Brighton

by Michael Harvey

  The door swung wide, a rectangle of sun on the floor of the hallway and the smell of old paint and dust in his nose. Kevin rocked on the threshold, tracing the outline of his parents still scratched in the cushions of living-room couch and chair. His old man’s voice snapped on a string tied to the back of his neck and he remembered the warm feeling of imaginary piss running down the leg of a nine-year-old and the thrill, the pure fucking thrill, of uncut fear the way only a child can experience it. And keep it. And nurture it for a lifetime. He saw his mother, anchored in the corner, eyes hollowed and drawn at the mouth, the husk of her life peeling away in thin layers of regret. He thought all of that was done—the thump of dirt on wooden coffins announcing an end to a part of his life that had ended long before. Maybe not. He swallowed against the dry spot in his throat and stepped into the room. On a table near the front windows were a collection of things he’d missed. A blurry picture of Colleen in her cap and gown, high school diploma in hand, smiling and giving the camera a thumbs-up. Nearby were a couple more high school shots of Colleen and one of Bridget, holding her elbow while she stood on the back porch of the house and smoked a cigarette, narrowing her eyes and staring at something irritating in the distance. He sat down in one of the old chairs, green stripes with pink flowers, and touched a tender spot the boys from Fidelis had raised near his temple. Then he got up and walked into the kitchen.

  It was like the living room, except everything was even older and grayer. He saw the same cups he drank milk out of as a kid. The same bowls he’d used for cereal. Same knives, plates, forks. He walked over to the pantry that had once served as his bedroom. Scratched into the door frame was a ladder of pencil marks where they used to measure their heights. He noticed an old phone jack in the adjacent hallway, a tangle of wires spilling out across the floor. Kevin recalled the heavy black phone that used to sit on a table with a single chair beside it. His father, tumbling down the hall at night, pissed on whiskey and beer. The pull and recoil of the rotary dial and his voice like maple syrup, talking sweet to his women, telling them he was going to leave his family, begging them to wait, describing what he’d do to their bodies when he saw them. Then he’d hang up and crawl into bed with Kevin’s mom. The memory turned his saliva into sawdust, and a hot pulse quickened in the hollow of his throat.

  He moved deeper into the pantry. The room’s only window was painted shut. Kevin crouched down to examine a section of wall underneath it. In 1967, the Red Sox were worse than bums. They were irrelevant. At the start of the season the oddsmakers pegged them at 100–1 for the pennant. Kevin didn’t much give a damn about oddsmakers back then. He jumped the bus to Fenway on Opening Day and sat in the bleachers with Shuks and eight thousand other diehards as Lonborg beat Eddie Stanky and the White Sox, 5–4. He listened that season on a transistor, sound down low at night, and scratched final scores into the wall beside his bed. At first, it was a game here or there. As the Impossible Dream unfolded, his entries on the wall became more frequent and the ’67 team became his family, the soothing voices of Ken Coleman and Ned Martin welcoming him in every night, providing a place where he could feel safe and warm and even loved in a crazy sort of way only he could understand. Kevin rubbed off a thick layer of dust with his thumb and turned up a couple of scores etched in black ballpoint.

  APRIL 14

  Sox 3

  Yanks 0

  Billy Rohr one-hitter!!

  JULY 27

  Sox 6

  Angels 5

  Ten innings

  He scrubbed a little more and found an entire string, scribbled in the wandering script of a sleepy third-grader.

  AUGUST 24

  Sox 7

  Senators 5

  AUGUST 28

  Sox 3

  Yanks 0

  SEPT 5

  Sox 8

  Senators 2

  At the very bottom of the wall, he unearthed a final, faded entry.

  OCTOBER 1

  Sox 5

  Twins 3

  Final Standings

  Red Sox 92-70

  Twins 91-71

  Tigers 91-71

  AL Champs . . . World Series!!!

  IMPOSSIBLE DREAM

  He’d gone to that last game, a bunch of them had, storming the right-field gates twenty at a time. Some of them got caught, but Kevin was far too quick. He sat on the concrete steps of the bleachers, a few feet from the bullpen, and watched Lonborg finish it off. Then he ran onto the field and rolled around in the green grass and red clay and lived a moment that only comes once in a young boy’s life and only if he’s terribly, terribly lucky.

  Kevin clapped the dust off his hands and got to his feet. At the other end of the hallway his parents’ old bedroom was closed off. He touched the smooth doorknob but didn’t turn it, threading his way back through the kitchen and out onto the porch. The wooden posts groaned as he leaned on the crooked railing and looked over the backyard of his youth. Old Towne Taxi had closed up years ago, but the office was still there, windows dark and the dirt parking lot overgrown with hip-high weeds. Kevin picked his way across the yard and climbed the short run of steps. The front door was locked. Now that he was closer, he could see the door itself was heavy and new, as was the shiny deadbolt lock. He walked around to the side of the building and tried a window. Locked as well. Inside, a red alarm light blinked patiently on the sill. Beyond that, the main room looked empty except for the outline of a desk pushed up against a wall. Kevin wondered if it was his grandmother’s desk, who used it, and why was the place alarmed anyway? He followed a faint path toward the back of the building. The trees had grown thick here, forming a canopy with the roof and creating a deep tunnel of shadow. As he turned the corner, something came whistling out of the darkness. He ducked and heard the woody thump of a baseball bat off the side of the building. It was a wild swing and Kevin thought whoever it was either had piss-poor aim or only intended to scare him. He stepped in, catching a thin wrist with one hand and twisting the arm of his attacker at the elbow. A boot lashed at his knees, clipping him on the shins. He swore and pivoted, increasing pressure until he heard the bat drop. A hand grabbed at his hair and pulled him to the ground. They rolled into the weeds and then out of the shadows. Kevin wound up on top, kneeling astride his attacker.

  “Fucking Bridget.”

  “Brother Kevin.” His sister was wearing jeans and a loose-fitting white shirt. She flared her nostrils, the old man’s crazy circling in her eyes and stirring the blood they shared. Some Thanksgiving Day tables were populated by doctors or lawyers arguing the finer points of their respective professions. Others had relatives stabbing each other with silverware and chewing on the drapes for dessert. Bridget blinked and the eyes went sleepy—dark and impenetrable. Kevin got to his feet and helped her up.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Hell, no.” She rubbed her elbow and picked up the bat. “What are you doing sneaking around back here?”

  “What are you doing coming at me with a Louisville Slugger?”

  “Still got a lotta fucking rats in this neighborhood. Tried to break in three different times in the last year.”

  “Is that why you got the alarms?”

  “Sure.” She walked back toward the front of the cab office. Kevin followed.

  “I didn’t see any alarms in the house.”

  “They don’t try to get in up there.”

  “What’s back here?”

  “Nothing, but the rats don’t know that. Fucking pack of morons.” She’d parked her car at the edge of the dirt lot. A couple of shopping bags sat in the backseat. “We can leave the car here. Just grab a bag.”

  They started to walk across the yard, Bridget slightly ahead of him. He’d only seen her a handful of times over the years, never more than a minute or two of mumbled small talk. Now he studied her profile, bathed in the pinks and purples of early evening. At thirty-eight, his nasty kid sister had grown into a cruelly efficient woman, with a wiry body and mean line to her upper
lip that was the genetic birthright of Boston women who traced their roots back to the working kitchens of Ireland and England. A tweak here and there and Bridget might have been beautiful. Instead, she’d had to settle for common.

  “You been inside the house?” she said.

  “Just for a minute. You should find a new hiding place for the key.”

  “You gonna tell me how to run this place?”

  “I’m just sayin’ . . .”

  “I told you. No one wants to get in except me. Come on.”

  Kevin sat at the kitchen table and watched her unpack groceries. She shoved a stack of French bread pizzas and some fish sticks in the freezer and slammed the fridge shut. Then she took a seat across from him, settling in the chair with a heaviness that belied her spare frame.

  “So, Pulitzer Prize. Mr. Big Shot.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “People down at Horrigan’s were talking about it. You know how that goes.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Course it is.” She rubbed her forefinger with her thumb and turned over a spoon on the table. “If I’d known you were coming, we would have had a party.”

  He pictured her raising her head and cackling, like a hyena over a fresh kill, jaws run red with blood. But she just sat there, frowning like he was a puzzle with a few pieces missing.

  “You look old,” she finally said.

  “Thanks, Bridge.”

  “Everyone’s gotten old. Or dead. You hear about Shuks?”

  Kevin nodded.

  “Went right after mom and dad. All the brothers are dead. One after another.” Bridget popped each of their dead great-uncles in a row with her finger. “You know about Aggie?”

  “I heard she’s in a nursing home.”

  “That’s what they wanted, but I said fuck that. Got her an apartment in J.P. with a live-in caretaker. Who told you about her?”

  “Colleen.”

  Something smug flickered in Bridget’s face, and Kevin felt like he’d just picked sides.

  “So you keep in touch with little sis?” she said.

  “You know I do.”

  She gave a colorless shrug as if the subject was hardly worth the breath she’d spent bringing it up. “She lives in Newton now.” Bridget hit the name of the town like it wasn’t a big deal even though Colleen thought it was.

  “I know.”

  “With the scumbag husband and loser kid.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You don’t think Scott’s a scumbag?”

  “What’s going on with Colleen?” His voice sounded reedy, quickening in spots like his mother’s.

  “Nothing. Everything’s just fine and dandy.”

  Bridget got up and began to put away the rest of her groceries. Kevin walked back out to the porch. After a couple of minutes, she came out.

  “You haven’t shown your face here in twenty-five years. What did you expect?”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but again found he had nothing to say. And so they stood there, Bridget studying him in a manner that was uniquely hers.

  “You saw I took out the phone in the hallway?”

  He flushed up into his scalp. “So what?”

  She blinked and he knew she knew about all of that so long ago and who really gave a good fuck anyway. Kevin pointed to the dark staircase.

  “Who’s upstairs?”

  “Top floor’s empty. I got a young couple on the second. Paying eight bills a month.”

  Kevin started walking up the first flight. She trailed close behind.

  “You remember Chrissy McNabb?” he said.

  “You mean the junkie?”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Everyone knew about Chrissy. Her aunt still lives on Bigelow. Why?”

  “You guys were in grade school together.”

  “Hated that fucking place. Why you asking about her?”

  “No reason.” They climbed another flight. “How’s your life going, Bridge?”

  “I sleep in the same bed I did as a kid. How do you think it’s going?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I made my choices and I’m good with it.”

  But he was sorry. She was his kid sister and he couldn’t help it. “How long you think you’re gonna stay in the house?”

  “Is that why you’re here? Let me guess, you and the little princess wanna sell the place?”

  Kevin stopped on the landing. “I just want to make sure you’re gonna be all right . . .”

  “I pay the taxes, heat, electric. Put in a new water heater last year.”

  “I’m just saying, if you’re ever short . . .”

  “If I’m short, there’s always Bobby.” A lash of a smile.

  “I heard you two dated.”

  “We’re on a break.”

  “Fine. You’re on a break.” Kevin circled the final flight and took a seat on the top step, a few feet from the door to his grandmother’s old apartment. Bridget settled just below, sitting at an angle, nostrils slitted, eyes running. Feral now. Hunting.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m not one of your toys, Bridget. You got something to say, just say it.”

  “You ever hear of the Royal Hotel?”

  “The flophouse on Boylston?”

  “Colleen’s husband’s shacking up down there. Every Tuesday like clockwork. Sometimes, Wednesdays.”

  Colleen’s marriage flashed past like a car wreck on the side of the road.

  “Have you talked to her?” Kevin said.

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Then why do you seem to be enjoying it so much?”

  “Actually, I think it’s sad. What’s even sadder is that little sister knows about it and doesn’t do a damn thing. I guess she loves that house in Newton too much.” Bridget inched closer. “Now, tell me about your girlfriend.”

  “What about her?”

  “I heard she’s a half-breed.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Bridget undid a button, then two, allowing her blouse to slip. From his perch, Kevin could just glimpse the purple twists of scarred flesh, bunched up at one shoulder and running in long, liquid strokes across her back. Then she turned to face him. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her right breast rested in a cup of pinkish light. Ducking just beneath it was another scar, this one thin and precise. Bridget ran a finger along it. “A nigger gave me this, brother. Just about where we’re sitting. Or maybe you forgot?”

  “I didn’t forget. For Chrissakes, cover yourself up.”

  She pulled her blouse closed and held it with two fingers. “Why are you really here?”

  “I don’t know.” Kevin nodded at the door sitting just over his shoulder. “Maybe I just wanted to see it one more time.”

  “I got a key if you want to go inside.”

  “This is close enough.”

  Bridget smiled softly. “The old man always said you were a coward.”

  He left her sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette, one long leg crossed over the other, blouse still partially undone. As he hit the bottom of the hill, Kevin snuck a final look back at number eight. Night was coming quickly and the building’s edges were blurry against the blue-black sky. A silhouette appeared in the bay window he’d always thought of as his father’s, staring out at him before disappearing in a shifting of curtain and sash. Kevin was tempted to retrace his steps up the hill. In the end, he thought better of it and left.

  Bridget pulled back from the window and wondered about her brother. She understood greed. Understood lust. Understood revenge. The more subtle range of human emotion, however, had always been beyond her knowing. And that worried her. She turned down the lights in the living room so there was just a glow from the street and left by the back porch, picking her way through weeds and shadow to the front door of the old cab office. The lock turned easily and the door swung silently on its hinges. She punched in the ala
rm code and settled behind her grandmother’s desk, pouring herself a drink from a bottle of Stoli and lighting a cigarette. There was a sound outside. Bridget reached for a side drawer but wasn’t quick enough. Colleen’s husband stood in the doorway.

  “I told you not to come around today.”

  Scott Carson took a step inside. “Who was that leaving the house?”

  “Your brother-in-law. He didn’t ask for you.”

  Scott’s eyes skittered toward the bottle. She put a hand on it and topped off her glass. He took another step.

  “You’re embarrassing my sister, Scott.”

  “I’m not . . .”

  “You’re laying pipe across half the fucking city and she knows it.”

  “Colleen doesn’t know nothing.”

  Bridget pulled an envelope from the side drawer, counting out two hundred in twenties and pushing across the stack. “Go home and make nice to her. And act like you mean it.”

  Scott grabbed at the money. “Can I get a drink?”

  She poured him a short glass. He drank it in one go and looked for another.

  “You remember a girl named Chrissy McNabb?” Bridget said, refilling his glass and watching as he put it away.

  “McNabb?”

  “Used to live on Bigelow. Crackhead, street whore, blow-job-for-a-pipe kind of girl. Hasn’t been around in a couple of years.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”

  “Never mind.”

  Scott held up the fold of money. “Will Bobby know about this?”

  “Bobby doesn’t give a fuck.”

  “Where is he?”

  “None of your goddamn business.”

  Scott licked his lips and blinked his eyes, fighting with whatever it was he had to say.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I heard some things ’bout him.”

  “About who?”

  “Bobby.”

  “Fuck what you heard. Now get out of here.”

  She knew he wanted to take a run at her. Shoot her, kill her, fuck her. All three if he could fit them in. She could smell it on him, hoped and prayed the prick would try his luck. But he tucked tail and ran. She crushed out her cigarette, finished her drink, and pulled out a compact. Her lips looked pinched in the small circle of glass. She touched them up with some gloss and wondered again what her brother was up to. Then she thought about Bobby. She had a pretty good idea about the kinds of things Scott Carson was hearing on the street. And none of them were good. Fucking Bobby.