"Well, that's Viv's job, isn't it? She's his legal guardian."

"And Viv's pushing eighty and won't leave the house. You're the one who said she's losing it. You couldn't have checked to see if she closed the loop?"

Deirdre took her feet off the table and leaned toward him. "You know what, Sean? You're right. I should have checked. I should have done that instead of all the time I spent with the kid because he has no friends. In fact, I should've quit my job and my acting career and every other fucking thing I care about and become this family's goddamned handmaid. But I didn't. And neither, by the way, did you. In fact, you've been all about you. You haven't given a shit about anyone else your whole life, Sean. So don't come after me for a few phone calls Viv may or may not have answered." She stood, put her glass on the counter, and left.

Sean sat there at the kitchen table, stunned. How could anyone think he'd been all about himself, least of all his sister? He'd spent his entire adult life tending to other people's gaping, gangrenous wounds. He'd had dysentery more times than he could remember and had never owned anything he couldn't carry in a backpack. People commented on his selflessness so often it had almost gotten boring.

He rose slowly, rattled by her attack. He dumped the rest of his beer in the sink and loaded her glass into the dishwasher. Then he went upstairs and got into bed. He tried to pray for her, which was what he always did-after praying for the attacked, he'd send up a prayer for their attackers to turn their hearts. But it didn't work. He couldn't quiet his indignation enough to open the window of prayer in his mind, couldn't make the connection, couldn't feel the sense of peace and oneness. All he could feel was the buzz of resentment in his head and the throbbing angry pain in his back.

A few days later, Cormac called to say Barb had a class on Tuesday nights-did Sean want to go to The Palace for dinner? Cormac already knew the answer. It was what they always did when Sean was in town-hit The Pal, ate greasy bar food, had a beer or two beyond their usual limit, laughed their heads off, got philosophical, laughed some more, then walked home.

The Palace had been built as a fishing lodge on the shore of Lake Pequot, slowly morphing into a bar sometime during Prohibition (because what better time to start serving alcohol?). Rustic and perennially damp, it still felt a little like a fishing hut to which beer taps and bar stools had been added on a whim. The kitchen came later and was of unknown vintage, but certainly not recent.

"What are you doing for money these days?" asked Cormac as he studied the stained and very brief menu.

"I still have that trust account Aunt Viv set up when my mom got sick. I just pull the interest off that. Don't worry, you don't have to foot the bill."

"Hey, I'm honored to buy brews for a guy who's done so much good in the world." And Cormac meant it, Sean knew. But Deirdre's accusation still rattled in the back of his mind, and the comment made him squirm.

"So, how's business?" he asked.

"Pretty damn good, actually," Cormac admitted. "You'd think strong coffee and fresh muffins were the only known antidote to some disease everybody has." He put the menu down. "Hey, um. If you ever wanted to pick up some extra cash while you're home, I could use the help. I mean, I don't know how long you're staying . . ."

"Yeah, I'm not really clear on that, either. I was hoping a little time off would clear up this back thing."

"Which you won't get looked at."

Sean shrugged.

"Okay, well, just to warn you? Barb got a massage yesterday, and she knows you haven't made an appointment. She'll definitely bug you about it the next time you come over." He said this unapologetically, as if his wife's pestering were something Sean would have to endure without Cormac's intercession or sympathy. It was a change for which Sean wasn't prepared: Cormac, a forty-something bachelor, suddenly committing himself so entirely to another person that he wouldn't intervene or even commiserate about her unwanted assistance. "Just go once," he said. "And if it doesn't work, you can tell her you tried."

They ordered a plate of nachos and some beers and chatted amiably about one thing and another. Cormac's cousin Janie was in minor freak-out mode because she was worried the guy she was with was about to propose.

"This is a problem?" Sean remembered Janie well. Her freak-outs were not pretty.

"Nah, the guy's perfect for her. But you know, she really loved her husband who died, and to her it feels like saying, 'I'm so over you, I'm marrying someone else.' That's what she says. But I also think it's a housing issue. She grew up in the house she and her kids live in, and Tug-that's the guy she's going to marry, or so help me I'll kill her-he's a contractor and she met him when he came to build a porch her husband commissioned before he died. So she's attached to it. And Tug lives in the house his grandfather built with his own hands right across the lake over there." Cormac flicked his thumb toward the window. "So he's attached to that."

Sean laughed. "See, I'm telling you-life is so much easier when you're attached to nothing!"

Cormac smiled and nodded absently. "I don't know . . ." He took a sip of his beer. "I have to admit, I'm getting pretty attached to being attached."

Sean's smile faded a little. But he clinked Cormac's beer bottle with his own and said, "Herman, you big sap."

Several beers later, the subject of Dougie Shaw came up.

"There is nothing you can say that'll make me believe Dougie Shaw should be allowed to carry a concealed weapon," said Sean, licking Buffalo-wing sauce off his fingers. "We're talking about a guy who loved whipping balloons full of ketchup at passing cars."

"He only did that twice, and nobody got hurt."

"You're defending him? The guy was insane. How about when he went to the homecoming game in his mother's wedding gown and asked Ricky Cavicchio to marry him at halftime?"

Cormac burst out laughing. "Jesus! Remember that? He looked pretty good in that dress, too-fit him perfectly!"

"Mrs. Shaw was no ballerina, if I recall. And Cavicchio went so mental it took the whole offensive line to keep him from beating the crap out of Dougie right there on the field. What was the point of that, anyway?"

"Come on, you remember," said Cormac. "Cavicchio had been calling him a faggot and slamming him into lockers since junior high. It was the perfect revenge-the guy was so rattled afterward he threw a bunch of interceptions and lost the game."

Sean laughed. "Okay, so Dougie deserves a medal-not a police cruiser."

The subject of unusual childhood behavior eventually turned to Kevin. "I'm a little worried about him," said Sean. "He doesn't seem to have any friends. And he's so quiet. You can barely get the kid to talk under klieg lights."

"He used to come into the Confectionary every once in a while with your aunt," Cormac said, dipping the last celery stick in blue cheese sauce. "But I haven't seen either of them in a while. Bring him around sometime. Get him a piece of pie."

"Pie," Sean smirked. "That's your solution to everything."

"Solved every problem I ever had. Hunger, employment . . ." He raised his eyebrows. "Female companionship."

"Pie slut."

"Fruit, sugar, and a nice flaky crust." Cormac raised his beer. "Makes the world a sweeter place, my friend."

CHAPTER 8.

Sean drove to Tree of Life Spa, irritable as an overtired child. He didn't believe a massage would help his back, and he certainly didn't want to spend the money. Eighty bucks for the privilege of having his ravaged musculature pummeled and poked? Why would anyone agree to that?

Independence Day, that was why.

Cormac's Confectionary was the one store in Belham Center that would be open. And as fire trucks and antique cars, uniformed Boy and Girl Scouts, and various clowns and elected officials marched by, parade goers would be thronging to the shop for sustenance. It was only two days away, and Cormac was having a heck of a time rounding up the necessary quorum of employees. Even his father had said, "I'll help if I have to, but I'd sure rather sit my ass in a lounge chair and watch from the sidewalk like I've done every year for the past half-century."

In desperation Cormac had called Sean, and what could Sean say? I'm busy? He wasn't. In fact he was bored. He'd been home for more than two weeks now and, other than the odd home maintenance job, trip to the grocery store, or pass over the carpets with the vacuum, he really had nothing going on. He'd logged some hours on Deirdre's laptop researching travel to Tierra del Fuego and, when that failed to inspire him, other distant locales. Nothing grabbed him.

And while slinging scones and smoothies to the tune of off-key marching band music didn't really light his fire, either, he was willing to give Cormac a hand. He was actually a little relieved to have something to do.

Cormac was unnecessarily grateful. "All the pie you can eat! And bring Kevin!"

The downside occurred to Sean as he hung up the phone. Barb. The massage. Jesus, how had he gotten himself boxed into that one? For a guy who'd spent the better part of his life honing a George Clooneylike ability to avoid interpersonal obligations, he'd really blown it.

So here he was, with his seldom-used credit card in his back pocket, driving to a spa, of all places. Aunt Vivian had given him the card shortly before his first overseas trip. "What's this for?" he'd asked naively.

"Emergencies."

"What kind of emergencies?"

"I have no idea," she'd replied, paging through The Avant Gardener. "Whatever you deem emergent."

The credit limit was purposely kept very low in case it was stolen. The statements went to her, and she paid off the balance from his trust fund. Occasionally his meager earnings outpaced his living expenses, and he sent her the excess, which she posted to the fund. She wired him money for big-ticket items like plane fare and reimbursed herself.

Can't wait to see the look on her face when this bill comes in, Sean thought.

Tree of Life was located in a strip mall on Route 9, and was distinctly unleafy. Sean slid the Caprice into a parking spot in front of the sooty pink stucco facade and walked in.

"Hi," he said to the receptionist with the Cleopatra eyeliner and burgundy-red hair. "I've got an appointment with Missy at eleven?"

She gave him a look that said, Maybe you do and maybe you don't, and gazed apathetically at the appointment book. Then she got up and went down the hallway without a word. He heard voices, then a strange gush of noise, like someone venting a brief wail of exhaustion or despair. Cleopatra slunk back down the hall toward him, lifted a finger as if it were too much of an effort to point in any specific direction, and said, "Room three." Sean took that as permission to search somewhere behind her for it, should it actually exist.

There were four doors: rooms one, two, and three, and one with a sign that said, MASSAGE THERAPISTS ONLY. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR ROOM. He entered room three, which was taken up almost entirely by a sheet-shrouded massage table. The lights were dim, and it took him a moment to locate the source of what sounded like a running toilet-a miniature fountain with water cascading over a small pile of smooth black rocks that sat on a table in the corner. The sound made him feel as if he hadn't fully emptied his bladder the last time he'd hit the men's room.

The door opened and in walked a woman with wiry blond hair and pajama-like clothing. Her eyes seemed red. "Hi, I'm Missy?" she said. "I'll be applying a deep-muscle massage?" She instructed Sean to disrobe-he could leave his underwear on if he preferred, it didn't matter one bit to her. Then he should lie facedown under the sheet and rest his forehead on the doughnut-shaped cushion at one end. She pressed two fingers between her eyes and abruptly walked out. When the door closed, he heard the weird gushing wail again.

Christ, he thought, what the hell am I doing here?

He was tempted to leave. But what if this Missy told Barb he'd walked out on her? Barb would not be happy. So Cormac would not be happy. And Sean calculated it was worth just about eighty bucks and an hour of torture not to piss off his closest friend. But that's it, he told himself. He wasn't coming back to this loony bin ever again. He stripped and lay down.

Several minutes later, the door opened and closed with a hushed click. With his face resting in the doughnut hole, he couldn't see anything except the industrial-grade carpet, but he could hear Missy's even breaths, and he thought she seemed calmer. Her hand rested briefly on the back of his head, and he could feel her lean away for a moment. The running toilet sound stopped, there was a click, and soft acoustic guitar music filled the room.

Her hands slid gently up and down his back, lightly skimming his skin, and he felt his brittle nerve endings melt just a little under her touch.

"Okay," she said, her voice round and melodious. "Missy's having a little bit of a hard day, so I'm going to do your massage. I'm Rebecca. I'm sorry-I know you requested her."

"It's fine. I don't really know her," he said. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." He thought he could hear a little sliver of a smile in her voice. "Everything's fine." Her fingers started to press harder, exploring the terrain of his back. "How's this feel?"

"Uh, honestly? It hurts like hell."

"No kidding-your muscles are like cement. I'll go easy, but I do want you to walk out of here with some relief." As she began to press harder, the pain increased, but it was a shifting pain, not the impenetrable anvil type that he generally carried around all day. "Tell me if I overdo it, okay?" she said.

"Don't worry about that. It hurts all the time anyway."

"How'd it get like this, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm a nurse," he said.

"On your feet all day, lifting patients, the stress of people's lives in your hands . . ."

"Exactly."

"Are you wearing good supportive shoes?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Ow! That's a little sore there."

"And why should I be gentle with a person in your line of work who doesn't take care of his one and only body by wearing good shoes?" She said this in a teasing way, but he knew she was also making a point.

So he told her about Africa, and how his coworkers often had only sandals or battered sneakers. He would never have shamed them by sporting high-end shoes, not for all the knots in his entire body. She began to work on his arms, finding pockets of soreness around his elbows and wrists and even in the palms of his hands that he didn't realize he had. She asked about the work he did, and he found himself telling her about the less gruesome cases, careful to gauge how squeamish she might be. She let out little sighs of sadness, an occasional, "Oh, that's awful," but he never heard her reach the point of distress.

"And what sustains you?" she asked as she kneaded the backs of his thighs and calves.

"Sustains me?"

"Yeah, you know, what fills your tank so you can keep going?"

The long answer, which involved genetics, terminal illness, his belief in being chosen by God for the task, and the assumption that he'd be dead by now . . . it was a little heavy to get into with someone he'd just met-and hadn't even seen. But she seemed interested and intelligent, and to have magical powers over his pain, so he didn't want to blow it off, either.

"It used to be faith," he said. "But I have to admit, at the moment I'm pretty burned out."

"So you came back to the States to recharge."

"That was the plan."

"It's not working?"

"Not really. At least not yet. Feels more like a holding pen than a jumping-off spot."

She didn't say anything for a moment, just kept working a line of soreness along his inner calf, pressing at it, coaxing it to dissipate.

"That must sound pretty self-centered," he said.

"No," she said quietly. "I was just thinking . . . the only difference between the two is-and I'm referring more to myself at the moment, so please don't be offended-"

"No, of course not."

"The only difference between a holding pen and a jumping-off spot . . . it's you, and whether you decide to jump."

Sean was just starting to roll this around in his mind when Rebecca's thumbs burrowed into the arch of his left foot, and he let out a screech that he couldn't believe came from his own mouth.

"Wow, sorry," she said. "That's a hot spot."

"Holy shit," he squeaked, trying to control his volume.

Her hands lightly stroked the bottoms of his feet. "Try to relax," she said, "and I'll be more careful."

"What was that?"

"That was your foot, and it's really unhappy, and I'm guessing the other one feels the same." She wrapped her hands around his left foot again and started to squeeze in little pulses. "Okay, we're going to stop talking now and take nice deep even breaths, and I'm going to make your feet happier. So just let your mind roam around off its leash for a while."