Looney looked out on the crowd, his sky-blue eyes moving from face to face, making each of them feel he spoke directly to them.
“I welcome you to my home,” he said.
Looney’s brogue seemed thicker when he spoke in public, O’Sullivan thought.
“It’s good to have so many friends in this house again. Since Mary’s death, it’s just been me and my boy, walking around these big empty rooms... ”
He opened up the speech, looked at it for several long moments, then folded it back up.
“I had a speech, but... truth to tell, it would be dishonest if I pretended I knew Danny well. But lose one of us, it hurts us all.”
Around the parlor, murmurs of approval.
“I’ll tell you what I do remember — and Fin, I know you’ll recall this, too — when Danny was on the high school football team? He’d done us proud all year. Then came state championship: six points behind, ten seconds left on the clock... and Danny threw the block of his lifetime... and took down his own quarterback!”
Gentle laughter rippled across the room.
“Mistakes — sweet Jesus knows, we all make ’em... wouldn’t be human, otherwise. Wouldn’t need a God, a savior, such case... Give me that bottle would you, son?”
The band leader handed the bottle to the patriarch.
“Great country we live in,” the old man said, without irony. “But it does have its quirks, doesn’t it? Against the law to a have friendly drink... ” He leaned forward, bottle in one hand, raising a forefinger of the other, issuing a mock whisper. “Don’t tell the chief, now... ”
Rather bawdy laughter erupted as the portly chief of police made a show of turning his back, so as not to see this law being broken.
Looney stood tall; his voice turned somber. “We drink today in our late compatriot’s honor.”
Around the room glasses and bottles appeared, held high in the fashion of a toast, saluting the dead man. Watching this carefully, Michael O’Sullivan — on his feet now, as was everyone in the room but the musicians behind their stands — casually removed a small silver flask from a jacket pocket. He was not aware that his wife Annie — standing between their two boys, a protective arm around either — watched him closely, studying him as he listened to his “father” speak.
His voice strong, loud, Looney said, “Let us wake Danny to God.” Then his voice grew even louder, and wry humor touched it now: “And may he be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows he’s dead.”
Standing in back with his mother, young Michael — who had never before heard this traditional Irish commemoration — found the words fascinating, and disturbing. Why would a good person need to fool the devil? Had the man with the pennies on his eyes been a sinner?
On the stage, Mr. Looney was introducing the brother of the dead man, “our good friend, Fin McGovern.”
Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., was observing this tableau carefully.
“Fin will now honor us with a few words,” Looney was saying, somehow managing to be light and serious at the same time, “words that I’m sure will have far more poetry than my own... Fin.”
The burly brother of the deceased took the stage, and Looney gave him a fatherly hug. McGovern accepted the gesture, though stiffly...
“Thank you, Mr. Looney... John.” Then the roughneck in his Sunday best turned toward the assembled mourners. “My brother Danny was not a wise man, nor was he a gentle man. Like many of us here, he worked with his hands... the sweat of his back, not his brow.”
Smiles and nods blossomed around the room.
“And it would be a shameful oversight,” McGovern said with a smile, though the moisture in his eyes glistened enough for O’Sullivan to see, halfway back in the crowd, “not to admit that — with a snootful of liquor in him — he was a royal pain in the patoot.”
Now a gentle wave of laughter rolled across the assemblage. O’Sullivan, however, was not smiling. Neither was his wife Annie, who — leaving the boys for a moment — slipped up beside her husband.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” she whispered.
O’Sullivan glanced at her, almost startled by her presence — and her question. He just shook his head.
“This was not a natural thing, was it?” she asked, an edge in her voice, despite the softness of it.
“Not the place,” O’Sullivan whispered back. “Not the time.”
She returned to her children, while on the stage, McGovern continued his tribute.
“For whatever his failings,” the burly brother was saying, “and Mr. Looney is right, Danny, like all of us, was human... He was a brave boy. A loyal boy. And he spoke the truth... sometimes to a fault.”
An uncomfortable silence was settling over the crowd.
“Oh, he’d have enjoyed this party, he would,” McGovern continued, rocking a bit, his unsteadiness showing. “Me and the family, we want to say thank you, to all of you... and most of all to our generous host.”
These words seemed to relieve the mourners, the sarcasm not registering on many of them — though O’Sullivan knew. And Annie.
“Where would this town be without Mr. John Looney, God love him,” McGovern said, voice trembling.
A murmur of approval undulated over the room, Looney bowing his head, humble, grateful for such kind words.
On wavering feet, McGovern turned to Looney, studying him. “I have worked for you many years now, sir... nearly half my life. And we have never had a disagreement... ”
Few in the room could have noted the shift in John Looney’s expression — the steel coming into his eyes. O’Sullivan did. He was already slowly working his way forward in the crowd.
“But I have come to realize a hard thing,” McGovern said, voice quavering... Was it anger? Sadness? Both? “Looney rules his roost, much as God rules the earth. Looney giveth... Looney taketh away... ”
And O’Sullivan was on stage, now, making sure his expression seemed friendly as he took Fin McGovern’s arm — gentle but firm in his grasp — and walked him off the stage, as the mourners watched, uneasy, not certain what they had just witnessed.
“Strike up the band!” Looney said, buoyantly, and the musicians began a bouncy reel, as the host turned to the assembled guests with a smile and another raise of his glass. O’Sullivan had already hustled the grieving, drunken brother out the front door, two of McGovern’s friends emerging from the crowd to follow.
At the back of the room, protective arms again around the shoulders of her boys, Annie watched — trying not let alarm show in her face — as Connor Looney stepped from the sidelines to follow after her husband and Fin McGovern... and two of Fin’s tough roughneck chums.
“What’s going on?” young Michael asked, looking up at his mother.
“Nothing,” she said, cheerfully. “Nothing at all. These parties can get a little out of hand... Let’s have some food.”
“I’m not hungry,” Peter said, not whining, just honest. “I can’t eat with that dead guy in there.”
Michael said, “There’s cake.”
Peter thought about it, then shrugged. “All right.”
And the three of them headed for the buffet table, though Annie glanced back several times, not showing her worry, while her older boy sensed it, anyway. As his mother helped Peter maneuver a piece of cake onto a small plate, Michael slipped away.
The boy went to the front door, which was ajar. He peeked out and saw Mr. Looney from behind, standing in darkness, looking out on the driveway and front lawn, at a small commotion.
Michael’s father was helping the deceased’s brother, the one called Fin McGovern, walking the big man toward a truck, where two more big men had gone on ahead, waiting, their nasty expressions at odds with their funereal fineries. Connor Looney was bringing up the rear, trotting alongside Fin McGovern, who was almost falling down, he was so drunk.