senior’s service pistol was half buried among the stockings and girdles. He looked back at his mother sitting on the bed. The sheets were mussed. She had twisted to face him. On a wall in the corner was a photo of the three boys when they were fifteen, thirteen, and nine respectively. Nearby was a picture of Jesus with his long hands pressed together in prayer. The picture reminded him of the church, and the church reminded him:
“Do you…? The two of you…”
“Do we what?”
“…use…birth control?”
“Oh my God! Michael! How dare you? That’s it! This conversation is over! He’s a pig?”
“Alright, alright!”
“You’re the pig! Pig! Pig!” She shook herself, like a dog shaking water out of its fur. “Oh!”
He said nothing.
“Oh!” she blurted again.
“There are things about Brendan you don’t know, Ma. I don’t think you should see him.”
“Oh, you don’t? Well, that’s just too bad. I’m a big girl. I’ll decide who I see and who I don’t see.”
“This is serious. There’s things Amy knew.”
“Things like what, Michael? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Amy thought-” He checked himself. She would think he was insane even if he credited the story to Amy. She would think he was insane just for believing it. So he hedged. He did not accuse Brendan Conroy, quite. “Brendan knows more about Dad’s murder than he lets on. That’s what Amy thought.”
“Amy thought that, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“You know, this isn’t the first I’ve heard this. Brendan told me what you said the other night. He thinks you’re a nutcase, too, you know. I defended you, but you know what? I think maybe Brendan was right. You might really need help, Michael.”
“Then help me.”
“How? Take you to McLean’s, put you in a padded room?”
“Don’t see him, just for a while. For me. Do it for me.”
“I can’t do that. You know I’m not going to do that.”
“Why not? Tell him you’re sick, tell him you need time to think, it’s moving too fast, you have cancer, whatever. Mum, trust me, women say these things to me all the time. He’ll get the message.”
“But I don’t want to not see him.”
“You do love him.”
She groaned, exasperated. “What is this love-him, not-love-him? Why do I have to love him or not love him? I don’t even know what that means. Do I love him like I loved your father? No, because I’m not eighteen anymore and neither is Brendan. So what is it supposed to feel like, Michael, for me? Why can’t I decide? Why can’t I just be with someone? It’s no sin to want to be with someone, you know. Is it such a sin to not want to be alone?”
“No, it’s no sin. Just a mistake.”
42
Claire Downey’s desk at the Observer was in a corner of the newsroom, where the racket of clacking wire- service teletypes joined the general clamor of the room-the arrhythmic whack- [pause] -whack-whack of typewriters, the men in rumpled white shirts speaking in raised voices like a ship’s crew shouting into the wind. At the center of Claire’s desk was a big Royal typewriter. The logo on it had been written over with a marker: “Royal” had been altered to “GoyaKOD.” Surrounding the typewriter were papers, a wire basket, folded newspapers, a Kent cigarette carton converted into a pencil tray, an ominous-looking spike to impale papers. All these things seemed to have collected at random, as if blown onto the desk by a swirling breeze.
Michael hovered near the desk until a woman approached. She wore a plain gray skirt with a white blouse. Her face was broad and square, pretty in a girlish, quick-smiling way. It was framed by brown hair, which she parted on
