Balance of Power

    'Because he's getting worse. And now he has a gun.' Kerry paused, marshalling the words to reach her. 'Look at him. Maybe his childhood explains him. But it's the adult who keeps choosing to be violent. And if he needs a reason to hurt you, he'll find one.

    'Then look at you. Look at your reasons for staying—economic insecurity; fear of shame before your family; fear of Marie not having a father; fear of not having Marie.' Clasping her fingers, Kerry gazed at her until her eyes met his. 'You're scared for you—all the time now. And your only way out is to help John stop, or stop him yourself. Which could mean taking him to court.'

    Joan paled. 'I can't,' she protested. 'I could never put Marie through that.'

    Kerry gave Joan time to hear herself. 'Can you put Marie through this?' he asked.

    Joan's face was a study in confusion—by turns fearful, irresolute, resistant, and imploring. He searched within himself for the words to reach her and realized, against his bone-deep instinct to seal off the past, that they could not be the words of an observer.

    'I'm going to tell you something,' he said, 'that only three people know who are still alive—my mother, my closest friend, and Lara. It's about me. But it's also about Marie.'

FIVE

Kerry Kilcannon's clearest memory of early childhood was of his father bleeding.

    It began as many other nights had begun—with the sound of a slammed door, Michael Kilcannon coming home drunk. He would teeter up the stairs to the second floor, talking to himself or to someone he resented, pausing for balance or to take deep, wheezing breaths. Kerry would lie very still; until this night, Michael would stumble past Kerry's and Jamie's rooms to the bedroom at the end of the hall, and the beatings would begin. Through his tears, Kerry would imagine his mother's face at breakfast—a bruised eye, a swollen lip. No one spoke of it.

    But on this night, Kerry's door flew open.

    Michael Kilcannon flicked on the wall light. The six-year-old Kerry blinked at the sudden brightness, afraid to move or speak.

    Slowly, his father walked toward him, and then stood at the foot of his bed. Blood spurted from his forearm.

    Terrified, Kerry watched red droplets forming on his sheets.

    Michael glared at Kerry, his handsome, somewhat fleshy face suffused with drink and anger. 'Look.' His Irish lilt became a hiss. 'Look at what you've done.'

    Kerry stared at the bloodstains, stupefied.

    'Your wagon, you pissant. You left your fooking wagon on the path . . .'

    Kerry shook his head reflexively. 'I'm sorry, Da,' he tried. Then he began to cry, trying hard to stop.

    Mary Kilcannon appeared in the doorway.

    Her long black hair was disarranged, her skin pale in the light. Kerry was too afraid to run to her.

    Entering, she gave him a gaze of deep compassion, then placed a tentative hand on her husband's shoulder. Softly, she asked, 'What is it, Michael?'

    Throat constricted, Kerry watched his father's angry face.

    'The wagon.' Michael paused, and then gazed down at the sheets with a kind of wonder. 'Sharp edges . . .'

    Eyes never leaving her son, his mother kissed Michael on the side of his face.

    'That'll need tending, Michael.' Still trembling, Kerry watched his mother take his father by the hand. 'We should go to the hospital.'

    Slowly, his father turned and let Mary Kilcannon lead him from the room.

    Kerry could hardly breathe. Turning, Mary Kilcannon looked back at him. 'Don't worry about your father . . .'

    Somehow, Kerry understood she meant that he was safe tonight. But he did not get up until he heard the front door close.

    His eighteen-year-old brother Jamie—tall and handsome, the family's jewel—was standing in the door of his bedroom. 'Well,' Jamie said softly, to no one, 'they cut quite a figure, don't they?'

    Kerry hated him for it.

* * *

It started then—the thing between Kerry and his father.

    Two days later, the stitches still in his arm, Michael Kilcannon, with two tickets a fellow patrolman could not use, took Kerry to a Mets game. Michael knew little of baseball—he had emigrated from County Roscommon in his teens. But he was a strapping handsome man in his red-haired florid way and, when sober, a dad Kerry was desperately proud of: a policeman, a kind of hero, possessed of a ready laugh and a reputation for reckless courage. Michael bought Kerry popcorn and a hot dog and enjoyed the game with self-conscious exuberance; Kerry knew that this was his apology for what no one would ever mention. When the Mets won in the ninth inning, Michael hugged him.

    His father felt large and warm. 'I love you, Da,' Kerry murmured.

    That night, Michael Kilcannon went to Lynch's Ark Bar, a neighborhood mainstay. But Kerry felt safe, the glow of his day with him still.

    His bedroom door opening awakened him.

    Rubbing his eyes, Kerry looked at his father across the room, halfglad, half-afraid.

    Michael staggered toward him and sat at the edge of the bed. Kerry kept quiet; his father was breathing hard. 'Bastards.' Michael's voice was hostile, threatening.

    Kerry's heart pounded. Maybe if he said something, showed his father sympathy . . .

    'What is it, Da?'

    His father shook his head, as if to himself. 'Mulroy . . .'

Kerry did not understand. All he could do was wait.

    'I'm as good a man—better,' Michael said abruptly. 'But he makes sergeant, not me. They give it only to the kiss-ass boys . . .'

    As she had two nights before, Mary Kilcannon appeared. 'Michael,' she said in the same soft voice.

    Kerry's father did not turn. 'Shut up,' he said harshly. 'We're talking . . .'

    Fearful again, Kerry looked at his mother. Her words had an edge her son had never heard before. 'Leave the boy alone.'

    Michael Kilcannon shrugged his heavy shoulders and rose. With a slap so lazy yet so powerful it reminded Kerry of a big cat, he struck Mary Kilcannon across the mouth.

    She reeled backward, blood trickling from her lip. Tears stung Kerry's eyes; watching Mary Kilcannon cover her face, he was sickened by his own fear and helplessness.

    'We were talking.' Michael's voice suggested the patience of a reasonable man, stretched to the breaking point. 'Go to bed.'

    Gazing at Kerry, she backed into the hallway.