Part 1 (2/2)

”But not everybody figgets,” the man said.

He flipped his cigarette under a parked car.

”My sister didn't figget.”

Oh.

Oh G.o.d.

”You must be Seanie,” Carmody said quietly. ”Am I right? Seanie Mulrane?”

”Ah, you remembered.”

”How are you, Seanie?”

He could see Seanie's hooded eyes now, so like the eyes of his policeman father: still, unimpressed. He moved close enough so that Carmody could smell the whiskey on his breath.

”How am I? Huh. How am I ... Not as good as you, Buddy boy. We keep up, ya know. The books, that mini-series, or whatever it was on NBC. Pretty good, you're doing.”

Carmody stepped back a foot, as subtly as possible, trying to decide how to leave. He wished a police car would turn the corner. He trembled, feeling a black wind of negation pus.h.i.+ng at him, backing him up, a small focused wind that seemed to come from the furled brow of Seanie Mulrane. He tried to look casual, turned and glanced at the building where he was young, at the dark first floor left, the warm top floor right.

”She never got over you, you p.r.i.c.k.”

Carmody shrugged. ”It's a long time ago, Seanie,” he said, trying to avoid being dismissive.

”I remember that first month after you split,” Seanie said. ”She cried all the time. She cried all day. She cried all night. She quit her job, 'cause she couldn't do it and cry at the same time. She'd start to eat, then, oof oof, she'd break up again. A million f.u.c.kin' tears, Buddy. I seen it. I was there, just back from the Keys, and my father wanted to find you and put a bullet in your head. And Molly, poor Molly ... You broke her f.u.c.kin' heart, Buddy.”

Carmody said nothing. Other emotions were flowing now. Little rivers of regret. Remorse. Unforgivable mistakes. His stomach rose and fell and rose again.

”And that first month? Hey, that was just the start. The end of the second month after you cut out, she tells my mother she's knocked up.”

”No ...”

”Yes.”

”I didn't know that, Seanie. I swear-”

”Don't lie lie, Buddy. My old man told your old man. He pulled a gun on him, for Chrissakes, tryin' to find out where you was.”

”I never heard any of this.”

”Don't lie, Buddy. You lie for a livin', right? All those books, they're lies, ain't they? Don't lie to me.”

”I didn't know, Seanie.”

”Tell the truth: You ran because she was pregnant.”

No: That wasn't why. He truly didn't know. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until the book signing. He felt an ache rising in his back.

”She had the baby, some place in New Jersey,” Seanie said. ”Catholic nuns or something. And gave it up. A boy it was. A son. Then she came home and went in her room. She went to ma.s.s every morning, I guess prayin' to G.o.d to forgive her. But she never went to another movie with a guy, never went on a date. She stood in her room, like another G.o.dd.a.m.ned nun. She saw my mother die, and buried her, and saw my father die, and buried him, and saw me get married and move here wit' my Mary, right across the street, to live upstairs. I'd come see her every day, and try talkin' to her, but it was like, 'You want tea, Seanie, or coffee?'”

Seanie moved slightly, placing his bulk between Carmody and the path to Barnes & n.o.ble.

”Once I said to her, I said, 'How about you come with me an' Mary to Florida? You like it, we could all move there. It's beautiful,' I said to her. 'Palm trees and the ocean. You'd love it.' Figuring I had to get her out of that f.u.c.kin' room. She looked at me like I said, 'Hey, let's move to Mars.'” Seanie paused, trembling with anger and memory, and lit another cigarette. ”Just once, she talked a blue streak, drinkin' gin, I guess it was. And said to me, real mad, 'I don't want to see anyone, you understand me, Seanie? I don't want to see people holdin' hands. I don't want to see little boys playin' ball. You understand me?'” He took a deep drag on the Camel. ”'I want to be here,' she says to me, 'when Buddy comes back.'”

Carmody stared at the sidewalk, at Seanie's scuffed black shoes, and heard her voice: When Buddy comes back. When Buddy comes back. Saw the fine hair at the top of her neck. Thinking: Here I am, I'm back. Saw the fine hair at the top of her neck. Thinking: Here I am, I'm back.

”So she waited for you, Buddy. Year after year in that dark G.o.dd.a.m.ned flat. Everything was like it was when you split. My mother's room, my father's room, her room. All the same clothes. It wasn't right what you done to her, Buddy. She was a beautiful girl.”

”That she was.”

”And a sweet girl.”

”Yes.”

”It wasn't right. You had the sweet life and she shoulda had it with you.”

Carmody turned. ”And how did she ... When did she ...”

”Die? She didn't die, Buddy. She's still there. Right across the street. Waitin' for you, you p.r.i.c.k.”

Carmody turned then, lurching toward the corner, heading to the bookstore. He did not run, but his legs carried him in flight. Thinking: She's alive. Molly Mulrane is alive. He was certain she had gone off, married someone, a cop or a fireman or car salesman, had settled in the safety of Bay Ridge or some far-off green suburb. A place without memory. Without ghosts. He was certain that she had lived a long while, married, had children, and then died. The way everybody did. And now he knew the only child she ever had was his, a son, and he was in flight, afraid to look back.

He could sense the feral pack behind him, filling the silent streets with howls. He had heard them often in the past few years, on beaches at dusk, in too many dreams. The voices of women, wordless but full of accusation: wives, and girlfriends, and one-night stands in college towns; women his own age and women not yet women; women discarded, women used, women injured, coming after him on a foggy moor, from groves of leafless trees, their eyes yellow, their clothing mere patchy rags. If they could speak, the words would be about lies, treacheries, theft, broken vows. He could see many of their faces as he moved, remembering some of their names, and knew that in front, leading the pack, was Molly Mulrane.

Crossing a street, he slipped on a ridge of black ice and banged against the hood of a parked car. Then he looked back. n.o.body was there.

He paused, breathing hard and deep.

Not even Seanie had come after him.

And now the book signing filled him with another kind of fear. Who else might come there tonight, knowing the truth? Hauling up the ashes of the past? What other sin would someone dredge up? Who else might come for an accounting?

He hurried on, the feral visions erased. He was breathing heavily, as he always did when waking from bad dreams. A taxi cruised along the avenue, its rooftop light on, as if pleading for a fare to Manhattan. Carmody thought: I could just go. Just jump in this cab. Call the store. Plead sudden illness. Just go. But someone was sure to call Rush & Malloy at the Daily News Daily News or Page Six at the or Page Six at the Post Post and report the no-show. and report the no-show. Brooklyn Boy Calls It In. Brooklyn Boy Calls It In. All that s.h.i.+t. No. All that s.h.i.+t. No.

And then a rosy-cheeked woman was smiling at him. The manager of the bookstore.

”Oh, Mister Carmody, we thought you got lost.”

”Not in this neighborhood,” he said. And smiled, as required by the performance.

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