by Luanne Rice
“Well,” Joe said, putting his arm around Neve’s shoulder but facing Tim. “Didn’t Neve do a fine job?”
“Of hanging the show?” Tim asked. “She did.”
“Yes,” Joe said. “You’ve done our family proud, Neve.”
“You have,” Tim said, gazing down at her.
“It’s not how I planned everything to happen,” she said. “It was an accident, my boss finding out that Berkeley was really Damien. I should never have said anything.”
“Well, it’s not your fault,” Joe said. “As I said once before, you didn’t learn Berkeley’s identity all on your own, after all.”
“Dad,” Tim said, “I’m sorry. I told her…”
“Don’t be sorry,” Joe said, waving his hand. “If you hadn’t said something, Neve wouldn’t have told her boss, and he wouldn’t have called the press, and Damien’s crew wouldn’t have found out about the exhibit and flown in to see it.”
“It must be amazing to meet them,” Neve said softly.
“You have no idea,” Joe said. “Damien talked and wrote about them all the time. They really were his other brothers. They’re staying overnight in town; tomorrow they’re going to meet me down at the beach, so I can show them where U-823 went down. In fact, I’d better go home and get some rest now, so I’m ready for it.”
Neve held his hands. He looked tired, and his eyes were glittering, as if the night had been too much for him—as well it must have been, surrounded by so many of his brother’s paintings, meeting his surviving crewmates.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “It means so much.”
“You’re welcome, Neve,” he said. “Now, since you’ve gotten so deeply into our family, I’m going to ask you something personal about yours.”
“Sure,” she said. “Anything; what is it?”
“What’s Mickey upset about?” he asked. “She said that her father ‘won’t be fine.’ ”
“Oh,” Neve said, her heart falling. “The police took Mickey’s father into custody today. It’s for child support issues, but they initially thought he’d been drinking.”
“Had he?”
“Surprisingly not,” Neve said. “I guess he’s trying to quit again.”
Joe nodded, as if he had some idea about that.
“You know how Mickey feels, don’t you, Tim?”
“To see her father drinking himself to death?” Tim asked. “Yeah, I do.” Neve was aware of Tim staring at Joe intently, and a hard look passed between father and son. It ended with something like a smile, an acknowledgment that something had changed. Neve didn’t know the whole story, but she thought she could piece together most of it.
“I wish Mickey’s father could stop,” Neve said to Joe. “The way you have.”
“So do I,” Joe said.
Then Joe hugged Neve; he made a move to hug Tim, but the two men shook hands instead. Joe left the gallery, and Neve heard George and Sally say they’d see him at the beach tomorrow. She glanced over at Mickey, saw her head buried in Shane’s shoulder.
“Looks as if they’ve made up,” Tim said.
“I’m so glad about that,” Neve said, staring up into his eyes. “But have we?”
“Yes, Neve,” Tim said. “It took me a while….”
“I’m just so sorry about what I did. I care about you so much,” Neve said. “Your whole family. I’ve just been so swept away, and it’s been so long since that has happened.”
“Like my father just said: there’s no need to be sorry.”
Neve nodded. Tim had opened his mouth to say something else, but suddenly he stopped. His gaze was directed at the gallery door. Wide open, it was letting in the fresh spring breeze behind a whole group of young people. A few years older than Mickey and Shane, by the looks of them.
Dominic would be so happy—he loved attracting a young crowd. Sometimes he’d advertise in Chelsea magazine, hoping young artists would take the train out from New York, or down from Boston. Neve wondered who these kids might be—an art class from Brown or RISD or URI maybe? But as she stared, she saw that they weren’t all art school hip. Some looked pretty solidly middle class, some single, some in couples, and one with a toddler in tow.
“More Berkeley lovers,” she said, watching them enter the gallery, stop to get their bearings.
“No,” Tim said, standing still, watching as some of the kids saw him standing there.
“Who are they?” Neve whispered.
“They’re Frank’s friends,” Tim said.
And suddenly he was surrounded by ten young men and women, some of them crying, all of them thronging around so they could give him a hug. They wore dresses, jackets and ties; they were in their mid-twenties, older than Neve had first thought. She saw them smiling, leaning close to their friend’s father, saying hello.
She saw Tim’s face, too. It was weathered and lined, a face so much more comfortable outside on the beach than here in the stuffiness of the Dominic di Tibor Gallery. He greeted all the kids, hugged them, nodded and said how surprised he was to see them, how much he’d missed them, how wonderful it was of them to come. Neve watched. She saw Tim’s face smiling.
His face was covered with tears, but he was smiling.
25
There was no place worse for detoxing than a lockup. Richard had done it more than once—right here within these same four walls. He felt the poison swirling around his system; his head was dizzy, and his stomach ached. He had dry-mouth like crazy. He had the shakes. The cops didn’t care. They probably thought it was funny—they’d picked him up for a DUI, and even though he technically wasn’t drunk, they got to hold him on failure to pay child support.
Noises were amplified by the cinder block walls, giving Richard a wicked headache—to go along with everything else. The desk sergeant had brought him a sandwich, but he felt too sick to eat it. He sat on the floor of his cell, slumping against the wall because it felt cool against his back. He felt as if his skin were on fire.
He hung on with all he had to the knowledge he’d gotten through to Senator Sheridan. He’d made the call and talked to Sam, explained the situation—finally he’d done something for Mickey. He just hoped the senator would follow through. Otherwise the despair Richard felt would become so unbearable, he was sure it would kill him.
“Hey,” the sergeant said, coming down the corridor. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Well, I don’t want to see them,” Richard said. So far his visitors that day hadn’t worked out. Neve had been furious about him driving “drunk” with Mickey; Richard’s divorce lawyer was pissed about not being paid, and besides, now Richard was looking at charges, and would need a criminal attorney; and Alyssa had just stood there crying, cradling her belly, asking why he had done this, what she had done wrong.
“Tough shit if you don’t want to see anyone,” the sergeant said. “You know who this is?”
Richard squinted into the fluorescent light, tried to shield his eyes. He saw a naval officer standing there—the white coat and hat of a commander, stripes and all. Jesus Christ, Richard had the D.T.’s. Next he’d be seeing flying pink elephants.
“What, am I under military arrest, too?” he asked.
“This is Commander Joseph O’Casey,” the cop said.
“Who sunk the U-boat?” Richard asked. Everyone who’d grown up in Rhode Island had heard that name.
“For some reason, he wants to see you,” the cop said. “So why don’t you get your sorry ass off the floor and show a little respect?”
Richard nodded; he wanted to. Joseph O’Casey had been Richard’s hero when he was a boy; besides, hadn’t Mickey mentioned something about him earlier today? About the owl? The name had only semi-registered. Richard tried to push himself up, but his legs were rubber.
“That’s okay, Officer,” the naval commander said. “You can leave us now.”
“Sir, look at him, down on the floor like that. You sure you want to do this?”
“I�
�m sure.”
Richard hid his eyes. When he looked up, the commander had crouched down—was sitting on the other side of the bars, right on the dirty floor in his white uniform.
“Richard,” he said, “I’m Joe O’Casey.”
“Hello, sir,” Richard said. He stuck his hand through the bars, but it was shaking so hard, he felt too ashamed and pulled it back. “I’m Richard Halloran; are you sure I’m who you want to see?”
“You’re Mickey’s father, right?”
“Right,” Richard said, swallowing with shame. Mickey; she’d seen him in handcuffs, hauled away in a police car.
“Then you’re the right Richard Halloran.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. O’Casey?”
“Call me Joe. From the sounds of it, you’ve had a tough day.”
“Yeah. It hasn’t been too hot.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Richard looked through the bars. Was he kidding? Richard tell a great state hero about getting arrested? Suddenly the reality of who he was talking to kicked in. Richard wouldn’t be in jail forever—he’d be out soon, and he’d have real estate to sell, deals to make. Joe O’Casey was potentially a great contact—right up there with Sam Sheridan.
“Do you know Sam Sheridan?” he heard himself asking now.
“Senator Sheridan? I voted for him. But forget that. Tell me about your day.”
Richard frowned. If only he could stand; if only he could convince the desk sergeant to let him and the commander talk in a private room. This was so ugly, so humiliating. Richard Halloran went first class or he didn’t go at all; that was the message he wanted to give Joe O’Casey.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Joe,” Richard chuckled, patting his pocket. That’s right—the cops had taken his cigarettes and lighter. “It’s been a bitch of a day.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Well, my daughter’s friend. Nice enough kid, but a little flaky. You know? One of those surfer types, all peace and love and the beach. He meant well, I’m sure, but he misunderstood something.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, he thought he smelled alcohol on my breath—which is ridiculous, considering I haven’t had a drink all day—and he called the police to report me. Now, what I think is that my daughter must have given him the brush-off, and he wanted to retaliate in some—”
“You do stink,” Joe said. “You realize that, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Richard asked, thinking he had to have misheard. A classy guy like Commander Joe O’Casey speaking to him that way?
“You reek of alcohol. Didn’t you know that?”
“Joe!” Richard said, shocked and offended. “I told you—I haven’t had a drink all day!”
“Do you think that matters, son? You’ve got so much booze in your bloodstream, you’ll be sweating it out for days to come. Next you’ll be telling me you drink vodka, that it doesn’t have any smell.”
“I do,” Richard said. “And it doesn’t.”
“Oh, Richard,” Joe said. “I used to think that, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it gets metabolized, and, well—people can smell it. Neve smelled it on you every time you came home drunk and hoped she wouldn’t know. Your girlfriend—what’s her name?”
“Alyssa,” he said.
“Yes. Alyssa. She smells it, too. Hopes against hope she won’t—hopes that this time you’re going to keep your promise. Wants to believe that this time you get it, this time you’re going to put her and your family first. Mickey, and I hear you have a new one on the way.”
“I know,” Richard said, suddenly miserable, beset with such anguish he thought and wished he would die. The kids. Not just his beloved Mickey, already almost through high school, but a new baby—a child he’d never even met yet.
“You do know, right?”
Richard nodded. “I will quit this time. For them, Joe. I swear I will.”
But Joe sat on the other side of the bars, arms draped around his knees, shaking his head. “Nah,” he said. “You won’t.”
Richard was in shock. How could this guy judge him?
“Joe. How dare you! I love Mickey, and I’m going to love the new baby. I do already!”
“I know you want to,” Joe said.
“I don’t just want to,” Richard said, feeling desperation growing. “I do. I love them.”
“I know how hard it is,” Joe said quietly.
“It’s not hard,” Richard said. “Loving Mickey’s the easiest thing in the world.”
“Ask me why I sat down here on the floor,” Joe said. What was he doing, constantly throwing Richard off balance? Christ, what a nightmare—Richard would just think he had a handle on it, had this guy’s number, and he’d change course.
“Are you messing with me?” he asked.
“Ask me why I sat down here on the floor,” Joe said again.
“Fine,” Richard said, exhaling. “Why?”
“Because I know what you’re going through,” Joe said. “I know your legs are worthless right now—two rubber hoses. Your stomach is in knots—you’d throw up, but there’s nothing left in there. Your head has iron bands around it, and you think it’s going to explode. You can’t stand up, Richard—that’s why I sat down.”
“How do you know I can’t stand up?”
Joe tilted his head and gave Richard a long, fatherly look that almost brought tears to Richard’s eyes. “Because I’m a drunk, too,” Joe said.
“You’re no drunk,” Richard said.
“I was,” Joe said. “So was my brother. The two of us. We went into the service two nice, innocent young boys—and we came back something else. We were numb inside, so we drank to feel—and then we drank more to stop feeling. Sound familiar, son?”
“I never went to war,” he said.
“The reasons don’t matter,” Joe said, staring at Richard through the bars.
Richard shrugged, because it seemed to him they did; war heroes drinking too much was one thing. A guy with every comfort possible—that seemed something else.
“Alcoholism is a disease,” Joe said.
“It’s a shortcoming,” Richard said.
Joe shook his head slowly. “No one knows who gets it or why. People joke about us Irish being predisposed. I don’t know about that. I just know I’ve got it, and it seems to me you do, too.”
“At least you have an excuse,” Richard said.
Joe laughed. “Oh, come on. You have excuses, too. Right? The real estate market is in the toilet; the real estate market is going crazy; she doesn’t understand you; your best friend’s dog died. Richard, there’s always a reason to drink.”
“Yeah, but the kids,” Richard said. “They’re the reason I’m going to stop.”
“How many times have you told yourself that before?”
“I don’t know,” Richard said, shrugging.
“A hundred? Five hundred? A thousand? You know the dialogue that goes on in your mind? I won’t drink today…well, maybe just one…I’ll stick to beer…I’ll quit for Lent…I’ll just drink on the weekends…this is the last one. For me, it was probably a hundred times a day until Tim turned sixteen. That’s the year I got sober. And you know what?”
Richard shook his head.
“I didn’t do it for Tim.”
Peering through the bars, Richard wondered: what kind of father was this asshole?
“I wanted to, and once I stopped, he was a big reason I stayed sober. But I had to do it for myself. That’s the only way.”
Richard lowered his eyes, shook his head. Didn’t the old man have eyes? Richard was a piece of shit in the local lockup. He’d lost his wife and child—now he was on his way to doing it again. Why would he think he was worth anything?
“Only you can say whether you’ve had enough,” Joe said.
“I had enough a long time ago,” Richard said. “But I can’t stop. I don’t know why. My life was never so bad. I nev
er lacked for love, or a roof over my head, or enough to—”
“You can’t stop because you’re an alcoholic,” Joe said.
“Yeah,” Richard said. He got no relief from hearing the truth spoken. In fact, he just wished it would go away, that Joe would go away.
“You been to the meetings?”
“AA? Once or twice. Doesn’t seem like my type of people,” he said, thinking of the hard-luck cases he’d seen, burning to tell this old guy that people like Sam Sheridan took his calls.
“I go,” Joe said. “Once a week, Saturday mornings, over in Jamestown. Once you get out of this place, why don’t you stop in? I’ll save a seat for you.”
“Maybe,” Richard said.
Joe started pushing himself up, then sank back down. “You say it’s not your kind of people. We take all kinds, and we have a saying in the rooms: ‘From Yale to jail, from Park Avenue to a park bench.’ It doesn’t matter. For people like us, one drink’s too many and a thousand isn’t enough.”
Richard nodded; that sounded exactly right.
“Like I said, I’ll save you a seat.”
Richard stared through the bars.
“Why did you come here today, anyway?” he asked. “How do you even know me?”
“I know Neve and Mickey,” he said. “I look at them, and I think of how much time I wasted with my wife and Tim.”
“Mickey said she brought the snowy owl to you,” Richard said bitterly. “Do you make it a habit, taking care of broken things?”
“It’s my honor and my privilege, taking care of that owl,” Joe said. “Taking care of you? Only you can do that, Richard. Only you can get better. And I wish you luck. More than you can know.”
Joe reached through the bars and patted Richard’s shoulder. He didn’t reach for his hand, as if he’d seen how badly it was shaking. Richard felt the weight of the old man’s hand on his shoulder, and he thought of his own father. His dad had used to do that, a long time ago. Pat Richard on the back for a job well done.
He wouldn’t do that now, not if he could see what had become of his son. Richard bowed his head, just hoping it would all end soon. But he loved Mickey so much, and he had the new baby coming.
