None of the O'Malleys knew how it had come about, though they had all speculated through many hours of fanciful calculation. Jimmie John's extreme discretion was a source of annoyance to them and they were left entirely to their own imaginations as to what took place in Jimmie John's life at a certain point. It just came about, somehow, that one of the lady diners, a rich widow with more than fifteen years on him, had taken a fancy to him. Jimmie John must have returned her feelings, for he did a totally incomprehensible thing.

At age twenty-five, and just at the time an examination for the Police Department opened for filing, and the O'Malleys had arranged an application for him so that he could join them in their chosen career, the lad packed his meager belongings-a collection of clean underwear, several pairs of socks, an extra pair of trousers besides those he wore, two clean shirts, one warm sweater and one light jacket-and informed them all that he was off to start a new life.

"But what the hell are you talkin' about then?" Peadar demanded.

Jimmie John, considerate as always, said, "Why, it's a life you'd not approve, Peadar, so why should I burden you with it?"

"Well, I've some right to know, seein' as how you've been under my roof for nearly two years and seein' as how was me arranged yer fine job for you in the first place," Peadar reasoned.

Jimmie John conceded to some extent. "Well, all right then, but I'd rather not say too much, you understand. You see, Peadar, a fine lady has taken an interest in me."

"A fine lady? Taken an interest in you? Now what the devil does that mean?"

Amiably, Jimmie John said, "Why, Peadar, it's that which I'm off to find out."

That was it. It was all he would say and he left them to ponder without a further word of explanation ever.

When next they saw him, it was not a beaten, shamed boy but a quietly relaxed, subtly changed man. Any lesser than the O'Malleys would have been in awe of him for he arrived, unannounced and unexpected, with the beam of good health glowing from his handsome face. He wore obviously expensive clothes: a handsome dark-gray sharkskin suit, crisp white shirt and dark tie. His shoes gleamed not only with high polish but from the quality of the leather.

They had predicted, darkly, that he would return with his tail between his legs and his sins to account for. It had taken two years and he came laden with gifts for one and all, unmistakably thoughtful gifts, each chosen specifically for the one for whom it was intended.

It was clear once and for all that no power on earth could force, cajole or jolly any more information from Jimmie John than he cared to relay and where his personal life was concerned he was pleasantly tight-lipped.

Through the years, Jimmie John appeared and disappeared in and out of their lives. Sometimes he'd stay with Ellen and Matt, but more often with Margaret and Brian, for his bonds of kinship were stronger and more natural with Margaret. She had a discretion close to his own and a deep inborn loyalty which respected his own strange loyalty to the unknown woman.

There were times, though Jimmie John never let slip a word of complaint or concern, but there were times Margaret knew her brother's visit was because he'd had some falling out with the woman. He'd arrive, somewhat pale and hesitant, empty-handed and with just the clothes on his back, and stay a week or so, rarely more. Each night he'd wash his shirt and underwear carefully, not letting Margaret do his laundry. Bedded down in a pair of borrowed pajamas, which he'd wash each morning, Jimmie John would sleep, rise and shower and press his shirt and dress and get the kettle up before anyone in the house was awake.

Another thing he insisted on: he'd help with the household chores. He'd perch on a window sill and sing and polish the panes to a high gleam, then go to work on the floor to make it shine as well.

"For Christ's sake," Brian would say about his brother-in-law, "is that what he does for her, then? Is that his special talent?"

But Margaret knew there was no work that did not give Jimmie John pleasure; yet there was more than the joy of doing involved. He had to have some way to pay for his bed and board. In the evenings, he sang and told stories to the children and just kept them all good company and they'd feel better for his presence.

As suddenly as he arrived, Jimmie John would depart with just a word, a quick hug and a whisper in his sister's ear. "Thanks, darlin', for your kindness. God watch over and love you until next time."

And then he'd be gone and that was the way of him.

He'd come in October, when Brian had been killed, stayed a few days, filled himself with a thousand chores Margaret didn't even know of but couldn't have done without. Then he departed from their lives with nothing but a postcard at Christmas with the words "My love to all from Jimmie John" scrawled in his beautiful fancy hand across the entire message space. The picture on the other side of the card was from some place called Hollywood, Florida: a big pink hotel with all tall, thin feathery palm trees lining a white beach with blue water.

Now here he was, on a June evening right in the midst of them and keeping them all from killing each other.

"Oh, I've got some surprises for all of you, but first let me get my fill of you," Jimmie John said. They were just as anxious to get their fill of him, though the two youngest, Kit and Kevin, still red-faced and panting from their fight, were anxious to have a look at their presents.

For the first time, Brian considered him as more than the glowing, cheerful apparition who periodically brought a sense of excitement and adventure into their lives. He found himself now somewhat puzzled and confused and curious and even somewhat anxious and resentful. All the overheard discussions, all the tossed-off, scornful, admiring jokes, all the mystery of his uncle's life, came to mind and he studied Jimmie John intently as though the answer might appear on his face.

Brian felt the blood rush furiously to his cheeks when Jimmie John turned his green eyes on him, cocked his head to one side as though he'd just been asked a question.

Jimmie John smiled and said softly, "Ah, his father's son. In your build and in your features, Bri, you've got his looks. But you're yourself too, aren't you?" He nodded slowly and smiled. "Yes, that's the important thing, isn't it?"

Brian had to get off to work but he left them all in a bubbling excitement: Roseanne, finished her crying and sulking and easily wooed by her uncle's kind words; Kit and Kevin, all rivalries forgotten, bursting with greed for their presents; his mother, glowing with the softness of her love for her brother; his grandmother, muttering darkly but still eager and curious; Martin, quietly among them, accepting all their wild angers and bursting joys. He'd have to think about Jimmie John; he'd have to contemplate the mystery of him a bit more.

"Can we look, Jimmie John?" Kit begged, her hands plucking at his sleeve. He was their only relative to discard the tide that marked his elevation over them. He was never one of the vast army of grownups who seemed to be free to correct them, yell at them, smack them, tell them what to do and how to do it, to catalog what they did wrong, to tell them they had to shut up, or get up, or get out or get in.

He was for all his tall and shining and immaculate elegance one of them and understood their driving impatience to get on with important things.

"Of course, love," he told Kit and opened one of the suitcases he brought. "Dig in, then, until you find something marked with your name."

They tossed aside various packages done up in fancy paper, shoved away what wasn't for them, rummaged through yards of heavy linen and filmy, almost vaporous, material which was seized by Roseanne with small shrieks of delight. Margaret tried to contain them, warned they'd break a fragile glass or scratch a fine piece of silver, for the suitcase contained all kinds of treasures.

"Well, Jimmie John, they're going mad for sure," Margaret said and enjoyed her youngest ripping open their packages.

"Merry Christmas in June," Jimmie John told them. "You've each found your best gift, but have no doubt there's other booty to share. Well, open up then, open up."

Kevin held the black hard circle in his hands uncertainly and looked at Jimmie John, who took it, deftly tapped and snapped it into a high silk hat. "All you need is the cane and you'll be a regular Fred Astaire," Jimmie John told him.

Kevin tipped the hat rakishly over one eye, did a fast two-step and danced out into the hallway to admire himself in the tall narrow mirror.

"It's a ring," Kit said without any effort to disguise her disappointment.

Jimmie John motioned her close; his words were for her ears only. "Ah, but it's a special ring, Kit darlin', and I've been saving it a very long time just especially for you." He glanced around to assure the privacy of their conversation. "You see, but doesn't it look just a small gold signet ring, on the face of it? Well, see, there's a secret catch here, just at the edge, if you know about it. And there's this little flat compartment inside, do you see?"

It was too tiny for a photograph, yet it must have a purpose. Kit touched the hollow space with her fingertip. "For...code messages?"

Jimmie John shrugged, not ready to commit himself too quickly. "Some might think that, maybe. Some who listen, maybe, to them radio programs like Little Orphan Annie with all their fine code rings and think that's all there is to secret chambers in gold rings." He stared at the ring with grave attention. "But there's others might put this to another use, if you take my meaning."

"Poison," Kit whispered dramatically. "It could hold just enough poison for a spy to swallow if he got caught. Right, Jimmie John?"

"Or maybe enough poison, depending on how powerful a substance it is, to wipe out a whole nation of enemies, was it placed in their food or drinking water. And the spy could emerge, alive and victorious." Carefully, he slid the ring on Kit's finger. "A perfect fit and didn't I know. Now there's just this one last thing, Kit." He leaned close to her face and solemnly told her, "I'm not saying I know the history of this ring or nothin' like that, love, but for the love of God be sure you wash your fingertip thoroughly before it finds its way into your mouth, after having touched that little secret chamber." He nodded and winked. "A word to the wise, love, a word to the wise."

Jimmie John stayed until the day after Roseanne's wedding. To her plaintive wail that her only sister had nothing but a tacky Sunday dress to wear, Jimmie John responded with the purchase of yards and yards of soft light-blue velvet-"to contrast with Kit's dark eyes." He managed to get Kit to stand still long enough to be draped and fitted and finally admired in her floor-length member-of-the-wedding gown ("Which can be cut down and hemmed, later, Margaret, for Sunday wear").

His skill with a needle was as mysterious and wonderful as his sense of what looked right on any of them. He added lace and filmy gauze to Roseanne's borrowed dress, fitted it closer to her long slender waist, made it truly her own wedding gown.

Over her protests, he marched Margaret off to a dress shop and refused to let her look at price tags, only at color and style, until they had selected a soft, bluish-gray crepe.

The old woman insisted she'd wear black, with her own dead son not a year in his grave, but Jimmie John fashioned a lovely deep collar for her from some leftover blue velvet from Kit's dress. He convinced her it would be in keeping with her mourning, and once the old woman saw how the color picked up the color of her eyes, she consented and even stopped complaining and accusing them all of disrespect and sacrilege.

Roseanne's wedding day was exactly as it should have been: bright and sunny, without too much warmth for discomfort, a clean, clear, cloudless deep-blue sky. Brian Drought his sister down the aisle and he felt mysteriously transformed by his part in the ritual, for through some mysterious magic transformation everyone present, parent or grandparent, brother or sister, aunt, uncle, friend, became an integral part of the event, drawn by the familiar chant of words, hushed and enthralled at the presence of the Host and the solemn irrevocability of the vows exchanged.

The beauty of the bride was so fragile, pure and ghostly pale, then suddenly, joyously, radiantly flushed, that everyone felt breath catch in the back of his throat and everyone prayed for the happiness of the girl and her large and blushing groom.

"And to the health of the groom's father, wherever he might be, the bastard," Peadar rasped over the rim of his glass.

"Ah, none of that now, Peadar, for the love of God, not on the girl's wedding day," his brother Gene said. However, he touched glasses and drank the toast. He leaned against the refrigerator and poked his chin toward Jimmie John across the room and busy with trays of food. "Well, what do you think, brother? He still 'active on the job' or what?"

"I wish to hell I knew and that's a fact. There's just one thing I'm sure of where that fancy man's concerned."

Brian tried to be casual but it was difficult. The floor moved first toward him and then away. The next rush of motion might land him on the floor and he didn't want his uncles to pay any mind to him; he wanted to hear what they had to say.

"Ah, look at the lad, will you, Gene? Is it the first time you've really had at the hard stuff, Brian? By the look of you, you've gone silly on us."

Peadar's grasp was hard but friendly and steadying. Brian's mouth was numbed and his voice didn't really carry out his intentions. He wanted to sound casual and calm; he sounded intense and frantic to his own ears as he leaned close to his uncle. "What is the one thing you're sure of, Peadar?"

Gene laughed sharply. "Well, well, been listenin' to your elders, have you? Seems he's been wonderin' about our Jimmie John, Peadar."

Brian felt confused; he hadn't meant to come right out with it; he was somewhat shocked. He felt as though the words had been lifted from his brain against his will.

Peadar leaned his forehead against the side of Brian's head. "Well, the one thing I'm sure of, lad, is that Her Ladyship, whoever the hell she is, she isn't an Irish lass and that's for damn sure, eh, Gene?"

Gene sputtered and nodded. "Oh, Jesus, yes, that's for sure enough. Oh, will you look at the boy, Peadar, trying to figure it out. Sure, you don't know everything yet, now do you, Bri?"

Brian swayed carefully, trying to keep in time with the floor beneath his feet and at the same time synchronize with the wall opposite. "I never said I knew everything, Uncle Gene," he said, careful to move his tongue slowly. "Which is why I'm asking, so that I can learn."

"Good lad," Peadar said. "Good lad, like a lad willing to learn." He winked, tapped the side of his nose and told Brian, "Well, lad, if you'd our knowledge of women, you'd know Jimmie John's lady couldn't be one of our own." He winked broadly at Brian and turned to Gene for confirmation.

"Damned right, damned right. No Irishwoman would ever pay for it, oh, God love us, but that's a fact. Damned hard enough to make them put up with it half the time."

A sudden thought came to Gene and he stared narrowly at his nephew. "What did you come upon, all those months on your own, Bri, eh? You've never told anyone at all, now did you, lad?"

There was an urgency in his words, a greedy demand to know. He swallowed some more whiskey and pretended to be drunker than he was. "Come on now, lad, tell your Uncle Gene all about it."

"Came upon hard times, Uncle Gene, that's wha' I came upon. Gonna be very sick, very very sick right now..."

Brian made it to the bathroom in time to be sick with some degree of privacy. He flushed the toilet, rinsed his mouth with cold water and splashed his forehead and neck before he even noticed Kevin.

"What are you doing there?" Kevin was perched on the side of the bathtub.

Kevin shrugged. His eyes were empty glass marbles: light-blue puries. He balanced on the side of the tub precariously. Brian thought that if he touched Kevin with the tip of one finger, the boy would fall over backwards into the tub, which was filled with ice and kegs of beer. Kevin sighed, a thin whistling sound that carried with it a powerful aroma of whiskey.

"For Christ's sakes, what have you been drinking?" He grabbed Kevin's shirt just in time to keep him from toppling over backwards. Brian's hands trembled but carefully he helped his brother to kneel and face the tub. He managed to get a piece of ice to the boy's chalk-white face. Kevin shuddered once, then passed out. His face was thin and tight and so pale it was almost blue.

"Oh, it's caught up with him, has it?" Peadar said good-naturedly. He leaned over, lifted Kevin lightly to his shoulder, fireman-style. Then he noticed Brian. "You are all right now, aren't you, lad? Wouldn't do for your ma to see both of you passed out."

"Is he okay?" Brian asked dully.

Peadar smacked Kevin on the backside heartily and there was a faint protesting stir. "He'll be as good as fine, don't worry none. He's been draining glasses all day and all night, the rascal. I'll just put him on the bedroom floor next to John the Wop, who passed out an hour ago and is snoring Sweet Jesus. So much for the capacity of the Eye-talians!" Peadar leaned close to Brian and told him, "The thing is, son, you should take your drink slow and steady and by easy stages. It's supposed to make you feel good, not sick." Kevin sighed and shifted slightly; Peadar patted his leg. "Easy, lad, we'll get you down directly. Hey, Brian, listen to that! Hear your old Nana singing? She's just getting herself started, lad. Now we'll hear some of the good old songs, now the old one's all warmed up to go!"

Matthew O'Malley wrapped his arms around his mother in a bear hug. "Give us a good rousin' song about the troubles, Ma. Won't you do that for us, darlin'?"

She shoved him back and sent him sprawling into a collection of nephews and nieces.

"Be damned to you if you'll be tellin' me what to sing. I'll sing me own songs to me own pleasure." Her sharp eyes glittered around the room until she found Jimmie John. "Here, come over here then, lad, and let's hear that fine sweet tenor of yours." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and hit the surface of the footstool with a thumping palm. "Stand back and let Jimmie John through, you bunch of roughnecks. C'mon now, darlin', I'll get them all to pipe down." Her voice rose to a roar, subdued them all, dominated them all, sober or drunk. It was the no-nonsense woman they had obeyed from earliest childhood and the silence she demanded was both respectful and affectionate. "Climb up here now, Jimmie John, and give us a song like you give the quality folk."

Jimmie John, in response, lifted the old woman from the floor and placed her on the footstool, then pressed his face close to hers. "Sure, we'll sing harmony, darlin', for I need a strong voice to bolster my own, what with the good whiskey's been thinning it all day."

"Ah, sure, he's the smooth one, isn't he?" the old woman said but her face glowed and she was pleased and flattered that he insisted.

Jimmie John sang softly and sweetly and carefully kept the old woman on key. Skillfully, he let his voice become an echo of hers as she became stronger and more robust. When she faltered, he picked it up. He led her through the old ballads, the romantic, pining, sad, sentimental farewell songs. Then, when the mood of sadness seemed to be affecting the party, he changed to the jaunty, somewhat off-color songs of his youth, and the younger wedding guests cast quick, questioning glances at each other and grinned and giggled as their elders joined in eagerly and without restraint. Finally, she fell against him, exhausted, and snapped her fingers for a drink.

"For the sweet love of Jesus, will you give me something wet before I perish!"

"Ah, Mary me love," Jimmie John said, "we'll all perish before yourself and that's for sure. You're that strong and sly, Mary me dear."

The old woman reached out her hand and touched his cheek and her gaze was thoughtful and puzzled and sad. "Ah, now there's a strange thing, yes, very strange. There's none to call me Mary left anymore. And used to be, all around would call me Mary this and Mary that and none to call me by my name." She studied Jimmie John intently, as though he could solve the mystery, and then, softly, as though it was a secret to keep between them, she said, "I was a young girl once. I truly was, and all who saw me called me Mary."

Jimmie John whispered to her, "Why and so you are Mary and shall always be to me, love. Here now, drink this down and you'll feel the girl you used to be."

The party continued long after the bride and groom departed. It continued so long that hardly anyone remembered what had prompted it in the first place.

Children slept where they fell, exhausted, overfed, overexcited. They woke from time to time, reached for more candy or cake, had hands smacked or shoulders shaken or found themselves hugged tightly and danced about the room and fussed over and then abandoned abruptly to entertain themselves.

Kit O'Malley leaned out of the sixth-floor window of her Uncle Gene's apartment and saw the light from her own home flooding the street in front of the house. Probably everyone forgot she was here, and maybe she'd make it through the night with the rest of her cousins. They had all vowed to stay awake until daylight and were telling each other stories and making up lies to keep awake.

SIXTEEN.

DEBBIE GLADNER HAD LONG tawny hair which she pushed casually from her face from time to time as stray locks escaped from her pink ribbon. Her skin glowed with good health and her lips, innocent of lipstick, were full and turned up at the corners. She had a strong, limber, athletic body, slender without thinness. She exuded a calm self-confidence that always put Brian O'Malley at a disadvantage.

Brian held up the package of Neccos and waited for Debbie to reappear from behind the candy stand. He could hear her humming to herself as she arranged boxes of candy along the floor behind the counter. She stood up, started at the sight of him.

"Oh, hello, Brian. I didn't know you were there. Want anything beside the Neccos?"

"No, these will be fine."

Brian knew he looked pretty good in his usher's uniform. In fact, some of the girls passed pretty specific remarks relative to his black hair and stark blue eyes. He was just over six feet tall, narrow-hipped, wide-shouldered. The gym workouts three times a week at Delehanty's in preparation for the Police Department's competitive physical exam had firmed and hardened and expanded his body. Yet, when Debbie Gladner looked at him, he felt like a gawky schoolboy. Just another guy.

"Have you seen the picture yet, Debbie?"

Systematically, she arranged the Hershey bars and Planters Peanuts in rows and she didn't look up from her work. "I haven't time to stand around and watch." Debbie was a student at City College and spent most of her working time hunched over a book behind her counter. She put the book aside only when the counter was besieged between pictures.

"Well, since I have to be inside most of the time, I might as well watch." Damn it; he was offering her excuses when he owed her nothing. Knowing this, he continued anyway. "I don't watch everything. Just that I like John Garfield."

"John Garfield?" The full mouth turned down scornfully and her blunt hand shoved a shining lock from her smooth face. "You mean Julie Garfinkle. I get a pain right in the eyes with all these jerks who change their names."

"Is that what his real name is, Julie Garfinkle?"

The straight brows over her dark eyes drew together and she thrust her chin up and regarded him suspiciously. "You think there's something wrong with that name? Well, I happen to think there's something wrong with a Jew who doesn't want to be identified as a Jew."

Brian wasn't sure what to say. He shrugged, then offered, "Well, I guess maybe John Garfield looks better on the marquee than Julie Garfinkle."

"Looks better? How can one name look better than another name? To whose eyes, looks better? We're talking about connotations now, aren't we?"