"Well, what did poor Johnnie say to you, Peadar?" Matt asked reasonably.

Peadar made an ugly derisive sound. "What does he know, the poor damn fool. Seventeen and letting himself be caught with that girl. Nineteen if she's a day and the talk of the neighborhood since she's been thirteen. And where was her concerned family all them years?"

"But when did all this happen?" Brian asked.

Matt explained it. The others were too angry to speak in any continuous strain. "'Well, the girl was hanging around outside the candy store and our John came along last night on his way home from the rehearsal of the school play. Kevin went on home without him because there was some confusion as to where our John was headed. Mary the Widow's been home for some days now. Peadar's been to see her and Ellen too and your mother. From all reports, she's been sober but 'strange.'"

"Yes," Peadar interjected, "she's strange, indeed, very quiet and far-off."

"Well, but it's John we're discussing now," Matt insisted. "At any rate, Brian, no one really missed John for your mother figured he'd be at his own home. And our Johnnie stood fooling with the lads until there was no one left at all but the girl, and didn't she tell him she was afraid to walk home alone, of all things."

Gene snorted angrily. "Afraid, the filthy thing. Ah, Christ, it's our Johnnie should have been afraid."

Matt ignored the interruption. "And he walked the several blocks home with her and she began to get close to him and all that sort of thing, and as luck would have it, the old man opened the door and there was the situation as Peadar described it and as luck would have it." Matt rubbed his neck and told them softly, "It's not as if it was one of our other lads, you know. Any of the others, like Brian here, or my own boys or yours, Peadar, or John the Wop's, were they older, would have had better sense. But the thing here, it seems to me, is that everyone's getting all excited and no one's looking at some side of the whole thing that's occurred to me and to Father Donlon as well."

Peadar stood up angrily and jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. "Father Donlon didn't have any such thing to say to me in the wee hours this morning as you've discussed with him today. He just wanted me to get John out of the rectory and away from the Caprobellas."

Matt remained unruffled. He spoke to Brian. "I went to Father Donlon's after my rounds this morning and we sat quietly and discussed the whole thing without all the passion and the tempers flying. Now, the girl's family has their fruit market over on Bathgate Avenue and the one brother has his own small business in coal. The old man had indicated they'd find a place for our John amongst them, plus he could continue working for me the few hours in the morning."

Gene shook his head. "Jesus God, would you look at this fool, selling his own dead brother's son to the passel of Eye-talians!"

Matt moved with an economy of speed and effort that astonished Brian; he came from his chair, reached for his younger brother's shirt, had it bunched around his throat before Gene's hands could go up reflexively. The large, strong hands did not relent although Gene's face went purple.

Matt's voice revealed none of the passion of his action; it was low and steady and controlled, but deadly. "Now I've had enough of you and your remarks and your useless, stupid insults. I've a mind to throttle you to get some sense into your head, though I'd just as soon not have to bother for it's all rather pointless, but I will if I must." He shook Gene without seeming to exert any effort. Gene's hands couldn't pry the murderous grasp from his throat.

Peadar leaned against the white enamel sink and watched his brothers without a flicker of concern. Brian had never seen his Uncle Matt display even the potential for violence. He felt his heart race and his mouth go dry and he wondered if Peadar realized that Matt held his brother's life within his grasp. It was a long moment before Peadar tapped Matt's shoulder; his hand remained on the milkman's shoulder.

"Let him be, Matt. There's no point our fighting amongst ourselves, is there?"

"There's no point in our fighting at all, is how I see it," Matt said dryly. He dropped his hands and Gene fell back with a gasp, but Matt turned his back on him; any remarks from that quarter would not be worthy of serious attention.

"Well, Brian," Peadar said, "you're more of an age with poor John than any of us. Let's hear from you, then. What would your thoughts be?"

"About letting John marry Anna Caprobella? Uncle Peadar, you've got to be kidding."

Peadar glared at Matt. "Well, between him and Father Donlon they seemed to feel it's not a bad solution."

"Now I didn't say it was a good thing, Peadar. I never said that. But after all, we know John can't stay in school forever; he's a good enough boy and willing to work hard. The girl's family is willing to help set them up. He'd be close by and all..."

"But, Jesus. What did John say about it?" Brian asked.

Matt rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "Ah, well, when Father Donlon put it to him straight out, he wrinkled up his nose and said, 'But, Father, she smells so funny.' Christ, with all the garlic and oily things them people eat, who wouldn't smell funny?" Matt slid his pipestem between his teeth and his face was sad. "Ah, as if that's all was involved with marriage. He's just a boy, after all."

"Well, that's what I've been telling you, Matt," Peadar said, quieter now. "We've talked about getting him into the Navy, Brian."

"The Navy? John?"

"Well, it's not a bad idea," Peadar said. "The thing is, it's better than the other side of the coin. Father Donlon's own sister's son has just joined up and Father Donlon could call the Bishop to take a hand and get the boy started on his way immediately, so the two lads would be together. He's a good sort, Tom Steele, the nephew, and he could keep an eye on our John."

"And what about John?" Brian asked. "Did you ask him about it?"

"Ah, Brian, the lad fancies himself in a uniform as much as anything else," Peadar said brightly. "I'd rather he had a bit of a look at the world than end up behind a counter surrounded by those guineas for the rest of his life. And with that Anna Caprobella waiting for him at home."

The idea suddenly encompassed Brian, appealed to him with a force he did not understand. An escape, a way out of everything, of all things, all responsibilities, all entanglements, all known places and faces and lives and routines and memories. It was the offering of a new life, a fresh start, with the cleansing effect of being a newly emerged communicant, all past sins forgiven, washed away, the vile made clean, the broken made whole, the guilty made innocent.

"What is it, lad?" Peadar asked. "You've a strange expression on your face."

Brian reached for a cigarette and brought himself back into the room. It was John, after all, who was being discussed and not himself.

"I think it would be the best thing for John," he said dishonesty for he'd given no thought to his cousin. "I think that really would be the best."

"Well, we've pretty much decided amongst us then," Peadar said. "Matty, you've no real objections to this decision, have you?"

Matt shrugged. "No, I just felt we should consider the other possibility. After all, it's the lad's whole future we're talking about here. We want what will be best for our John."

"Ah, the Navy's the good choice, then," Peadar said heartily. "Let's eat these sandwiches the wife's left. I'm due to visit with Father Don-Ion at one-thirty and he'll get right to the Bishop. Well, Brian, how goes the job with you, lad?"

The eight-hour tour was both endless and timeless, a compression of hours and an expansion of hours, filled with the dim circle of light, hazy and yellow, over the charts which were shadowed by his own hunched shoulders. Sergeant O'Connor's voice droned; his words rose and fell into sound without meaning. The only fact that penetrated was that Patrolman Mackay would return to his job the next tour and Brian would be out on the street again.

Midnight came as a surprise. It was as though he had spent eight hours suspended in limbo.

The fantasy of Rita Wasinski moved through him with the relentlessness of necessity, and as he walked toward Arthur's apartment, he conjured an endless, repetitive series of confrontations, none of them satisfying.

Arthur jerked his head up and his hands spasmodically leaped on the surface of the newspaper which had fallen over his chest. "Oh, Brian. I fell asleep," he explained unnecessarily. His voice was thick and he struggled to snap himself awake.

Brian had never given a moment's thought to the possibility that Arthur might be present. Everything shattered into disoriented splinters; the familiar apartment turned strange, as though Arthur's intrusion turned it into another place altogether.

"I've got a pot of coffee on, Brian. I'll just put a light under it."

Arthur was on his feet, the newspaper still in his hand. He seemed sharp and alert, intensely aware. It was Brian who felt confused and somewhat dizzy, as though he'd been in a deep sleep.

"Sit down, Brian," Arthur said firmly. "We have to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about, Arthur."

"Sit down."

The little son of a bitch actually pushed him; the thought filled Brian with a dull amusement and he let himself fall into the chair.

"We're going to talk about it," Arthur said.

Brian leaned into the crazy sling chair. Arthur pulled up a wooden chair, turned it backwards, straddled it, poked his face at Brian. His eyes turned inward and his hands grasped the top of the chair.

"There isn't a damn thing to talk about, Arthur. That fucking little whore!" His clenched fist tapped on his knee lightly, then a little harder. He pounded his knee with a fierce series of blows, totally unaware of the pain, surprised at his lack of self-control, but it was Rita's betrayal he pounded at.

Arthur said nothing. Words suddenly burst from the depths of Brian, from the twenty-four hours of unspoken sorrow and unending visions of Rita's body. He had visualized her beneath the bodies of all the men he had ever known and all the men he had never seen but who had touched her, known her.

"I want to kill her, Arthur," he said thickly. "Goddamn it to hell, she isn't worth it, but if she was here, right now, so help me God, I'd I'll her."

Arthur waited him out. The words slowed, fell away finally to silence, then finally Brian was drained. Arthur got him a cup of coffee.

"It's hot, Brian," he said. "Use the handle."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure."

Arthur sipped from his own cup, then carefully placed it on a table. "Brian," he asked carefully, "what is it you expected of her?"

Brian leaned forward, spoke to the floor. "She was in the precinct last night. She was in the goddamn precinct, locked up for prostitution. Did you know that, Arthur? Did she tell you that?"

"I went bail for her, Brian. She called her cousin Stella, and Stell didn't have any money, so she came to me. I gave her the money to get Rita bailed. Rita told me that you were there, that you'd seen her."

"You went bail for her? Jesus Christ, you went bail?"

"She doesn't have anyone else," Arthur said calmly.

Recklessly, Brian said, "Oh, but she's got you, huh, Arthur? Holy Christ, have I been a dumb, stupid bastard. All the time, she's been screwing both of us. I never even gave it a thought."

Arthur's gray face tightened; his fingers clenched the edge of the wooden chair. His voice was high and reedy. "You've got it wrong, Brian. I'm going to straighten you out, once and for all. I told you, right at the very beginning. Rita is a friend. If you find that hard to understand, I'm sorry for you but that's the truth. I've never touched her, never been to bed with her, never 'screwed' her, if that's how you want me to put it."

"The hell you haven't. Why else would you..."

Arthur moved his head from side to side but his eyes stayed on Brian's; the movement of his head made his eyes seem to roll within the sockets. The left eye, the weak one, turned in more than Brian had ever seen before.

"Brian, I'm sorry if it's outside your experience, but that's how it is. Rita is my friend. Not my lover or my bed partner or my whore or whatever else you choose to believe."

He believed Arthur. It was irrational, not believable, impossible, implausible. Yet he believed Arthur. It puzzled him and mystified him that he did believe Arthur.

"You never got around to answering my question, Brian," Arthur demanded relentlessly. "What is it you expected from Rita?"

The unanswerable question cut through all his feelings and all his anger. He shrugged and swallowed some coffee and wiped his mouth and studied the ceiling, the walls, the pictures, the books, looked anywhere but at Arthur, who waited, implacable.

"Oh, shit," Brian said shortly.

Arthur rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, lightly, carefully. "Brian, you still have some growing up to do."

"Oh, but Christ..."

"Oh, but Christ," Arthur mimicked him. "You figured Rita would stop turning a buck, stop making her living, stop paying rent, bills, helping to support her old aunt, all because she had something special, something extra going with you?" Arthur reached out roughly for Brian's sleeve. "Don't keep looking at the ceiling, Brian. Damn it, look at me. Look at yourself. Look at reality." It was the closest Brian had ever seen Arthur come to anger. It wasn't really anger either. There was something pained and hurt and sad about Arthur. "Okay, it was rotten the way it happened last night Sooner or later it had to catch up with you, Brian. That was probably the worst way possible. But come on, kid, that's life."

"I really am dumb, you know, Arthur? I mean, I thought we had something really special going. Now that sounds like a goddamn dumb kid, doesn't it?"

"Brian, you did have something special. Whatever went on between you and Rita belongs only to the two of you."

"And any guy with two bucks, right?"

Arthur clicked his tongue and stood up. "God, you really are a baby, Brian. Exactly what do you think a guy can buy with two bucks?"

Not the endless hours of exploration; the fun and games and creation of a secret private language of sensation and action and reaction and unstated messages and completed communications and feeling of physical wholeness and newness and rising, growing, endless, boundless pleasure.

He followed Arthur into the kitchen, watched him rinse the cups in the chipped square sink.

"Arthur," he said miserably, "I want her. I still want her."

Arthur turned the water off, carefully dried the cups and put them into the cupboard, then dried his hands. He raised a finger at Brian, as though instructing a child.

"You can't see her again, Brian. Not ever." Arthur blinked rapidly and wet his lips. "I'm sorry for what happened. I'm sorry for you and I'm sorry for Rita. But it is a part of your life that you had and now...it's finished."

Brian started to say something, to argue, to deny, but the words stayed in his throat, strangled him with futility.

Arthur reached out, pressed Brian's arm. "Rita doesn't exist anymore, Brian. It's as simple as that. And as tough as that."

TWENTY-FOUR.

BRIAN SIGNED UP FOR the Holy Name Society weekend retreat to be held in Staten Island. He'd had a terrible time of it in the confessional, finally had confronted his own guilt, his own lustful sins. Father Donlon agreed that the retreat would be of tremendous help. His flesh still yearned, still wanted, still longed with a terribleness he had not anticipated.

His weekly confessions did not leave him purged and cleansed; it left him empty and hollow for within him was the unadmitted, unadmittable knowledge that what he really wanted was not to relinquish his sin, but to be held unaccountable for it.

In the cool and burning, hard and tender, known and secret, glowing and murky, beautiful and terrible, vast and minute recesses of his soul, Brian O'Malley longed to be that pure and sinless boy he never was.

Ultimately, he knew it was flesh that held him, possessed him, tormented, intrigued, delighted, encased and encompassed him, and in the desperate futility of his thousandth confession and millionth resolve, it was flesh which mysteriously dominated his every waking and sometimes sleeping moments.

He knew, had been taught, truly believed, that flesh would corrode and rot and pass away and be no more and that it was within the tarnished and sin-scarred soul he would be forced to endure for all eternity.

But having been taught and knowing and truly believing were not enough. What he regretted most of all, what he sorrowed after most of all, was the loss of the flesh of Rita Wasinski, whose flesh completed and fulfilled his own.

He walked his tour mechanically, went through the motions of being, but he felt oddly vacant, transparent, outside of himself. He quietly observed his own actions with a feeling of detachment and disinterest.

Brian glanced around the quiet street, dug a stick of Juicy Fruit gum from his pocket, rolled it into a tight wad, bit down on it. He folded the outer wrapping into a small pellet, aimed at a thin, long-legged cat that was perched on the rim of an uncovered garbage can. He missed his target, but the loud ping against the can made the cat jump a good six inches straight up.

He rubbed his flat hard belly and felt hungry. Fish on Friday nights always left him feeling hungry. Well, what the hell, it was a good six hours since he'd eaten anyway; he'd get a break for a meal in about an hour.

It was a mild night. Surprisingly so, for the day had been surprisingly raw. Ten minutes after ten. Brian checked his wristwatch against the collection of clocks in the window of Farbenstein's jewelry store. Ten after ten; ten after ten; ten after ten. There was something in the air, some quality, some elusiveness, that taunted him, stirred him to restlessness and discontent. The sky was very black, pierced by bright stars, pin sharp. The only formation he could ever make out was the Big Dipper.

Two elderly men walked toward him. They spoke loudly at each other, over each other's words, not listening, too busy telling to listen. One waved his small bundle of religious items in front of him as he spoke. The other shook an index finger at his companion. Their words were incomprehensible to Brian but he was accustomed to the endless, vehement, earnest arguments and discussion of the old men on their way home from late-Friday-night services. Sometimes, as he patrolled past their synagogues, the noise was unbelievable and he wondered how they dared to carry on in such loud, angry voices in a house of God. They were peculiar, at least this special tribe, marked by their long dark clothing and flowing beards and side curls and large-brimmed hats.

Brian touched his nightstick to his cap and cocked his head slightly at them. In response, they nodded, but never interrupted themselves or broke the force of their argument. At the corner, Brian rocked back on his heels. He fingered the Indian-nut machine absently, was surprised that the handle turned on an unused penny. Carefully, he cupped his hand under the spout and felt his palm fill with the thin-shelled tiny nuts.

Indian nuts were a pain in the ass to eat All that delicate biting down, tongue manipulating the tiny white meat from the sharp, broken fragments of shell. For one fleeting, sweet remnant of taste.

Brian carefully spit the shelled nuts into the palm of his hand. He'd collect a handful of nuts before eating them. But there might be one bad nut, one little morsel of black, in the collection; that would ruin the taste. He moved toward the street light, tilted the palm of his hand, then ate the mouthful of little white nuts. They were delicious. He brushed crumbs from the palm of his hand.