said Jim, “Florence wanted to learn how to play ‘Danny Boy’ on the piano so she could play it for Ralph when he came to dinner this afternoon.”
“Sure, they’re all the same,” said Arthur. “So, she’s having the boy and his parents.”
“Yes,” said Jim weakly. He hadn’t intended to refresh Arthur’s memory.
“I’ll be over. I’ll warn the poor boy what he’s getting into.”
“Florence has her good points.”
Arthur took a slug of whiskey. “They’re all just grand until they get their hooks into you.”
Arthur’s speech was already beginning to slur. The bottle was half gone. “It might not be a good time,” said Jim, “to say something this afternoon.”
“When are they coming?”
“Not for a good while yet.”
Arthur corked the bottle. “I’ll get some rest first. You’ll call me, eh?”
Jim agreed, knowing that he wouldn’t.
Arthur fell asleep. Jim sat there, and worried.
Arthur would wake again. He was coming to the dinner. What could Jim do?
Tie him to the bed?
Hide his shoes?
That was it! Hide the shoes.
He gathered all of Arthur’s shoes and carried them downstairs with him as he left.
Chapter 12
Jim went in the back door of his own house to find Ralph mixing drinks in the kitchen. Ralph was more nervous than Florence, if that were possible. He kept whistling “Don’t Fence Me In,” obviously unconscious of the irony. He was mixing the Manhattans with such gusto that he was smashing the ice cubes against the side of the shaker. Jim wished that Florence was making the Manhattans. She just had the touch. Anyone else could start with the same bourbon, and vermouth, and lemon, but it just wouldn’t come out the same way.
“How do you like it, Jim? Two to one?”
“Two to one, two and a half to one.”
“Coming up.”
“How’s work, Ralph?”
“Great. Great.”
They always talked the same conversation: his work or Jim’s school activities. The trouble was: there was no common experience.
Ralph was pouring now, and making a mess of it, splashing good liquor all over the sideboard. “Hey we’re short a glass,” he said.
“Up there in the closet.”
“I don’t see any.”
“Maybe down below.”
Ralph stooped down. Jim was about to cry out a warning about the open closet door above his head, but there was no time. Ralph was moving with ultra-accelerated nervous gestures. He swung his head up and smashed the closet full force. His knees buckled, and Jim had to steady him. When he sat down in the chair, his face had a disoriented expression, and it was not until long moments had passed that he came out of it. He looked up at the closet door.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Jim laughed. Ralph put his hand to his head to see if there was any blood. There wasn’t. But there was a lump, and it showed clearly on Ralph’s half-bald head.
“Son of a bitch,” he said again. Jim laughed again. Amiable old Ralph had a spark of profanity in him after all.
Florence was in transit to the kitchen. Her voice sang out: “What happened to the drinks?” Ralph forgot his injuries; he leaped up and grabbed the tray and headed in.
Jim stayed in the kitchen and waited for Ralph to come back. Suddenly, he heard his father’s voice in the living room. He was back from Fordham.
Jim had a Manhattan in his hand and he gulped the whole drink. He thought of running out the back door. Maybe the best tactic would be to go right in the living room and hide in the crowd. He listened to the voices. The women were laughing. His father’s tone was jovial and good humored. He heard his father and Ralph coming back to the kitchen. When they came in, his father had his arm around Ralph’s shoulder. Was it possible he hadn’t been able to find Father Phelan?
Without wiping the smile from his face, the father said to Jim, “I’ll see you later.”
He’d found Father Phelan all right.
“Can I fix you a drink, sir?” Ralph asked Mr. Meagher.
“I can get it myself,” said the father. He took down the Old Overholt, and poured himself a shot, and in one swift arm movement threw it right down. He followed it with a long slug from a can of beer. “Well, how you doing, Ralph boy?”
“Fine, sir. Gee, that dining room table really looks inviting.”
“Florence,” said Mr. Meagher, “is a great girl.”
“She sure is, sir.”
“Call me Harry.” He threw out a jab. It caught Ralph in the shoulder and jolted him. Jim had to muffle a laugh with his hand. Ralph was really taking a beating in the kitchen.
Harry poured another shot and sent it following the first one. When he wanted to drink he could hold a milk can of whiskey, or a twelve-pack of beer. Jim had never seen him drunk. He put the shot glass down, and looked Ralph over.
“What are you drinking, Ralph boy?”
“I’m fine, sir. I mean Harry.”
“What have you got there, those goddamn Manhattans. That’s all they drink around here. High society. Here. Have a ball.” He poured the shot of whiskey before Ralph could protest, and handed it over. Ralph held it, turning it slowly in his fingers, looking at it. Then he drank it down in the accepted style, one swoop. His Adam’s apple did an inch leap.
“Here. Have another one.”
Ralph took it as if it were his medicine. He drank it down. Harry watched carefully. Then he apparently decided the round was over, because he didn’t pour another one.
“You’re a lawyer, eh, Ralph?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One of the D.A.’s boys, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, Harry.”
“What do you think of this business down in Washington, trying to hang McCarthy?”
Ralph hesitated.
Harry caught the pocket of opposition right away, and he went in after it.
“That whole State Department is full of
