Danny's Boys E-Book

Charley Heenan

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Tommy Dunleavy and his life-long friends, 20-somethings in a northeast Philadelphia parish, have no idea their beloved pastor is an abuser, not until a friend dies by suicide after filing a rape complaint.

Shocked and guilt-ridden, friendships splinter. The "did he or didn't he" debate rages in the neighborhood. Tommy knows Father is guilty. Despite his friends leaving the Church, he's confident that once the investigation is completed and wrongs are righted, everything can return to normal. Then the accused priest is reinstated, and Tommy has to decide, should he stay or should he go, and if he goes, then what?

Heenan writes with authenticity, not just in the details --- row homes, corner bars, and rec centers, but in the closeness, loyalty, and traditions of community.

"Danny's Boys is a heartbreaking and provocative story. Heenan does a masterful job of conveying the life and spirit of the Irish-Catholic neighborhood." - Len Joy, author of Dry Heat, Everyone Dies Famous, Better Days

"Heenan skillfully takes the reader through the friends' journeys as they explore the limits of friendship and faith." - Ann Stolinsky, author, co-owner, Gemini Wordsmiths, Celestial Echo Press

Leseprobe

Danny’s Boys: A Novel

© 2022 Charley Heenan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, parishes, organizations, neighborhoods, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)

www.bqbpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

978-1-952782-76-3 (p)

978-1-952782-77-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022943620

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Olivia Swenson

Second editor: Allison Itterly

For

the sad

and the mad

and the Nones

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER 1 Wholly Thirsty

CHAPTER 2 Mr. Helper

CHAPTER 3 Jack

CHAPTER 4 Mass

CHAPTER 5 The Wait

CHAPTER 6 Sunday Painday

CHAPTER 7 Good Night, Dear Jack

CHAPTER 8 Final Goodbyes

CHAPTER 9 The Why

CHAPTER 10 The Response

CHAPTER 11 Aftershocks

CHAPTER 12 Reshuffle

CHAPTER 13 Hanlon’s Razor

CHAPTER 14 Danny’s Out

CHAPTER 15 On the Way to Middletown

CHAPTER 16 What Just Happened?

CHAPTER 17 Diving

CHAPTER 18 What’ll It Be?

CHAPTER 19 Mickey

CHAPTER 20 StevieB

CHAPTER 21 Lawyer for the Defense

CHAPTER 22 Yo Bro

CHAPTER 23 An Intro to Judaism

CHAPTER 24 Go High

CHAPTER 25 Won Temple

CHAPTER 26 Meeting House

CHAPTER 27 He’s Back

CHAPTER 28 Challenge

CHAPTER 29 Headway

CHAPTER 30 The Oldest Book Club

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I offer my heartfelt gratitude to my writers’ group: Lynn Rosen, Ann Stolinsky, Robert L. Brown, Deborah Drezon Carroll, Chris Brady, Margaret Sayers, Tom Durso, Anne Boagni, Carol Moore, and Juliana. Each reviewed my many (very rough) drafts with patience and kindness. Their encouragement, insight, and advice helped me immeasurably, and I am blessed to be able to work with them.

Many thanks to Elise Juska for her review and analysis, I learned so much, and I truly valued her positive feedback. Thank you to Terri Leidich of BQB Publishing for taking a chance on me and my story, and Olivia Swenson, of Olivia Edits, for her suggestions, diligent review, and careful explanations. Thank you to Rebecca Lown Design for the cover artwork and Susan Baker for all of her input.

Most of all, thanks to my amazing, always helpful husband and my darling son who make my life complete.

CHAPTER 1

Wholly Thirsty

Freshly showered, after working the early shift in Acme’s produce department, I put on clean jeans and a long-sleeve Eagles shirt, pulled a Jeff cap from the top of the coat closet, and adjusted it in the beveled wall mirror above the living room sofa. Mom wanted me to wear something nicer in case that lazy-eyed girl, who she liked for me, was there, but I was already wearing the hat. From the kitchen, Mom was saying something about not drinking too much and not being late.

“Lock up after I leave,” I called, hurrying out the door. “Love you.”

Shenanigans had been on a decline. In our mid-twenties, school, work, and girlfriends had distracted all of us. Not me so much, but most of my friends. Danny Cunane, my best friend, was three for three. There were fewer late nights, fewer epic stories, and an overall lack of hilarity. Even our Thursday happy hours at McRyan’s, which after twelve years of Catholic school we’d called Wholly Thirsty, had taken a hit. Sometimes, only a couple of guys showed. Tonight, at least, everyone promised to be there.

It was a short walk to McRyan’s, only two blocks up and three over from my house. Our neighborhood was a small chunk of Northeast Philadelphia, a concrete plaid of rowhouses, strip malls, churches, and corner bars accented with parks and rec centers. Inside the bar, the polished wood-paneled walls held Guinness signs, the tricolour flag, Celtic crosses, and assorted Irish crafts hand carried across the sea. The décor matched that in most of the finished basements in our neighborhood and felt homey, like the only things missing were a few sofas. I sat in our usual spot at the bar’s curve nearest the door, and Vizzie, the bartender, poured a lager without me needing to ask. The first sips worked their magic like a full-body sigh.

Unlike other parts of Philadelphia, where the city required bars to be a mile away from churches, McRyan’s served as an unofficial extension of ours, with St. John’s parishioners stopping in before or after church and school events. Danny sat at one of the long tables in the back with Gav, Terry, and Ray. The four had recently been named to the St. John’s Catholic Youth Organization Board. They huddled over a laptop, hammering out all the details for our CYO basketball teams: rosters, uniforms, referees, gym reservations, and the like. I didn’t interrupt—the sooner they were done, the better—but Danny called to me.

“Yo, Tommy Dunleavey. Everything okay? You’re early.”

“I don’t want to miss anything,” I said, and he smiled.

I did my part, keeping everyone connected. Once a year, I organized an outing to an Eagles game—scouting the tickets, ordering for the tailgate, hiring the party bus, and collecting the money. We were going that Sunday. While I waited for everyone, I reviewed my tailgate checklist and watched the Phillies play the Padres in the last game of their season, pacing my drinking so as not to get too far ahead.

I was on my second beer when Jack, Danny’s younger brother, wandered in. I’d known him so long that he was practically my little brother too. He even looked like me. We were both five-nine and thin with longish dark brown hair. Today he was wearing a shirt and tie, probably his brother’s since the oversized collar exposed the neck of his undershirt, and ironcreased khakis that bunched around shiny new tasseled loafers.

“Look at you all dressed up, fancy-schmancy. What gives?”

“I had a thing downtown this afternoon. I’ll tell you later.” He looked to the back and gave a chin to his brother before sitting with me.

“You aren’t interviewing, are you?” I asked. Danny had used his parish connections to get his brother a job on the city’s Graffiti Abatement Team.

“No, I like the work. Good pay, nice bennies. I go into a place that’s filthy, make it nice.” Jack stretched out some wrinkled bills and laid them on the bar. “My boss is a tough read. Some days he says I’m his best worker and stuff, then today . . .” He frowned. “I had to leave early, that’s probably why, right?”

“Well sure, he lost production, that’s all.” I signaled that his first drink was on me and said, “I’m proud of you, man. You really got your act together.”

He turned away, hiding a blush, and made circles in a cocktail napkin with his pint. In a quiet voice, he asked, “What’s new with you, Tommy?”

Before I could say same old, same old, a breaking news banner scrolled across the bottom of the television screen: “Sexual abuse allegations in a Northeast parish. Details following the game.”

“Jeez, you hate to see that again,” I said. “That’s tragic, really tragic, you know?”

Jack looked up and kept his eyes on the television. “Yeah, it is.”

Battling car horns outside the bar reached a crescendo and made it hard to hear the game. I wandered over to the front window. Angry traffic jammed the two-lane one-way street all the way down to St. John’s. Drivers yelled out of car windows, hoping to force a miracle parting of the gridlock, and a synchronized flipping of the birds ensued like the wave at a game. The traffic lights were out again. It’d take forever for everyone to get here.

I sent a group text, giving options for avoiding the jam. Someone responded, Thanks, Mom.

At the top of the inning, my friend Eddie Shields, ran in. The broad-shouldered ginger jumped ass-first onto the barstool next to us and said mid-spin, “A shot of Jameson and a lager, stat.”

Even Vizzie laughed.

“A tree limb fried the cable lines at the over-fifty-five development. I had to explain how to reboot servers and televisions to old people all day. Then I hit the damn traffic. Need I say more?” Eddie downed the shot and sucked down half of his beer. Once he was off the clock, his Comcast customer service filter disappeared. “What’s new at the Acme, Tommy? How’s your zucchini hanging?” So funny. He gave Jack the once over. “You running for office?”

Jack grinned and shook his head.

Dez Regan, the gentle giant, lumbered in next and leaned his elbows against the bar between Jack and me. A six-eight fireman, the stools were too small for him. We peppered him with questions about a recent multi-alarmer.

“I’ll tell you, my guardian angel needs new wings after that one,” he said. Someone of Dez’s size swinging a hose or an axe inside narrow rowhomes or centuries-old structures demanded a lot from an angel.

Jack asked, “How do you . . . not be afraid?”

“Focus,” Dez answered. “People are depending on me. I have my training, my faith.”

“A shame you’re a coward when you’re talking to chicks,” said Eddie.

“Well, it’d be unfair to the rest of you if I had it all.” Dez smiled, then pointed to the Jameson and motioned that he was buying a round. Jack passed, said he had a big job tomorrow and wanted to get in early. I feigned wiping my eyes, lamenting that our little man was growing up.

As Vizzie poured three shots of Irish, the breaking-news banner about the clergy abuse scrolled across the TV again.

“Which parish do you think it is?” Eddie asked.

Including the parishes bordering the city, there were at least twenty. We knew all of them either from attending Mass or competing against the schools in CYO.

“Might be St. John’s. You never know, might even be Father Farrell,” Eddie said. He imitated our parish priest’s habit of clasping his hands and tilting his head, then stuck his tongue out Gene Simmons-style.

“Knock it off, Eddie,” I warned.

A quiet man with a ready smile, Father Farrell had been a major part of all our lives for the last fifteen years or so. He was there for Mom and me after Dad died. Mom said he was classy, someone for me to emulate.

“Ignore him,” said Dez

It was easy to do just then, as two cute St. Hubert alums entered, and we all sat up straighter. Dez smiled at the women and waved, flicking an empty shot glass at Vizzie in the process. Beer almost came through my nose.

We were still laughing when Stevie Behan, a.k.a. StevieB, slinked in and tapped me on the shoulder. A Mass-every-day Holy Roller, he was more at home at a novena than a bar. StevieB shook our hands, saying, “How ya doing? How’s your family? Me? Staying out of trouble.” Jack offered him his seat, which he took and then sat with his hands folded on the bar like it was an altar rail. It wasn’t his fault; I blamed his parents.

“I assume the four in the back will finish sometime this century,” said Eddie, pointing to Danny and the others still working on CYO business. “Besides them, who are we still waiting on?”

“Brendan and Matt. Probably stuck in traffic.”

To pass the time, the five of us shot darts. It was early, so we all shot well, until Eddie dusted one of his shots. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Watch the language,” said StevieB.

In all fairness, Eddie probably didn’t even realize he cursed. Then he muffed another shot. “Goddammit, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Apologizing for taking the Lord’s name means nothing if you keep doing it,” StevieB said. “Seriously, you lower yourself.”

Eddie side-eyed him, had to have fun with it, and dropped a few more choice words “by accident,” apologizing and swearing in the same breath.

“Knock it the fuck off,” StevieB blurted.

We all howled. StevieB, of course, buried his face in his hands and then apologized to everyone within earshot.

“C’mon, man,” I said. “It’s nothing.” The poor guy needed to drink more.

Brendan Sullivan and Matt Asher finally showed. They walked in together, Brendan mid-rant about the traffic lights being held together with duct tape and chewing gum and questioning what the city did with all our tax money. Matt, still in his scrubs, teased him by suggesting with a straight face that the city’s charter schools needed the money for their water polo teams.

As Brendan sputtered, Dez slowed his roll by toasting “To Wholly Thirsty.”

Everyone at the bar joined. Drinks flowed and conversation moved onto finer things, like offensive lines, over-unders, and whether my coworker’s allegiance to the Dallas Cowboys demonstrated a form of mental illness.

“You guys hear about the clergy abuse story?” Brendan asked. “Wait till you see, someone’ll have their hand out, wanting money from the church.”

“Ironic. Since these things start with a priest putting their hand out,” said Matt.

“Not funny.” Brendan frowned. “With all the fundraisers we have, you know all the money ends up with the lawyers.”

Paying tuition at Catholic schools was a hardship for all our families. Most of us had been pulled into the principal’s office when our parents were late with a tuition check, or had our grades held up, or were suspended from a team, or were threatened with expulsion. Being one of six kids, Brendan was pulled in more than any of us. I was even pulled in after Dad died.

“It’s too early to get so serious,” I said. “Besides, we were having an important conversation here. The Eagles are playing Dallas on Sunday.”

Between us and neighborhood folks wandering in, poor Vizzie needed an extra pair of arms to keep the pints filled. The late arrivals ordered a round of shots, and this time Jack joined them.

“Yo,” I said, “you’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

He waved me off. Ah well, best-laid plans.

While we partied, the illustrious CYO Board continued their work. I finally yelled back to them, “Hey, how much longer? It’s like I’m at a party where people are doing homework.” It was for their own good that I hounded them to take a break, plus their table blocked access to the good dartboard.

Danny walked over to us. “All right,” he said. “We hear you. We’re almost done. We’re clashing over the rosters.”

We all headed to the back and grabbed seats at their table. St. John’s had enough kids to field two high school boys’ basketball teams. The question at hand was whether to put the two superstar Mallory brothers on the same team or not. On the same team, they would dominate but leave their teammates with little to do, and then the other St. John’s team would be lucky to win any games.

As president of the board, Peter Gavin, a.k.a. Gav, could have made the decision, but he wanted some consensus. Gav was our local success story. He’d set up Gavin’s Insurance after college and had the whole neighborhood as clients. He’d sometimes wear a suit jacket to a keg party, but he was still one of us.

Danny suggested that it was more important for each boy on the team to contribute something so they’d all have skin in the game.

Terry Joyce, at six-six and an all-city basketball player back in our day, wanted a winning team come hell or high water. He suggested that kids would rather put their skin in some championship jackets.

Ray Naulty was short, but he carried himself as if he were tall, probably because of his smarts. He attended grad school and was Mister Go-To in the neighborhood for anything requiring serious intellect. In high school, a teacher had once said he was a ray of light, and we reminded him of it from time to time.

He asked, “You ever play with guys who do it all, call all the shots on the court? This is bad for the Mallorys. They’ll turn into egomaniac little assholes.”

It was a tough decision, and analysis commenced. Some debated nurture versus nature, whether the Mallory brothers could be turned into assholes if they weren’t assholes already. Danny made the best argument: It sucked to endure hours of practice for a team with a few standouts who’d hog all the playing time. But opinions favored having the Mallory brothers set an example for the other kids and teach them what winning felt like.

Terry reminded us, “It’s good for the school; it helps our rep to have players who know what they’re doing. Plus, how great would it be to beat St. Mark’s?”

The debate ensued. Tempers simmered. In the end, Gav called executive privilege. He said, “We have talented, dedicated players, let’s use them.”

Then, Matt got us all laughing with a story, and any lingering tension dissipated. He and his fiancée, Brigid Keller, and her mother had left a Beef and Beer at St. Bart’s, and a passed-out bum lay in the parking lot. Mrs. Keller insisted, at the top of her voice, that the scruffy man was either City Councilman Tyson or Tom Waits, “or I’m a jackass.”

“Now how do you answer that?” he asked. “It was not the councilman and it was not Tom Waits. I love Brigid, so of course, I had to smile and say, ‘Yes, Mrs. Keller, I’ve heard Tom Waits likes to spend time at St. Bart’s.’”

With everyone relatively sober, I reviewed the logistics for Sunday’s Eagles game. Ray, who mastered the perfect ice-salt-and-water ratio for icing the keg, would pick up the beer, and Brendan, who worked at Greenberg’s Deli, would bring the hoagies. I reminded everyone to be on time—the bus would pick us up at 10:00 a.m. at the rec center.

I also slipped in a mention that the local band Scooby Dudes was playing at Towey’s bar tomorrow night if anyone was interested. I wondered aloud if there would be any surprise guests, and all eyes went to a suddenly shy Jack. He knew a guy, and the last time they played, he surprised us, ending up on stage singing lead on the Chumbawamba song with the “I get knocked down, but I get up again” lyrics. Everyone in the crowd had gone nuts, cheering and singing. Schedules were tight on Friday nights, but I got three takers, plus Jack, who was a maybe.

Vizzie brought pitchers of beer to the table, and the conversations and laughs continued. I would have been fine if the night never ended. At the far end of the table, Dez and Matt drank a round of shots. Jack joined them, another hit to his takeit-easy plan, but he was young, and it was that kind of night.

Danny, next to me, tore the label off his Miller Lite and said in a low voice, “Jack say why he’s all dressed up?”

“No. He said he was downtown,” I said. “Maybe checking out venues for your bachelor party?” Danny and his fiancée, Megan McFadden, were planning a spring wedding and Jack was the best man.

“That’d be cool. Megan’s worried that he’s unreliable. He’s been on a couple of benders recently. Drinking legally is still new to him. You know what that’s like.”

Megan was alright, but she was a bit of a drama queen. I looked over at Jack, who’d wrapped his tie around his head pirate-style.

I said, “She’s overreacting. He’ll do fine. I’ve got his back.”

The Phillies lost, and the evening news show, delayed by the game, finally aired, leading with the church scandal. Every seat in McRyan’s had a view of a large screen television, and the room quieted with territorial interest.

After a warning to viewers about the sexual nature of the story, the anchorman reported, “The District Attorney’s office has announced a new investigation of a Northeast Philadelphia parish priest for the alleged sexual assault of a child. The DA’s office is not releasing specifics at this time, except to say that the claim is within the statute of limitations and that the priest has been active in the community for some time. The DA is asking that anyone with any information to please call their 1-800 number. There will be a more detailed statement next week.”

Discussion ran the gamut.

“Why’d they lead with this and not even say what parish it is?”

“It’s the cool thing in some circles to beat up on the church.”

“Ever notice that they always make the priests out to be the pervs, and those preachers get caught being sleazy all the time.”

“At least those preachers get caught with people their own age.”

“There’s really only a very small number of priests who are freaks.”

“One is too many if you’re the little kid getting raped.”

Matt joked, “Take this bread and eat it, for this is My body . . . literally.”

Most laughed, but StevieB put down his half-empty beer and walked out. I hadn’t noticed him getting upset. I should have.

We all shouted out a serious chorus of “Come back. Ignore Matt. He’s an idiot.”

Matt ran to the door and called out to the street after him, “C’mon, man, you know I’m an idiot.” He returned to the table shaking his head. Then he called StevieB on his cell and left a one-sided apology. “Ugh, I feel so guilty,” he said.

I did too. “You know how he is.”

Danny added, “Our uncle’s the same way, isn’t he, Jack? The church is beautiful and all the priests are holy. He covers his ears and leaves the room if anyone even hints at the scandal.” Jack nodded with a slight whiskey wobble.

Tugging on the collar of his Oxford shirt, Gav said, “Hey, I’m with him. I hate to hear the church get trashed.”

“StevieB’ll get over it,” said Ray. “C’mon, let’s play some darts.”

Everyone was in. We played Around the World, a perfect game for a large group after a few beers, as neither the ability to compute and track scores nor absolute sobriety was required. To make it interesting, each person either anted up a dollar a round or folded, and the pot built until someone won.

Each of us brought our own style to the game. Matt took forever to shoot, Eddie was slam-bam, and both were out after the first round. Matt acted as a smarmy play-by-play announcer for the rest of the match. He lamented that he and Eddie were “forced to be content with the important things in life: good looks and great wit.”

“Speaking of great wit, you know this church thing? Maybe they missed something last time around. Maybe a bad priest slipped through the cracks,” Eddie said too loudly.

“You’re disgusting,” I said. “I’m disgusting?” he asked. “It’s what the priest did.”

“Knock it off, Eddie,” said Brendan.

“What? StevieB’s not here.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “Sor-ree.”

My lean-in move failed me in the third round, and Dez’s size, as usual, hurt his finesse, so we both folded. Jack missed shots too but stayed in the game, despite Terry busting on him that he was throwing his money away. After that, Jack waved a dollar in the air like a conductor when he anted up each round. By the end of the sixth, Ray crossed into the wrong wedge one too many times and was out, as were Terry and Brendan.

In the final round, three competitors remained: Gav, Danny, and Jack. Of the three darts each would throw, Gav only needed two to hit, Danny needed three, and Jack needed three plus the others to miss to force another round.

Matt pointed an empty beer bottle at Jack like it was a microphone. “A win looks impossible, young man. What’s your strategy against these dart icons?”

The dim bar lights reflected off the sheen on his face. With his tie still knotted around his head, his shirt unbuttoned to mid chest, Jack leaned back in his chair, smiled, and said, “I’ve got God on my side.” Everyone laughed.

“The kid is in it to win it,” Matt said, and cheers and hoots erupted.

With his beer bottle mic, Matt reported, “This is it—for the big money.” All eyes focused on the shooters. “Danny Cunane, will he, or won’t he?”

Danny positioned himself, then threw; two of his darts hit, and the third missed.

“He’ll move forward in life, but probably not in this game,” said Matt.

Jack was next. We all rooted for the crazy knucklehead; stranger things had happened.

“Will this young upstart show us how it’s done?” Matt asked.

I did a drum roll on the tabletop as Jack took aim—one, two, three perfect shots! The crowd went nuts, and Vizzie had to tell us to keep it down. Then Gav took the line, and two shots later won it all. It was a huge letdown, but we all congratulated him. Jack stared at the board with a numbed frozen look like he really believed there would have been a different outcome.

Matt said, “Shake it off, Jack. You’re a true Philadelphia sports fan. You never gave up.”

After darts, there was a consensus that we needed to order food. I got my usual: hot roast beef sandwich with horseradish and a side of fries. Conversation meandered from CYO, the Eagles, next year’s Phillies’ prospects, and then eventually back to the clergy abuse story.

“The church has had issues, but they’ve made changes,” I said. “The fact that they mentioned the statute of limitations must mean that it’s old news. When the archdiocese got investigated that last time, Father Farrell said that the victims were a pretty screwed-up lot—might not even be a real thing.”

“Hey, I did a rotation in the psych ward back in nursing school. Just because someone’s messed up doesn’t mean they’re lying,” said Matt.

“What I don’t get,” said Danny, “is why those victims don’t report it right away?” There were murmurs of assent. He added, “By not saying anything, they’re letting more kids get raped.”

“That’s not fair. Don’t blame the victim,” said Ray.

“Well, one good thing is we know it isn’t Father Farrell,” Brendan said.

Danny said, “Yeah, the guy works like eighteen-hour days. He doesn’t have the time.”

Father Farrell was always helping someone in the parish. He was at my house plenty over the years. As a kid, he intimidated me with the man-in-black thing—thick black hair, eyebrows, black suit, and seemingly so serious—but then I got to know him. As busy as he was, his door was always open.

Gav pointed a French fry at us. “That’s how I would know somebody was full of shit, if they named Father Farrell. You can tell he’s all right.”

We raised our glasses. “To Father Farrell.”

Eventually, folks started finding their way home. It was a great night—all of us together, some drinks, some laughs, some stories, good food. It was ordinary, like so many other nights. And it was our last Wholly Thirsty.

CHAPTER 2

Mr. Helper

Fuzzy-headedness intruded at work the next day—nothing too bad, I’d had worse hangovers—but on Fridays, we unloaded the trucks. Sometimes the warehouse down at the port slipped in a case of something decayed, which was always difficult on shaky mornings.

They did it for fun. I didn’t know that when I started as Assistant Produce Manager at the Acme. Too intimidated to complain, I let it slide, until they sent stomach-turning mushy, moldy eggplant that reeked like the leftovers of a missing mobster. I called, all earnest and indignant, while snorts and giggles came through the line, and the voice said, “Tell us what the problem is.” The men at the warehouse worked long hours in unheated buildings and took simple pleasure in breaking in newbies. They still sent up a box of something disgusting every once in a while. I only called them on the really foul stuff and thanked them for thinking of me, but not today. If anything whiffed in the slightest, I’d toss it without even looking at it.

Thankfully, they spared me. After unloading the trucks, I posted the receipts into inventory, and then tagged one of the high school kids, who worked stocking shelves, to help me rotate the produce and set up the displays. This was the best part of the job; I was like a coach. I focused on what made the kids tick—were they ambitious, needy, tired, anxious? Nine times out of ten, it was one of those four, and that told me how to manage their work. They cracked me up, more often than not, they constructed a Jenga-like overloaded display of apples or potatoes or whatever, either to save a trip back to the walk-in or because their creativity got the best of them. The other part of my job entailed explaining slip-and-fall lawsuits. The fruits and vegetables changed with the season, but not much else.

This was Mom’s dream job for me. I had Dad’s same calloused hands, but unlike his construction job, I worked in the neighborhood, indoors, with year-round hours and benefits, plus she liked telling her friends that I was in management.

“It’s job security, Tommy,” she would say. “People have to eat.”

My mom never asked what I wanted to do with my life, but in her defense, I had no clue. I tried community college and finished some general courses but could never decide on a major. My career was something I would have talked about with my dad. I was fourteen when he died. The gaping hole in my life left by his passing swallowed me up any time I ever contemplated career stuff. I remembered him saying that his coaching CYO baseball and basketball was more important than his regular job. That never made any sense to me. CYO was a volunteer gig. I coached, in a way, and at least I got paid for it. Career-wise, it was easier to go with the flow and let the Acme pay my bills.

After work, I swung by Manyon’s Beer near Sheffield Avenue. Their employees, mostly gym rats, lifted and moved kegs all day. I chatted with my buddy NoNeck and placed the keg order for Sunday’s tailgate. NoNeck mentioned that Jack was his first customer of the day and, already tipsy, had bought two cases.

“Who was he with?”

“By himself, as far as I could tell.”

Last night, Jack had mentioned a big job he had to do early this morning. Did he blow it off? Danny would be so pissed.

I pulled out my phone and composed a quick text to Danny: Jack not working today? But then I deleted it. Who was I to tattle? Maybe the job got canceled or something. I didn’t know everything going on in Jack’s life. Still, what was with the drinking so early . . . hair of the dog?

I drove over to Greenberg’s Deli and parked my car. I texted Jack, Saw NoNeck—2 cases? Where’s the party?

Jack texted back immediately, I was thirsty . . . jk. Private gig.

Does she have a name?

Thanks for always looking out for me, Tommy. You’re the best.

That was a polite mind-your-own-business answer. I texted back, Hey, you’re in for Towey’s tonight, right?

Not tonight. Staying home—thx, he responded.

What did he mean by “private gig”? Maybe Jack met someone, friends of those St. Hubert women? If so, he was doing way better than some of us. Sure, Danny and Matt were engaged to their girls, and Gav did okay, and Ray, the forever student, was surrounded by college women, but the rest of us, not so much. Our jobs were not the most exciting or highpaying, and we still lived at home. It was hard to look good on dating sites. Our strategy involved hitting the local bars and clubs where we played the odds that there’d be some friend of a friend who might be dazzled by our charm and good looks. Somehow, we were still unattached.

I texted Jack again. Lunch tomorrow? Mayfair Diner, maybe 1-ish?

I waited a bit but got no reply.

Entering Greenberg’s Deli, I soaked in the aromas of pickles, fresh rolls, meats, and cheeses. Even though I got an employee discount at the Acme, I still ordered our tailgate sandwich trays from Greenberg’s. The food was five-star awesome—great quality and generous portions. Mr. Greenberg, the owner, was the only Jewish person I’d ever known personally. A big man with bright blue eyes, he was part of the neighborhood but also separate. Jews didn’t believe in Jesus. Over the years, he’d patiently endured questions from newly confirmed kids whose parents frantically shushed them. Everyone liked him.

Mr. G and Dad liked to talk baseball. They’d discuss the merits of the roster, the latest recruits, and debate the root causes of the Phillies’ less-than-stellar record, usually centering on the farm system or the latest manager. Whenever the Phillies made a trade, Dad looked forward to getting Mr. G’s take. On the day Dad died, Mr. G delivered trays of sandwiches to the house, at no charge. He sponsored a couple of the CYO teams each year and knew all our names. Brendan had worked for him since high school; Jack worked for him too, for a short while. Mom and I would stop into the deli for dinner sometimes, and Mr. G would notice if I was having a bad day, even if Mom didn’t.

Mr. G stood at the red Formica counter manning the register. High school kids hustled in the back to set up for the dinner rush. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. What the hell was he up to drinking solo before noon?

“Tommy, great to see you, kid. How’s your family?”

“The Eagles are playing Dallas, Mr. G.”

He stared at me. “I asked how your family is.”

“I’m sorry. We’re good. Same old, same old.”

“Something’s on your mind, kid. Have a seat.” He pointed to a booth and carried over a cherry Coke for me.

I told Mr. Greenberg that I was worried about Jack. “Who am I to say, but he might have a drinking problem.”

Mr. G sighed. “Sometimes it’s hard to know how to help a friend. If you think he’s drinking too much, then he probably is. It’s pretty bad if he’s not showing up for work. There’ll be consequences. Let him know that you care about him, that he’s a good person.”

“He is a good person. I do care about him. We all do.”

“He’s always seemed to me to be kind of . . . I guess sad is the word.” He hesitated. “Maybe he needs to see a professional?”

“I don’t know if he’s sad. He’s just drinking a lot. When you say professional, do you mean a shrink?”

“A counselor, a psychiatrist, psychologist. His issues might not be something you can help with. Some people need an outside opinion.”

If I told Jack he needed a shrink, he’d probably deck me. There were no shrinks in our neighborhood. Where would he even find one? Catholics went to priests, not shrinks.

I placed our game-day order and, preoccupied with Jack, headed home.

Later that night, Eddie picked up Brendan, Terry, and me for our big night at Towey’s. As we passed the Cunanes’ red brick rowhouse, I barked at Eddie to stop. They complained because they wanted to arrive early and get the choice seats at the bar, but I promised I’d be quick.

I ran up the steps to the door and rang the bell. With one hand on her hip, Mrs. Cunane cracked open the door. She scanned me over her shoulder with a look that told her if my socks were clean.

“Tommy, what are you up to? Danny’s at Megan’s,” she said.

“Is Jack here?” I waited, and she opened the door all the way.

“He’s in his room.” As I stepped into the living room, she asked, “Did you have anything to do with the condition of himself earlier?” She tilted her head toward the upstairs.

“No, ma’am.”

Her glare lasered my back as I climbed the steps, walked down the hall, and knocked on Jack’s bedroom door. It took a couple minutes before I heard the hardwood floor creak from his footsteps and the light switch click on. Then he slowly opened the door. Jack had the small room. It was furnished with a twin bed, a side table, a small bureau, and a desk. A poster took up most of one wall, the one with that quote that I liked from Bobby Sands, the Irish political prisoner who died on a hunger strike: “They have nothing in their whole imperial arsenal that can break the spirit of one Irishman who doesn’t want to be broken.”

He peered at me through reddened eyes. His hair stuck out at angles like a punk rocker wannabe, and his clothes were disheveled like he’d passed out in them. He backed away, sat on his bed, and said in a raspy voice, “Yo, Tommy, what are you doing here?”

I leaned against his bureau. “Checking in. How much of that beer is left?”

“All of it.” He pointed at the nearly empty fifth of vodka on his desk. “I did some damage to that, though.”

Jesus.

Talking to friends about big stuff was easier than talking to family. I mostly ignored my two older sisters and their husbands, who loved telling me how to do life. Still, I chose my words carefully.

“You’ve been pounding pretty heavy lately,” I said. “Everything okay?”

I waited, as he concentrated on smoothing the blanket on his bed bit by bit. He nodded. A non-answer. I tried selling him on going out with us, but he focused on that blanket like it’d save the world.

“C’mon, it’s the Scooby Dudes. They’re your guys.”

A hint of a grin. He turned me down. I asked about the job.

With downcast eyes, he shook his head. “I got fired.”

“Damn. That sucks.” That explained his going on a bender. “It’s just a job though. We’ll get you hooked up with something.”

He sat stone-faced.