Tears welled in his eyes, and he tightened his lips, contorted the muscles in his face to avoid crying altogether, before turning away. She spoke his name, and he broke down. “He's never coming back, is he?”
She held out her arms, and he rushed into the space, laying his face against her breast, his small hard frame shaking with tears. With every breath he drew, he cried for his father. Margaret crushed his body against her body. “Sean, Sean, I am so sorry.”
19
The man standing on the sidewalk in the bitter cold appeared to be regarding something only he could see, or perhaps he looked at nothing in particular but was merely listening to the sound of the wind, the passing vehicles sluicing through the slush, and the gentle susurrus as the showers landed upon the street, upon the parked cars, upon the meters like a row of cemetery crosses, upon the few souls stirring in the gloom. Had anyone paid more than cursory attention, he would have been puzzled by how long the man stayed in place absorbing the chill against his unprotected skin, in the folds and ridges of his coat, in the dish of his hat. But he was nothing more than a figure out in the snow to passersby an obstacle on the sidewalk as they hurried home or made one last dash to the drugstore or the tavern. Madman, to be out in such a storm. He watched them come and go until at last he followed her into the bar at the corner nearest the bridge.
Few ventured into the night, and fewer still had sought out a drink. A man in a baseball hat stared at him from a perch at the rail and then renewed his acquaintance with a half-finished beer. A threesome—father, mother, son—munched on a plate of fries smothered in gravy. In the corner, a young woman appeared to be talking to herself, as the bartender ignored her and watched the basketball game playing on the suspended television set. Easy to find, the woman, even in the dimness of the bar, for her ears and nose glowed red from just having come in from the cold. Seated at the bar, she had draped her coat and scarf on the adjacent stool, so he chose the next available space, and she reached out with one hand to steady her garments when he sat. His coat was unbuttoned and hung like a robe around him, and with great care, he set his wet fedora on the counter to his right, and then turned to the left to see if the woman might acknowledge his presence. Not a nod or even a glance.
With a damp towel the bartender, a fellow called Jocko Manning, swiped at the space in front of the man. “What's your poison?”
“Something to take the chill off.” He paused, considering the man's accent. “An Irish coffee.”
When the drink arrived, he blew into it, and a cloud of steam formed and rose to his face, separating into two columns that wreathed his head before dissipating.
“Hey, look,” Jocko said, “Santy Claus.”
“Nice trick,” the woman said.
The man swallowed a mouthful of coffee and set the cup back on the mahogany. “Do I know you?”
“I don't know, do you?” She studied him carefully, not the usual suspect for a bar such as this, and in that context, she could not place his face, though familiar. A type, she finally decided. Well dressed, polite, old enough to be her father. A gentleman who could be entrusted with her name. “Eve Fallon.”
“Fallon.” He shook her hand. “Do you have a younger brother? A boy around eight or nine years old? In the third grade at Friendship Elementary.”
“That's no brother, that's my son.”
“No, you're much too young.”
She laughed helplessly. “You sure know how to flatter a girl who's about to start drinking.”
Behind her the man in the baseball cap crossed to the bathroom, his eyes fixed on the threesome at their late dinner. On the television set, Duquesne tied the score, and Manning raised his fist in triumph.
“What brings you out,” he asked, “on such a miserable night? Is Mr. Fallon with you?”
“Flew the coop.” She toyed with a swizzle stick. “Last year, but it's not too bad. I mean, it's hard money-wise.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, though I can't see how any man in his right mind—”
“Harder on my son because that rat doesn't even bother to call or visit anymore, and Sean's been kind of withdrawn. None of his little buddies from school come round anymore, and he was just listless for the longest time, like he wanted nothing more out of life.”
The man ran his finger along the brim. “Children often go through a kind of emotional winter in times of personal crisis. But they are stronger than they seem. Resilient.”
Eve straightened her spine and perched higher on the stool. “He'll pull through, I'm sure. There's this new kid who kind of sought him out just recently, it's so cute, a little girl. In fact that's where he is tonight, spending the night. First chance I've had to go out in ages, and wouldn't miss it. Cheers.”
He lifted his mug to her glass in salute.
“Nice kid, from what I know of her. She's got a way of bringing him out.”
“It wouldn't be that Quinn girl?”
“That's right, Norah Quinn. It's so sweet. Do you know her?”