Reed Coleman - Hose monkey

He scanned the articles in the paper, ignoring his cooling coffee. There it was, the detail he’d been searching for. He tore the article out of the paper, put his mug in the sink, and went upstairs to shower. He had to be at Mass in twenty minutes.

Joe and Frank came in separate cars, but they met in the parking lot at Kaplan Brothers. Joe was surprised to see Frank alone. He had just assumed Frank would bring Tina.

“The wife’s not feelin’ too good,” Frank volunteered before Joe had a chance to ask.

It was a lie. Joe could see it in Frank’s face, could hear it in his voice. He knew it was a lie just like he knew it was a lie when his snitches would look him right in the eye and swear they weren’t using or dealing. It was pro forma. I say X and you say Y. I cha cha and you cha cha cha. Joe sometimes wondered why people went through that song and dance bullshit. He wasn’t pointing fingers. He had been just as guilty of it as anyone. Maybe it was a basic human instinct, he thought, the need for preliminaries before the main bout.

He knew Frank was lying the same way he had known that Ralphy was lying to him over the last two years they were together. With Ralphy, it was little things at first. By the time they got busted, Ralphy’d gotten so outrageous it was almost funny. Almost. He was like the punch line to a bad joke:

How did you know I was lying?

Your lips were moving.

Joe and Frank didn’t say much to each other as they walked from the parking lot into the funeral home. Besides the lie, there were a lot of other factors adding to the unusual level of discomfort between the two men. Neither was at ease in a suit and tie. Frank especially, kept adjusting his tie and shirt collar. Joe could see his boss’ neck chaffed red at the constriction of a closed top button and taut knot.

Then there was the fact that Frank had never been to a Jewish funeral before. Unlike Joe, who’d grown up in Bensonhurst with a pack of Jewish friends and who had worked in the city until the troubles began, Frank was strictly a Long Island guy. In fact, his friends used to call him the Babylonian, because he had been born, raised and rarely left the village of Babylon until he started in the oil business. Even now, he was more likely to fly to Orlando than drive into Manhattan.

“Why ain’t the coffin opened?” Frank got up the courage to ask when they settled into their seats at the back of the chapel.

“Tradition,” Joe said. “Only the immediate family can see him and then only for a few minutes. Jews usually bury the dead within twenty-four hours, but with the autopsy…”

Joe, checking his watch, noticed the front rows of the chapel were empty. The family would take those seats. The family-they were the biggest reason for Joe and Frank’s disquiet. Frank had tried since Monday afternoon to contact them. Neither parent would come to the phone and the relatives who had picked up were either crying or curt. Frank wanted to believe it was all grief, but feared it was more than that.

Suddenly, the chapel fell silent. Everyone stood. The rabbi entered and took the podium. Behind him trailed a group of about fifteen people, all red-eyed, some crying. Though he had never met Cain’s parents, Joe immediately recognized them. Cain had been a fifty-fifty child-tall and thin like his dad, darkly handsome like his mom. Cain’s dad practically carried his wife along, her wailing so wrought with despair it cut through everyone like jagged shards of glass.

A few rows behind the family and to the right, Joe spotted a group of about eight people he assumed were from the group home. Some seemed very distracted or alone in this room packed with people. One, a stocky girl with Down’s Syndrome, was crying with an intensity and purity that Joe had never quite experienced. Her tears were so unselfconscious, Joe was embarrassed for her. Or was he just jealous? It was hard to lose family. It was hard to lose friends. Joe had lost his share of each, but if he started crying, he feared he might never stop. Somehow, crossing paths with Bob Healy no longer seemed so important.

Finally, a woman came to comfort the girl. Joe guessed she was in her early thirties, elegantly slim, with neatly cut, shoulder-length blond hair. She wrapped her arms around the crying girl, rocking her slightly, whispering in her ear. At one point, the blond woman turned her head toward the rear of the chapel. Her eyes met Joe’s. Well no, his met her’s, but her eyes-light brown, close-set, intense-saw through him, or maybe saw nothing. Joe looked away.

The rabbi asked that everyone be seated. Only Cain’s mother and the Down’s girl continued crying. Prayers were offered, the cantor sang. The rabbi said his piece. Joe liked that the rabbi had known Cain his whole life and had a funny story or two to tell. Joe had attended far too many funerals conducted by the ranks of rent-a-clergy, men in black gowns reading the deceased’s name off recipe cards. The priests at Ralphy’s parish had refused to conduct his service or to even let his body inside the church. Rosemarie had been forced to shop for a cemetery that would take him.

Then the rabbi asked if there were any mourners who would like to come up and share their memories of Cain.

“By our very presence here today, we acknowledge our great loss, a loss that is as incalculable as the depth of the Lord’s love. Then let us not try to measure the loss. We lay ourselves open to a period of grief and mourning,” the rabbi said. “So, please, if any among you would like to speak in celebration of Cain’s life, step forward and share your memories with us.”

No one from the front two rows stepped up. Joe understood. Even though he believed that dead was dead, no matter what kind of package it came in, he knew that murder always seemed so senseless to the victim’s family that it left them deaf and dumb. A cop knows better. Murder has sense to it, just not the kind the victim’s family could comprehend.

The Down’s girl got up, walked to the podium. Tears streamed down her round, round cheeks. Joe was struck by her face. It was a face meant to smile, he thought, not a face for suffering.

“My name is Donna,” she said too loudly, not even trying to choke back tears. “Cain was my friend. He was smart and taught me things like his boss Frank taught him. The oil place was real important to him. He told me he felt all grown up there. I wanted him to take me there so I could feel that way too, but he said Frank wouldn’t like that.” She looked right down at Cain’s parents. “He didn’t want you to be mad at him. He didn’t like when you got mad at him.”

The blond woman walked quickly up to the podium, but without trying to embarrass the girl. She took Donna’s arm and led her outside the chapel.

Then, to Joe’s surprise, Frank was on his feet, moving to the podium. He never quite made it. Cain’s mother charged him. She nearly knocked Frank off his feet.

“You son of a bitch!” she screamed, clawing at him. “You and that stupid business. I never wanted him anywhere near that dirty place. You killed him! You killed him!”

Joe and Cain’s father pulled her off Frank. Joe diffused the situation by taking Frank out the door of the chapel that led directly to the parking lot and the waiting hearse.

“She’s right, Joe. I as much as killed the fuckin’ kid.”

“She’s grieving. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Joe said, remembering how Rosemarie had blamed him for Ralphy’s suicide. “It makes it easier if you got somebody to strike out at. Trust me on this. Inside she’s probably blaming herself. Shit, if I hadn’t thrown the kid off my truck. Who knows?”

They were halfway to Frank’s car when two men blocked their path.

“What a pretty couple they make,” the bigger one chortled out of the side of his sloppy mouth.