his dry eyes as he got out of the car. Father Joe prayed. Dan looked away. After the service, Dan took a pinch of soil and sprinkled it across Tim Pat’s short casket.
There had not yet been time to incise the last name on the stone:
TIMOTHY PATRICK MARKEY 1986–1997
Not wanting to talk to anyone, Dan turned quickly away and started for his car. Some of the paint had faded; there were small chips wherecareless drivers opening their doors had dinged it; there were hairline scratches on the fenders; faint patches of rust worked at the big bumper. The car had only sixty-eight thousand miles on it and still handled like a dream. Sunlight reflected off the windshield. Dan stopped abruptly. Was that Brigid in the car, Tim Pat in her arms? Were those shamrocks and roses in the backseat? Dan’s vision grew dim, and he felt as if he was about to pass out.
“Dan,” said Father Joe, lightly placing his hand on Dan’s arm.
Dan pulled away.
Father Joe offered Dan his card, with a number on it that had been penned in red ink. “I got a cell phone last week. Not ten people have this number. If I can’t reach you by this evening, please call me. Wherever you are, I’ll be there.”
Dan gave him a bitter grin. “Father Joe, Jo-Jo, dear old family friend.”
“Dan?”
“Don’t
Dan
me, Jo-Jo,” Dan said, reaching for an envelope in his back pocket. “You came over for this, right?”
“I don’t expect anything. You know that.”
“That’s good, then,” said Dan, his face suddenly mottled with rage. “‘Cause you ain’t gettin nothin.” Dan tore up the envelope, threw the pieces in the priest’s face. “That was a grand in there, Joe, same’s always when my family gets stuffed down holes.”
The priest tried to touch Dan’s arm again. “Why don’t we go have a drink? There’s plenty of places on Sunset. There’s that Irish place, right?”
Dan’s eyes filled with rage. “Do you, as Christ commanded, love God with your whole heart and soul, and with all your mind?”
“What a question,” said the priest. “Come on, I’ll drive.”
“Well, do you believe, or don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t be a priest if I didn’t.”
“You never have no doubts about Ab’ba?” Dan asked.
The priest pleaded, “Let’s have that drink, the two of us.”
“It was for the boy, for his mother, and for my wife, but only out ofrespect for them. Here’s what I think of your god, with a small g.” Dan handed the priest three pennies. “One for your heart, one for your soul, and one for your god, two cents more than your fuckin god’s worth, small
g.”
“Ah, Dan, don’t, please, don’t do this to yourself.”
“Fuck god.”
Father Joe hung his head, his face twisting, but he didn’t leave. Dan waved Earl off.
Earl had heard it and stepped in. “You’re still comin to our place, right?”
Dan got in and closed the door of the Caddy. “You go ahead. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
Dan drove away. Earl went over to Father Joe. “You all right, Father?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
Dan took Chávez-Sunset Boulevard all the way to the sea. At Highway 1 he turned north. In Malibu he filled up the tank and put the Caddy’s top down. He had intended to drive to San Francisco, maybe all the way to Canada, what the fuck, maybe never come back. No, he couldn’t go that far. There was a certain matter that had to be handled through the LAPD. He drove calmly for a stretch, managed to keep his mind blank, but then grief bored in and he started to weep. He pounded his forehead on the steering wheel.
The wind off the sea distracted him for a time, and driving comforted him as he moved along the scrubby brown mountains and barren beaches south of Point Mugu. He began to feel sick to his stomach. He tried to make sense of so much death to those he loved, all of them younger than he. Yet here he was, an old man, his heart ticking away, while his other five hearts were still, in boxes, down
There had not yet been time to incise the last name on the stone:
TIMOTHY PATRICK MARKEY 1986–1997
Not wanting to talk to anyone, Dan turned quickly away and started for his car. Some of the paint had faded; there were small chips wherecareless drivers opening their doors had dinged it; there were hairline scratches on the fenders; faint patches of rust worked at the big bumper. The car had only sixty-eight thousand miles on it and still handled like a dream. Sunlight reflected off the windshield. Dan stopped abruptly. Was that Brigid in the car, Tim Pat in her arms? Were those shamrocks and roses in the backseat? Dan’s vision grew dim, and he felt as if he was about to pass out.
“Dan,” said Father Joe, lightly placing his hand on Dan’s arm.
Dan pulled away.
Father Joe offered Dan his card, with a number on it that had been penned in red ink. “I got a cell phone last week. Not ten people have this number. If I can’t reach you by this evening, please call me. Wherever you are, I’ll be there.”
Dan gave him a bitter grin. “Father Joe, Jo-Jo, dear old family friend.”
“Dan?”
“Don’t
Dan
me, Jo-Jo,” Dan said, reaching for an envelope in his back pocket. “You came over for this, right?”
“I don’t expect anything. You know that.”
“That’s good, then,” said Dan, his face suddenly mottled with rage. “‘Cause you ain’t gettin nothin.” Dan tore up the envelope, threw the pieces in the priest’s face. “That was a grand in there, Joe, same’s always when my family gets stuffed down holes.”
The priest tried to touch Dan’s arm again. “Why don’t we go have a drink? There’s plenty of places on Sunset. There’s that Irish place, right?”
Dan’s eyes filled with rage. “Do you, as Christ commanded, love God with your whole heart and soul, and with all your mind?”
“What a question,” said the priest. “Come on, I’ll drive.”
“Well, do you believe, or don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t be a priest if I didn’t.”
“You never have no doubts about Ab’ba?” Dan asked.
The priest pleaded, “Let’s have that drink, the two of us.”
“It was for the boy, for his mother, and for my wife, but only out ofrespect for them. Here’s what I think of your god, with a small g.” Dan handed the priest three pennies. “One for your heart, one for your soul, and one for your god, two cents more than your fuckin god’s worth, small
g.”
“Ah, Dan, don’t, please, don’t do this to yourself.”
“Fuck god.”
Father Joe hung his head, his face twisting, but he didn’t leave. Dan waved Earl off.
Earl had heard it and stepped in. “You’re still comin to our place, right?”
Dan got in and closed the door of the Caddy. “You go ahead. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
Dan drove away. Earl went over to Father Joe. “You all right, Father?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
Dan took Chávez-Sunset Boulevard all the way to the sea. At Highway 1 he turned north. In Malibu he filled up the tank and put the Caddy’s top down. He had intended to drive to San Francisco, maybe all the way to Canada, what the fuck, maybe never come back. No, he couldn’t go that far. There was a certain matter that had to be handled through the LAPD. He drove calmly for a stretch, managed to keep his mind blank, but then grief bored in and he started to weep. He pounded his forehead on the steering wheel.
The wind off the sea distracted him for a time, and driving comforted him as he moved along the scrubby brown mountains and barren beaches south of Point Mugu. He began to feel sick to his stomach. He tried to make sense of so much death to those he loved, all of them younger than he. Yet here he was, an old man, his heart ticking away, while his other five hearts were still, in boxes, down
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