I dropped in, he continued, because I saw the lights burning. I hate to go home, you know. (Grin: meaning more lice.) You don’t mind my staying a few minutes, do you? I like this place—it’s cheerful.
It should be, said O’Mara, we’re living on velvet.
I wish I could say the same, droned Osiecki. Drawing plans all day and playing the pianola at night is no fun.
But you’ve got a girl, said O’Mara. That ought to give you a little fun. He chortled.
Osiecki’s ferret-like eyes grew small as pin points. He looked at O’Mara sharply, almost hostilely. You’re not trying to pump me, are you? he asked.
O’Mara smiled good-naturedly, and shook his head. He was just about to open his mouth when Osiecki spoke up again.
She’s another tribulation, he began.
Please, said Mona, don’t feel that you have to tell us everything. I think we’ve been asking altogether too many questions.
Oh, that’s all right, I don’t mind being grilled. I just wondered how he knew about my girl.
I don’t know a thing, said O’Mara. I just made a simple remark. Skip it!
I don’t want to skip it, said Osiecki. It’s better to get it off one’s chest. He paused with head down, not forgetting however to munch his sandwich. After a few moments he looked up, smiling like a cherub, finished eating his sandwich, stood up and reached for his hat and coat. I’ll tell you some other time, he said. It’s getting late.
At the door, as we were shaking hands, he grinned again and said: By the way, any time you’re hard pressed, just let me know—I can always lend you a little something to tide you over.
I’ll walk you home, if you like, said O’Mara, not knowing how else to express appreciation of this unexpected kindness.
Thanks, but I’d rather be alone now. You never can tell … and with that Osiecki took off at a trot.
What about that guy Eakins you were telling us about? I said, soon as the door had closed behind Osiecki.
I’ll tell you some other time, said O’Mara, giving us one of Osiecki’s grins.
There wasn’t a word of truth in it, said Mona, tripping to the bathroom.
You’re right, said O’Mara. I just imagined it.
Come on, I said, you can tell me.
All right, he said, since you want the truth, I’ll give it to you. To begin with, there was no guy Eakins—it was my brother. He was hiding away for a while. You remember I told you once how we ran away from the orphan asylum together? Well, it was ten years—maybe more—before we met again. He had gone to Texas where he became a cow-puncher. A good guy, if ever there was one. Then he got into a brawl with someone—he must have been drunk—and he killed the guy.
He took a sip of Benedictine, then continued: It was all like I told you, except of course he wasn’t batty. The man who came for him was a Ranger. He scared the shit out of me, I can tell you. Anyway, I undressed, like he told me to, and I handed the clothes to my brother. He was taller and bigger than me in every way, and I knew he’d never get into that suit. But I handed it to him and he went back to the bathroom to get dressed. I hoped he’d have sense enough to climb out by the bathroom window. I couldn’t understand why the Ranger was giving him such leeway, but then I figured being from Texas he had his own way of doing things. Anyway, suddenly I got the bright idea to dash out into the street naked and yell Murder! Murder! at the top of my lungs. I got as far as the stairs and there I tripped on the rug. The big guy was right on top of me. He held one hand over my mouth and dragged me back to the room. Pretty cute, mister, ain’t you? he said, giving me a gentle cuff in the jaw. Now if that brother of yours gets out the window he won’t get very far. My men are waiting for him right outside.
At that moment my brother walked into the room just as quiet and easy as ever. He looked like a circus freak in that suit—and his hair all shaved off.
No use, Ted, he said, they’ve got me.
What am I going to do for clothes? I bawled.
I’ll mail the suit back to you when we get to Texas. he said. Then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills. Maybe this will hold you a while, he said. It was good to see you again. Take care of yourself. And with that they left.
And what happened after that?
They sent him up for life.
No!
Yep! And you can lay that to that son of a bitch of a step-father too. If he hadn’t sent us to the orphan asylum it would never have happened.
Jesus, man you can’t lay everything to that orphan asylum.
The hell I can’t! Everything bad that happens to me dates from the orphan asylum.
But you haven’t had it so bad, God-damn it! I really can’t see why you’re griping all the time. Shit, many people get worse deals and come out tip-top. You’ve got to stop blaming your step-father for all your ills and failings. What’ll you do when he croaks?
I’ll go on blaming him and cursing him just the same. I’ll make him miserable even in the grave.
But listen, man, what about your mother? She had a hand in it too, don’t forget. You don’t seem to be sore at her.
She’s a half-wit, said O’Mara bitterly. I can only feel sorry for her. She did as she was told, probably. No, I don’t hate her. She was a good-natured slob, in a way.
Listen, Henry, he said, suddenly changing front, you’ll never understand the situation. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. You’ve had it easy all your life. You’ve been lucky too. And you’ve got talents. Me, I’m nobody. A misfit. I’ve got a grudge against the world … Maybe I could have been a writer too, if I had had a chance. As it is, I don’t even know how to spell.
But you sure know how to figure.
Naw, he said, don’t try to sweeten it. I’m all wronged up. No matter what I do I end up by hurting people. You’re the only guy I ever treated decently, do you know that?
Come oil it, I said, you’re getting maudlin. Have another drink!
I’m going to bed, he said. I’m going to dream it off.
Dream it off?
Sure, don’t you ever do that—dream it off? You close your eyes and then you fix it like you want it to be. You fall asleep and you dream it true. When morning comes there’s no bad taste in your mouth … I’ve done it thousands of times. Learned it in the orphan asylum.
The orphan asylum! Man, will you ever forget it? It’s finished, done with … it happened centuries ago. Can’t you get that through your nut?
It’s never stopped happening, you mean.
For a few minutes neither of us spoke. O’Mara undressed quietly and slipped into bed. I switched out the lights and lit a candle. As I was standing there at the table, reflecting on all that had passed between us, I heard him softly say: Listen…
What is it? I said. I thought for a moment he was going to sob.
You don’t know the half of it, Henry. The worst part was waiting for my mother to come and see me. Weeks went by, then months, then years. No sign of her. Once in a blue moon I got a letter or a little package. Always promises. She was going to come at Christmas or Thanksgiving, or some other holiday. But she never came. I was only three years old when we were packed off, remember that. I needed affection. The nuns weren’t too bad. Some of them were adorable, as a matter of fact. But it wasn’t the same kissing them as kissing one’s mother. I used to beat my brains out trying to figure a way to escape. All I thought of was to run home and fling my arms around my mother. She was a good sort, you know, but weak. Weak in an Irish way, like me. Easy come, easy go. Nothing bothered her. But I loved her. I loved her more and more as time went on. When I got the chance to make a getaway I was like a wild colt. My instinct was to rush home, but then I thought—maybe they’ll send me back to the asylum! So I just kept traveling—until I got to Virginia and met up with Dr. McKinney … you know, the ornithologist.
Listen, Ted, I said, you’d better get to sleep and dream it off. I’m sorry if I seemed a bit insensitive. I guess I’d feel the same way if I had been in your boots. Shit, to-morrow’s another day. Think of what Osiecki’s up against!
That’s exactly what I was doing. He’s a lonely bastard too. And wanting to lend us money! Jesus, he must be in a bad way!
I went to sleep that night with the determination to knock the bloody orphan asylum out of O’Mara’s head. Al during the night, however, I was riding my old Chemnitz bicycle like mad, or
