It was several minutes later and he was on Vernon Street, headed toward home. But as he came closer to the Kerrigan house, he thought of Bella and the battle that would undoubtedly flare up when he got there. She was probably sitting in the parlor waiting for him, and chances were she had some heavy object in her hand, all set to heave it at him the instant he opened the door. Momentarily there was something downright appetizing in the prospect of a clash with Bella. He wanted to hear some noise, and make some himself, and maybe hand her a clout or two. He sure was in the mood for hitting something.
He came to an abrupt stop under a street lamp. No, he told himself, he didn’t feel like fighting with Bella. The only thing he felt like hitting right now was his own face. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his work pants and jabbed one between his tightened lips and struck a match. He leaned against the post of the street lamp, gazing out at the street and taking deep drags of smoke.
A voice called, “Hey, man.”
He turned and looked at the window of the wooden shack and saw the long, glimmering earrings, the lacquered black hair, the coffee-and-cream face of Rita Montanez. In the Vernon Street market, which rarely ran as high as three dollars, she alone had the nerve to charge five. She got away with it because she was constructed along the lines that caused men to swallow hard when she passed them on the street. Rita was a mixture of African and Portuguese and she featured the finer physical characteristics of her internationally-minded ancestors. Her onyx eyes were long-lashed and she had a finely shaped nose and medium-thick lips. She was in her early thirties and didn’t look a day over twenty.
Kerrigan smiled at Rita and walked toward the window. Although he was not a customer, he had a definite affection for her, going back to the days when they were kids playing in the streets.
“Got another smoke?” Rita asked.
He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.
She winked at him, beckoned with her head, and said, “Wanna come inside?”
He laughed lightly. She laughed with him. They were always going through this routine and taking it just this far and no farther.
“What’s new?” she asked. “How’s my friend Thomas?”
Kerrigan shrugged. He wasn’t affected one way or another by the fact that his father was one of Rita’s steady customers. Long ago he’d become accustomed to Tom’s dealings with the Vernon professionals.
Rita took an open-mouthed drag at the cigarette. She let the smoke come out slowly, and watched it climbing past her eyes. She said, “I like Thomas. He is much man.”
Kerrigan’s thoughts were only half focused on what she was saying. He said absently, “You better watch out for Lola.”
Rita narrowed her eyes. It was purely technical, an expression of business strategy. “You think Lola knows something?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what she knows. But sooner or later she’s gonna pay you a visit. You better be ready to run.”
“From her? She’s nothing but a lot of fat and a lot of noise.” Rita blew smoke away from her face. “Lola don’t worry me. No woman worries me.” She made a motion toward the back of her head, and her fingers came away holding the tiny black-beetle knob of a five-inch hatpin. “This here’s the equalizer,” she said. “One jab with this and they know who’s boss.”
He grinned. “You’re a hellcat, Rita.”
“Gotta be. This street is no place for softies.”
The grin faded. He stared at the splintered wall of the shack. He said, “You got something there.”
She studied his eyes. Suddenly she knew what he was thinking. She reached out and touched his arm. “Don’t let it get you.”
He didn’t say anything.
Rita kept her hand on his arm. “I was good friends with your sister.”
He blinked. He looked at the painted face of the five-dollar woman.
Rita nodded. “Real good friends,” she said. “And I don’t make friends easy. Especially women. But it was different with Catherine. She was strictly Grade A.”
He stared at Rita. He said, “I didn’t know she was friends with you.”
“She was friends with everybody.” Rita gazed past Kerrigan’s head. “I used to see her giving candy to the kids in the street. Giving pennies to the bums and the cripples. Always giving.”
His voice was thick. “She sure got paid back nice.”
“Don’t think about that.”
For some moments he didn’t speak. And then, very low in his throat, “It was my fault.”
She looked at him. She frowned.
He said, “I knew she didn’t belong here. I should have taken her away.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” he said. “Just to get her away from this mess. This goddamn street.”
“You don’t like the street?”
“Look at it.” He pointed to the rutted paving, the choked gutter, the littered doorsteps. “What’s there to like?”
“She liked it,” Rita said.
“She had no choice. She lived here all her life and she never knew anything better.”
“But she liked it. She was happy here. That’s what you gotta remember.”
“I can only remember one thing: I could have taken her out of this fouled-up rut and I didn’t do it.”
“Quit blaming yourself,” Rita said.
“There’s no one else to blame.”
“Yes, there is. But there’s no way to point at him, you don’t know his name. Maybe you’ll never know. After all, it happened almost a year ago. Best thing for you to do is forget about it.”
He wanted to say something, to disagree with Rita’s viewpoint, but as he searched for a way it was like groping in a dark closet that had no walls. He shook his head slowly, futilely, and finally he murmured, “Good night, Rita,” and walked away.
At the corner of Fourth and Vernon he took out his pocket watch. The hands pointed to twenty past three. He had to be up very early and it hardly paid to go home and get in bed. And now the prospect of a battle with Bella was not at all appetizing. He winced at the thought that she’d still be sitting up, preparing to greet him with a flood of curses. Suddenly he was thinking of the railway ticket office, the bus depot, the freighters docked at the piers. But that had nothing to do with Bella. He just felt like taking off, that was all. He just wanted a long trip that would carry him far away from Vernon Street.
Skip it, he told himself. Think about it later.
He shrugged. But it was more than a casual effort. His shoulders felt strangely heavy. And then, trying to shake off the weighted feeling, he began to walk fast. But suddenly he came to an abrupt halt. He turned his head slowly and looked at the dark alley, where moonlight fell on a broken bottle, a crushed tin can, and the dried bloodstains of his sister.
He moved toward the alley. Then he was in the alley, looking down at the bloodstains. He wondered why his eyes felt cold. Quit it, he told himself. Get out of here. Go home. But he stood there looking down at the crimson stains on the rutted paving. A minute passed, another minute, and then all at once he had the feeling that someone was watching him.
He turned very slowly. He saw the carrot-colored hair and thick neck and sloping shoulders of Mooney. The sign painter had his head slanted and his arms folded and seemed to be appraising Kerrigan as though lining him up for a charcoal sketch.
Kerrigan smiled uncertainly. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Just happened to see you,” Mooney said. He shifted his position, leaning against the wall of the shack at the edge of the alley. His hair was damp and shiny.
“Enjoy your swim? Cool you off any?” Kerrigan asked.
Mooney had a look of grumbling displeasure. “That goddamn river. Cooled me off, hell. Only thing it did, it almost drowned me.”
Kerrigan grinned. “Was Nick there to see it?”
Mooney nodded. He said offhandedly, “Reached me just in time. I went down twice before he dived in.”
Kerrigan was still grinning. “Where’s Nick now?”
“Went home. That’s what I oughta do.” He shrugged again. Then he looked at Kerrigan and said quietly, “Making progress?”
“What?” Kerrigan said. “What are you talking about?”
“This situation here,” Mooney murmured. He was looking down at the bloodstains. “I’ve seen you in this alley more times than I can count. Of course, it ain’t none of my business—”
“All right, let’s drop it.”
“You won’t drop it.”
“I’m dropping it now. It’s a dead issue.”
“The hell it is. You’ll come here again. You’ll keep coming here.”
“If I do, I’m a damn fool,” Kerrigan said.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Mooney spoke very quietly, almost in a whisper. “I’ve never had you checked off as a damn fool.”
For a long moment they stood there looking at each other. Then Mooney said, “You come here to investigate.”
“There’s nothing to investigate,” Kerrigan said. But while he said it, he was making a careful study of Mooney’s face, especially the eyes. He went on, trying to speak casually. “She did away with herself. There’s no question about that. She picked up a rusty blade and cut her throat and then she laid down to die. So the point is, she did it with her own hands. I’m not trying to take it past that.”
“It goes a long way past that,” Mooney said. “She did it because she was ruined and she couldn’t stand the pain or the grief or whatever it was. There’s never been any secret about that. You weren’t here when it happened, but there was a big commotion and the entire neighborhood was looking for the man who did it. You see, everybody liked her. I liked her very much.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” Mooney said. “Very much.”
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with her.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Mooney said.
“What’s the matter?” Kerrigan said gently.
“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.” Mooney’s face was expressionless. “Don’t jockey with me. I’m talking straight.”
“I hope so,” Kerrigan said. “How well were you acquainted? I never saw you talking to her.”
“We talked many times,” Mooney said. “Someone told her I used to paint pictures. She liked to talk about painting. She wanted to learn about it. One time I showed her some of my water colors.”
“Where? In your room?”
“Sure.”
Kerrigan looked at Mooney’s thick neck. He said, “She wouldn’t go into a man’s room.”
“She would if she trusted the man.”
“How do you know she trusted you?”
“She told me,” Mooney said.
“Can you prove it?”
“Prove what?”
“That you’re on the level.”
Mooney frowned slightly. “I’m sorry I started this,” he said to himself. Then, gazing directly at Kerrigan, “You’re suspicious of everybody, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly,” Kerrigan said. “I’m just doing a lot of thinking, that’s all.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Mooney was nodding slowly. “You’re doing a hell of a lot of thinking.”
Kerrigan took a slow deep breath. Then he said very quietly, “I’d like you and me to take a little walk.”
“Where?”
“To your room.”
“What for?” Mooney asked. “What’s in my room?”
“The water-color paintings,” Kerrigan said. He smiled dimly and added, “Or maybe there’s no paintings at all. Maybe there’s just a bed. I’d like to have a look and make sure.”
Mooney’s face was blank. “You’re checking on me?”
“Sure,” Kerrigan said, and he widened the smile.
For some moments Mooney didn’t move. Finally he shrugged and backed out of the alley and Kerrigan moved up beside him. They walked down Vernon Street toward Third. Near the corner of Third and Vernon they turned down another alley. It was very narrow and there were no lights in the windows of the wooden shacks. Mooney was walking slowly and Kerrigan followed him and watched him very carefully. Mooney’s shoulders were sort of hunched, his arms bent just a little and held away from his sides, and he seemed to be bracing himself for something.
“You there?” Mooney asked.
“Right behind you.”
Mooney slowed to a stop. He started to turn his head.
“Keep moving,” Kerrigan said.
“Listen, Bill—”
“No,” Kerrigan cut in. “You can’t stall now. You’re taking me to your room.”
“I only want to say—”
“You’ll say it later. Keep moving.”
Mooney walked on. Kerrigan followed him and they went halfway down the alley and arrived at a two-story shack that had no doorstep and no glass in the front windows. Mooney went up to the door and then he stopped again and started to move his head to get a look at Kerrigan.
“Inside,” Kerrigan said.
“Bill, you’ve known me all your life.”
“I wonder,” Kerrigan murmured. Then, through his teeth, “Go on, get inside. Get the hell inside.”
Mooney opened the door. They came into a room where a lot of people were sleeping. There weren’t enough beds and the floor was a jumble of sleeping grownups and children. Kerrigan stayed close behind Mooney, treading carefully to avoid stepping on the sleepers on the floor. They made their way across the room and went into another room where there were more sleepers. For an instant Kerrigan forgot about Mooney and he was wondering how many families lived in this dump. Goddamn them, he thought, they don’t hafta live like this. At least they can keep the place clean. But then his mind aimed again at Mooney as he saw the sign painter turning toward the stairway. And he thought, Be careful now, it might happen when we’re halfway up the stairs.
But nothing happened. Mooney didn’t even look back. They came up on the second floor and went down a very narrow hall. The ceiling was low and there wasn’t much air. It seemed there was hardly any air at all.
He followed Mooney into a room. It was a tiny room and there was no furniture. The only thing he saw was a mattress on the floor. But then Mooney switched on the light, and other objects came into view.
There was a large vase, almost four feet high. It was some kind of glazed stone and was cracked in many places and looked very old. Kerrigan looked to see what was in it and he saw it was filled with cigarette stubs and ashes. Next to the vase there was a stack of large rough-surfaced paper used for water-color paintings. And then he saw the jars of paint, the little tubes, and the brushes. Paint brushes of various sizes were scattered all over the room. He figured there must be at least a hundred brushes in here. He came closer to the stack of papers and lifted the edges and saw that some of the sheets hadn’t been used. But the others were all water-color landscapes and still lifes and a few portraits. And that was what he had come here to see. It was the tangible proof that Mooney hadn’t been lying.
“Well,” he said quietly, “you got the paintings here, all right.”
He waited for a reply. There was no reply. He turned slowly to look at Mooney, who stood facing the wall on the other side of the room. Then there was no sound in the room, not even the sound of breathing.
They were both looking at the wall and what was on the wall.
It was a rather large water color on thick board paper. It was the only painting on any of the walls. The dominant color was the yellow-gray background for the greenish-gray of her face and the cocoa-gray-yellow of her hair. It was just the head and neck and shoulders against the background. The head was slightly lowered and there wasn’t much expression on the face and it was merely the portrait of a very thin girl with long hair, not much to look at, really. But she was alive there on the wall. She seemed to be living and breathing and fully conscious of what she was and who she was. She was Catherine Kerrigan.
“I didn’t want you to see it,” Mooney said. “I tried to tell you.”
Kerrigan was moving backward. He kept moving backward until he bumped into the large vase. He reached back and gripped the edge of the vase. His fingers merged with the glazed stone and then his arms felt like stone and he wondered if his entire body were turning to stone. He was looking at his sister and telling himself she couldn’t be dead.
He heard Mooney saying, “Damn it, I tried to tell you. I didn’t want you to come here.”
“It’s all right,” he said. But the words meant nothing.
He looked at her up there on the wall and without sound said, Catherine, Catherine.
And then, without seeing Mooney’s face, he was hit by something coming out of Mooney’s eyes. He looked at Mooney and knew the way it was, the way it must have been for a long time, and the way it would always be. The knowledge of it came to him very slowly, going into him very deep and pushing aside all the shock and astonishment, causing him to understand fully that Mooney had worshiped her and would go on worshiping her.
For some moments he stood looking at Mooney and they were having a silent conversation. They were talking about her, telling each other what a special item she’d been, and all the kindness and sweetness of her nature, the gentle manner and the sincerity. In the quiet of the room she gazed down at them and it seemed she joined them in their soundless discussion, saying, Don’t give me such a build-up, I didn’t really amount to much, just another Vernon girl with very little brains and no looks at all.
Mooney spoke aloud. “She was quality. The real quality.”
Suddenly Kerrigan felt very tired. He looked around for a place to sit. Finally he sat down on the mattress on the floor. He folded his hands around his bent knees and lowered his head and his eyes were half closed.
He heard Mooney saying, “She never knew how I felt about her. I’m not sure if I can tell it to you now.”
“I think I know already.”
“No, you don’t,” Mooney said. “She was your sister, and it’s an entirely different feeling. You never had to fight against something inside, something that said you were male and she was female. I wanted her so much that I used to steal from drugstores to poison myself so I’d get an upset stomach and have the cramps to think about.”
Kerrigan looked at him.
“Why didn’t you let her know?”
“I couldn’t. She’d have felt sorry for me. She might have done something that she didn’t want to do. Just to make things easier for me. It would have been an act of charity. You see, if I thought she went for me, I’d have asked her to marry me.”
“You should have told her.”
Mooney sighed slowly. He looked at the floor. He said, “She was clean. And I’m a dirty man. It’s the kind of dirt that don’t wash off. It’s in too deep. Too many memories of dirty places and dirty women.”
“You’re not so dirty. And I think you should have told her.”
“Well maybe I wasn’t man enough.” Mooney turned and looked up at the picture on the wall.
Kerrigan looked at Mooney and felt very sorry for him and couldn’t say anything.
“Not man enough,” Mooney said. “Just a specialist in the art of wasting time and lousing things up. There was a time the critics had me ranked with the important names in water color. They said I’d soon be pushing Marin for the number-one spot on the list. Today I’m pushing the sale of window signs for butcher stores and tailor shops. My weekly income, according to latest reports, is anywhere from twelve to fifteen dollars. If the Treasury Department is interested, the current bankroll is a dollar and sixty-seven cents.”
Mooney was telling it to the dead girl, speaking in a conversational tone, as though he thought she could actually hear what he was saying.
“Comes a time,” he told the painted face on the wall, “when the battery runs down, the stamina gives out, and a man just don’t care any more. That happened long ago with this fine citizen. Not a damn thing I could have done for you, except lean on your shoulder and weigh you down. I’m a great leaner, one of the finest. I have a remarkable talent for making people tired.”
Kerrigan figured it was time for him to say something. “You have a pretty fair talent for painting pictures.” He gazed at the portrait on the wall.
“Thank you,” Mooney said quietly and formally, as though he were addressing an art critic. Then his tone became technical. “There was no live model. This work was painted from memory. There were more than thirty preliminary sketches. The portrait took three months to complete, and this is the first time it’s been exhibited.”
Kerrigan nodded, although he was scarcely listening. He went on looking at the painted face that was framed there on the wall and gradually it became a living face as the gears of time shifted into reverse, taking him backward five years to a summer night when he stood with Catherine on the corner of Second and Vernon. He’d been walking up Second Street and he’d seen her leaning against the lamppost on the corner. Coming closer, he’d noticed that she was breathing heavily, as though she’d been running. He said, “What’s wrong?” and for some moments she didn’t answer, and then she smiled and shrugged and said, “It’s really nothing.” But he knew the smile was forced, and the shrug was an effort to hide something.
He put his hands on Catherine’s shoulders. He said quietly, “Come on, tell me.”
She tried to hold the smile, tried to shrug again. But somehow she couldn’t manage it. Her lips quivered. Her pale face became paler. All at once she gripped his arms, as though to keep herself from falling, and she said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Catherine.” His voice was gentle. “Tell me what happened.”
She hesitated. Then, whatever the issue was, she made an attempt to evade it. She said, “You look so tired and worn out. Work hard today?”
“Overtime,” he replied. “They were short of men.” In the glow of the street lamp he saw the delicate line of her features, the fragility of her body. She always wore low-heeled shoes and loose-waisted schoolgirl dresses and looked much younger than eighteen. The dress was cotton, plain drab gray, and it needed sewing here and there. But it was clean. She wouldn’t wear anything that wasn’t clean.
She was smiling again and saying, “You really look knocked out. Let’s go somewhere and sit down.”
She was always saying, “Let’s go somewhere,” as if there were anywhere to go except the candy store, which had a small fountain and a few battered stools.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll treat you to a soda.”
She took his hand. He sensed she was anxious to get off the corner. They walked two blocks to the little candy store and went in and sat down at the fountain. She asked him what he wanted and he said, “Orange,” and she put a dime on the counter and ordered two bottles of orange pop.
He took a few long gulps and his bottle was empty. She sipped hers from a straw. He watched her as she sat there taking tiny sips and enjoying the flavor of the soda. There was a look of pleasure on her face and he thought, It takes so little to please her.
Suddenly he got off the stool and went to the magazine rack. She liked movie magazines and he stood there checking them to see if there was one that she hadn’t read yet. He was reaching for a magazine when the door opened and three young men came into the candy store. They sort of barged in, and he turned and looked at them. They were wearing torn shirts and ragged trousers and battered shoes. It was hard to tell which one of them was the ugliest, which face was most misshapen.
The three of them were winking at each other as they moved toward Catherine. She was still sipping the soda and hadn’t yet seen them. Kerrigan was waiting to see what they’d do. He saw the shortest one, who looked like a middleweight, slide onto the seat next to Catherine. The middleweight grinned at her and said, “Well, whaddya know? We meet again.”
Catherine was trembling slightly. Kerrigan had a fairly adequate notion as to why she’d been out of breath when he’d met her on the corner.
The middleweight went on grinning at her. The other two were snickering. One of them was scar-faced and the other featured a yellowish complexion and crooked buck teeth that prevented him from closing his mouth. Scarface sat down so that Catherine was hemmed in between him and the middleweight. Then Scarface said something in low tones that Kerrigan couldn’t hear, and Catherine winced. She turned her head to see Kerrigan standing there at the magazine rack. He gave her a reassuring nod, as though to say, Don’t worry, I’m still here, I just want to see how far they’ll take it.
The middleweight widened the grin. It became a grimace as he said to Catherine, “Why’d you run away?”
Catherine didn’t answer. The aged candy-store proprietor was standing behind the counter and scowling at the three young men and saying, “Well? Well?”
“Well what?” Scarface said.
“This is a store. Whatcha wanna buy?”
“We ain’t in no hurry,” the middleweight said. He turned to Catherine. “I like to take my time. It makes things more interesting.” He edged closer to her.
“Please go away,” Catherine said.
The proprietor was pointing to a sign on the wall behind the counter. “You read English?” he demanded of the three young men. “It says, ‘No Loafing.’ ”
“We’re not loafing,” the middleweight said mildly. “We’re here to keep a date, that’s all.”
Catherine started to get up from the stool. But she was crowded from all sides and they wouldn’t give her room. Kerrigan didn’t move. He told himself he would wait until one of them put a hand on her.
The proprietor took another deep breath. “This is a store,” he repeated. “If you’re not here to buy something, get out.”
“All right, Pop.” The middleweight reached into his pocket and took out a dollar bill. “Three root-beer floats.” He made a casual reach for the bottle in Catherine’s trembling hand. He took the bottle away from her and said to the proprietor, “Make it four.”
Catherine looked at the middleweight. She wasn’t trembling now. There was just the slightest trace of a smile on her lips. It was a kind smile, something pitying in it. She said very softly, “I’m sorry I ran away from you and your friends. But you were talking sort of rough, and then when you came toward me—”
“I wasn’t gonna hurt ya,” the middleweight said. He was frowning just a little; he seemed uncertain of what to say next. He aimed the frown at Scarface and Bucktooth, as though blaming them for something. Catherine went on smiling at the middleweight. Gradually his frown faded. “Damn, I shoulda known how it was from the way you walked. You didn’t swing it like them teasers do.”
Catherine grinned. She looked down at her skinny body. She gave a little shrug and said, “I got nothing to swing.”
The middleweight laughed, and the other two joined in. Kerrigan told himself to relax. It was all right now. He saw Bucktooth sitting down beside Scarface and the proprietor placing four root-beer floats on the counter and he heard the middleweight saying, “Hey, look, my name is Mickey. And that’s Pete. And that’s Wally.”
“I’m Catherine,” she said. She turned and beckoned to Kerrigan, and he came forward. “This is Bill,” she said. “My brother.”
“Hi,” the middleweight said. He told the proprietor to mix another root-beer float.
Kerrigan wasn’t thirsty now, but he decided to drink the float anyway. He thanked the middleweight and saw the pleased smile on Catherine’s face. She was happy because everyone was friendly.
He sipped the root-beer float and listened to the soft voice of Catherine as she chatted with the three young hoodlums. Her voice was like a soothing touch. He looked at the face of his sister and saw the gentle radiance in her eyes.
Then time shifted gears again and it was now, it was Mooney’s room again. He was sitting there on the mattress on the floor and staring up at the portrait on the wall.
“You look knocked out,” Mooney said. “Why don’t you roll over and go to sleep?”
He gazed dully at Mooney. “Gotta be up early. There’s no alarm clock.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wake you. Got a watch?”
Kerrigan was already prone on the mattress and his eyes were closed as he took out the pocket watch and handed it to Mooney. “Get me up at six-thirty,” he whispered, and while sleep closed in on his brain he wondered what Mooney would be doing awake at that time. But before he could put the question into words, he was asleep.