Trace Of Doubt

Whereas I had long ago tired of the shenanigans of my brother and father, Lewis remained quite amused by them, perhaps because his own parents were so staid and boring.

Lewis and I descended the stairs and went outside to my car. I unlocked the doors, and we both climbed in.

“How’s David?” he asked. “Sleeping any better?”

I shook my head. “Not really…. And you?”

He looked out the passenger-side window. “No. Not any better at all.”

Lewis had an IQ over 160, and on a good night he usually slept about four hours, thriving on spending all night reading, playing chess over the Internet and often tormenting me with lengthy conversations about brain matter, blood spatter and serial killers. Then he fell in love with C.C.—a nun who for now was on a spiritual retreat trying to decide just what to do with her friendship with Lewis—and his insomniac life grew a lot worse, only now he was seriously depressed with a case of unrequited love.

“I’m sorry, Lewis.”

“Not one word from her. Not even a letter. Or telegram. Carrier pigeon. Nothing,” he wailed.

“She told you that she was going to go away and she wouldn’t contact you. Me. Any of us. She was going to pray about this, Lewis, and she’s just doing what she said she was going to do.”

“But that leaves me no opportunity to talk her into marrying me…. And yes, I used the M word.”

“I thought you were terrified of the M word.”

“I’m more terrified of living without C.C. Do you know I’ve never so much as kissed her? And if something happened to me and I died before doing so, I might think my life here had been a waste.”

“Lewis, when you’re in love, you’re more melodramatic than ever.”

I headed toward Hoboken. We found a parking spot on the street and walked two blocks to Quinn’s, already sweating in the pre-noon heat.

“Wish this God damn weather would break already,” Lewis muttered.

“You’re from New Orleans. Steamy humidity is in your blood.”

“Maybe, but it’s downright hellish around here. I expect this, south of the Mason-Dixon. But, my God, it’s miserable in Jersey.”

We reached the door to Quinn’s, stepped inside and felt a blast of air-conditioning that was a welcome break from the outside temperature. My uncle Tony came over and hugged me, his bald head shining. He shook Lewis’s hand and wrapped a tattooed arm around his neck. “Gang’s all here,” Uncle Tony growled.

Sitting at tables pulled together were my assorted cousins and my father and brother, and my brother’s girlfriend, Marybeth.

“Hi, Daddy,” I leaned over and kissed my father. My brother stood and grabbed me in a sort of headlock.

“Mikey…” I snapped, “we’re getting a little old for this.”

“Never.” He released my head and then hugged me tightly. “Got a whole truckload of bootleg DVDs in the back office there. Go pick through and take whatever you want.”

I narrowed my eyes and gave him a dirty look.

“What?” he asked.

“Mikey,” I said under my breath. “You promised me you’d straighten out.”

“Come on, Billie…it’s just a few DVDs.”

“It’s just a friggin’ parole violation.”

“I got the complete three-DVD set of The Godfather trilogy. You love that.”

I rolled my eyes but noticed Lewis was already heading back there.

“It’s all fun and games until I’m visiting you on Sundays and admiring your orange jumpsuit,” I said sarcastically.

“Come on, sit down and have a beer. You take life too seriously.”

I took a seat by him and poured myself a mug of beer from the pitcher on the table. Sunday brunch was family style. The place was closed until four in the afternoon, so it was only family. My uncle Tony’s short-order cook, Declan, right off the boat from Ireland—and as far as I knew with no immigration papers—made massive plates of scrambled eggs and home-fried potatoes, rashers of bacon and dozens of biscuits. Diets were forgotten in favor of good old-fashioned fatty food.

Lewis returned to the table with six DVDs—all horror movies, his and my favorite. “Nothing like some zombies,” he said. “Mikey, good haul this time.”

I glared at Lewis. “Stop encouraging him.”

Lewis sat down, poured himself a bloody Mary, and a couple of minutes later the platters of food started arriving at the table. We all ate until we were too stuffed to move.

After eating, my cousins—I had over twenty first cousins on the Quinn side—all left to go to a Yankees game. They had offered me tickets a couple of weeks before but I hadn’t been sure I could go, my Justice Foundation work was done in my spare time, which was precious. After my cousins left, my uncle Tony went into the stock room to take inventory, and my father, Lewis, Mikey and Marybeth remained, drinking beer and bloody Marys.

“I have something for you, Billie,” my father said.

“What?”

He stood and went behind the bar and returned with a rather large cardboard box and a small black velvet jewelry box. He handed me the jewelry box first. “Open it.”

I lifted the lid. Inside was nestled a diamond ring with an antique-looking platinum setting. I look at him, curious.

“It was your mother’s. I know she would have wanted you to have it. It was our engagement ring.”

My eyes involuntarily teared up. I took the ring out and showed it to Mikey. He swallowed hard a few times. “I don’t remember it.”

“Neither do I,” I said, not that most children pay attention to jewelry when they are very small.

“Put it on,” Marybeth urged.

I slipped it on to my finger. It was a tiny bit loose, but not so loose that it would fall off or I would lose it. I held my hand out. The diamond sparkled.

“It’s beautiful, Dad.”

He then opened the cardboard box and handed Mikey what looked like a big wad of newspapers. Mikey unwrapped whatever was inside the old newspapers—and found a statue of a bride and groom.

“That was on our wedding cake,” my father said. He was still as handsome as the photos of them when they were young. He hadn’t gained an ounce, and his eyes were still pale blue and striking, his hair black, with touches of gray now at the temples. His skin was unlined, except for the hints of crow’s feet around his eyes and deep smile lines near his nose.

“Thanks, Dad,” Mikey said. He turned the figurine over in his hands and then showed it to Marybeth.

Then my father handed me the cardboard box itself. I peered inside. “What are these?” I asked him.