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“Digby?” Mary Catherine turned toward him. “You saw Francis Michael Digby?”

“Indeed,” he replied, hands folded on his stomach.

“My Francis Michael Digby?”

“The same.”

She said, “I saw Digby.”

Rooney wriggled to sit. “That louse. Playing us against each other.”

Not so, she thought. He seemed quietly proper, as he was in grammar school. A good boy, a keen student, the nuns often said. Mary Catherine was proud her classmate had done well.

“You know,” Rooney said, “he was pushing those damned papers hard at me, then rushing to City Hall, him thinking who he is-”

“I suppose he was doing what we asked.”

“-pulling the wool, pressing on. Like I don’t know the game.”

“Means nothing now,” Mary Catherine tried.

Rooney was building toward a full head of steam. “Attorneys. Cocks of the walk…”

“Come on,” she said as she dropped a hand amid the tufts of prickly hair on his shoulder. “What’s the use of it?”

Moonlight peeked through the blinds. “You know what he wants?” Rooney said, “He wants you.”

“Oh my goodness.” She raised to her elbows. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Ah. I’m ridiculous, am I?”

“I didn’t say-”

Though still dizzy from drink, he spun and bent over to search for his shoes.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Like you’d care.”

“For heaven’s sake-”

“Don’t you be bringing the Almighty into this,” he snapped. “This is between me and you and your boyfriend Francis.”

“My boyfriend?” Mary Catherine was out of bed now too. Mounds of freckled skin wiggled before settling under her nightgown. “Have you lost your mind?”

He hurried to the corridor and reached down into the closet. Old paint cans and roller skates rattled.

“You’ll wake the whole house.”

“To the devil with the whole house.”

She said, “Would you use the brain-”

There stood Leaky Rooney, his baby sledgehammer in his fist. “No one makes a fool of me,” he announced.

“Except you,” Mary Catherine muttered as he began his bumble down four flights of stairs.

***

The following day, Rooney caught a day’s work helping to tar the roof at Narrows Gate High School, other men walking away when it started to rain. So he postponed his search for Digby, who in his mind had grown devil’s horns and a pig’s snout, and was all set to slip an arm around Mary Catherine’s waist, serenading her with oink-oinks, sweeping her off her feet with his silver-tongued attorney talk. Last night, Rooney sobered as he waited between the fins of cars parked nose-in outside Digby’s office. Soon, midnight came, but Digby had not.

Walking his beat, Malatesta the cop saw Rooney once, twice, and the third time told him to go home, his family was waiting.

“That’ll be the day I need advice from the likes of you.”

“How’s that, Rooney?” Malatesta said, cupping his ear.

A man had to reclaim his wife. It was natural law, for which no degree was required.

Malatesta smacked his open palm with his nightstick. “Home, Leaky,” he repeated.

While Rooney melted and applied tar, his wife toiled diligently at the small, storefront Bell Telephone office on Sixth and Buchanan. The working life was still new to Mary Catherine, but she’d taken commercial courses in high school and knew how to do what she was told. Her boss was easygoing: Though Mrs. Leibowitz wore a bun that brought her head to a point, she allowed the day shift to correspond to school hours. At three o’clock, the mothers were succeeded by single women who called themselves the Night Owls.

Knowing this, Digby arranged to find himself walking the avenue as Mary Catherine headed home. What a coincidence, he’d say when they met, offering to share his umbrella. Then, lowering his voice, he’d add that he had the papers ready for her to sign. In the course of their stroll, he would refer calmly to the finality of her actions, how such a thing done couldn’t be easily undone. As the wiser of the two, she was likely to express some reservation. Then why not sleep on it? Digby would propose. Then, several hours later, he’d drop in the Shamrock and who should he see but Leaky. Mr. Rooney, what a coincidence, he’d say, and buy him a round, whispering discreetly that he had papers in his office. Should we go now? he’d asked, knowing Leaky wouldn’t leave the stool until he toppled off it. He’d propose-

Digby was shaken from his reverie by a small voice from behind.

“Hey Digby.” The little girl wore a St. Matty’s uniform, its white blouse dislodged from a checkered skirt. Polish failed to hide the wear on her saddle shoes.

“Hi there…”

“Anna. Anna Rooney.”

“Anna, yes.” Exhibit A as to why the Rooneys should remain united. A pinprick to tranquility’s balloon, the freckly kid needed guidance. “How are you?”

“Me, I’m always good.”

He looked at her. She was more Leaky than Mary Catherine, the glint of wicked mischief in the eyes, blunt chin high in defiance.

“Digby. My dad is looking for you.”

“Okay. I’ll be in my office-” Here Digby looked at his wristwatch. “-in about an hour.”

“No Digby, you don’t want to do that,” Anna told him. “My dad’s not too happy with you.”

“Now why would you say something like that? Your father-”

“You went to St. Matty’s with my mother, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Was she pretty?”

“I suppose,” Digby replied. “Well, yes. Yes, she was. But why-”

“My father’s going to take his hammer to your head, Digby.” She was tapping her foot at the edge of a puddle, causing ripples in the murky water.

“Anna-”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

***

Digby hurried home, aware a law degree was no match for a lunatic with his sledgehammer. He locked the door and went to the refrigerator to retrieve a cold drink, his throat parched from his rapid retreat up Rogers Point. But all he found was a jar of mayonnaise and a soggy carton of chow fun. Tap water sufficed.