"Good boy," he says, and I leave.
Milla's waiting anxiously and has the door open before I even walk up the porch steps.
"Hello, Jimmy," she says.
"Hi, Milla."
At the car, I open the door for her and we drive back to the church. A nice breeze comes through the broken window.
When we arrive, it's five to ten and I'm amazed. The church is packed. I even spot Ma walking inside in a green dress. I don't think she gives a toss about the beer. She just doesn't want to miss out on what's happening.
I find one of the few vacant seats and ask Milla to sit there.
"What about you, Jimmy?" she asks nervously. "Where are you going to sit?"
"Don't worry," I tell her. "I'll find somewhere," but I don't. I join the people who stand at the back of the church, waiting for Father O'Reilly to come out.
When ten o'clock strikes, the bells of the church take possession of the congregation, and now everyone--the kids, the powdered ladies with handbags, the drunks, the teenagers, and the same people who are there week in, week out--falls down to silence.
The father.
Walks out.
He walks out, and everyone waits for the words.
For a while, he simply looks out into the crowd. Then his down-to-earth smile appears on his face and he says, "Hello out there," and everyone goes berserk. They clap and cheer, and the father looks more alive than I've ever seen him. What I don't know is that he also has a few tricks of his own.
There are no other words yet.
No prayers.
He waits again for silence, pulls a harmonica from his robe, and begins playing a soulful tune. Halfway through, three derelict men in suits also come out, one banging on top of a bin, the other playing violin, and the last also playing harmonica. A big one.
They play, and the music drums through the church, and an atmosphere I've never felt before spills through the entire crowd.
When they stop, the crowd roars again, and the father waits.
Finally, he says, "That song was for God. It came from Him and is dedicated to Him. Amen."
"Amen," repeats the crowd.
The father speaks for a while then, and I love what he says and the way he says it. He doesn't speak like all those preachers in those fire-and-brimstone churches, where there's more bullshit than anything else. The father speaks with a sincerity that's hypnotizing. Not about God, but about the people of this town getting together. Doing things together. Helping each other. And just getting together in general. He invites them to do that in his church every Sunday.
He gets those guys, Joe, Graeme, and Joshua, to do some readings. They're pretty hopeless and slow, but they're applauded like heroes when they finish, and you can see the pride ruffled on their faces. A far cry from scabbing money, cigarettes, and jackets.
For quite a while, I wonder where Tony might be. As I look over the crowd, Sophie catches my eye and we both raise a hand, and she resumes listening. I don't find Tony anywhere.
At the end, the father leads a rendition of the old favorite from school--"He's Got the Whole World in His Hands." Everyone sings and claps in time, and at the end of it, I finally see Tony.
He pushes through the crowd and stands next to me.
"Hi, Ed," he greets me. He's got a kid attached to each hand.
"Any cordial?" he asks. "For the kids."
"No worries."
Maybe five minutes later, the father sees me with Tony, standing up the back.
He's ending now, and there still hasn't been a prayer. Thomas O'Reilly finally gets around to it.
He says:
"People, I'm going to pray now, out loud, and then silently. Feel free then to say any prayers of your own." He bows his head and says, "Lord, I thank you. I thank you for this glorious moment and for all of these magnificent people. I thank you for free beer"--the crowd laughs--"and I thank you for the music and words you've given us today. Most of all, though, Lord, I thank you that my brother could be here today, and I thank you for certain people in the world who have awful taste in jackets.... Amen."
"Amen," the people repeat again.
"Amen," I say, delayed, and now, like many of these people, I pray for the first time in years.
I pray, Let Audrey be okay, Lord, and Marv and Ma and Ritchie and all my family. Please take my dad in your arms, and please, please help me with the messages I have to deliver. Help me do them right....
The father's last words arrive about a minute later.
"Thank you, everyone. And let the party begin."
The crowd roars.
One last time.
Ritchie and Marv do the barbecue. Audrey and I do the beer. Father O'Reilly looks after the kids' food and drinks, and no one misses out on anything.
When the food and drink are all gone, we bring out the karaoke, and there are many people singing all kinds of things. I stay a long time with Milla, who also finds some girls, as she put it, that she went to school with. They all sit on a bench, and one of them doesn't have legs long enough to touch the ground. With her legs crossed at the ankles, she swings them back and forth, and it's the most beautiful thing I see all day.
I even get Audrey to sing with me. "Eight Days a Week" by the Beatles. Of course, Ritchie and Marv bring the house down when they do a rendition of "You Give Love a Bad Name" by Bon Jovi. I swear, this whole town lives in the past.
I dance.
I dance with Audrey, Milla, and Sophie. I especially love twirling them and hearing laughter in their voices.
When it's over, and I've taken Milla home and returned again, we clean up.
The last thing I see that day is Thomas and Tony O'Reilly sitting on the steps of the church, smoking together. The odds are that they won't see each other for another few years, but I can ask for nothing more than this.
I didn't know the father smoked.
That night I get some visitors--first Father O'Reilly and later the police.
The father knocks on my door and stands there, saying nothing.
"What?" I ask him.
But the father doesn't speak. He merely stands there and watches me. He searches me for an answer for what happened today. In the end, I think he gives up on words. He only steps forward, places his hands on my shoulders, and looks very seriously into my eyes. I can see the feeling shifting the skin on his face. He contorts in a very peaceful, very holy way.
I think it's the first chance in a long time the father's had to say thank you. Usually it's people thanking him. I think that's why his expression is so stranded and why the recognition on his face stumbles in its attempt to reach me.
"No worries," I say. A quiet happiness stretches out between us. We hold it awhile.
When he turns and leaves, I watch him walk up the road till he disappears.
The police show up at about ten-thirty. In their hands, they hold scrubbing brushes and some kind of liquid solution.
"For washing that paint off the road," they say.
"Thanks a lot," I answer.
"The least we could do."
Again at 3 a.m. I'm on the main street of town, this time scrubbing the paint off the road.
"Why me?" I ask God.
God says nothing.
I laugh and the stars watch.
It's good to be alive.
My arms and shoulders are sore as all hell the next few days, but I still think it was worth it.
In that time, I find Angie Carusso. There are only a few Carussos in the phone book, and I eliminate them one by one till I find her.
She has three kids and looks to have been one of those typical teenage mothers in this town. It's two boys and a girl, and she works in the chemist part-time. Her hair is short and dark brown and she looks nice in her work dress. It's one of those white, knee-length clinical sort of garments that all chemist assistants seem to wear. I like them.
Every morning, she gets her kids ready for school and walks there with them. Three days a week she goes
to work. The other two she walks back home.
I watch her from afar and notice she gets paid on the Thursday. On those afternoons, she picks up her kids and takes them to the same park I sat in with the Doorman when Sophie came and talked to me.
She buys each of her kids an ice cream, and they gulp them down quicker than I can believe. As soon as they're done, they want another.
"No, you know the rule," Angie tells them. "You'll get another one next week."
"Please?"
"Please?"
One of them starts having a tantrum, and I wish for a second that I have to straighten the kid out. Thankfully, he stops pretty fast because he wants a go on the slippery dip.
Angie watches them awhile until she gets too bored and drags them away with her.
I know.
I know already.
This one's easy, I think.
Easy as ice cream.
Watching her walk away, it's her legs that sadden me. I don't know why. I think it's because they move slower than what's natural for her. She loves those kids but they slow her down. She walks a little lopsided so she can hold her daughter's hand.
"What's for dinner, Mum?" asks one of the boys.
"I don't know yet."
She gently throws a wisp of dark hair from her eyes and moves on, listening to the words spoken by her daughter. She's telling Angie about a boy at school who keeps teasing her.
As for me, I continue watching the small steps of Angie's wandering legs.
They still make me sad.
I get a big share of day shifts after that and do a lot of walking in the evenings. My first stop is Edgar Street, where the lights are on and I can see the mother and her daughter eating. It strikes me that without the man there, they might not have enough money coming in to pay the bills. On the other hand, he probably drank a lot of the money away, and I'm fairly certain she'd prefer being a little poorer in return for his absence.
I also walk by Milla's place, and later on I call in on Father O'Reilly, who is still on a high after the Meet a Priest Day congregation. There were considerably fewer people at the following week's ceremony, but the church was still a lot fuller than it had been.
Last, I go to each address that houses someone by the name of Rose. There are about eight of them, and I find the one I'm looking for on my fifth attempt.
Gavin Rose.
He's about fourteen and wears old clothes and a permanent sneer. His hair is reasonably long and his flannel shirts all resemble rags. They stream down his back.
He goes to school.
He's teenage-smoker tough.
He has blue eyes the color of fresh toilet water and a dozen or so freckles flung across his face.
Oh, and one other thing.
He's a complete bastard.
For example, he goes into corner shops and shows disrespect to the owners who can't speak much English. He steals from those shops--anything that fits under his arms or in his pants. He shoves weaker kids and spits on them if he gets the opportunity.
While getting a look at him before school, I'm careful not to be spotted by Sophie. Some previous fears surface, and I cringe at the idea of her noticing me and thinking that I like to hang around school yards. Watching.
Mostly, I see Gavin Rose at home.
He lives with his mother and older brother.
His mother's a chain-smoking Ugg boot wearer who loves a drink, and his brother's just as bad as Gavin. It's actually quite a dilemma trying to decide which one's worse.
They live at the very bottom of town, not far from a dirty, frothy creek that stems from the river. The defining feature of the place is that the only thing the Rose brothers do is fight. If I go there in the morning, they're arguing. If I go in the evening, they're fistfighting. At all times, they're hurling abuse at each other.
Their ma can't control them.
To cope, she drinks.
She falls asleep on the couch as the latest soap washes over the screen.
Within a week, I've watched those boys fight at least a dozen times, until one night, the Tuesday, they have the worst one yet. It erupts out the front door and to the side of the house, and the older brother, Daniel, beats the absolute Christ out of Gavin. Gavin's buckled over, and Daniel lifts him up by the collar.
He lectures his brother and shakes his head back and forth at the same time.
"I told you not to touch my stuff, all right?"
He bangs him to the ground before walking purposefully back inside.
Gavin is left there, and after a few minutes he rises to his hands and knees as I watch from over the street.
Eventually, after checking his face for blood, he swears and begins half walking, half running down the street. All the way he's talking of hatred and killing his brother, until he finally stops and sits in the gutter at the very end of the slope, where bush lingers around the road.
This is my moment.
I walk over and stand in front of him, and I have to tell you, a nervousness manages to sidle up next to me. The kid's tough and won't give me anything for free.
There's a streetlight standing over us, watching.
There's a breeze, cooling the sweat on my face, and slowly I see my shadow step on Gavin Rose.
He looks up.
"What the hell do you want?"
There are hot tears cooking on his face, and his eyes bite.
I shake my head. "Nothing."
"Well get away from me then, you first-prize wanker, or I'll beat the living shit out of you."
He's fourteen, I think. Remember Edgar Street? This is a piece of cake.
I tell him, "Well, do it then, because I'm not moving." My shadow has covered him completely now, and he doesn't move. Like I thought, he's all talk. He pulls grass out of the ground and throws it to the road. He tears at it like it's hair. His hands are ferocious.
After a while, I sit down in the gutter a few meters away and get my mouth to wreck the nothingness that has followed his threat.
"What happened?" I ask, but I don't look at him. It'll work if I don't look.
His answer is succinct.
He says, "My brother's a complete arsehole and I want to kill him."
"Well, good for you."
He flares. "Are you taking the piss out of me?"
I shake my head, still refusing to look at him. "No, I'm not." You little bastard, I think.
He starts repeating it now. "I want to kill him. I want to kill him. I want. To kill. Him." His angry hair shrouds his face. His freckles light up under the streetlight.
I look at the boy and think about what I have to do.
I wonder if these Rose boys have ever been tested in the world.
They're about to be.
Thursday afternoon appears to be traveling well.
Angie Carusso goes through her usual routine at work and picks up her kids from school. She walks with them to the park, and they discuss which ice creams they're going to buy. One of them makes a cunning decision to get a cheaper one so he can have two. He suggests it to Angie and she tells him he's still only allowed one. He then switches back to a more expensive choice.
They go into the shop and I wait in the park. I sit on one of the far benches and wait for them to come out. Once they do, I go into the shop myself and try to figure out what kind of ice cream Angie Carusso would like.
Hurry up, I think, or they'll be gone by the time you come back out. In the end, I decide on two flavors. Peppermint choc chip and passion fruit, in a waffle cone.
When I walk out, the kids are still scoffing down their own ice creams. They're all on the bench.
I go over.
I topple over my words, surprised that they come out properly.
"Excuse me, I--" Angie and the kids all turn and face me. Up close, Angie Carusso is beautiful and awkward. "I've seen you here a few times and noticed that you never get an ice cream yourself." She looks at me as if I'm a lunatic. "I thought you deserved one, too."
C
lumsily, I hold it out to her. It already streams green and yellow down the side of the cone.
She eases her hand out gingerly and takes it, her expression startled and half broken. For quite a few seconds, she looks at it. Then her tongue rescues the streams on the side of the cone.
When she's cleaned it up enough, she attempts a bite as if it's the original sin. Should I or shouldn't I? She looks at me warily again before sinking her teeth into the peppermint choc. Her lips go light green right about the time her boys go charging down to the slippery dip. Only the girl stays and points out, "Looks like you got an ice cream as well today, Mum."
Angie strokes the fringe from her daughter's eyes. "Yes, Casey, looks like it, doesn't it? Go on," she tells her. "Go play with your brothers."
Casey goes, and now it's only she and me at the bench.
It's a warm day and humid.
Angie Carusso eats her ice cream, and I wonder what to do with my hands. She works her mouth around the peppermint and onto the passion fruit now, nice and slow. She uses her tongue to push it down so the cone won't be empty. She looks like she couldn't stand it if the cone was empty.
As she eats, she watches her kids. They've barely noticed that I'm there, more intent on calling out to their mother and arguing about who's going higher on the swings.
"They're beautiful," Angie says to the cone, "most of the time." She shakes her head and talks on. "I was the easy one when I was younger. Now I've got three kids and I'm alone." She looks at the swings, and I can see she's imagining what they'd look like if the kids weren't there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them.
I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
She cries, momentarily, as she watches. She allows herself at least that. There are tears on her face and ice cream on her lips.
It doesn't taste like it used to.
Still, when she stands up, Angie Carusso thanks me. She asks my name, but I tell her it isn't important.
"No," she protests, "it is."
I relent. "It's Ed."
"Well, thanks, Ed," she says. "Thank you."
She thanks me a few times more, but the best words I hear all day come to me right when I think it's over. It's the girl, Casey. She twists herself onto Angie's hand and says, "Next week I'll give you a bite of mine, Mum."