His father didn’t drink much — he’d never seen his father drunk, rarely seen him take a drink — but one of their neighbors, a man named McFate, was a sloppy, loud “lush” (that was the word Papa had used, speaking to Mama). So Michael could recognize Fin McGovern’s condition as drunkenness; and he even understood that the man had gotten this way out of his sorrow.
What surprised Michael was the vehemence, the savagery with which Fin McGovern refused Connor Looney’s help, shoving the man away, yelling, “First I bury m’brother! Then I deal with you, m’fine boyo... ”
But Papa, on the other side of the drunken man, didn’t seem to take this very seriously, just saying, “Yeah, yeah, Fin... You’ll deal with all of us. But first get a good night’s sleep.”
Papa kept walking Fin McGovern toward that truck, where the two other big men were milling and grousing amongst themselves, as they waited. As Papa helped Mr. McGovern up into the vehicle, the other men quieted down and lent a hand, then got in themselves, one behind the wheel, steadying Fin between them.
But Connor Looney — once he’d been shoved — had stayed behind; and when he turned away from them, his face looked white and strange in the moonlight. Michael saw no expression in Connor’s face, and yet he knew that the man was furious. What Papa had taken as a drunken remark, “Uncle” Connor seemed to consider a direct threat.
As the truck rumbled off down the driveway, its headlights cutting through the night like swords, Mr. Looney stepped out of the darkness and went down the steps to join his son and Papa, who were heading back to the mansion. They met at the bottom of the porch steps.
“Is Fin all right?” Mr. Looney asked.
“Needs to sleep it off,” Papa said.
Shrugging, Connor said, “Yeah, he’s fine. Mike’s right. Lug just drank himself cockeyed, is all... I’ll have a little talk with him.”
But Michael knew Connor’s casual words didn’t match up with that awful expression the man had worn, just moments before.
Mr. Looney said, “Talk to him, but take Mike along.”
“That’s not necessary, Pa — why waste both our time? I’ll be fine.”
“Take Mike with you, I said.” Mr. Looney shook a finger at his son, as if Connor were a child, not a man. “And you just talk to the lad. Nothing more... We’ve had enough rough stuff, for a while.”
What did that mean? Michael wondered. He glanced back to see if his mother had noticed his absence, and when he returned to his spying, Mr. Looney was coming through the door!
But all his godfather did was tousle Michael’s hair and smile down at him, before moving back into where the mourners were having their party. Connor ignored Michael, but Papa seemed surprised, and not happy, about seeing him. When his father’s eyes meet his, Michael wondered if Papa knew he’d been spying.
And Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., wondered what his son may have seen and heard — and, if so, what the boy had understood.
While young Michael did not really understand why these supposedly sad people were having a party, he did enjoy himself, as the festivities got more lively. Plenty more people were at least as tipsy as Mr. McGovern had been, dancing to the band, which played lots of different kinds of music.
The mourners seemed to like the reels best of all, and Mr. Looney, charming host that he was, would shuffle across the room, nodding to people, sometimes chatting with them, a glass of whiskey in hand — sometimes two glasses.
Their mother danced with several of Mr. Looney’s men — oddly, never with Papa, who sat on the sidelines mostly, just watching — and she would whirl around, her hair flying, looking as pretty as the young unmarried girls. Several times Michael found himself wondering if Mama was drunk, too — but that seemed impossible. Still, he’d seen her pouring something from a silver thing into her coffee cup...
Connor Looney, strangely enough, turned out to be a really good dancer. Much as he didn’t care for his so-called uncle, the boy enjoyed watching the man dance — he was really good, slick and smooth, like one of those dark handsome dancers in tuxedos in the picture shows. What was the name of that one actor? George Raft?
Michael wasn’t the only one who enjoyed watching Connor dance — everybody kept an eye on him, and he got a lot of applause. The young woman he was dancing with was good, too; she had on more makeup than some of the other girls, and when she looked at Connor, she had a funny expression — like she was hungry or something.
Probably Connor’s biggest fan was Mr. Looney, and Michael could tell Uncle Connor liked that — maybe it made up for being treated like a kid, outside. When Connor finished up the latest reel, he executed a deft dip that didn’t hide how drunk he was, or how pleased that Mr. Looney was laughing and clapping and proud.
Michael had never seen a grown-up act like a child before — except maybe for drunken Mr. McFate next door (although their neighbor hadn’t been causing trouble since Papa “talked” to him).
Even Mama was acting, if not like a kid, kind of... young. His mother, after dancing with another of Mr. Looney’s men, flounced over to Papa, on the sidelines, and she was out of breath and smiling and laughing. The boy didn’t hear their exchange.
“Kiss me,” Annie said to her husband, slipping an arm around him.
He just looked at her. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe I need it.”
“The children.”
“... Do you really think this is a good time to play holier than thou?”
“Annie. Please.”
“Can I get you something, darlin’?”
“No.”
A bit of a weave was in her walk as she headed to the table where she could get coffee and something to spike it with. She was just doing that when, from the stage, came a gentle rainfall of piano notes — the opening chords of an Irish air.
As “aaahs” issued forth from the crowd, all eyes were turning toward the piano, along one side of the room, where John Looney sat, playing. The room had gone otherwise silent when Looney looked up, caught O’Sullivan’s eye, and with a bob of the head, motioned him over. Moments later, O’Sullivan was sliding in next to the old man on the piano bench.
Annie, cup of coffee in hand, swiveled to watch. So did Michael, off to one side, eating a slice of cake, finally. Peter somehow wound up standing next to Connor Looney, and the two drank in the sight of their respective fathers melding musically, as O’Sullivan played along with Looney, hesitant at first, but gradually catching up.
The beautiful melody had people swaying, eyes tearing; but then — with a leprechaun twinkle — the old man shifted gears, starting in on a jig. O’Sullivan stopped, then joined back in, keeping up easily now. Looney would play an improvised variation on a phrase, as a sort of challenge, and O’Sullivan would play it back at him.
The crowd loved it, laughing, clapping along. To Michael, this was as amazing a sight as it was a sound. His father, who usually seemed so austere, was having a good time! Something moved the boy, seeing his Papa next to Mr. Looney, who was so much like a father to Papa, just as he was like a grandfather to Michael and Peter. To see Papa playing so freely, beside Mr. Looney, made Michael happy... though, oddly, his eyes were tearing up, as if he were sad.
Annie O’Sullivan could only smile and shake her head a bit, knowing that her husband would do anything that terrible wonderful old man might ask. And soon she too was caught up in it, as the music built in tempo — phrase and answer, phrase and answer.
Michael noticed his brother standing next to the scary Connor, who was also clapping along, grinning, watching — but something about the man’s expression reminded Michael of Connor’s face earlier, in the moonlight. The man’s mouth was smiling, but his eyes sure weren’t.