Triple Pursuit (5 page)
It was when Mario was going on and on about what a wonderful couple Jane and Tim were that Colleen burst into tears.
“Colleen, what is it?”
He put his arm around her and tugged her to him. She could not remember when she'd had such masculine reassurance and protection, and she sobbed helplessly. After that, she had to give him some indication of what worried her.
“It's Aggie,” she said.
“Aggie!”
“You know what she's like?”
“What in God's name does she have to do with your brother's family?”
“Not the family. Tim.”
He quickly understood, having been the object of Aggie's pursuit himself. This enabled Colleen to tell the story in an almost coded manner.
“He can't be that dumb. Would he jeopardize his family for that ⦔ The word he used both shocked and delighted Colleen.
“My uncle saw them together and said that Tim looked guilty as sin. But after that, Aggie was letting everyone know in utter confidence that she had a thing going with my brother.”
“How did your uncle know?”
“I told him. It was an awful thing to have to do, but the thought of her ruining Tim's marriage was worse.”
“Someone has to talk to Aggie.”
“What's the point? She has no conscience.”
Mario began to talk of what he would do to Aggie at the office, make life hell for her, drive her from the firm, but his voice soon lost conviction. Any campaign against her would surely bring a suit, the kind he himself could win in a walk.
“It's not what she's doing in the office, Mario.” She moved more closely against him. “At least not anymore.”
“Why can't she settle for Fremont?”
Albert Fremont was a lawyer who had been hired at the same time as Aggie and clearly would have loved to be the object of her attention, but what kind of challenge was that for Aggie the man-eater? If only Albert would drop his heroine-worshiping expression and make himself interesting to Aggie, the trouble with Tim might dissolve. But placing one's hopes in Fremont seemed the definition of despair. A week ago, Fremont had come to Colleen as to a sister with the story of his lack of luck with Aggie:
“You're too available.”
“She doesn't know I exist.”
“Just ignore her and see what happens.”
Fortunately, Fremont was a better lawyer than he was a lover, and it soon became obvious to Colleen that Aggie was picking his brains for her own work. But any chance that Albert Fremont might be the answer came apart when he and Aggie were working on a case together and she turned in their work as her own. When the work proved to be full of flaws, she said that Fremont was the author of most of it.
Fremont exploded. “Aggie, that was preliminary stuff. Why the hell did you turn it in?”
Aggie looked at Fremont. She could hardly tell him that she had wanted to steal his work and the credit she was sure it would bring.
“You sounded as if we were through.”
“âWe'? This is finished work!” He waved it in her face and then took it in to a senior partner.
“Did you tell him what happened?” Colleen asked.
Fremont lifted his chin. “Certainly not. I apologized for the earlier work and replaced it with the finished product.”
“But Aggie ⦔
Fremont's expression seemed to indicate that he was cured. Aggie's perfidy had drained love or desire or lust, whatever it had been, from his heart, and from then on he seemed immune to her.
“She's lucky you are a gentleman,” Colleen told him.
Western Sun Community was a graded development through which the elderly could move from antepenultimate through penultimate to the ultimate stage where total care was provided those whose sun was definitively setting. George Hessian's mother had taken up residence in a condo at first, but had since been moved to a building where she had a room, nurses in attendance, but could still be relatively independent.
“I hate it here.”
“I know, but it is best that you be looked after.”
She looked at him as at a traitor. There were those, George's friend Rawley among them, who embarrassed George by congratulating him on his filial piety, but in truth he shared his mother's estimate. How could he not feel like Judas when he kissed her good-bye and left her with the television she loathed and the four walls whose blankness seemed reflections of her mind? It was better when he visited during mealtimes and could sit at the corner of the table where two other elderly women who had been pushed up in their wheelchairs watched resentfully as he told his mother of his day. Leaving her in company cushioned the blow because his mother knew how envious her table
companions were of her dutiful son. When he visited between meals he would push her about in her wheelchair for whatever diversion that might afford.
companions were of her dutiful son. When he visited between meals he would push her about in her wheelchair for whatever diversion that might afford.
“If only there were something to do.”
“You have spent a lifetime doing things.”
There was a covered walkway connecting the building with the common room where those who lived in condos went, and sometimes he took her there. This was a failure. She was dressed in tennis shoes and a running outfit, an ironic commentary on her immobility, and her presence made the more mobile residents uneasy. She represented what awaited them, they could only hope, in some misty future. But it was there that he heard that the great Jack Gallagher had moved into one of the condos.
“Who is Jack Gallagher?” he asked his mother.
“âWho is Jack Gallagher?' He was on the radio. Where is he?”
He was holding court on a couch surrounded by adoring fans. His mother insisted that he push her over. Jack Gallagher fell silent when they arrived before him and George felt compelled to say that his mother had been a great fan of his.
“My dear lady, how wonderful.” Jack Gallagher rose and took her hand. “Where on earth did you get that chair? I want one.”
Laughter all around. George was filled with gratitude at this gracious gesture and his mother was delighted. For days afterward, she cherished the memory but seemed to have no desire to repeat the experience, thank God.
“So Jack Gallagher is living here now,” George said to Rawley now.
“The man himself.”
“My mother was a fan of his.”
“Everyone was, if you can believe them.”
Sitting in the guard shack, talking to Rawley as their shifts changed, George thought how their status had changed since Rawley
was in the financial office of the university and George was a representative of the bank. Their contacts were regular enough to transcend mere business, and soon they were friends. Rawley was a widower.
was in the financial office of the university and George was a representative of the bank. Their contacts were regular enough to transcend mere business, and soon they were friends. Rawley was a widower.
“I never married. Responsibility for my mother devolved on me.”
They attended the Chicago Symphony together, Rawley finding that he liked Mahler despite himself.
“But I prefer the baroque.”
“Is that what brought you to Western Sun?”
“I get paid for reading. I sit here and cars go in and cars go out but they require only minimum attention. I give 'em a wave.”
“I am writing now in my off-hours.”
“Ah.”
“The history of St. Hilary's parish.”
Rawley was an agnostic, so religion was a subject they avoided. If Rawley had not liked music they would have avoided speaking of that. Music, like religion, cannot be explained to the disinterested.
“You really believe all that stuff?”
“Catholicism? Of course.”
“I never even had a faith to lose.”
But they went to the exhibit of Vatican art and Rawley managed to avoid negative comments.
When Jack Gallagher showed up at the St. Hilary Senior Center he was mobbed as he had been at Western Sun. The man could not be too much younger than George's mother but he seemed hale and hearty. And then George learned that Austin Rooney was the brother-in-law of the newcomer.
“This place will be too tame for him,” Austin said.
“Western Sun is tamer.”
The former gymnasium that had been transformed into a recreation room for the seniors was now transformed into a ballroom. The lighting was subdued, the tables ringing the dance floor had candles or floral arrangements in their centers and four to six senior citizens breathing heavily between dances. The rest were on the dance floor, moving to the slow rhythms of the songs that had fueled the imaginations of their youth. The improvised bandstand, with Desmond at the piano, old Oliver Deutsch at drums, and Pinkie Kunert on bass, provided accompaniment for the crooning Jack Gallagher. The onetime radio host was an expert mimic, able to sing in the manner of Sinatra, Vic Damone, Dick Haymes, and even Crosby, so that the dancers concentrated on him rather than their unsure feet. Desmond proved to be a virtuoso of the keyboard, stitching the numbers together with riffs and changes of tempo so that one song smoothly followed another until it seemed that another decade was being reenacted in the makeshift ballroom.
A punch had been provided, mild enough but sufficient to bring nostalgic tears to the shuffling couples on the floor. Maud had to be taken from the floor for an interval, overcome by a number that had been the favorite of her late husband's. Except for that sentimental interlude, she was in the arms of Austin Rooney, an expert dancer
whose lead made up for Maud's hesitation. On the dance floor, at least, she followed rather than led.
whose lead made up for Maud's hesitation. On the dance floor, at least, she followed rather than led.
Father Dowling had come over to smile a brief benediction on the dance, puffing on an unlit pipe, with Marie Murkin half frowning, half smiling on one side of him, and Edna Hospers on the other.
“This could become a tradition,” Edna said enthusiastically.
She was still surprised at how little all this was costing the center. It was as if the only contribution the parish had made was the locale. The piano had been brought down from the first floor where it had once provided march music for students when they filed in from recess and returned, but the other instruments were provided by the musicians who played them. The punch was also donated by the dance committee, plus the candles and other items of festive color. Maud was wearing a corsage provided by Austin Rooney. Her loyalty was divided between her partner and the crooning Jack Gallagher, who directed his tremulous lyrics at her as she passed beneath his microphone. Austin's efforts to keep as far from the bandstand and singer as possible were not always successful, and if Maud looked up with glistening cow-eyes at Gallagher, Austin stared into space at some distant star where the likes of Jack Gallagher were absent.
And then Desmond took over, playing and singing at once, his style his own but the words the words of Jacob. Jack Gallagher stepped onto the dance floor and tapped Austin imperiously on the shoulder, but his regard was for Maud alone. The transfer was made smoothly, in the approved manner, but for a moment Austin looked bereft of a purpose in life. He drifted toward Father Dowling.
“A great success, Austin.”
“It brings back the past.”
Desmond was now giving a particularly maudlin rendition of “Sentimental Journey.” A sigh had gone up when he began the lyrics, and many couples swayed in place to listen. He went on to “Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow,” perhaps in deference to the light snow that had fallen earlier in the day. Now they were singing along with
Desmond, and Jack Gallagher was crooning the lyrics into the receptive ear of Maud, who had closed her eyes as if she might just drift heavenward on the memories evoked. Austin Rooney stepped forward and tapped Jack's shoulder. In response, Jack swung Maud in an elaborate pirouette and they disappeared among the other dancers. Austin's face was dark with anger and embarrassment.
Desmond, and Jack Gallagher was crooning the lyrics into the receptive ear of Maud, who had closed her eyes as if she might just drift heavenward on the memories evoked. Austin Rooney stepped forward and tapped Jack's shoulder. In response, Jack swung Maud in an elaborate pirouette and they disappeared among the other dancers. Austin's face was dark with anger and embarrassment.
“I thought when someone did that, the partner had to be given up,” Father Dowling said to Edna.
“He should have! That isn't right.”
Marie said she wondered why one man, let alone two, could be interested in Maud Gorman.
“Two?” said Edna. “Several others had to concede defeat to Austin.”
“Jack Gallagher hasn't,” Marie said, and it was difficult to tell from her tone if she had taken sides.
Meanwhile, at the microphone, Desmond was intoning “Dream,” but his eyes were following Jack and Maud. He had seen the rebuff of Austin's attempt to break inâit had happened just in front of the bandstandâand he looked prepared to sing on forever if Maud could be kept from the arms of Austin Rooney.
Austin had circled the floor, and suddenly stepped forward and tapped Jack's shoulder again, more forcibly this time. Jack merely shrugged and once more swept Maud out of harm's way. This time Austin waded into the dancers, gripped Jack by the arm, and said in a voice audible through the soothing strains of Desmond's singing, “When someone taps your shoulder it means he wants to break in.”
The dancers turned to look and then began to dance more slowly, fascinated by what was happening.
“And when there is no response, he should give up.”
Maud had stepped out of Jack's arms and stood in her pretty rose gown looking back and forth between the two men. Austin was unable to keep his anger from showing, but Jack, head tilted back, looked at Austin with amusement. That was when Austin hit him.
Jack reeled backward, moving through the dancers like a bowling ball through tenpins, and crashed to the floor at the feet of Desmond O'Toole. Desmond raised his hand, the music stopped, and then he was kneeling beside Jack.
“Give him air. Give him air.”
But Jack was already rising. He started toward Austin, but Desmond, after a moment's hesitation, stopped him.
“Is he all right?” Father Dowling asked Edna.
“What can one punch do? So long as they don't have a real fight.”
Father Dowling strode to Desmond, told him to play something rousing. “Do you know âMacNamara's Band'?”
“MacNamara's Band” was played, and Jack, restored, divided his attention serially among half a dozen delighted women. Off to the side, Austin and Maud were in earnest conversation.
“I think it's safe for me to leave,” Father Dowling said to Edna.
“Thanks for coming by, Father.”
Marie was not ready to return to the rectory. She seemed to fearâor was it hope?âthat the violence was not yet finished.
She was right, but its continuation took place long after Marie had gone back to her apartment in the back of the rectory. The two adversaries met in the parking lot after the dance had been completed, with the mandatory playing of “Goodnight Irene.”
“I think I owe you something, Austin,” Jack said, tapping his brother-in-law on the shoulder as he walked to his car. When Austin turned, Jack swung a haymaker. A mistake. Austin had ample opportunity to step out of its way and drive his fist into the stomach of the beau of the ball. Gallagher doubled over like an Olympic diver after he has left the board, and Austin, for good measure, gave him a push
that sent him stumbling backward. When he sat, it was in a puddle of melted snow.
that sent him stumbling backward. When he sat, it was in a puddle of melted snow.
Maud Gorman looked on enigmatically; Austin helped her into the passenger seat of his car and slammed the door possessively when she was seated. Maud had come with Austin and she always went home with the man who brought her. But as they drove off, her wide-eyed gaze was directed back toward Jack Gallagher, sitting ignominiously in a puddle in the parking lot of St. Hilary's Senior Center.
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