All Our Yesterdays (9 page)

“Not a fault at all,” Mellen said.

They had box seats along the first-base line. They
had peanuts and scorecards. Conn tilted his straw boater forward to shield his eyes. Mellen wore a white visor, to keep the sun off her face.

“This is not a tennis match,” Conn said with a smile.

Mellen laughed.

“I burn so easily,” she said. “And I get all freckly even if I don’t burn.”

“That’s not freckles,” Conn said. “That’s an Irish tan.” He patted her knee gently.

Conn had never played baseball, and had never fully come to like it in nine years, but he wanted to distance his Irish past and few things were more American. He knew all the teams and players, and who hit well and how the game was played. Mellen had never been to a game.

“Are these good teams, Conn?”

“Dodgers are so-so,” Conn said. “The Braves are bad.”

“Who’s that little player, there?” Mellen said.

“Rabbit Maranville,” Conn said. “He’s playing shortstop.”

“He looks like a little boy.”

The pitchers were Socks Seibold for the Braves and Dazzy Vance for the Dodgers. There were no runs until the sixth inning, when Babe Herman hit a home run into the jury box in right field and the Dodgers won, one to nothing.

They rode the streetcar back through Kenmore Square where it dipped underground and rumbled under Commonwealth Avenue and parts of the Boston Common. It stopped at Park Street station, and they got off.

They came out of the underground into the glaring
late afternoon sun, and walked, holding hands, down across the Common toward the Public Garden. To their right the golden dome of the State House gleamed hotly in the August heat.

“When’s the last time you rode a swan boat?” Conn said.

“I don’t think I ever have,” Mellen said. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, and her face was red. Conn too felt the sweat under his shirt, and his gun, worn back of his right hip, under his seersucker coat, felt heavy.

“Well, we’ll do it,” Conn said. “And then maybe we’ll stop at Bailey’s for a soda.”

They glided slowly around the small lagoon on the pontooned pedal boats with a realistic oversized swan concealing the pedal apparatus. The young man pedaling the boats looked as if he were riding the swan. There were several other passengers, mostly children. Everyone fed the ducks who followed the swan boats around the lagoon like tugs escorting a transatlantic liner.

The children tried to fool the ducks with peanut shells, but the ducks paid no attention.

“How do they know the difference?” Mellen said.

“Ducks are smarter than they look,” Conn said.

“That’s good,” Mellen said, and leaned her head against Conn’s shoulder.

The sun was still bright but had moved farther west and the shadow of Beacon Hill began to move shade across the Beacon Street side of the Public Garden. When they left the swan boats they walked to a bench in the shade and sat. Conn put his arm around Mellen’s shoulder.

“What is it you’ll be wanting to do now, my fair colleen?” Conn said.

“You did promise me a soda at Bailey’s.”

“I did.”

“Well, we could go up there and do that, and then we could go to my house.”

“And sit on the piazza with your parents?” Conn said. “And rock, and say, ‘Bejaysus it’s hot’?”

“My father would never let you use the Lord’s name like that in his house.”

“Not even on the piazza, when, bejaysus, it
is
hot?”

Mellen rubbed her cheek against Conn’s shoulder.

“Not even then,” she said. “But it’s all right. They’re not home. They went up to Nahant for the weekend.”

“And left you home alone?”

“My sister and her husband live downstairs. Besides, I wouldn’t go.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not,” Mellen said. “I wanted to see you.”

“Well, you got your wish,” Conn said. “And what’ll we do at your house? Just you and I alone? With your sister downstairs?”

“We’ll sit on the piazza,” Mellen said, “and rock and say, ‘Bejaysus it’s hot.’”

Mellen began to giggle, and Conn laughed.

“Well,” Conn said. “Let’s start with the soda.”

And they stood and walked hand in hand back up across the Common toward Tremont Street.

M
ellen lived upstairs in a three decker on K Street in South Boston which her father owned. It had gray clapboard siding, and an open porch off the back of each of the first two floors. Mellen’s sister lived with her husband and small child on the first floor. Mellen, her mother, and her father lived on the second floor. The third floor was unfinished, except for Mellen’s bedroom.

It was a narrow house, two rooms wide and three rooms deep. There was a small den. The dining room was to the right. Off the dining room was a front parlor with an upright piano in it. The parlor was never used. The French doors connecting it to the dining room were always closed, and in the winter it was left unheated.

The kitchen, with its big cast-iron stove, was the heart of the house. All the rooms connected to it except the parlor. Mellen’s parents slept in a bedroom off the back corner of the kitchen. There was a pantry with an icebox and a soapstone sink and next to it the bathroom. There was a huge table in the kitchen covered in oilcloth, surrounded by chairs. There was a big leather rocker, a daybed, and a broad expanse of linoleum-covered floor. The walls were half wainscoted in narrow pine boards, installed vertically, and stained a dark walnut. Above the daybed was a picture of Jesus holding his robe open to reveal his bright red
heart. The room smelled of kerosene, and when the stove was in use there would be a periodic burp from the kerosene bottle as it fed fuel to the stove.

Under the overhead light an easel was set up. On it was an unfinished oil painting of an idealized mountain scene, a small lake in a declivity among uniform mountains. The smell of the oil paints mixed with the kerosene; and the scent of cigar smoke insisted through both smells.

The windows had been closed all day, and the house reeked with heat. Mellen hurried about opening windows.

“You wouldn’t have a drink in the house, would you?” Conn said.

“Yes. My father keeps some,” she said. “My mother doesn’t like it, but Pop likes his jar of whiskey.”

She went to a broom closet on the wall near the dining room and rummaged behind some mops and brought out a bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey.

“We don’t have any soda,” she said.

“Water’ll be fine,” he said. He went to the stained oak icebox and chipped ice off the big block in the top with an icepick. He put the ice in a water glass, added whiskey, and cold water from the water bottle in the icebox.

“Would you care for a dram?” he said.

Mellen shook her head hurriedly.

“Oh, no, no. I really shouldn’t.”

Conn looked at her with his head tilted and his eyes smiling.

“Shouldn’t you, now, Goodie Two Shoes? And should I be drinking alone?”

“I sometimes wonder, Conn, if you don’t do everything alone,” she said. “But …” She sighed a little
and got herself a glass and held it out while he put a splash of whiskey in the bottom. He added ice for her, and water.

They took their drinks out onto the back piazza and sat on the spare kitchen chairs that furnished it. Below them was a small patch of board-fenced backyard. There was a little brown grass and a lot of bare spots. To the left at the end of a narrow driveway was a cinder-block garage. Across from them were the piazzas on the back of the three-decker on the next street.

Pigeons who roosted under the eaves above them were still busy and the noise they made was comforting. The summer evening was coming on. It wasn’t dark yet, but there was a blueness to the light that softened the ugly houses and gentled the heat. They sat quietly. Conn put his hand out and she took it and held it in her lap. Conn raised his glass to her and she touched it with hers and they drank.

The blue air darkened, and the sun went down, the sound of pigeons quieted. Conn refreshed their glasses. When they drank, the soft sound of the ice in the glasses seemed lyrical in the blue evening.

“You date other men, Mellen?”

“Of course, lots. But none since I’ve met you.”

“I figured you were popular.”

“Actually, what I said is not quite true,” Mellen said. “I dated lots of boys. You are the first man.”

Conn smiled in the darkness.

“There must be many women in your life, Conn.”

“Not lately,” Conn said. He allowed a tinge of sadness to show in his voice. “There was a woman once, but …” His voice trailed off.

“Did she hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Conn.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Was it a long time ago?”

“Yes.”

“In Ireland?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Conn, you can forget her. I’ll help you forget her.”

“Yes,” Conn said, his hand lying still in her lap. “Yes, you will.”

He drank, and turned toward her.

“You have.”

She brought his hand up to her face and rubbed it against her cheek and kissed the back of it.

“I’m glad, Conn. I want to make you happy.”

She finished the small remnant of her drink.

“I do make you happy, don’t I?”

“Yes,” Conn said softly.

He took both their glasses and went to the kitchen and mixed fresh drinks. As he chipped ice in the pantry he could see his face in the darkened window. He grinned at himself. He started back through the hot kitchen with a glass in each hand, and she met him there, near the unfinished oil painting. She put both her arms wordlessly around him and tilted her head back. Holding the glasses carefully he bent his head forward and kissed her softly. She pressed her lips hard against his kiss and held it and slowly opened her mouth. Behind her back he shifted the two drinks into his right hand, holding the glasses by the rim, and squeezed her tight against him with his left arm. Her tongue touched his and withdrew and then touched his again and then thrust fully into his mouth. He bent her slightly backwards and reached out and put
the two glasses on the table. Then he put both arms around her, and they kissed fiercely. Her mouth widened as they kissed and she arched her back a little and thrust her hips against him. She was gasping for breath, rubbing her hands up and down his back. He maneuvered her gently to the daybed and eased both of them down onto it.

“Conn,” she said hoarsely, “we mustn’t.” She was rubbing her cheek against his as she said it, and her hands still moved up and down his back.

“Shhh.”

Conn stroked her shoulder and arm. He moved to her breast. She stiffened momentarily, and then put her hand on top of his and pressed it harder against her. With his free hand Conn carefully unbuttoned her blouse. He slid his hand inside her blouse and then inside her brassiere.

“No,” she whispered, “Conn, darling, we can’t.”

Conn kissed her and held the kiss. He could feel her heart pounding behind her breasts. She held his head with both her hands, kissing him harder. He put his hand under her skirt. She groaned and arched her pelvis.

“Conn,” she gasped. “Oh, God, Conn. Darling. No.”

He moved his hand gently, she moaned and then put both hands flat against him and pushed, wrenching herself away, and lay with her back half turned to him, her blouse unbuttoned, her breasts exposed, her skirt tangled around her hips.

“We can’t,” she said. “We can’t…. We can’t.”

She spoke in choking gasps. Her shoulders heaved. She was shivering in the hot darkness as if it were
cold. Conn sat up on the edge of the daybed without touching her. He was silent. She began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” she said between sobs. “I’m sorry, Conn.”

“Sure,” he said.

“If we were married,” Mellen said, tears tracing down her face. “We have to wait until we’re married.”

Conn didn’t say anything. He stood and began to straighten out his clothes.

“This is too hard on a man,” he said. “I’ll have to go.”

“No,” Mellen said. She turned from her side onto her back. She seemed unaware of her undress. “Please, Conn.”

“It’s too much,” Conn said. “You want to, I want to. You respond. I respond. You pull back. It’s too much for me.”

Mellen was crying hard, full body crying that exhausted her.

“Conn, please. I can’t. We’re both Catholic. You must understand. I promised God.”

He stared down at her in the half-light. Her breasts spilled out of her brassiere. He had pulled her underpants down. She was naked to him. Her pale thighs entirely vulnerable.

“A man can’t go through this,” Conn said softly. “You’ll have to choose. Me or God.”

He waited for a moment. She was crying too hard to speak. Then he shrugged and turned and picked up his straw hat and walked toward the front door. He was in the den when she called after him in a strangled voice.

“Conn.”

He had his hat on and his hand on the doorknob when she called after him again, her voice shaking.

“I will, Conn. I will.”

In the dark hot den, Conn smiled to himself. He took the straw hat off and set it carefully on the deal coffee table and turned and walked slowly back into the kitchen.

“So it’s me?” Conn said.

She lay as he had left; her, on the couch.

“God forgive me,” she said.

He helped her strip naked on the daybed and then looked at her nakedness as he slowly took off his own clothes and lay down beside her. He explored her thoughtfully. He taught her what he knew, and helped her as she needed it. While they coupled she made so much noise, he wondered if the police would appear. And when it was over and they lay on the narrow daybed, their bodies slippery with sweat, beneath the sacred heart, she pressed her face against his neck and cried, and murmured over and over, “I love you.” Conn lay quietly beside her and rubbed her back softly and smiled and imagined Hadley Winslow.

K
nocko picked Conn up in front of the Brighton Avenue apartment house at quarter to eleven on a bright September morning.

“When I called in, Captain wanted to talk with you. I said you were taking a leak.”