Apologize, Apologize! (20 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

J
ERRY PRESSED CHARGES, WHICH WERE EVENTUALLY DROPPED.
He filed a lawsuit claiming millions of dollars in damages, and then he called every reporter in the country to tell them I’d been harassing him for weeks, I’d lavished money on him, tried to buy his “friendship,” and when that didn’t work I set out to ruin his life.

Looking for refuge from the publicity, I went back to Boston for a few days, but only after getting the all-clear signal from Ingrid—the Falcon was in the United Kingdom on business. He showed up unexpectedly on Saturday in the middle of the night.

I’d fallen asleep watching TV on the sofa in the study, Cromwell on his back stretched out next to me, paws in the air and snoring softly, keeping me nice and warm and compressed, when I heard the Falcon come in. I felt as if someone struck a match on the sole of my shoe, panic crackling through me as if I were a live fuse. Cromwell’s tail thumped in recognition.

“Quiet,” I whispered, practically begging him to be silent, my hand on his muzzle.

After shrugging off his coat, signature white gardenia boutonniere coming loose and landing just outside the study door, the Falcon twisted off his tie and tossed it over the banister, where it immediately became a matter for someone else’s concern. He headed up the staircase and began pounding on my bedroom door and shouting my name.

“What on earth?” Ingrid’s door opened.

“Where the hell is Collie?” the Falcon asked.

“Isn’t he in his room?”

“Is everyone around me totally useless?” he shouted.

“Collie!” My name his favorite profanity, he turned around and kicked over an antique cupboard in a surprise attack that sent its priceless contents sailing, iridescent cranberry, cobalt, and amethyst exploding into shards of glass like needle teeth to cover the carpet.

Terrified members of the staff crept from their rooms on the third floor, pausing to stop and gasp when they saw what he’d done. 

Oh, but he was only getting started.

Cromwell licked my face and curled up alongside me on the sofa, ears pricked, listening to the sounds of dishes smashing in the kitchen. The Falcon was breaking every dish in the house, every plate, every bowl, every saucer, and then he headed up the back staircase to the second floor. I was calling him, but he didn’t hear me. He tore apart my closets, emptied the drawers, threw all of my clothes down the stairs, and then he started in on the furniture, pitching dressers, nightstands, chairs, desks, lamps, stereo equipment, even my mountain bike, for Christ’s sake—he was murdering every inanimate object he could get his hands on, and frankly, I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. 

“I guess you heard what happened,” I said, ducking as he pitched one of the rival New York papers at me, the story about the lawsuit on the front page. All I could see was the name “Peregrine Lowell” in huge bold type.

“Erotomania? Who is this fat fuck, anyway? Are you insane? Is there no end to the embarrassment you’re prepared to cause me?”

I looked up at him from my place on the sofa, stunned to hear him use an expression like “fat fuck”—Jesus, it felt like the start of Armageddon. I was half expecting him to hit me or piss on me or both; he was spinning like a funnel cloud, his skin radiating a color that doesn’t exist in the natural world. My hand on Cromwell’s broad back, I pushed myself to my feet, recognizing a unique opportunity.

“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you that I won’t be coming to work for you at the newspapers.”

Like a giant cobra, he recoiled and struck—my hair blew back off my forehead, he was spitting fury, coating me head to toe in a venomous glaze, shellacking me in his personal poison.

“You’re my only living heir, God help me. You’ve never given me any reason to take you the least bit seriously, so why would I start now? You’re Charlie Flanagan’s son through and through. Collie Flanagan . . .” He hissed my name, and it made a scalding sound like acid hitting pavement. “And please, spare me the pathetic show of independence. The only way you’ll ever amount to anything is if it’s handed to you on a silver platter. I’m all that stands between you and a lifetime spent in a padded room fashioning a giant ball out of tinfoil.”

Like flames deprived of oxygen, he suddenly vanished, the air still sizzling and sending out sparks, snapping with the improvised electricity of his rage. I put my arms around Cromwell’s neck and gave him a hug.

“It’s a good thing you’re his favorite,” Uncle Tom said when I told him what happened.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

B
Y EARLY DECEMBER, POP WAS ON THE PHONE AND INSISTING
that I come home for the Christmas holidays. I figured it was the least I could do, though I wasn’t feeling too festive. My other plan for the holidays was to sit in a chair and stare.

“Where’s Uncle Tom?” I asked Pop shortly after he got up. I looked over at the kitchen clock. It was two p.m. on Saturday. I had arrived late the night before and still hadn’t seen Tom.

“He’s taken Gilda and Nuala,” Pop said, withdrawing without further explanation behind his beloved
New York Times,
engrossed in his reading and oblivious, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for someone to disappear for twelve hours at a time while out walking an Akita and a Boston bull terrier.

Tom once vanished for a day and a half trailing his crabby old cocker spaniel Fagan around the island—I was well into adolescence before I realized that other people actually made the decision for their dog about when to end the walk and not the other way around. 

Finally, the light from the late afternoon sun burning through the cracks in the blinds, the side door banged open and then shut, and Uncle Tom began hollering out complaints from the kitchen.

“Gilda had no interest in coming home,” Tom said, turning on the tap and running fresh water for their bowls. “If it weren’t for Nuala finally prevailing upon her to turn around, why, we’d still be out there.”

“It’s a good thing you’re home, Uncle Tom, there’s supposed to be a big storm,” I said as wind gusts whistled through the brittle windowpanes.

“A storm, did you say?” Pop set aside his newspaper and looked over at me. “Where did you hear about this?”

“Pop, all the weather guys are talking about it.”

“Well, there’s reason enough to ignore it. Whenever there’s a consensus about anything, you can count on it being wrong,” Uncle Tom said as he buttered stacks of bread slices for the dogs that surrounded him in anticipation of their daily treat. “I prefer to rely on Gilda. She has an infallible sense of weather, and she doesn’t seem particularly alarmed.”

“Couldn’t we at least take a few precautions just in case she’s mistaken?” I asked, knowing better than to challenge the basic assumption concerning Gilda’s meteorological insights.

“If you’re that scared, there’s an umbrella in the front closet,” Uncle Tom said.

“Pop . . . ,” I implored him to intercede. You know you’re truly desperate when you’re depending on Fantastic Flanagan for a show of common sense.

“Do we have a fully stocked larder, Tom?” Pop asked, using code to make sure they had enough booze to see them through a nuclear winter.

“Say, what do you think?”

“You see, Collie, everything’s taken care of. My, you’re becoming a worrier. You get that from your grandmother McMullen. She’d work herself into a frothing fit anytime she had visitors to the house, going mad about every little detail. She was in her eighties and rushing about trying to make everything perfect for company when she lost her balance, tripped, and fell in the bathroom, and they found her with her head in the toilet, drowned, ” Pop said, and resumed his reading.

“And don’t forget she was only wearing her underclothes when she was discovered,” Uncle Tom said, staring over at me, making it clear that I could expect a similar fate.

The bishop of all things great and small, Pop frowned, ministerial crease forming on his forehead. “Collie doesn’t need to hear about that,” he intoned.

“I’m going out for some fresh air,” I said, shaking my head, heading for the porch.

“Watch out for the rain,” Uncle Tom said.

The storm struck a few hours later as gale-force winds overturned boats, downed power lines, and bent trees at the waist, leaves blowing like streamers.

“So much for Gilda,” I said, unable to resist, sitting next to Tom on the sofa in the living room.

“Oh, she knew all right. I underestimated her capacity for mischief. She’s got a perverse sense of humor, but that’s what makes her such a challenging companion,” Uncle Tom said as the lights flickered out, replaced by candles that lined the coffee table and the fireplace mantel.

“Pop, what are you doing?” I asked as he appeared a few moments later, illuminated by candlelight, an ax in his hands and heading for the door.

“I’m going to chop down the garage,” he said, wearing a fierce expression.

“Chop down the garage!”

“Collie, think. We’ve got an emergency situation here. No power. No heat. We’re going to need firewood if we don’t want to die from the elements. We need to boil water.”

“Pop, don’t you think you might be overreacting a bit? Just put on some extra clothes. Things should be cleared up by tomorrow morning. It’s pretty drastic to start tearing down buildings and setting fire to them because of a power outage.”

“Collie, how many times must I tell you? A man acts—he doesn’t react. Is that warm blood you’ve got circulating through your veins or cold pablum?”

“Neither is fancy enough for the royal Noodle—he’s got vintage champagne bubbling through his veins,” Uncle Tom said. “Say, will you look at Gilda, grinning ear to ear. She’s getting quite a kick out of this. I never knew a dog to enjoy a good laugh the way this one does. She’d tell jokes at her father’s funeral.”

Fortunately, the wind drove Pop back into the house before he could dismantle the garage. “Jesus, it’s mad as the moon out there,” he said, cheeks red as his hair, his clothes dripping sheets of water onto the kitchen floor. “I can’t feel my hands or my feet. That’s not a good sign. Your great-uncle Patrick lost the feeling in his hands and feet and was dead two hours later. Tom, do we have anything in the house that might get the circulation up and running again?”

Within no time Pop and Uncle Tom were going at it, fighting about something Walter Cronkite once said, brawling in the living room, furniture flying, the dogs in an uproar, books sliding off shelves and onto the floor. I rushed in to pull them apart, and hollering louder than the wind, the two of them staggered off into different parts of the house, Pop heading upstairs, Tom reeling off into the TV room, and me left to survey and repair the damage.

Early in the morning, around three o’clock, I woke up with a jolt, instantly alert, the sudden smell of booze making its invisible incursion, rolling in like an early morning fog. Pop was standing over me in fragrant silhouette. A startled yelp and Nuala went sailing off the bed. The toy poodles were hissing and growling, nipping ineffectively at Pop as he bent down, kissed me on the forehead, and then staggered wordlessly out into the hallway.

A few seconds passed, and then I was jarred by the noise of a thump and a crash and a series of descending bumps outside my room. I rushed from my room to find Pop lying at the bottom of the stairs, passed out and bleeding from a bad cut to his forehead.

“He’ll be all right,” the doctor said. “He’s lucky. But one of these days he’s not going to be so lucky. Your father’s going to kill himself if he doesn’t stop drinking. You’ve got to talk to him about it. Find some way to get him to quit.”

I nodded agreeably. I was being polite. Pop’s drinking was like an embarrassing relative. We delivered food trays to the attic and occasionally we made a place for it at the table, but we never talked about it. Even Ma had kept her thoughts to herself on that particular subject.

Pop, who never met a subject he didn’t like, considered it unmanly, a sign of weakness, practically sacrilegious to talk about highly personal matters, which in his idiosyncratic view included drinking, death, and family planning. His brother William died of cancer, and on his last visit to the Vineyard, the matter of his imminent demise never came up. Meanwhile, he and Pop spent their remaining few hours together arguing to the point of a fistfight about who was a better musical stylist, Rosemary Clooney or Perry Como.

“This nonsense about ‘getting your affairs in order,’” Pop used to say. “You can’t plan for death any more than you can plan for life, and why would you want to? Uncertainty is what keeps us sharp. And anyway, it’s an insult to God. If He wanted us to plan, He would have provided us with an itinerary at birth.”

I was alone in the emergency room lounge, waiting for the doctor to stitch up the hole in Pop’s head. The early morning sun cast a smoky golden light, visible dust particles floating all around me. I sat on the sofa, my eyes slowly shutting, head tilted back, resting against a grimy industrial green wall. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face.

My body ached with phantom pain—something was missing, and I knew who he was. Bingo would have found a way to make this mess with Pop funny. I didn’t know how to make things funny anymore.

I settled back into the pillows, was sinking into myself, and I was bottomless like a crevasse, but lost in plain sight, same as the frozen dead interred on the slopes of Everest, the sun on their faces, the sun on my face. I wanted to walk right past my frozen remains, leave myself behind as a warning to others. 

I must have fallen asleep—I awoke to the light touch of a hand on my shoulder.

“Collie Flanagan, I can hardly believe it. I would have recognized you anywhere. You haven’t changed, the same sweet face, the same distinctive expression. You look just as you did when you were in my grade six class at St. Basil’s. There always was something different about you.”

“Sister Mary Ellen?” I stood up and ran my fingers like a comb through my hair. “What a surprise.”

“For me, too! I’m visiting a friend in the hospital, Sister Mary Aquinas—she runs the emergency ward. I heard about your father’s accident and I wondered if you’d be here, and . . . well, here you are. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“You too,” I said.

“Oh, Collie, I was so sorry to hear about what happened to Bingo—he was a pistol—and your poor mother. What a terrible time you’ve had these last few months, and now this worry with your dad. Shall we sit down?”

“Sure. Yes, please, have a seat.”

“And how are you?” she asked, sitting across from me, pulling her chair close to mine, taking my hand in her hand. She was wearing a habit, her medium brown hair visible on her forehead and temples. Her eyes were the same color as her hair. She appeared to be in her forties, although I couldn’t be sure.

“I’m all right, really I am.”

“Someone told me you were at Brown. I’m so happy to hear you’re pursuing your studies. You were the best student I ever taught. What are your plans, Collie?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think I have any plans.” I was conscious of not looking at her.

“But that’s what people your age are supposed to do. Make design on the future.”

“I’m just hoping to do better than I have so far, I guess. So pretty modest ambitions, you might say.”

“I have a feeling that no one can meet the standards you set for yourself, Collie.”

I laughed mostly because I could think of no other response.

“My gosh, you’re only what? Twenty years old. Stop being so hard on yourself.” She was smiling at me in a kindly way, admonishing me in maternal fashion. “You were so helpful when you were small, such a good little fellow. You always did have a pale and sober and serious heart, even as a little boy.”

“I . . .” I stopped. I didn’t have a clue how to react.

“Yes. And now you’re consumed with the dead, I can see it in your eyes. You need to make them go away if you want to carry on the practical matters of your life.”

“I’m okay, Sister.” Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped in front of me, I concentrated on my shoes. I was trying to deflect her searing intensity. She was determined to get to the heart of the matter. My foot tapped nervously, my knee bobbing up and down. Whatever happened to pleasant chitchat? It seemed as if everyone was determined to take a power saw to my rib cage.

I could feel her appraising me in the momentary silence that followed.

“Well . . .” She hesitated and then plunged in. “I might have an idea for you if you’re interested.” She gave me a sideways glance.

“Oh?” I was wearing what I thought was a polite expression.

“We have a mission in El Salvador, and we could do with some secular volunteers—in fact, I have a group of college students coming to help out during the Christmas holidays. I could make a spot for you if you’d like. It would do you a world of good. Take your mind off your troubles.” She was speaking so fast, I could hardly track her words.

“Me? What could I do? I don’t have any skills . . . I’d just get in the way.”

“You’ve a very nice manner, Collie, a pleasing way about you,” Sister Mary Ellen said, her voice softening as she fingered the black rosary beads that hung at her waist. “And you’re easy on the eyes—” Her voice cracked, and she dropped her beads and put her hand to her chest like a fan. “I suppose I shouldn’t notice, but, too late, I’ve discovered chastity’s not all it’s cracked up to be—oh, I’m sorry, I’ve made you blush—the cure’s half-done just by you walking into the room. And you know how to listen. That’s a rare thing. Can you drive?”

“Yeah, I can drive.”

“Well, there you go,” she said victoriously, as if the matter were settled. “We’re always looking for drivers. Believe me, if you’re able-bodied and willing, you’re an asset.”

“I’d be happy to make a donation if that would help,” I said uneasily, trying to put a little distance between myself and her zeal.

“That would be very nice,” she said evenly, clearly unsatisfied and wanting a commitment from me. She put her hand on my knee. “But why don’t you try donating yourself? You know, Collie, when I was young and upset about something, my mother used to tell me to scrub the floor. I resented it at the time, but guess what? She was right. Hard work is the answer to most of the world’s ills. It takes your mind right off yourself.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, watching as she wrote down her contact information on a scrap of paper and pressed it into my hand.

“I think you should do more than think about it,” she said firmly, almost disapprovingly, as I stared up at her blankly, feeling a bit ashamed to find myself focusing less on her words and more on the vacant territory on her forehead where her eyebrows should have been. “You’re a person of rare privilege. You’ve been given the whole world. Don’t you think maybe it’s time you started to give a little bit back? You don’t want God to regret His generosity, do you? And wouldn’t your grandfather be proud of you? Do you think he might be persuaded to take an interest in our work?” Her eyes widened, and she was smiling brightly. It was a look I’d seen many times before.