deep down. How much denial could he possibly have?
I wanted to broach the subject with him then, but I kept
putting it off. We’d already had one big conversation a
couple of years ago, and it became clear to me that the
truth would have altered his memory of Dan.”
“He was younger then,” Renie pointed out. “That
was before he got married, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t remember,” Judith admitted. “I know, I tend
to bury things, hoping they’ll go away. But they don’t.”
The phone rang again, this time on Renie’s line. She
responded in monosyllables, then hung up. “Security.
His name is Torchy Magee. He’ll be up in a few minutes, along with a cop.”
“If Joe had never been a cop,” Judith sighed, “and
never gotten drunk that night in the bar with Herself, I
wouldn’t be in this quandary now.”
“Nonsense,” Renie retorted, cutting another slice of
cheese and popping it in her mouth.
Judith didn’t say anything for a few moments. She
was reliving that terrible time when Joe had suddenly
disappeared just weeks before their wedding. She’d only
heard secondhand that he’d been shanghaied to Vegas
by Vivian, and that, while he was still in a drunken stu-80
Mary Daheim
por, the pair had gotten married in a casino wedding
chapel. It wasn’t until many years later that Judith had
found out he’d tried to call her later that same day.
Gertrude had intercepted the call and never told Judith
about it. Not hearing back, and feeling compelled to
honor his commitment to Vivian, Joe had stayed married
to Vivian for over twenty years. He’d felt sorry for Herself, he explained to Judith after they were finally reunited. She’d had two unhappy marriages already, and
was trying to raise two small boys on her own. Then Vivian had given birth to their own daughter, Caitlin. Joe
felt stuck, and he knew that Judith had married Dan McMonigle on the rebound. It was only after the children
were raised and Herself had grown more passionate
about Jim Beam than Joe Flynn that he had finally decided to make a break. There had been no need for an
annulment. In the eyes of the Catholic Church, Joe’s
marriage to Herself had never been valid. Taking vows
while not in his sane and sober mind was only part of it;
the Church didn’t recognize the union because Vivian
was still the wife of another man.
Meanwhile, Judith had lived a lie, at least as far as
Mike was concerned. Joe didn’t know that she was
pregnant when he ran off with Herself. Judith had
never told him, not until almost a quarter of a century
later. Dan had raised Mike as his own, and perhaps his
often antagonistic attitude toward Judith was a form of
punishment for bearing another man’s child. Whatever
the cause, Judith had suffered a great deal during the
nineteen years that she was married to Dan.
“But he was a good father.” She repeated the phrase
so often that it was like a mantra. She could never
make Dan happy, but she could honor his memory, especially in Mike’s eyes.
SUTURE SELF
81
“Yes, yes,” Renie said testily. “But Mike’s a grown
man now, he can handle the truth. It’s not fair to Joe. It
never has been, and I’ll bet my last five bucks he resents it, deep down.”
Judith heaved a big sigh. “Yes, I know he does. I
guess I’ll have to bite the bullet.”
“It’s about time,” Renie said, still testy. “Your problem, coz, is that you hate making decisions, you can’t
stand rocking the boat, you’re absolutely terrified of
change. Go ahead, make out that family tree, and fill in
all of Joe’s family. His brothers, his parents, the whole
damned clan.”
“I never knew his mother,” Judith said, as if her
early death might give some excuse for abandoning
the project.
“Do it,” Renie barked. “I’ll help.”
Before Judith could respond, a burly, uniformed
man in his late fifties poked his head in the door. “Mrs.
Jones?” he said in a gravelly voice.
“Here,” said Renie, raising her left hand. “You’re
Torchy Magee?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the security guard responded as another, much younger man in a patrolman’s uniform followed him into the room. “This is Johnny Boxx, that’s
with two xx’s, right, Johnny?”
“Right,” replied the young officer with a tight little
smile.
“He’s fairly new to the force,” Magee said, swaggering a bit as he nodded at Judith and approached
Renie’s bed. “Me, I was a cop for over twenty-five
years before I retired a while back. Arson, vice, larceny, assault—I did it all, and have the scars to show
for it.” He chuckled and gave Johnny Boxx a hearty
slap on the back. “Yessir, see this?” He pointed to a
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long, thin scar on his right cheek. “Attacked by a knife
there.” Magee rolled up his left sleeve to reveal another
scar. “Shotgun, just below the elbow. Hurt like hell. I
was wounded three times, here, in the shoulder, and
just above my ear. Got a plate in my head to prove it.”
“My,” Renie said, keeping a straight face, though Judith could tell it was an effort, “you’ve had some bad
luck.”
“Just doing my job,” Magee responded. “That’s not
all, either. I got my nickname, Torchy, when I was in
arson. Look, no eyebrows.”
Sure enough, Magee’s forehead stretched from his
eyes to the bald spot on top of his head. “What happened?” Judith asked.
“Let’s put it this way,” Torchy Magee responded
with a chuckle and a wink, “when you’re investigating
an arson case, you should make sure the fire is out
first.” He chuckled some more, a grating sound, then
turned to Renie. “Okay, little lady, let’s hear all about
what you saw from this third-story window.”
“ ‘Little lady’?” Renie curled her lip.
“Well . . .” Torchy shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.” He rested one foot on Renie’s bed frame. “So
what’d you see?”
“I was standing by the window,” Renie began, eyeing Torchy’s foot with annoyance, “when I saw Mr.
Kirby leave through the front entrance.”
Officer Boxx held up a hand. “How did you know it
was Mr. Kirby?”
“I’d just met him,” Renie replied. “He was wearing
a trench coat, he had a beard, it wasn’t that hard to
identify him three floors up.”
“Sounds right to me,” Torchy said. “Go on, Mrs. J.”
“Mrs. Jones,” Renie said with emphasis. “Anyway,
SUTURE SELF
83
he’d just started toward the parking lot when a beige
car, a mid-sized sedan, came from out of nowhere and
struck Mr. Kirby down.”
“Heh, heh.” Torchy chuckled. “Now, Mrs. . . . Jones,
a car can’t come out of nowhere. Which direction?”
Renie looked exasperated. “I was watching Mr.
Kirby. You know damned well a car can come from
three directions out there—the parking lot, the main
drive into the hospital, and the ambulance and staff
area off to the right of the main entrance. That is, my
right, from my point of view, through my window.”
Torchy’s expression had grown serious. “Through
this window.”
“Yes.” Renie’s patience appeared to be wearing thin.