"It keeps him quiet," Roseanne said sharply. "I think I'd give him poison if it would just keep him quiet."

Brian rolled onto his stomach and held the pillow over his head. He didn't want to hear what would follow. He knew it by heart: the same old story...

"Roseanne, Roseanne, how can you say such a terrible thing? God forgive you, they're just innocent babies, of course they cry. What children don't?"

Roseanne, voice ragged and harsh and stretched an inch short of breaking, said, "But they never shut up, Mom. God Almighty, if I could just have one night, just one night, to sleep through, but so help me, Ma, they never stop. It's one or the other. Billy, get your hands off your little brother. Billy!"

Smack. Crying.

"Oh, he's just a baby himself, Roseanne. He doesn't know he's hurt little Tommy. Come on, Billy, let me show you how to scramble some nice eggs."

"Ma. Ma, I think I'm pregnant again. Damn it, Ma, I don't want any more!"

Silence. Silence. Silence.

"Well, well, it's God's will after all, darling. It's what we were meant for, isn't it? Maybe you'll have a little girl..."

"Oh, Mom, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's not you I should say that to, not to you."

Firmly: "Not to anyone, Roseanne, least of all, not to your husband."

"Ma, he doesn't come home some nights. I don't know what he's up to, Ma, and I get so scared and I worry all the time. I ask him about the job he's on and he tells me to just shut up and mind my own business."

Beneath the pillow, Brian heard it all. A broken record, and predictable too. Roseanne and her pregnancies; Billy Delaney, the man of many mysterious jobs, the self-proclaimed truck driver.

Uh-huh. For hijackers, thieves, crooks, Christ knows what. A matter of time; Brian knew; a matter of time and Billy Delaney would be in-like-Flynn, no key to the iron door, no way out. And he'd be saddled with Roseanne and her crying, screaming, snot-nosed Billy-Delaney-faced little brats.

He wanted to get up but he waited. He knew Roseanne would be persuaded to leave the little ones with their grandma and take herself off for a nice poke around Fordham Road to look in the store windows or take in a movie, just get off by herself a bit.

"Roseanne, will you look at the storybook Billy's found? I used to read that to Kit when she was just a tiny wee thing. Come to Grandma, Billy. God love you, but it's a big boy and just turned two years old."

He moved the palm of his hand along the sheet and thought of Rita: guiltily but languidly. His mother's voice crooned and whispered and the petulant, whining voice of the child turned sweet as she eased him from his bad mood.

Rita, tongue and lips and firm breasts; tongue and wetness, warmth and chill; pull the covers up quick, I got goose humps. All down the long stretch of torso, skin tight over ribs, tiny humps of cold, Rita.

He took a long hot shower, let the water run hot on the base of his neck. The hell with the cold-shower routine; he enjoyed heat, body hotness to penetrate his skin and circulate through his bloodstream; steamy water hotness to remind him. Brian stepped back to shake water from his eyes and stepped on something sharp and pointed. He cursed softly and bent to rub his wounded heel and to see what had caused the injury.

It was a small metal warship. Swirls of blue water color ran between his toes. Kit and her collection. Damn it, that kid and her junk. Brian examined it briefly, decided it wouldn't clog the toilet, reached from behind the shower curtain and tossed it into the bowl. So much for that particular warship: down to the deep-blue sea. A few drops of blood from his heel mingled with the pale tint of blue and he moved his foot around until the water came clean.

He shaved and dressed and told his mother not to bother with breakfast, it was nearly lunchtime. He settled into the easy chair by the window, feet on hassock, Daily News opened to the sports pages. Margaret stood in the doorway, grandson in her arms. She jiggled the boy up and down as she spoke.

"Did you hear about your cousin Billy O'Malley? Fell off the training ladder and they think he's broken his shoulder."

Billy O'Malley had been appointed to the Fire Department last month after waiting on the list for three years.

"I ran into Uncle Gene last night at Night Court and he told me. Hey, maybe I'll run over and see him. He's at Fordham Hospital, right?"

"Yes, but he'll be home tomorrow. I'd wait until then, Brian, for Ellen said he wasn't well just now. There, there, now, Billy, that's your Uncle Brian over there. Don't you want to say hello? Brian, look up and smile at him."

"Every time I see that kid, he bursts out crying, Mom. There, look at his puss."

"It's just a stage they go through, Brian, and you're always glowering at him so. Give him a pleasant smile and a nice hello. You'll see him smile back."

"I've never seen that kid smile since the day he was born. Okay, Ma, watch." Brian puffed out his cheeks, rolled his eyes and roared, "Ho, ho, ho, Billy boy! Here's your Uncle Brian playing the fool for you. Now smile!"

Billy stared, held his breath, stiffened his small body, turned his face toward the ceiling and screamed until he nearly choked.

"See, Ma," Brian said innocently, "what did I tell you? I try to be nice to him, but that kid is plain nasty. He's like his old man."

Margaret pressed the child to her body as she danced around with him. She alternately comforted the child and scolded Brian. "Hush, now, there, there, Billy. There's no one to hurt you. You ought to be ashamed, Brian. He's just a tiny child. It's not funny, teasing a little one like that. There now, there, sweetheart. Uncle Brian didn't mean to frighten you. Come on now, Grandma will dance you right into the kitchen and we'll get lunch all made up. Kit will be home soon, Billy. You'll be seeing Kit."

As though on signal, Kit and Bobby Kelly burst through the entrance hallway, shouting and arguing over who had won the race from school. Little Billy Delaney, at the sound of Kit's voice, changed into a smiling, laughing, slightly hysterical worshiper. He craned his neck for a better view of his young aunt and reached sturdy arms toward her.

Kit swooped down suddenly, grabbed him roughly under the arms and whirled him around the living room. "Hey, Bobby," she yelled, "here, catch!"

Margaret had visions of the child flying through the air and landing on a cracked skull. "Give him here, Kit. Stop playing the fool. He's just a small baby."

Kit crashed her forehead against her nephew's. "I'm gonna throw you on your head, Billy-o-boy! Right on your big dopey head!"

Billy shrieked and gagged with excitement and struggled for Kit when his grandmother pulled him away.

"Oh, now you've waked the baby with your howling and you've gotten this child so worked up he won't eat his lunch."

"Hey, Ma," Kit said, "Bobby left his lunch home this morning and nobody's at his house. Can he eat here?"

"When would there ever not be an extra sandwich or two on the table? But wash your hands or you'll both go hungry. There now, Billy, sit down on the couch for a minute while Grandma gets things in order in the kitchen."

Kit charged from the bathroom and grabbed Billy by the shoulders and shook him. "Did you throw my battleship down the toilet?" She held the dripping toy between her fingers and her nephew's pink face puckered and his lower lip trembled. "Don't you touch my ships, Billy, or I'll put you down the toilet and flush you away and you'll drown. Glug! Glug!"

By now Billy was laughing hysterically and Margaret came and dragged him off to the kitchen. Kit carefully blotted the battleship on the inside hem of her jumper.

"Hey, slob," Brian said disgustedly, "what are you doing?"

"It took me a long time to get that painted just the right color. Gee, Brian, that rotten kid. I'll break his arms if he touches my warships."

"Keep those damn things out of the tub, Kit, or the next time the whole fleet will end up down the toilet."

Kit glared at her brother. "You did it? Well, listen, Brian, you just keep your hands off my things." She examined the ship carefully. "I bought them all with my own money and they're mine, so you just keep your hands off them, that's all."

Brian stretched his legs in front of him. "Or what?" he asked provocatively.

"Well, I don't know, but I'll think of something." With a sudden change of pace, Kit scanned his face. "Hey, Brian, are you in a good mood or a bad mood?"

"You know, Kit, you're a dumb kid. That's a helluva dumb question."

"Yeah, yeah," she said impatiently, "but it's important for me to know." She backed away from him and shifted from one foot to the other. "See, if you're in a bad mood, then I won't tell you about my shoe." She held her right foot up and the sole of her shoe flapped as she jiggled up and down. "They don't make shoes the way they used to, Brian. Now, if you're in a good mood, you'll give me a quarter and I can get the sole sewed back on at the shoemaker's."

"For Christ's sake, didn't you get those shoes new about two weeks ago? Come over here and let me look at that." She tossed the shoe to him. Not only was the sole loose, but there was a large, soft, round worn spot in the center of the sole. "Jesus, Kit, I ought to let you go barefoot. Didn't Mom tell you to change to sneakers after school?"

Kit held her right ankle behind her knee and hopped across the room. "Hmm. You're in a bad mood. It's okay, Brian. I'll line it with cardboard and paste it with Elmer's Glue and probably become a pathetic cripple by the time you get in a good mood and gimme the money to get it fixed. I gotta go get lunch now before Kelly eats everything on the table."

She was a whirling dynamo, spinning and hopping and wisecracking good-naturedly. There was a smear of dark-blue water paint on her knee, where the hem of her school jumper brushed her leg. She zoomed around the room on one foot, turned her warship into a war-plane which dove at tables and lamps.

"Hey," Brian asked suddenly, "where's your brother?"

Kit came to rigid attention, the foot still clamped behind her. She raised her dark brows, let her mouth fall open stupidly. "Huh? Who? Me?"

"No, the girl in back of you. Come on, stop being a little wise guy. Where's Kevin? Doesn't he come home with you at lunchtime?"

Kit shrugged elaborately, released her ankle, tested it for pins and needles. "How do I know where he is?" she asked flippantly. "What am I, my brother's keeper?" She roared at her own joke, then dashed toward the kitchen as Brian tossed the shoe at her.

The shoe missed Kit but caught little Billy Delaney right in the face as he toddled into the living room.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, kid," Brian said miserably. "C'mere, come over here, Billy. I didn't mean to hit you. Hey, Ma, you better come in here. Roseanne's kid is holding his breath and turning blue."

Brian wandered aimlessly up Ryer Avenue, rubbed his neck, which was prickly with dark hair. Good day for a haircut; overdue haircut. Maybe later; maybe tomorrow.

He heard the schoolboy voices, softened by distance, muffled by the three-story tan brick building between Ryer Avenue and the small schoolyard on Valentine Avenue.

He remembered what it felt like being a schoolboy on a spring afternoon with the starched white collar held close to his damp neck by the navy-blue tie. He remembered how the sun filtered through beams of dust in odd-shaped patches through the windows on one side of the room and how the chalk smell was heavier and mustier and older in spring sunlight.

Sister Mary Philomena would pull the dark-green shades down to the window sill at the first signs of spring fever in the fourth grade. Brian gazed toward the grade school and on the second floor, Room 206, the shades were down, and behind them, he visualized, were boys and girls in long straight rows who pretended to care about geography and religion and arithmetic while Sister Mary Philomena pretended it wasn't spring.

St. Simon High School was a separate building attached to the grade school, and the schoolyard was shared by all the kids from first grade through the twelfth. It was a small, compact building with slightly larger classrooms and larger desks and the initials carefully cut into the undersides of desks were done by more expert hands.

Brian raised one hand and his fingers settled on the wire-mesh fence which surrounded the schoolyard. Kevin didn't spot him; he was too intent on his game of basketball. He was quick and sharp and never seemed to get out of breath. He darted and pivoted and faked it, turned his shoulders and hips in opposite directions, pretended confusion but never lost control of the ball or sight of his target. Kevin had shot up spectacularly in the last year or so; he seemed all long legs and arms, but he moved with a small boy's coordination. He brought the ball down the court, looked for a screen, then finally one-handed it into the basket.

Brother Gerard blew the whistle, then let it fall. It was a silver glisten against his drab brown monk's habit.

"O'Malley's team, eighteen; Garrett, your guys better get a hustle on. They're murdering you." He took the whistle from around his neck and handed it to one of his students. "Here, Cleary, you ref for a while. And I don't want any arguments. Cleary's word is it while he's the ref."

Brother Gerard walked to the fence and smiled his strange tight smile at Brian. "Your brother's coming along, Brian. He's a little too cocky and sure of himself but he's not bad. He's got to cut out trying to be the whole show but I think I'll be able to smooth the rough edges."

It was one of Brother Gerard's favorite expressions: smooth the rough edges.

The soft white hands seemed harmless enough, thumbs hooked inside the thin leather belt which loosely circled the broad waist. The belt was tied in such a way that in one motion Brother Gerard could untie it, double it over and swing on any target with the minimum amount of effort and the maximum amount of effect. Brother Gerard had been Brian's last teacher at St Simon and even with the years between them and the fence between them and the circumstances of life between them and their last encounter, Brian still remembered the sting of that belt and the terrible, helpless humiliation. He felt a rigid wariness.

The sky-blue eyes peered at him quizzically through the triangular pattern of the fence. "Well, so you're on the job now, are you, Brian?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's fine, just fine. And what are we going to do about your cousin John O'Malley?"

Brian's fingers tightened and he consciously forced himself to let loose of the fence. "What do you mean, do about him, Brother Gerard?"

The large, fleshy face regarded him with an expression that had confronted hundreds of boys behind the closed door of Brother Gerard's study: Don't play dumb with me. Don't play wise guy with me; not with me.

In a reasonable voice, Brother Gerard said, "Why, he's getting to be a big boy, Brian. Seventeen years old and sitting in the classroom with boys and girls two years younger. Have you or any of your uncles any trade in mind for the boy?"

Brian pulled away from the fence and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, then pulled them out again. "Well, my Uncle Peadar and my Uncle Gene have something in mind but they're not set on it just yet." The lie was heavy and thick in his throat and he gazed over Brother Gerard's shoulder to avoid the knowing round stare.

Brother Gerard turned and watched the basketball game for a moment, then called in a hard, clear voice, "All right, Garrett, I saw that. Since you like physical contact so much, I guess basketball isn't the game for you, after all. Stop by my study this afternoon at three. We'll see if we can't come up with a more appropriate game for you."

Brian felt a wave of sympathy for the unfortunate Garrett. The tall, sweaty-faced boy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, started to protest but thought better of it. He squatted along the sidelines and watched his replacement proceed to complete the loss to Kevin O'Malley's audacious if somewhat showy theft of the ball.

Brother Gerard blew his whistle decisively as soon as they heard the hell inside the school building. "All right, into line. O'Malley, you and Sweeney bring in the equipment. The rest of you, remember you're entering a school building and behave accordingly. I don't want to have to remind you."

He marched into the building and the boys followed.

Kevin held two basketballs against his chest and bounced the third. "Hey, Brian. You see the game? Pretty good, huh?"

"Not all that good. But not too bad."

"Not too bad? Listen, by the time I'm a senior, the scouts will be driving St. Simon's crazy with offers for me; phone calls in the middle of the night, all pleading for Flash O'Malley." He dribbled and raced toward the basket, got his shot, then turned to his brother. "Neat, huh?"

Brother Gerard's face appeared from a window on the top floor. "O'Malley, do you need a special invitation to rejoin the class? If you do, I have a special invitation all ready and waiting for you."

Kevin held up the balls and called out, "Gee, Brother Gerard, I'm on my way. They slipped and I been collecting them."

The window slammed down hard and Kevin muttered, "Cheez, he's always riding me. He's a real bastard."

"Kevin, don't let me hear you call Brother Gerard or any other Brother or priest a bastard," Brian said. Kevin's good mood disappeared; his bright grin turned downward; he ducked his head down. "Hey, Kev," Brian called and gestured him toward the fence. Kevin glanced up at the window, then trotted over to Brian. "You know something? Brother Gerard is a real bastard." He winked at Kevin's grin. "I can say it, not you. And you better get your ass upstairs or he's really gonna give it to you. Hey, wait a minute. How come you didn't come home to lunch?"

Kevin pivoted quickly and his large bony hand directed the bouncing ball close to his body. "I ate a coupla Yankee Doodles, Bri. Gives me more time to practice."

"Well, let Mom know if you're not coming home. When I ask where you are, I want to know where you are."

Kevin caught the ball on a high bounce and pulled his mouth down. "That damn Kit. I told her to tell Mom. I'm gonna belt her one, Brian. She never does anything she's told."

The window on the top floor was suddenly flung open and Kevin stood, mouth opened, doom descending.

"O'Malley," Brother Gerard called out coldly, "stop by my study at three o'clock. We'll have a discussion about the proper way to collect athletic equipment."

Kevin whispered, "Oh, shit."

Brian stood in the vestibule of the subway car, and as he watched Debbie Gladner, he experienced a shameful lack of control over his body. He tried to ignore the drawing tightness along the inside of his thighs and into his groin but could not distract himself. Irrevocably, his eyes slid along the row of seated riders but returned to the golden, clean, straight-backed girl.

He tried to discredit her and devaluate her through her choice of companion: a pimple-faced, ferret-eyed, book-toting, nose-twitching, hand-waving, small-boned, Brillo-haired little Jew with one of those round little skullcaps set on the top of his head. What the hell could that guy be saving that would be of any interest to Debbie Gladner?

Her eyes never left her companion's face. She leaned toward him earnestly, nodded frequently, spoke, listened, agreed; at one point, she reached for his sleeve, let her hand linger on the scrawny arm.

Debbie Gladner's touch went unnoticed, totally unregarded by the recipient, which was a measure of his worthlessness and total incapacity to realize the potential of the warm smooth-skinned body, the firm-fleshed legs. Words; that was what the juiceless little bastard seemed to thrive on and what words was he using to create the radiance on Debbie Gladner's face? Christ, Brian would give anything to know.

When the book-clutching, foot-shuffling, round-shouldered creep got off the train at 86th Street, Brian heard him call back into the car, "Okay, Deb. I'll see you later tonight."

Brian closed his eyes in the darkness of the steel tomb and longed for Debbie's body, alive and eagerly responsive to his own. His hands would cup and hold and shape and teach. The train lurched to a stop and he opened his eyes to reality.

This was kid stuff, no longer necessary. He would go to Arthur's place after his tour. Rita's body could be Debbie's. Or any particular body he desired her to be. It was all in his mind and he could act it out any way he wanted.