All Our Yesterdays (17 page)

“Faithful to your husband. Loyal to my memory.”

She raised her glass to drink. It was empty. She handed it to Conn.

“What’s wrong?” Hadley said. “Why are you talking to me like this?”

Conn mixed her a fresh drink.

“There’s got to be more than you lie down and I jump on top of you.”

“We do a little more than that,” Hadley said.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Conn, I don’t.” Hadley took her glass from him and drank. “What the hell do you mean?”

Conn walked to the window and stared out it. Copley Square was out there, but he didn’t see it. He didn’t see anything.

“My information is you have regularly cheated on your husband since you’ve been married.”

Behind him was silence. Conn didn’t turn around. He waited, his sightless gaze fixed on the bright window. He heard the ice click in her glass, heard her swallow. Finally she spoke.

“Where would you get such information?”

“I’m a cop,” Conn said. “I find stuff out.”

“And you believe it?”

“It’s good information.”

He heard the ice click again. He turned slowly.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Conn said.

She finished her second drink, and took a big breath.

“Would it have helped anything if I’d told you?”

“It might have.”

He mixed her a drink. And one for himself.

“Do you feel better knowing?”

“No.”

Hadley smiled faintly and shrugged.

“What happened to ‘There could never be anyone after you’?” Conn said.

“It was what you wanted to hear,” Hadley said. She drank some of her new drink.

“And that’s what you do, tell me what you think I want to hear?”

“I told you something you didn’t want to hear,” Hadley said, “by the canal, in Dublin, twenty-seven years ago.”

“At least it was the truth, Hadley.”

“And you wouldn’t hear it,” Hadley said.

“No,” Conn said softly, “I wouldn’t.”

“I’m not a whole woman, Conn. I love my son. But I don’t think I can ever love anyone the way you mean. I came as close as I could get with you in Dublin.”

“Not close enough,” Conn said.

“I know. But as close as I could. I need security, Conn. Tom provides that.”

“But that’s all?”

“No. Tom and I have a perfectly normal sex life.”

“You lied about that too.”

“I thought you’d like to hear it.”

“And you need more than a perfectly normal sex life.”

“Yes,” Hadley said. “Very badly.”

“So you sleep around.”

“Often.”

“And I’m one of the people you sleep around with.”

“Yes.”

“But not the only one.”

“There’s something wrong with me, Conn. I can’t … if I think there’s only one man, I—I despair…. I can’t.”

Holding her drink in her left hand she fumbled the rest of the buttons open with her right hand.

“So there’s nothing to talk about, after all,” Conn said. “Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.”

“We have a deal,” Hadley said. “You protect my son, and I fuck you every week. A deal’s a deal.”

Conn slapped her. Even in his anger, he pulled it, and it didn’t knock her down. But it sent her glass flying across the room, and it made her lip bleed. She took a step back and shrugged out of her dress. Her eyes glittered. She made no effort to wipe the blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth. Conn’s voice was hoarse.

“You are a mortally sinful bitch,” he said.

She stepped gracefully out of her slip and placed herself against him. Her eyes were bright and hot and her voice was almost guttural as she looked up at him and spoke.

“And you are my punishment,” she said, and jammed her mouth against his.

L
ying on the bed in his room, Gus listened to the sixth game of the World Series, on the brown plastic GE table radio that Conn had just bought him for his fifteenth birthday. When it was over, he came out of his room, excited, and went downstairs to see if Conn was home, and had heard the game. Conn was sitting at the kitchen table with his coat off and his sleeves rolled, drinking whiskey. Gus was surprised. His father rarely drank at home.

“You hear the game?” Gus said.

“Part of it,” Conn said.

“Bevens had a no-hitter,” Gus said, “going into the ninth. And Lavagetto hit a double off the screen in right and Miksis and Gionfriddo both scored and the Dodgers won. One hit.”

“Sonva bitch,” Conn said. And Gus realized his father was drunk.

“Where’s Ma?” Gus said.

Conn jerked his head toward the den.

“Get a glass,” Conn said. “Have a drink with me.”

Gus glanced toward the den. His mother was usually in there, with the shades down, rocking, reading her missal. Gus got a water glass from the kitchen cabinet and sat down again. His father took two ice cubes from the half-melted refrigerator tray sitting on the table, and put them in Gus’s glass and poured some whiskey in over them. Gus sipped some without
flinching. He and his friends drank beer when they could get someone to buy it. But his father had given him whiskey before, and he was used to the taste. His father drank with him. He was solemn.

“You’re a good kid, Gus.”

Gus nodded. He didn’t know what to say.

“Too bad I’m not as good a father as you are a kid,” Conn said.

“You’re a good father.”

“Maybe all a man can hope for,” Conn said. His voice was slow, and he was looking past Gus, out the kitchen window at the bright October afternoon that was slowly fading into evening. “Just have a kid comes out all right.”

Conn poured some more whiskey for himself. Mellen came from the den and stood in the doorway, her arms folded. She wore a gray housedress and white shoes. A hole was cut in the right shoe to relieve pressure on her small toe. Her gray hair was pulled back tight, and rolled into a small bun at the back. When she spoke her voice was barely inflected.

“It’s bad enough you bring your bad habits home, Conn, without you should be inflicting them on your son.”

Conn looked at her and Gus was a little scared by the look in his father’s eyes.

“Well, Melly, darlin’,” Conn said. “Don’t you look fetchin’ this afternoon.”

Mellen’s mouth thinned, and her face tightened with disapproval. Gus knew the look.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“I certainly hope so,” Conn said.

Gus sat very still.

“Go to bed, Conn,” Mellen said.

“With you?”

“Conn, not in front of the boy.”

“Why not?” Conn said. “He’s already shavin’. Probably getting laid too.”

“Conn!”

“You getting laid, Gus?”

Gus said, “Jesus Christ, Pa. In front of Ma?”

Mellen said, “Augustus Sheridan, don’t you use that kind of language in
my
house.”

“
My
house,” Conn said, and laughed. There was no amusement in the laugh. “You hear that, Gus?
My
house. I bought it. I pay the fucking mortgage every fucking month, but it’s
her
fucking house.”

Gus said, “Pa!”

Mellen lunged at him from the doorway, her face pale and tight with anger. She bent from the waist to put her face in front of his.

“Don’t you speak that way to me, as if I was one of those cheap women,” she said. “Don’t you dare speak to me that way.”

Conn appeared to ignore her.

“If you’re getting laid, kid, don’t knock them up. You have to marry one, you’re in for a long, ugly life.”

Mellen punched him in the chest with both fists. Conn stood in one smooth motion and pushed her away. The force of it staggered her against the wall. She leaned against it for a moment, dazed. Then she began to scream. Conn took a step toward her. Gus stood and pushed in front of his father.

“Leave her alone,” he said.

Conn looked down at his son.

“Sonva bitch,” he said. “You are a good kid.”

“She’s my mother,” Gus said.

“You can’t stop me yet,” Conn said. “Someday, but not yet.”

“She’s my mother,” Gus said again.

“Yeah,” Conn said. “I know.”

Conn stood silently looking past his son at Mellen, who was holding her face in her hands and making low shrieking sounds. Then he looked at Gus.

“You’re doing what you should,” Conn said.

Then he turned back toward the table and finished his drink. Mellen was still leaning on the wall screaming. Her nose was bleeding.

“Remember,” he said to Gus. “Fuck ’em and run. Don’t love ’em.”

“Pa,” Gus said, “get out of here till you’re sober.”

Conn nodded.

“Fuck ’em and run, kid. Fuck ’em and run.”

Conn took his coat off the back of the chair where he’d hung it and walked out of the house.

A
t fifty-two, Hadley still looked good, Conn thought, as he watched her undress. The curve of her backside had softened a little, but her stomach was still flat and her breasts were holding up. She hung her clothes up neatly in the closet, and went into the bathroom, and ran the water in the tub. She stood naked in the bathroom door while the tub filled.

“How is your son?” Hadley said, her face softening artfully. “You never speak of him.”

“He’s in Korea,” Conn said flatly. “Twenty-fourth Infantry Division.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Gives Mellen something to pray about,” Conn said.

“I hope he’ll be all right.”

“Yeah.”

“He will be, Conn. I know he will.”

Conn didn’t speak. Hadley was tanned except where her bathing suit had covered her, and the contrasting whiteness seemed to highlight her sexuality.

“Tommy’s coming home,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“The doctors say he is cured.”

“Sure.”

“His father wants him to start in the bank so he’ll be ready when Thomas retires.”

Conn shrugged.

“Is it all right?” Hadley said. She seemed heedless of her nudity, as if it were her natural condition. How many Thursdays, in how many hotels, Conn wondered, had he looked at her naked?

Conn shrugged again.

“No problem,” he said.
Maybe he is cured
.

She smiled brightly and turned and got into her bath. Conn went to the window to look out at Commonwealth Avenue. It was June. The trees were in foil leaf along the mall. The avenue looked orderly and pleasant. Hadley came out of the bathroom drying herself with a towel. When she was dry, she dropped the towel on the floor and lay on her back on the bed. Conn stared down at the trees. Hadley waited quietly. Conn turned and looked at her. The tan body, the white highlights, still slightly damp, her face empty. Slowly he loosened his tie. He didn’t want her, really. It was almost as if he were doomed to do this, to pound futilely at the temple door, and never gain admission.
The hell with the temple door
, he thought.
Settle for the pussy
.

T
hey were on Harrison Avenue. Knocko was driving, as he always did.

“Gus joined the forces of law and order?” Knocko said.

“Yeah. City Square. Gets credit for Korea.”

“Good deal for these new kids,” Knocko said. “Two years head start on the pension.”

Conn had a big paper cup fall of black coffee. He took a pint of Irish whiskey from his coat pocket and poured some into the coffee.

“For Crissake,” Knocko said. “It’s eight in the fucking morning.”

“Get my heart going,” Conn said. He sipped the coffee. Knocko turned off of Harrison Avenue and parked near Tyler Street.

“Collection day?” Conn said.

“Friday morning, time to make the rounds,” Knocko said. He got out of the car and walked down the alley to the mah-jongg parlor. Conn drank coffee and waited for Knocko. When the cup was half empty he added more whiskey. Knocko came back up Tyler Street and got in the car.

“Been collecting money from this place for twenty-five years,” Knocko said. “For protection.”

“Sure,” Conn said. “Protection.”

“Well,” Knocko said sadly, “now we gotta earn it.”

“I thought we did earn it,” Conn said. “I thought we were getting paid to protect them from us.”

“Last six, seven years,” Knocko said, “bunch of new gooks coming in. Deserters, mostly, from Chiang’s army after the Commies chased him out.”

“Land of opportunity,” Conn said.

Knocko jerked his head toward the mah-jongg parlor down the alley. “They’re trying to take Chou over,” he said.

“So let’s tell them not to,” Conn said. His coffee cup was empty.

“You all right for this?” Knocko said.

“Sure,” Conn said. He took the whiskey from his pocket and had a drink and offered it to Knocko. Knocko shook his head. Conn capped the bottle and put it away. Knocko started the car and they drove two blocks and parked on Beach Street in front of a small variety store with Chinese characters lettered on the window. Knocko looked at Conn again.

“In there,” he said. “Guy we want is named Lone.”

“Like in Ranger,” Conn said.

“Yeah,” Knocko said. “Like in Ranger.”

They got out of the car.

“You okay for this?” Knocko said again.

“I was born for this,” Conn said.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t. So don’t be a fucking cowboy.”

“Hi yo, Silver,” Conn said, and they walked into the store.

It was dim inside, and smelled of odd things. Some smoked duck hung on hooks near the front window, and a variety of peculiar looking roots and unrecognizable vegetables lay on a narrow table across the back. A slender Chinese man stood behind the
table counting money. He wore a white shirt open at the neck. A maroon silk scarf filled the opening. His movements were graceful and precise as he transferred bills from a large pile into smaller piles separated by denomination.

Knocko took out his badge.

“You Lone?” Knocko said.

Without looking up the Chinese man nodded. He separated a twenty from the big pile and put it on top of a smaller pile with the other twenties.

“Boston Police Department,” Knocko said.

Lone continued to count his money.

“You know a guy named Chou runs a mah-jongg parlor on Tyler Street?”