“It’s a kind of... celebration.”
“Why would anybody celebrate someone dying?”
His father’s eyes in the rearview mirror grew thoughtful. Then he said, “It’s a celebration of the dead person’s life — a sort of a send-off.”
“An ‘old country’ thing, right?”
“Right.”
Soon Papa was driving, Mama next to him, Michael and Peter in back, everyone in their church-going finery. The boys, like their father, wore suits with ties and vests. Papa was all in black, even his tie, and Mama’s navy-blue dress was so dark it too was almost black.
“Papa?” Peter said.
“Yes,” Papa said, his eyes on the road.
“Did you know the man who died?”
“Not very well.”
“... How did he die?”
“An accident.”
“In a car?”
“At work.”
This was no surprise to Michael; he knew this was the dead man in the headlines yesterday, whose family Mr. Looney was helping out by holding the wake at his mansion.
But Michael was also aware that the paper he sold — the Looney-owned News — was often at odds with the Argus and other papers in the Cities. Who was telling the truth? Papa would know...
“What happened to the man, Papa?” Michael asked.
His father’s eyes went from the road back to the rearview mirror. “He choked to death smoking a pipe.”
Michael almost laughed, Peter, too, but then both stifled it, as his mother glanced first at Papa, then at her eldest son, with her brow knit in curiosity. The boy felt lucky, at that moment, that his mother so seldom asked his father what he meant by the sometimes puzzling things he said.
Though Mr. Looney was their godfather, the boys had seldom been to the mansion. They would see their surrogate grandfather at their own home (when he came by to see Papa), or one of his restaurants (he liked to buy them pancake breakfasts), or Water Tower Park (with its carnival-type rides) for Looney employee picnics. Michael had even been to the newspaper offices, and had been given a tour of the printing facility by Mr. Looney himself.
For the first time, however, as their automobile rolled up the winding driveway, Michael viewed the Looney mansion as not just impressive, but ominous. Probably the dark sky, and the funereal occasion, were giving him this impression, the boy knew... but the massive castle-like structure, with its sand-color brick and reddish tile roof and fat formidable twin towers bookending the main building, loomed like a gothic haunted house. Maybe it was the vaguely Arabic archways mixed in with the otherwise medieval look of the place. Whatever the case, Michael shuddered, a chill running through him that had nothing to do with winter.
Out in front of the mansion were a number of cars and, oddly, several trucks. Mourners of every social station — rich and poor alike bedecked in their finest apparel — were trooping up into the house with the weary inevitability of the occasion.
Mama was carrying a covered dish, the crock containing a corned beef casserole that was something of a specialty of hers. The boys had taken the lead, heading up the cement steps to the landing where massive doors waited. Michael’s younger brother was limping.
“What’s wrong with Peter?” Annie asked her husband. “He doesn’t need new shoes, does he?”
“He might,” O’Sullivan said. But he was eyeing his sons suspiciously.
The boys waited on the stoop until their father opened the door for them; their mother, crock in hand, went in first, followed by Peter and Michael, then Papa, filing into a long wide hallway that set the tone for the mansion. They had entered into a high-ceilinged world of walnut paneling and mahogany trim, of parquet floors and oriental rugs, Tiffany lamps and velvet upholstery, ornate mirrors and shimmering chandeliers.
Despite the Sunday finery, it was clear even to an eleven-year-old like Michael that many of the mourners in this entryway contrasted sharply with the lavish surroundings. These were grizzled working men and their careworn wives and their scruffy children, sometimes grandparents, too, ancient-looking with sunken eyes and wrinkled-paper skin and Sunday clothing that dated to the turn of the century.
Hat in hand, their father was guiding them through this chattering, sometimes laughing throng, toward a sitting room.
Peter whispered to his mother: “If the man died, why are they laughing?”
“It’s better to be happy than sad,” she said, “because the man is with God now.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with respectful silence,” their father put in, his eyes tight in an otherwise blank face.
In the sitting room, a respectful silence, even an anguished one, was indeed on hand, draping the proceedings like a shroud. Relatives and friends were gathered here, seated on all sides. A parlor to the left, its doors folded open wide, served as the visitation area, elaborate flower arrangements surrounding the open coffin, which rested on a bed of ice, buckets catching dripping water.
Michael was wondering what the ice was for when his father leaned over to him and said, “Preserves the body.”
“Oh,” the boy said.
He and his father were walking in lockstep toward the coffin, but his brother Peter and Mama lagged behind.
Wide-eyed, horrified Peter came to a stop and tugged his mother’s sleeve. She looked down at him as he said softly, “I don’t want to go up there.”
“It’s all right, honey,” she said gently. “Come on... ”
But Peter held his ground, and Mama gave in. They stood just inside the room as Michael and his father went to the coffin and knelt before it and prayed.
Michael was still praying when he peeked over the casket rim at the body. The dead man looked strange: his skin was waxy, pale as spilt milk, his lips and cheeks touched with clownish red; and weirdest yet, pennies covered the corpse’s eyes.
Sneaking a sideways glance, Michael saw his father was still praying — something intense in his face.
“Amen,” O’Sullivan said, finally.
Then the father noticed his son staring at him and said, “The pennies?”
The boy nodded.
“He has to pay the toll to get into heaven.”
They got to their feet, and turned away from the casket. Michael, still mulling that over, asked, “Does that work?”
“I don’t know. What do you say we light a candle for him at St. Pete’s, just to make sure?”
The boy nodded again.
That was when a husky, unmistakable brogue-touched voice boomed through the room: “Who’s got a hug for a lonely old man?”
The attention of all four O’Sullivans flew to the commanding presence standing just inside the room, in vest and shirtsleeves, his arms thrust wide: John Looney.
The two boys ran to their substitute grandfather, filling his outstretched arms.
Annie O’Sullivan watched, fighting feelings of contempt for the man who had done so much for them. The lanky, almost tall, white-haired, white-mustached paterfamilias had been a rakishly handsome young man — Looney had harbored theatrical ambitions prior to politics and law (and crime) — and even now, in his seventies, his powder-blue eyes, Apache cheekbones and strong chin gave him the sort of distinctive good looks many a lady (not Annie) still sighed over.
But of late Annie noted a certain shambling gait, and a wearied, even haunted expression, that indicated John Looney might feel some small burden, anyway, carrying so many sins on his shoulders. She sometimes felt a hypocrite, knowing she and her family thrived thanks to this devious devil; and she tried not to think of what deeds her husband might be carrying out for the godfather of their sons.
She seldom raised the issue with her husband, who would say, “We don’t question how Mr. Looney makes his money. It’s not our place. We won’t speak of it.”