After the piano duet had built to a big, improvised, train wreck of an ending — which had the mourners laughing and applauding, wildly — Looney turned to O’Sullivan, held open his arms, and the two men embraced.
Peter, next to Connor Looney, looked at the grown-up next to him; the slender, dark-haired man was an odd duck, the boy thought — something really strange about his eyes. They were always sort of half-closed, like any second he could fall sleep.
But most of all, the really weird thing, was how the man smiled all the time. Peter wondered about that, and being a child, he decided to ask.
“Why are you always smiling?”
And Connor Looney looked down at him, the smile still going. “’Cause it’s all just a goddamn joke.”
The boy stood frozen for a few moments, then scurried off, disturbed, terrified, and yet strangely exhilarated, at hearing the lord’s name taken so carelessly in vain.
Several hours later, at home, in his pajamas, Michael was in the hallway, padding back from the bathroom, when he heard muffled voices. Pausing by his parents’ bedroom door, he could make out both his mother and his father, talking... more Mama than Papa, maybe. Were they... arguing?
Desperate to know, and yet not wanting to, he headed quickly back to the bedroom he shared with Peter. The lights had been officially out for some time, and Peter had been asleep for maybe half an hour; but Michael — as was his habit — was up late, reading.
Crawling back under the covers, he picked up the flashlight and held it over the book he was reading — The Lone Ranger Rides, a Big Little Book. He loved the fat little books, which were about four inches wide and four inches tall and two or three inches thick — on each page at left was text, and on each page at right a full-page picture.
Most of the Big Little Books (ten cents each at the dime store) featured comic-strip characters, like Dick Tracy and Little Orphan Annie; Michael’s favorites, though, were the western heroes, like Tom Mix from the movies and the Lone Ranger from radio. He flew through the thick books, gulping down the words, inhaling the pictures, each of which had a caption: “Moonlight streamed into the room.” Unless he was in the middle of a sentence, he would always look at the picture first, and then read the caption, and finally the page of text. He flipped a page, revealing a shadowy figure climbing in a window: “A man climbed in the window.”
The captions always told you what your eyes had already seen, yet somehow the repetition made everything seem more important, more suspenseful...
“Michael?”
He jumped, even though it was just Peter’s voice.
“What?”
“I had a bad dream.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“... It was about Mr. Looney’s house.”
“Peter, it’s just a house.”
“The house was scary in my dream.”
“It was scary when we were over there — there was a dead body in it.”
“... Is that why I had a bad dream?”
Michael wanted to get back to his reading. “Gee, I wonder. It’s a big old house, with a dead body and a bunch of drunk people. But it’s still just a house. Go back to sleep.”
Silence.
Then Peter asked, “Is Mr. Looney rich?”
“What do you think?”
“Richer than Babe Ruth?”
Interested suddenly, Michael leaned on his elbow, thinking about his little brother’s question. “Sure — richer than the Babe, even... and the Babe is richer than the president.”
“Wow... How about us?”
“What do you mean, ‘how about us’?”
“Are we rich, Michael?”
“No, stupid... but we’re richer than some people, I guess.”
Michael heard Peter getting settled in his bed, again; relieved, the older boy returned to his reading. The first part of the story was about the bad things the outlaws did; later would be the good part, when the Lone Ranger got even.
“Michael?”
“What!”
“You don’t have to be mad.”
“... What?”
“What does Papa do?”
“What do you mean, what does he do?”
“What’s his job?”
Looking at the Lone Ranger’s picture — he was on his horse, next to Tonto, his Indian friend — Michael said, “He works for Mr. Looney. You know that.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know. Our grandpa died before we were born, and Mr. Looney sort of... stepped in. Looked after Papa.”
“I know all that. That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“What does Papa do for him, Michael? What’s his job?”
Michael turned the page. The picture was of Beasley, the rancher, in his bed at night, sitting up to turn toward the sound KLIK! And the caption said, “Beasley heard the click of a gun.”
Peter said, tauntingly, “You’re not telling me, ’cause you don’t know.”
“Do so.”
“Do not.”
Michael said nothing, studying the picture of the frightened rancher.
Peter was saying, “You don’t know any more than I do... and I’m younger than you.”
Michael, not wanting to admit that Peter was right, said, “Papa goes on missions for Mr. Looney... They’re very dangerous — that’s why he takes his gun along... ” Michael turned the page. “Sometimes the president sends Papa on missions, too — because Papa was a hero in the war and all.”
Peter, sitting up now, covers in his lap, thought that over. Finally the younger boy said, “You’re just making that up.”
“I am not!”
Peter rolled over in bed, with a sigh, facing the wall as he said, “It’s all just a goddamn joke... ”
Alarmed, Michael sat up. “Peter... Peter, don’t ever say that word.”
The younger boy, without turning, said, “I heard Uncle Connor say it.”
“Well, he’s a grown-up, and not a very nice grown-up, either.”
“He’s Mr. Looney’s son, isn’t he?”
“Why don’t you use that word in front of Papa and see what he thinks?”
Now Peter sat up, in alarm. “Don’t tell him I said it!”
“I won’t, I won’t. Just don’t say it again.”
“... Okay.” Peter curled back up in bed.
Michael read a few pages, then he said, “Peter? You still awake?”
“Yes.”
“I heard Uncle Connor use the other bad word... the really bad one.”
Peter rolled over and faced Michael again. “The one that Billy used that time?”
“Yes — the word Sister Mary Teresa used the soap to wash his mouth out with because of.”
Even in the near-darkness, Michael could see Peter’s eyes were wide, whites showing all around. “He must really be a bad man... I don’t care if he’s Mr. Looney’s son, I think he’s scary. Scarier than that house, even.”
“I think you’re right. Go to sleep.”
“Turn off the flashlight and I will.”
“... Okay.”
Michael put the Big Little Book, folded open to his place, on his nightstand. The boys said goodnight to each other, and Michael hoped he wouldn’t have any nightmares. If he did, he figured it wouldn’t be that house or even the dead body that gave them to him, or even the Frankenstein monster.
Most likely it would be the boogeyman that was Uncle Connor.
Four
My brother Peter and I attended a private Catholic school called the Villa de Chantal, a sprawling Gothic affair of spires and stained glass peeking through trees on the bluff — not far from the Looney mansion, actually.