“Because of him?”
He shrugged. “Well, sure... on some level. But I made the choice. We have to choose where we’re headed, baby, and carefully.”
She formed a half-smile, fully wry. “It’s not like we have a lot of options.”
“No.” He smiled, just a little. “But Director Shore will help. You want to go back to school, don’t you? Get back in theater?”
Her laugh was short yet hollow. “I don’t know. It seems so... abstract now. I feel removed from it, distant, detached... Have I gone dead inside?”
Patting her hand, he said, “No, baby, you’re just protecting yourself... Hey, it’s over; we’ve woken from the nightmare.”
Her eyes and forehead were tight. “Are you sure, Daddy?”
“We’ll always have to be careful in a way most people aren’t. What I’m asking you to do is join up with your life again, your goals, your dreams.”
Her eyes looked past him, at nothing. “My dreams had Gary in them.”
“I know. And my dreams had your mother in them. But we have to go on, anyway. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re wrong — you will fall in love again.”
She shook her head, her expression blank. “But I won’t.”
“You won’t stop loving Gary, even — but you will find someone else.”
She didn’t argue. Her expression turned quizzical. “What about you, Daddy? Think you’ll find someone else?”
“...No. No, sweetheart, your mother was the only woman I ever really loved. That’s a road I won’t go down again. I had many wonderful years with her, and with my family, and that part of me is... satisfied.” He shifted in the chair. “And that’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about, darling... It’s something I’ve been thinking about, a lot, but I’m afraid I’m just being foolish. Or maybe gone crazy.”
Now she squeezed his hand. “What, Daddy?”
What the hell. He just said it: “How would you feel about going back to school — together?”
The immediate response was amusement, but she caught herself, and said, “You want to go to college?”
He couldn’t look at her. “Well... actually, that’s a string I need pulled for me, but Director Shore has managed bigger miracles. See, I took junior-college night classes, oh, twenty years ago, getting a two-year business degree.”
She regarded him with one eyebrow arched. “And you want to finish?”
“No... no. I’m going to ask Shore to turn Michael O’Sullivan, Jr., into a college graduate. So that I can go on to seminary.”
Her expression froze. “...Seminary.”
“Yeah.”
“You want to be a... priest?”
He shrugged, still couldn’t look at her. “A lot of priests were married, once. Widowers who wanted to take another path.”
She leaned toward him, smiling gently. “You want to go from bullets to Eucharists? You’re joking, right?... You’re not joking, are you?”
“No.” Now, finally, he committed his eyes to hers. “I haven’t had some mystical experience, honey; Jesus didn’t come talking to me in the night or anything. But I was raised in the Catholic Church, it’s a tradition that comforts me. And it’s a world where I can make up for... things I’ve done. I can find some kind of redemption, and I can help others.”
She wasn’t smiling now. “Do you even believe in God?”
“I do. Your mother didn’t. But I do.”
Again she smirked. “Well, I sure as hell don’t. Not anymore.”
“I can’t blame you. But, just the same, I’m asking you to respect my decision.”
“I don’t know, Daddy...”
“Will you try? Will you at least try?”
She swallowed. Her brow tightened.
“What I’m hoping is,” he said, trying not to sound desperate, “we can find some college somewhere, some university, where you can study in the arts while I’m taking the seminary. Small apartment, live together. Maybe not a college girl’s dream, but—”
Her smile was back. “But for the next few years, Father O’Sullivan, the fighting priest, wants to make sure no Mafiosi come out of the closet to kill his baby’s butt. Or his own holy heinie?”
“...Does it sound so very absurd to you?”
Nodding, she said, “Frankly, Daddy, yes, it does.”
“But will you try to accept it?”
She sighed.
Thought for a while.
Finally said, “If you don’t come to your senses, in the days and weeks and months ahead? Sure. I can learn to stop calling you ‘Daddy’ and start calling you ‘Father.’ If I really, really have to.”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’ll always be my best girl.”
“Don’t tell the Virgin Mary.”
They would leave the next morning. Michael had in mind flying to Hawaii and spending a couple of weeks on the beach, giving Anna some genuine vacation time, really getting away while Director Shore put their house in order. His daughter certainly had no objection to that, and they went across the street for Chinese, then returned to watch a little television. Early on in Johnny Carson, Anna got sleepy, kissed her father’s forehead, padded into the bedroom yawning, leaving the uncomfortable couch all to him.
He didn’t make it through Carson, either, and stripped to his underwear and pulled out the bed and climbed between the sheets; he was so exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally, that even the paper-thin mattress and cruel springs did not keep him from dropping off almost instantly.
He dreamed of his son. Mike was in full battle gear, but he was sitting at that kitchenette table with them, listening to Anna and Michael conduct a somewhat garbled version of their real conversation. Mike just listened politely, his helmet on the Formica table; then finally he said, “Dad — sis! I’m here. I’m still here — why don’t you talk to me?”
Then Mike said, “Wake up, you cocksucker,” a harsh whisper, but it wasn’t Mike, and something cold was in his neck.
The snout of a gun, a revolver’s nose.
His eyes shot open, and his right hand made a break for the end table where the .45 was, or rather had been, because his fingers found nothing but wood for his nails to scrape, and the voice whispered, “It isn’t there, asshole.”
The intruder, keeping the gun in Michael’s neck, sat on the edge of the sleeper, making the springs creak and whine, and, still sotto voce, said, “Just be quiet. I don’t want to have to do sleeping beauty, too, in the other room. She don’t deserve what you’re gonna get, you fucking prick.”
The curtains were back to let air in the open window, so streetlamps bouncing off alley brick sent in enough illumination for Michael to take stock of his guest. This was a young man — probably around his son, Mike’s, age — who Michael did not recognize, though he made him as an Italian kid, from the dark complexion and eyes, the dark curly hair worn shoulder-length, and a Roman nose too big for his young Dino-ish face. The black leather jacket and black jeans fit the profile, too, as did the gold chain around the neck.
“Then fucking kill me,” Michael whispered, “and go.”
The kid shook his head; he was grinning and cocky, but it was a front — this boy was nervous, and his dark eyes were glistening. If that .38 nose weren’t buried in his neck, Michael could have easily done something about this...
“You don’t get off so fuckin’ easy, old man. It ain’t enough for you to just fucking die.”
“Sure it is. Squeeze the trigger and run.”
He shook his head, and drops of sweat traveled. “No, no, no — you gotta know, you gotta know who did this to your evil ass. Why he... I... did this!”