But since his high school triumph, Fitzie had put on considerable weight around his middle and his face had assumed a puffy, pasty look. He worked on the maintenance crew down at the old Navy Yard when he worked, and he was married to Anne Shaughnessy, who’d blown up to two hundred pounds after giving birth to twins.
Sean took a step toward the bar. He wanted to be drawn into his old world. He wanted people to slap him on the back, tease him about his brother becoming a priest. He wanted to remember those days when he thought his future was a limitless road to be traveled along with the whole gang. Fun and meaning were to be had in shared experiences that could be enjoyed over and over through reminiscences. In fact, the experiences became more enjoyable with the inevitable embellishment that accompanied each retelling.
But something held Sean back. With a disturbing, almost tragic sense, he felt apart. The feeling that his life had taken a different track from his old friends came back to him with crushing clarity. He felt more like an observer of his old life; he was no longer a participant. The events at the Forbes clinic were forcing him to look at broader issues beyond the confines of his old friends in Charlestown. He no longer had the insulation that innocence of the world provided. Seeing his former friends all half drunk or worse made him appreciate their limited opportunities. For a confusing combination of social and economic reasons, they were caught in a web of repeated mistakes. They were condemned to repeat the past.
Without having spoken a single word to anyone, Sean abruptly turned and stumbled out of Old Scully’s Bar. He quickened his step when he felt a powerful voice coaxing him back to the warm familiarity of this haven of his youth. But Sean had made up his mind. He would not be like his father. He would look to the future, not to the past.
RESPONDING TO a knock on her apartment door, Janet heaved her feet off the ottoman and struggled out of her deep club chair. She’d been perusing a ponderous book she’d picked up in the medical school bookstore called Molecular Biology of the Cell. At the door she peered through the security port. She was shocked to see Sean making a stupid face at her.
Fumbling with the locks, Janet finally swung the door open wide.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Sean said.
“What happened?” Janet asked. “Did that favorite haunt of yours burn down?”
“Maybe figuratively,” Sean said.
“None of your old friends show up?” Janet asked.
“They were all there,” Sean said. “May I come in?”
“I’m sorry,” Janet said. “Please.” She stepped aside, then closed the door behind him. “I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m just so surprised to see you. Can I get you something? A beer? A glass of wine?”
Sean thanked her but said no. He sat awkwardly on the edge of the couch. “I went as usual to Old Scully’s…” he began.
“Oh, now I know what happened,” Janet interrupted. “They ran out of beer.”
“I’m trying to tell you something,” Sean said with exasperation.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Janet said. “I’m being sarcastic. What happened?”
“Everybody was there,” Sean said. “Jimmy O’Connor, Brady Flanagan, even Patrick FitzGerald. But I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t get much past the door.”
“Why not?”
“I realized by going there I was condemning myself to the past,” Sean said. “All of a sudden I had an idea about what you and even Brian were talking about concerning change. And you know something? I want to change. I’m sure I’ll have occasional relapses, but I certainly don’t want to be a ‘townie’ all my life. And what I’d like to know is whether or not you’d be willing to help me a little.”
Janet had to blink away a sudden rush of tears. She looked into Sean’s blue eyes and said, “I’d love to help you.”
Robin Cook, Terminal
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