It Burns a Lovely Light (10 page)

"It's not a cape. It's a happiness cloak."

Not to be outdone, Eileen pulled up the back of her shorts,
revealing a dark, inch-long scab on her bum. "Look-it. I did it with a paper clip."

"That could get infected."

"I do it all the time." She crowded a few more
grapes into her mouth. "Let's play tag," she said, her voice muffled by the fruit. "I'll chase you."

"I know what you are, but what am I!" screamed
William, delighted to be playing again.

Sitting on top of the picnic table, Paddy and Claire watched the children run around the back yard.

"Please God, someone wake me up," said Claire.

Paddy squeezed her hand. In the years since Claire left him, their relationship had progressed from cordial-yet-kind to a cautious camaraderie. But recently - thrust forward as a result of the death of Jack and Pauline - they had moved into something reminiscent of the friendship of their
youth.

"You should have let me go with you," he said.

"You're probably right. They like you better, anyway."

"Now you're talking nonsense."

Claire waved a tired hand.

"An officer was assigned to help with the arrangements," she said. "The poor man literally held me up when I went to the crematorium. He walked me through the forms and papers, and
explained the indemnity compensation process."

"What's that?"

"The process of getting money for William and Farley. A legal representative of the military will come out next week to let us know how
much of they'll receive."

"Why can't they tell you now?"

"They have to conduct an official investigation before any funds can be approved." She hesitated. "Apparently Jack started a
fight with a fellow officer...a higher up."

"An argument fight, or a
fight
fight?"

"A fists flying, blood all over the place fight."

"Then the officer must have had it coming."

"I'm sure you're right. Still, this investigation may have an effect on how much money is approved for William and Farley."

"Maybe we should talk to Ham."

"I called him before we left the base. He said he'll stop by on his way home from work tomorrow."

Paddy nodded, pleased. "Ham Kane is a fine man, and a
hell of an attorney."

Claire chuckled, releasing a slightly wet snort. "Shame about the wife."

Ham Kane was Eileen's father and Claire's nearest neighbor. A widower, he had recently married after a six-week romance. His wife, Billie,
had a reputation as a somewhat successful realtor and a master manipulator. She drove a flashy car, wore full-length fur coats long after the black winter slush melted, and believed without a doubt that her clients were ignorant fools
who would be lost without her.

Paddy gestured toward William, who was struggling to catch up with Eileen in a cartwheel race. "How is he taking all this?"

"He's confused. Anxious. He wouldn't get in the car
when it was time to leave the base. He has decided that cars are no longer safe. When we finally got him in the car he hyperventilated. The doctor gave me a prescription for some sedatives. The entire drive, the poor thing was either
sound asleep or grinning like a lunatic."

Paddy removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. "And Farley?"

Claire exhaled. "Beyond devastated. She hardly said a
word the whole trip."

"The poor girl."

"She opened up one night, while we were watching William play in the motel pool. She says she's not going away to school, that
William has lost enough. And she made it clear that staying at Bridge Manor for long is
not
an option."

"Already calling the shots. Pauline would be proud."

Behind them, the screen door slammed.

"Your mother called, Eileen," said Veda Marie. "Dinner is on the table. Claire, will you walk her?"

Eileen yanked a twig from her shiny gold curls. "She's not my mother."

"Will you come back?" asked William.

"Sure." Eileen swiped the dirt off her shorts. "I come here all the time."

Paddy slapped the picnic table with the palm of his hand.
"Come on up and keep me company, son."

"I probably shouldn't." William rubbed his lips. "It's germy to sit on a table, Uncle Paddy."

"Which is why we never use it as a table. We consider
it more of a giant chair, where we can sit and look out over our fine city."

William hesitated, then climbed up and sat next to his uncle.

"Tell me the truth," said Paddy. "Would it
help or hurt for me to talk about your parents?"

"Help," he mumbled, rubbing the fabric of his cloak over his cheek.

Paddy thought for a minute.

"They were special, those two," he said. "I loved them very much. We all did." He held his hand out flat. "Did you know I met your mother when she was this high?"

"No." William pulled his cloak tight around him.
"It's weird to think of them having a life before me and Farley."

"The best part of their lives was after you and your sister came along."

"I know," said William, sliding his tongue along
the metal of his headgear. "I wonder where they are, right now."

"Where do you think they are?"

"Some people said they're watching over us."

"That's what I like to think, son."

As the daylight faded, Paddy pulled his car into the half-empty parking lot of Mick's Pub. He needed a pint. Or two.

"This one's on me." Mick placed a draft in front of Paddy. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Mickey." Paddy took a long swig.

"I hear Claire is taking on the children."

"You know Claire."

"That's quite a load. She's a good woman."

"The best."

"You've had quite a go of things, lately. This tragedy,
on top of the layoffs..."

Paddy grunted. When he spoke his voice was so soft, Mick had to lean across the bar to hear him. "All my life I wanted to be a company man, and I finally made it." He nodded. "Only to be given the
distinction of dismissing some of the finest, most hardworking men I'll ever know."

"You did what you had to do."

Mick refilled Paddy's mug, then poured a shot of whiskey and
dropped it inside the mug. "It's a wonder Porter Steel is still operating at all; what with mills and factories closing all around us."

"You should have seen them, Mickey. One by one, I
called them up. Ritchie Flynn. Tommy Sawicki. Stephen Quinn, with eight kids, three in diapers. That Kevin Walsh never missed a day of work in his life. And to a man...each and every one of them shook my hand before leaving."

By the time William climbed into the bathtub it was well after his normal bedtime. He chatted nervously as he watched Joe shave.

"It might be good to have regular seasons again. It's
weird having Christmas in the warm."

"You'll be plenty cold around here by Christmas," said Joe.

William walked his Underdog figurine along the edge of the tub.

"I do remember that Bridge Manor can get sort of
damp," he said. "I'm a little concerned about that. You never know when a chill can cross over to hypothermia."

Joe tapped the side of his razor on the sink. "No point
in worrying about winter right now. It's summer."

William tried to whistle as Underdog dive-bombed under the bubbles. "Probably no point in worrying about itchy winter skin, then."

"You got that right."

"Although I don't like to be hot, either," mumbled William. "Dehydration is a big concern of mine."

"Goodnight," said Claire.

"Goodnight, Aunt Claire." William wished Farley hadn't gone to bed so early. She hadn't said 'goodnight,' either. "You can leave the door open if you want to."

Turning to leave, Claire stopped when she heard a strange
clicking sound. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, thank you, Aunt Claire."

She tilted her head. There it was again. "You're sure you don't need something?"

"No, thank you."

She grasped the handle of his bedroom door. "Goodnight."

"Aunt Claire, are we orphans now?"

God in heaven. Think. She cleared her throat.

"The word 'orphan' typically refers to children," she said. "You're a big boy now."

"So I'm probably too old to be tucked in like a taco," he said, his eyes shining in the dark.

Claire looked back at her nephew, all freckles and metal braces and sad, peculiar statements. "My goodness, you're much too old for that."

She left, closing the door tight behind her. William lay in
the dark, running the binding of his blanket up and down the palm of his hand.

"Are you there?" he whispered. "Are you watching over me?"

Claire knocked on Farley's door, harder than she intended.

"Come in."

Farley was curled up in the window seat, wearing one of her father's old West Point tee shirts and a pair of white boxers. She turned to
her aunt, then quickly turned away. Claire and Pauline had been far from identical. Still, every time Farley looked at Claire she saw her mother.

"Do you need anything?" Claire clenched her fists,
castigating herself for her inability to find the right words.
Do you need anything?

After hours of tossing and turning in her bed, Claire padded downstairs to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, she removed a carton of
milk, some chicken, and pasta salad. She grabbed chips, a jar of baby gherkins, and a bottle of hot sauce from the pantry. Lit only by a shard of moonlight, Claire dug in.

Veda Marie flipped on the light. "What are you doing up
at this hour?"

"What does it look like?" Embarrassed, Claire slid the unopened bag of chips across the table. "I'm not going to eat those."

"Of course not," said Veda Marie, dryly.
"Show a little self-control."

"You don't have to be sarcastic." Her lower lip trembling, Claire pulled the bowl of pasta salad toward her. "I don't know how to comfort them."

"Of course you do," said Veda Marie, her voice softening. "They're half out of their minds with sadness. We all are."

Claire stabbed a tortellini with her fork as a tear dropped
into the bowl. "Pauline would have known what to do. She was the strong one."

"Apparently not, lovey."

Claire swallowed a lump of pasta salad.

"Farley knows," she said. "She knows Pauline
could have gotten out of that car."

"Oh, that poor dear."

Claire wiped her face with a mangled napkin. "Jack and Pauline's friends gathered at the house that first day. You know, bringing
food, making phone calls, commiserating. Farley overheard some of them saying Pauline wouldn't get out of the car." She exhaled, tearing at her napkin. "I tried talking to her, but she didn't want to talk about it."

"Give her some time, then try again." Veda Marie paused. "And next time, take your hands off your hips. It's scary."

"I don't do that."

"You do, lovey. But only when you're nervous." She
patted Claire's hand. "Come on, we've got a big day tomorrow."

Veda Marie put her arm through Claire's as they walked upstairs.

"I'm surprised your brother didn't come by, tonight of
all nights."

"He called," said Claire. "His new car had the wrong something-or-other. You know Ryan; he had to make sure everything was perfect before he drove it off the lot."

Veda Marie shook her head. "Funny, him being a priest."

At exactly six o'clock in the morning Father Ryan Justus rose from his bed, dropped to the floor and did one hundred sit-ups, one
hundred push-ups, and fifty squats. Then he showered, shaved, and liberally after-shaved. Sometimes the phrase, "that stings in a good way" would come to him as he slapped his cheeks with the faint citrus tonic. But not this
morning.

This morning Ryan was on auto-pilot, going through the motions and praying for the wisdom to guide his grieving flock through this dark tempest. He prayed for the words to ease their sorrow and encourage their
faith. And he prayed for the strength not to curl up in the fetal position and wail, flock be damned. Oh, God.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he padded through the living room into the kitchen. He sliced strawberries into a bowl of bran cereal
and washed a multivitamin down with a glass of tepid lemon water. Then he dressed for the long day ahead.

For their day-to-day work, priests were encouraged to wear the black clerical shirt with the white collar and black pants. Today he would
wear his cassock. Truth be told, Ryan preferred his cassock and wore it whenever possible. The long-skirted, close-fitting black garment made him feel closer to God.

Bullshit, Mutt. You like the way it compliments your long
legs and lean build.

He froze. After a moment, he lowered himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

"How could you leave me?" he moaned.

He couldn't bring himself to say out loud what his mind
immediately added:
Why couldn't it have been Claire?

There comes a time when the mind and the heart can no longer bear the pain. For Farley, it was the day her parent's ashes were scattered
over the side of the Smithfield Street Bridge and into the river below. The old timers called it the kissing fish bridge. Where Farley and William's parents shared their first kiss. Where Jack tried to propose and Pauline interrupted
his stammering by asking him where he stood on the name Farley for their first child.

"Farley James. Works for a girl or a boy, and it's got an illustrious ring to it, don't you think?"

In the back of her mind, Farley had hoped that the act of scattering their ashes might bring some small sense of relief. She pictured the ashes, brilliant in the morning sun, dancing and drifting their way down to the
Monongahela River, where they would blend with the river and glide with the current. The background music would come in, slowly. A farewell so devastatingly beautiful it would live in her soul forever, and ease the pain that pressed on her heart.