Justin Cronin - Mary and O’Neil

O’Neil said nothing. This was when he realized he’d never seen Patrice’s husband because she didn’t have one. His assumption that this man existed was just that-an assumption. Or perhaps Joe had led him to believe this. Either way, there was no such person. It was just Patrice and Henry, and their big empty house that no one was painting for them.

O’Neil tried to wash the paint from his hair, but it was no use, and the next week he finally asked Kay to cut it. Using a pair of sewing scissors from the kitchen junk drawer, Kay snipped off most of his hair, while O’Neil sat wrapped in a plastic tablecloth and Jack swept up the trimmings with a whisk broom. The good news was that Joe had finally called O’Neil back, and after dinner he picked him up in the company van and drove him to a bar in Port Chester where they used to go after work. The bar was called the Moosehead, and was owned by some Canadians who, like Joe, seemed imprisoned in a sentimental exile. A Canadian flag hung over the bar, there were maps of Canada and travel photos of Canadian destinations on the paneled walls, and if they stayed long enough, O’Neil knew, the bartender would ring a bell and lead everyone in a chorus of “O Canada.”

“About the money,” Joe said regretfully, after they had taken a table. He had a weight lifter’s body, square and solid, and a blond moustache that he liked to stroke with thumb and forefinger. “We may have a tiny problem there.”

“Don’t tell me that,” O’Neil said.

“The situation is,” Joe continued, “the status of the company is a little tenuous at the moment. Technically, I have no employees at all, if we don’t count you. You might say that, as of last week, we are no longer an official branch of Professor Painter.”

“You have no insurance.”

Joe wagged a finger over their glasses. “Let me get the tab for these beers.”

“Is this how they do things in Canada? Pay you in beer?”

Joe left the table to select a song on the jukebox and returned with a bowl of nuts. “Oh, don’t be mad,” he said. “Hey, this is you and me. Am I missing something here? We’ll absolutely work this out.”

“Somebody has to finish that house,” O’Neil offered.

“Right,” Joe replied, chewing a mouthful of nuts. “That’s completely right. And I’ll do it myself, if I have to. I’m just saying we might not have explored all our options at this point.”

“Joe, she’s totally alone over there,” O’Neil said.

“See?” Joe nodded hopefully. “There’s something.”

In the parking lot they settled on three thousand dollars: fifteen hundred for O’Neil’s trip to the hospital, another thousand for back wages, and five hundred dollars compensation for his pain and suffering. O’Neil doubted he would ever see this money, but two days later Joe appeared at the house with a check, and a letter for O’Neil to sign. The letter said, in essence, that he was no longer an employee of Professor Painter, Inc., and that he held both Joe and the parent company harmless of any responsibility for his accident. O’Neil wondered if such a letter was legal-in the purest sense it was a form of extortion-but he was glad to get any money at all, and signing the letter seemed the only way to make this happen. The check did not bounce, and O’Neil gave Kay the fifteen hundred in cash one night after dinner.

Kay looked the bills over. “I hope he didn’t make you sign anything,” she said.

The next day, a Sunday, was the Fourth of July, and the three of them drove to the beach in Old Greenwich, to barbecue and watch the fireworks over the Sound. The shells were to be launched from a barge anchored offshore, and after they had eaten their chicken and drunk their wine they positioned lawn chairs at the shoreline to watch the display. The evening was clear; darkness came on with the swift evenness of a curtain falling. As stars appeared above the still water, the first cannon boomed, and the people cheered as the shell leapt heavenward to release its package of tendriled light.

“What is the magic of fireworks?” Jack said to O’Neil. Kay and Jack were holding hands, and O’Neil understood this remark as a way to include him, although Jack also appeared genuinely moved; his face glowed with the wine, and his eyes were moist in the reflected light of the display. “Is it the way they’re here one moment and gone the next? Are we just remembering other times?”

Before O’Neil could answer, Kay leaned over to her husband and kissed him. “Sweetie,” she said, and squeezed his face, “you’re wasted.”

Back home Jack went off to bed, and Kay joined O’Neil in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said sadly, and took a place across from him at the table. “Jack can’t hold his liquor at all.”

“He was right, though,” O’Neil said. “I was remembering.”

Kay thought a moment. “I miss them too.”

She left then and returned moments later with an envelope, which she placed on the table in front of O’Neil. He knew, even before he looked at it, that it was something their parents had left behind. Their father was-had been-a lawyer, and on the outside of the envelope was his name and the address of his office, embossed in heavy black ink, and then the name of the person the letter was meant for, a woman named Dora Auclaire. O’Neil saw that one end of the envelope had been opened with a single, neat stroke of a knife. He slid the letter out, and as he unfolded the heavy paper he felt his heart grow large. The letter was written in his father’s hand, a single sentence long. Dear Dora, it said, It would have been nice for me too. He had signed it, Love, Art.

“I’m sorry, O’Neil. I thought it was probably time you saw this.”

“God Almighty.” He put the letter down, though at once he picked it up again. “How did you find it?”

“It wasn’t hidden, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was just sitting there in the top drawer of his desk. I found it just a couple of days after the accident when I was looking for the lease on his office. I guess I shouldn’t have opened it, but there was no address, and I thought it might be important.”

O’Neil read the letter again, its one taut sentence of yearning. Dora Auclaire: He searched his memory for this woman, but came up with nothing. “Jesus Christ, Kay.”

“I know, honey. It’s not good news.”

O’Neil sighed, uncertain what to say or think. “Any idea who she was?”

“He did some legal work for her, I do know that. A will, some real estate stuff.” Kay shrugged. “It wasn’t really my business to look.”

“I can’t believe Dad was screwing around.” O’Neil shook his head; he was suddenly cold. “I mean, they went to a motel.”

Kay took his hand. “He never mailed it, O’Neil. And the letter doesn’t prove anything. There’s a lot we’ll never know about them.”

O’Neil looked at the floor. “Can’t know, you mean.”

“Don’t, can’t. It’s all the same.” She paused; he felt her eyes on his face. “They were just people, O’Neil.”

“How can you say that?” He pulled his hand away, though he was instantly sorry for doing this. “They were our parents.”

Kay rose and lit the stove for tea. When her back was turned he closed his eyes, and tried to remember them, his parents. For some time he had longed to hear their voices again. But he could not imagine his father saying these words.

Kay returned to the table and pulled her chair close to O’Neil’s. “Honey, I’m sorry. Really, I am. But I think it’s time we talk about you doing something with yourself.”

“I thought I was.”

Kay frowned. “Painting houses for this con man?”

“Oh, Joe’s not so bad.”