Last Call (23 page)

Diana waits for a moment hoping there might be a “but” to follow. Only there isn’t. “So, are you going to tell him?” she gently asks.

“I don’t know.” Rosamond sighs. “What difference would it make?”

“Being in love with someone makes a big difference.”

“But what if . . . what if he doesn’t . . .”

“He went to a department store with you. With Dad, if that’s not total devotion then I don’t know what is. And maybe you can convince him to look into this experimental treatment the specialist mentioned.” Diana finally lays out the reason for her own interest in the situation.

But enough has been said for one night and the two women silently hug each other before going upstairs to bed. Birth and death and love now seem to be sewn from the same fabric, and there isn’t the urgency to untangle such complex matters once and for all, assigning every emotion to its proper place, the way they’d approached life in their twenties, as if it were a puzzle to be permanently solved. Black and white have turned to gray and every sunrise inevitably brings with it a shift in circumstances, subtle, yet as predictable as the tides and immovable as the mountains. Believing that one can plan tomorrow is a game for the young, and for those as yet untouched by love.

By eleven o’clock Hayden still hasn’t come home. But this isn’t unusual when he’s out with the Greyfriars, and so Diana makes sure the front door is unlocked since she’s taken his keys. However, she doesn’t notice the bulky shadow waiting outside in the bushes next to the front stoop. Diana leaves a light on in the living room and goes up to bed.

chapter thirty-seven

A
t half past midnight Hayden stumbles down the tree-lined street gaily singing, his bright baritone voice strong but slurred:
“You take the high road and I’ll take the low, and I’ll get to Scotland afore ye, but me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”

When he opens the front door Hayden thinks for a moment that he really did overdo it and his eyes are suddenly playing tricks on him. Because what he thinks he sees is Diana’s boyfriend Anthony hefting the new large-screen television off its stand.

“What in bloody hell do you think yer doin’?” shouts Hayden.

“Nothing, Mr. MacBride. Now-now, there’s no reason to get upset.”

“Suffering duck! Yer robbin’ me blind and you expect me to burst out in fairy lights?”

Awakened by Hayden’s bellows, Rosamond and Diana come running down in their nightgowns. Joey follows in his pajamas, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his fists.

“Tony!” Diana switches on the nearest lamp. “What on
earth
—”

“I just figured the insurance would pay. You’re covered for everything, and you know, I’d give you guys half, fifty-fifty, even steven.”

“Have you lost your
mind
?” asks an incredulous Diana.

From off the wall Hayden yanks an eighteenth-century musket that was used by his great-great-great-grandfather to defend Scotland against the British in the Battle of Culloden. Rosamond stands at the bottom of the staircase with one hand on Joey’s shoulder and the other engaged in vigorously crossing herself.

“ ’Tis a sad thing but I’m goin’ to ha’ to send ye where the woodbine twineth, you good for nothin’ blackbeetle.” Hayden’s brogue is thick and his cheeks are ruddy from whiskey. He leans over and whispers something to Joey, who immediately scampers off to the kitchen. Then he raises the gun. “You’d better say more than yer prayers now.”

A panic-stricken Tony raises his arms high above his head. “There’s no reason to . . . to get all sore, Mr. MacBride. It was only a business proposition. But we can forget all about it . . .”

Diana whispers, “Somebody had better call the police.” But Rosamond just stands on the landing in shock. So Diana dashes back upstairs to use the phone.

“Intruder, turn ’round and face the wall!” Hayden pokes Tony in the back with the sharp point of the musket. Without missing a beat Tony turns to the fireplace still pleading, “Mr. MacBride, let’s talk about this, because I think you’ve been drinking and homicide is a serious—”

“Shut yer verminous trap! When I want the monkey to dance I’ll grind the organ.” Hayden again prods him in the back with the musket. “I’ll be long dead by the time my case comes to trial. It makes no difference to me.”

Joey returns from the kitchen with two frying pans and silently holds them up for Hayden’s inspection. “I’m goin’ to have to shoot ye.” Hayden counts to three and then nods to Joey, who, on three, bangs the pans back to back as hard as he can. Tony slumps down on the carpet in a faint.

Diana’s scream can be heard up in the bedroom. She races down the stairs and leans over Tony’s body. “You shot him!”

“O’ course not.” Hayden chortles as if this is the best joke he’s played in years. “I was just teachin’ him not to tangle with the Greyfriars Gang. Now dump a pitcher o’ cold water o’er him and tell the layabout that if I e’er catch him in this house again I
will
shoot him and then carry his noggin’ around on a stick just like Macduff totin’ Macbeth.”

Diana places her hand on Tony’s heart to confirm that indeed he’s still alive, and as she does so a tear glides down her cheek. Only it’s not for Tony but herself, in the realization that through becoming so familiar with betrayal, she’s more saddened than stunned by it. Maybe Hayden is right about her inability to find a decent boyfriend, that it’s time to give up on men entirely and concentrate on being both mother and father to her fast-growing son.

chapter thirty-eight

T
he following morning, Hayden, Rosamond, and Joey are up early and out in their rented motorboat fishing along the southern coast of Long Island by sunrise. It had rained during the night and the sky is gradually turning from gray to blue as if recovering from an illness. Using fresh minnows for bait they try for striped bass and flounder, and Joey secretly hopes for a baby shark. At least Rosamond and Joey are planning to catch fish.

Hayden gleefully retells the story of discovering the “hooligan” in his living room, careful not to leave out the look on the poor devil’s face when it was announced he’d be dining on lead. Hayden turns to Joey and says, “Yer mother nags about my drinkin’, but there’s no rehab for stupidity now, is there, lad?”

Rosamond doesn’t see the humor in a man becoming so wayward in his faith that he resorts to robbery, but somehow Hayden’s hilarious reenactment of the incident overwhelms her sense of spiritual duty. She silently promises to say a prayer for intercession on behalf of the troubled Anthony. And Rosamond is heartened that Hayden had displayed his own form of forgiveness by not filing charges with the police, and thereby offering Tony another chance. (Though she’s blissfully unaware of the promise Hayden privately extracted from the guilty party to paint the town house for free.)

The green water sparkles in the fresh morning sunlight and seagulls fish from overhead, occasionally swooping down and then rising high above with a wriggling silver snapper clutched in their beaks. Hayden leans back with the sunshine coppering his face and savors the rhythmic slap of the sea against the side of the boat.

“Fishing is a boon to the soul. I don’t know why I ne’er did it afore . . . there was a lovely stream near the farm . . . I suppose I was always busy wi’ the chores.”

Rosamond laughs as she recasts her line. “Hayden, you don’t fish. You drink beer and whiskey and tell stories and sing songs.”

“For your information, Sister Know-It-All,” he loftily preaches to Rosamond, “drinking and telling tales is the most important part of fishing—that’s why the fish come.” His mischievous eyes flicker between green and hazel, and when caught by the light from a certain angle appear to be almost golden.

To prove his point Hayden begins singing in his cheerful rich brogue:
“Where ha’e ye been a’ the day, Bon-nie lad-die, Highland lad-die? Saw ye him that’s far a-way, Bon-nie lad-die, Highland lad-die? On his head a bon-net blue, Bon-nie lad-die, High-land lad-die, Tartan plaid and Highland trew, Bon-nie lad-die, High-land lad-die!”

As if the gods are on Hayden’s side Joey feels a tremendous tugging on his line and reels in a medium-sized flounder. He stutters with excitement, “It . . . it’s huge! Look Grandpa! I . . . I caught a fish all by myself!”

Hayden lifts his beer to Rosamond and gives her an I-told-you-so smile. “There’s the fishes! After some more refreshment I’ll set to conjurin’ up the loaves.” He laughs uproariously at his own joke and proceeds to sing “Annie Laurie.”

Rosamond nods her head as if he’s either completely mad or has somehow conned the Lord. At this point neither outcome would surprise her in the least.

After stopping to fill the boat with gas they moor at Hickory Island in Jamaica Bay for a picnic lunch. Hayden explains how the thirty or so islands surrounding Brooklyn and Queens were once a vital part of the urban economy, supporting such diverse enterprises as shipbuilding, military training, summer resorts, and mental health institutions. But now, most are abandoned and off-limits to the public.

While Joey wades near the shore and digs for clams, Hayden and Rosamond lie next to each other on the blanket and enjoy the perfect mix of warm sunshine and salty air. There can be no doubt for either that love had snuck in while they were both preoccupied with other things. But what kind of love is it?

Hayden has almost resigned himself to the fact that it’s platonic, a wonderful friendship with a woman in an earthly purgatory, trapped between the worlds of flesh and spirit.

Rosamond believes that their regard for each other may simply defy definition. Perhaps it is ineffable, as many believe God to be, unconfined by logic or reason, His mercy boundless and unfathomable. Or maybe she, as a mere mortal, just isn’t capable of comprehending such obscurity.

Hayden gazes skyward and points at one of the thick fluffy clouds. He’s always finding liquor bottles in cloud formations and was particularly thrilled the other morning when Joey pointed out a scallop-shaped Remy Martin. At least he savored the moment until Diana beaned them both with her handbag.

“That one looks just like a bottle o’ Glenfiddich, do’an’ you think?” says Hayden, pointing toward the horizon.

“Will you stop it!” Rosamond chides him but then laughs heartily. “Sometimes even I agree that you’re a bad influence on your grandson. Besides, there’s no alcohol in heaven.”

“No pubs? Then I think a few priests will be changin’ their tickets.”

Rosamond stops smiling and turns serious. “Hayden, I have a confession to make.”

He rises to his elbows, secretly hoping that the hour is finally upon them, the moment Hayden has been playing out over and over in his mind, when Rosamond gives him some sign that her divorce from God has finally come through and she’s available. And that she might even welcome a date from a dying geezer such as himself. While he feels his appetite waning by the day, and has half the energy he possessed only six months ago, Hayden is often puzzled by the fact that Rosamond’s hacking cough has all but disappeared and her cheeks are positively rosy. Has Rosamond’s cancer slowed or has she dived into Diana’s makeup jars in a significant way?

“A confession, eh? And what are your sins, my child?”

“I . . . um . . . I had a talk with your neighbor yesterday,” Rosamond begins.

“Old Mrs. Trummel? The one who’s always calling the Mounties whenever we play the bagpipes? I hope you gave her a good dressing down.”

“No, the other neighbor.”

“Bobbie Anne?” Hayden feels a surge of protectiveness rising within. Yes, he’s in love with Rosie, but no one is going to give Bobbie Anne a hard time as long as there’s a single breath left in his body.

“I just . . . I just suggested that maybe she could go back to school. There’s a Jesuit University not far from here, in Jefferson Heights, that offers scholarships and financial aid to women in her situation.”

“I’ll have you know that the Church and the whorehouse arrived in this country at about the same time and I do’an’ know that one has a superior claim to the other.” Hayden adopts a combative tone and his cheeks turn ruddy as they do when he becomes annoyed. “And what did she say to all your friendly advice?”

“She told me to mind my own business and
how
.” Rosamond sounds contrite on two counts—for interfering, and for angering Hayden. Aside from the burglary episode with Tony and occasional comments about Joey’s father she’s never seen his temper flare so suddenly.

Joey comes running over with big handfuls of shells and rocks worn smooth by the sea and plops down on the blanket to sort his plunder like a modern-day pirate. It seems as if he’d grown an inch that very week. There’s no doubt in Hayden’s mind that this is Joey’s last summer of building sandcastles and collecting seashells. Next year he’ll most certainly be listening to music and bikini watching.

“She said that she’d been raised Catholic, married in the Church, had her daughters christened, and given time and money to the Church all her life,” Rosamond continues in a quiet voice. “And then when she needed financial assistance they had nothing to offer but a bunch of hot dishes from the Ladies’ Bereavement Battalion and grief counseling.”

“That girl calls a spade a spade!” Hayden announces, obviously pleased.

“I’ll say. Then she proceeded to tell me that she guessed I’d probably never worked a day in my life or had to worry about paying taxes! Oh Hayden, it was terrible. All of a sudden I . . . I didn’t know what to say.” Rosamond turns her face away from his.

“Oh, do’an’ worry about it,” Hayden reassures her. “I’m sure she knows you were just tryin’ to help in your own way.”

“Well, it’s just that . . . that she was right. I mean, about my never having had to pay room and board. I don’t even pay
you
rent.”

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Hayden jests.

Joey chimes in, “Are you talking about Bobbie Anne? Andrew told me that he’s saving up his money to go on a date with her, that she’ll date anyone for two hundred dollars.”

“Well do’an’ you be paying no mind to Andrew Drummond!” says Hayden. “He’s got a bad case of the teenagitis.”