In spite of it all he went back to his Ida—that’s the best part of it, I commented.
Yeah and she fucked him good and proper, I hear.
I laughed. Suddenly I stopped laughing. A thought struck me.
You know what just occurred to me, Ted? I think Woodruff was queer.
You think he was! I know he was. I can forgive him that, but not his meanness, not his miserliness.
I’ll be damned, I muttered. That explains why he made such a mess of it with his Ida. Well, well! To think I’ve known him all these years and never suspected it … And you still don’t think that there’s anything queer about Alec?
I know there isn’t, said O’Mara. He’s crazy about women. He trembles when they come within reach of him.
Beats me.
I told you before that he’s ascetic. He once studied for the priesthood. Then he fell in love with a girl who jilted him. He never got over it … I’ll tell you something else about him you never suspected. Get this! You never saw him angry, did you? You wouldn’t think he could get angry, eh? So soft, so suave, so gentle, so considerate. He’s made of steel, that guy. Always in trim, always in fighting condition. I saw him clean up a whole bar one night, single-handed. He was magnificent. Of course we had to run for it, but once we got out reach he was as cool and collected as could be. Asked me to brush him off while he fixed his tie. There wasn’t a scratch on him. We went to a hotel where he smoothed his hair and washed his hands. Then he suggested having a bite to eat—at Reisenweber’s, I think it was. He looked immaculate, as always, and talked in a calm, steady voice as though we had just come from the theatre. It wasn’t pose either: he was really calm, really quiet inside.
I remember the meal too—just the sort of spread that Alec knew how to order. We dawdled over that meal for hours, it seems to me. Alec was in a mood to talk. He was trying to make me understand what a truly Christ-like figure St. Francis was. He hinted that he had once aspired to be a sort of St. Francis himself. I used to make fun of Alec, you know, for being so damned pious. I used to call him a dirty Catholic—to his face, I mean. No matter what I said, though, I could never rile him. He would give me that sort of wistful, comprehending smile—you know what I mean—and I would grow ashamed of myself.
I never could dope out that smile, I interrupted. It always made me uncomfortable. I never knew whether he was being superior or playing the innocent one.
Righto! said O’Mara. In a way he knew he was superior—not just to us kids, but to most people. In another way he felt himself to be less than any one. His humility was tinged with arrogance. Or was it elegance? You remember how he wore his clothes. And then the way he spoke—that soft Irish tongue of his, the impeccable English he used … no slouch, that guy! But when he grew silent, that was something. If anything could make me uncomfortable it was the way he could shut up like a clam. It used to give me the creeps. He was always silent, if you noticed, when other people were ready to explode. He’d shut up at the critical moment and leave you suspended in mid-air. It was a way of letting you blow yourself up, know what I mean? Then’s when I spotted the monk in him.
Listen, Ted, I said, cutting him short, I still can’t figure out what made him take to a guy like Woodruff.
That’s easy, was O’Mara’s airy rejoinder. He wanted to redeem the poor sap. It gave him pleasure to work on a worthless little prick like Woodruff. It was a test of his powers. Don’t think he didn’t know Woodruff. He had him figured out to a hair. What appealed to him most about Woodruff, strangely enough, was the mercenary streak. Like the martyr he was, he just kept shelling out and shelling out, until there was nothing left … Woodruff never knew that Alec had stolen for him. He wouldn’t believe it, if you told him it, the little rat.
Did I tell you I ran into Woodruff lately? Yeah, going down Broadway.
What’s he doing now?
I never asked him.
Probably a pimp, said O’Mara.
But I do know what happened to Ida. She’s an actress now. Saw the billboards with her name plastered all over them. We ought to go and see her some time, what?
Not me, said O’Mara. I’ll see her in hell first … Listen, the hell with her and the hell with Woodruff! I don’t know what set me to talking about such shits. Tell me, have you seen anything of O’Rourke lately?
O’Rourke? No, I haven’t. Strange you should think of him. No, to tell the truth, I haven’t even thought of him since I quit the job…
Henry, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. O’Rourke is a prince. I don’t see how you could possibly forget a man like that. Why shit, he was a real father to you—and to me too. I’d certainly like to know what’s become of him.
We could look him up some night, that wouldn’t be hard.
I’d like nothing better, said O’Mara. It would give me a clean feeling just to be in his presence again.
You’re a funny guy, I said. Towards some people you’re almost worshipful. It’s like you’re looking for your father all the time.
That’s just what I am doing—you hit it on the head. That son of a bitch who calls himself my father, you know what I think of him! Know what he’s afraid of, that crud? That I’m going to rape my own sister one day. We’re too close, he says. And that’s the bastard who had me sent to the orphan asylum. He’s another guy, talking of no-good pricks like Woodruff, whose balls I could bite off with relish. Except I’ll bet he hasn’t got any! Tries to palm himself off as a Russian. He’s just a kike from Galicia. Sure, if I had had a father like O’Rourke I’d have made something of myself by this time. As it is, I don’t know what I’m cut out for. I’m just drifting. Fighting the Church all the time … By the way, I almost did put the boots to my sister, that’s a fact. It was the old man who put the idea in my head. What the hell, it was only natural; I hadn’t seen her for twelve years. She wasn’t a sister any more, she was just a good-looking dame, very lovable and very lonely. I don’t know what the hell held me back. I must look her up some time. She got married not long ago, I hear. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad now—I mean to have a whack at it … Jesus, Alec would be horrified if he heard me talking this way.
We went on in this fashion, from one reminiscence to another, until one ten sharp when, just as I had predicted, Mona walked in. She had a bundle of good things to eat in one arm and a bottle of Benedictine in the other. It was one of those kindly souls again who had bestowed his favors upon her. This time a retired baker from Weehawken, of all places. A man of culture too. Somehow, all her admirers had a tinge of culture, whether they were lumbermen, ex-pugilists, tanners or retired bakers from Weehawken.
Immediately Mona entered our talk became dispersed. O’Mara had a way of grinning at her, when she began her yarns, which irritated her. In the beginning he used to interrupt her frequently. He could ask the most insultingly straightforward questions. You mean he didn’t even try to put his arms around you? Things like that, which were strictly taboo with Mona. But by now he had learned to hold his tongue and listen. Only occasionally would he come out with some sly remark, some subtle innuendo, which Mona took no notice of whatever. Now and then her exaggerations were so absurd that the two of us would burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The curious thing was that Mona would also laugh her head off. Even stranger than her laughter, though, was her way of picking up again right where she had left off, as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Sometimes she would ask me to corroborate one of her outlandish statements, which I would do with a straight face, to O’Mara’s astonishment. I would even embellish her statement with some fanciful facts of my own. To this she would nod her head gravely, as if it were God’s truth I were recounting, as if we had spoken of it time and again—or as though we had rehearsed it together.
In the realm of make-believe she was thoroughly at home. She not only believed her own stories,
