“Anyway,” Hardy continued, “I think my friend Glitsky might try to help me get back on the force, but I’m not really inclined to it. I don’t like having a boss.”
“Me neither. Oh, for a spot on the federal bench!”
But this was an old lament, and not too sincere. Federal judges were appointed for life and, barring outrageous impeachable conduct-a likelihood never ever to occur with Andy Fowler-the job was one of those on earth most resembling God’s. But Andy had been at Superior Court for twenty-five years, and Hardy knew he was happy there. Not that he wouldn’t take the job with no boss, but he wasn’t lobbying for it.
After Hardy had gotten into what he was doing now, Andy stopped smiling.
“I know a little about Arturo Cruz,” he offered. “He’s a dirty son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
This was news to Hardy, who knew only that Cruz was a liar. “If I get the case, I’ll have to disqualify myself. Damn shame.”
Hardy looked blank, and Andy explained. One of his foursome out at the Olympic Club represented some people in litigation against Cruz. A bait-and-switch case. Seems Cruz had suckered a group of his distributors into laying out big bucks to buy into his newspaper’s growth-trucks and coin machines and so on-and then when the paper got into the black, he cut them off, went in-house with the distribution.
“And, of course, being good third-world brothers and sisters for the most part, it was all oral.”
Jane touched her father’s arm. “Daddy.”
“I’m not worked up,” he said, “and that wasn’t a racist remark. And if it was, even here in the bosom of my family, I retract it.”
That’s why he might lie, Hardy was thinking, about knowing one of his distributor’s employees. “Could I meet this guy, your friend?” Missing the father-daughter exchange altogether.
Andy nodded, finishing his drink. “Sure, got a pen?”
He gave Hardy the number on a card, then kissed his daughter. “Well, we working stiffs have to get up in the morning.” He stood up, extended his hand again. “Dismas, I mean it, I’ve missed you. Come around sometime. Get arrested if you need an excuse.”
He took them both in. “Damn shame,” he repeated, as though to himself, about as subtle as a dart in the eye.
They watched him weave through the tables. Jane put her hand on Hardy’s thigh, let it rest there. “Now what?” She half turned to him on the barstool.
His thoughts had suddenly turned to Cruz, back to Ed and Frannie. “I guess I’m going to call your dad’s friend.”
“No, Dismas.” The eyes flickered briefly with amusement. “About us.”
It was a flat question-no coy girl stuff. “Us?”
“You and me. Us.”
“It seems funny, doesn’t it?”
“It didn’t seem funny a half hour ago.”
She’d gotten him there, he had to admit. “No, it didn’t.” Then, “Do I have to answer right now?” He reached out his hand along the bar, and there was hers again, holding his. “Shit, Jane, we’re divorced.”
Jane lifted his hand and kissed it. “Out there…”
Hardy nodded. “But that was never the problem anyway.”
“No, I remember.”
No smile. Just stating a fact.
“Maybe that was rare, huh?”
“Maybe.”
They both went to their glasses. Jane’s hand rested on his, unfamiliar and frightening. He noticed the coral nail polish flawlessly applied, the cool trace of blue vein under the olive-tan skin. Jane’s hand right there. He put his glass down and reached over with his other hand, covering it.
“How about, maybe next week or so, we go on a date?”
That had been something between them when they’d been married. They’d gone on dates.
“A real date?” she asked.
“Yeah, you know-dinner, a movie, like that.”
She thought a minute. “What night?”
Chapter Thirteen
AT THE rectory Jim Cavanaugh sat in his library, a book face down on his lap. It was ten in the morning, and the unseasonable warm spell was continuing. That day he’d gotten up at five and walked the streets around St. Elizabeth’s for a half hour reading his breviary. After the six-thirty Mass, attended by twenty-three elderly women and his two altar boys, he had returned to the rectory and gone directly to the library. That had been nearly three hours ago.
Rose peeked in to see him staring at the window. “Father?” He looked at her, grief all over his face. “Are you all right?” The question seemed to throw him. “I’m fine, Rose, thank you.”
The old woman paused, not wanting to push him, but concerned. “Will you be having breakfast, then? I could just reheat the eggs. The micro works good on those. Or even make up some new ones.”
Cavanaugh smiled at the housekeeper. “I forgot breakfast, didn’t I? My rhythms seem all off.”
She supposed he meant to laugh at himself-that was how he was, secure enough to enjoy his own foibles. But he didn’t laugh. Maybe, as he’d said, his rhythms were off. Instead, he sighed and went back to staring at the window.
She didn’t like to see him taking the death so hard. Not that Eddie hadn’t been a wonderful boy.
No. She guessed he was-he’d been-a man, though sometimes it was hard to realize it when they grew up right in front of you like that.
But that was the way life was, she thought. A vale of tears, as the prayer said. Eddie’s death was a tragedy, no doubt of that, but you didn’t let yourself sit and stare out windows. At least not for too long.
She learned that when Dan had been killed in the War. That was life. It wasn’t fair. It was a tragedy, all right. But it was God’s will, not for her to understand. And she never would, not ever. She would just have faith and believe that she would see Dan again in heaven. And if she hadn’t pulled herself up by her bootstraps and forced herself back to life, she might not have ever recovered. That all seemed so long ago now. Strange to remember that she really thought she wouldn’t survive. Not that there wasn’t some pain, but it was a different kind now, certainly nothing to die over.
So she could understand Father’s reaction. In many ways, Eddie was the son he could never have. And his death was another bond to Erin, lost, too. She wondered if that hurt him as much as anything.
No, she thought. He was, after all, a priest. He probably didn’t let himself think like that, though a blind person could see the love he had for that woman. Well, she couldn’t blame him for that. Erin was a saint, and beautiful to boot.
She sighed. “Father?”
The priest faced her but didn’t even seem to see her. His eyes had that hollow look they sometimes got. It was her privilege to see him like that, when he wasn’t “on.” He was lost inside himself.
She’d try to bring him back, but slowly, in the pioper time. No sense bothering him anymore this morning.
Quietly, she closed the door and walked back to the kitchen. For lunch, she thought, I’ll go out to the store and buy some corned beef and a fresh loaf of rye. He’ll be hungry come lunch-time. He’ll never turn down a corned beef on rye.
Erin was thinking that it must be easier for everyone else, with their daily activities: Big Ed was back at work, Steven and Jodie were in finals week, Mick had gone off to ROTC drill camp, Jim Cavanaugh had his duties at church. Everyone had something to take the mind off it.
She sat at the table in the breakfast nook, a cold cup of coffee at her elbow, her calendar open in front of her-the calendar by which she ordered her time, being there for everyone who asked, always finding the energy. Now she looked down at it. Slowly she turned the page back to the past week.
All those appointments unkept. Look at them. Dinner plans with Ed for Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights. His Knights of Columbus picnic (and her note “Make pasta salad”) on Sunday. Volunteer work at St. Mary’s Hospital. Take Mrs. Ryan to physical therapy. The S.I. women’s committee had their annual housecleaning-getting the classrooms at St. Ignatius prepped for the painters before summer school started. Baby-sit Lottie’s kids while she and Hal went to Monterey.