then the dream continued. Eva was standing in the front hallway of the Meagher home with her belly pushing out a maternity dress, and Mr. Meagher was standing beside her livid with rage. Jim, backed up against the wall, had chains around his arms and legs, and the father was shouting, “You gave her expectations! You gave her expectations!”
A huge, shapeless monster was suddenly descending on him, swallowing him.
He felt himself plunging off a precipice.
He fell down into hell, into the eternal fires.
He screamed.
Florence ran into the bedroom, and Jim suddenly became aware that he was lying on the floor beside the bed, tangled in the bedclothes.
“Jim! Jim! What’s the matter with you? You’re white as a sheet!”
She helped him untangle the bedclothes, and he got loose, and stood up and sat on the bed. “I’m all right.”
She bent over and looked into his face. She felt his forehead for a temperature. “Are you worried about school? God, you’re in a sweat.”
“I’m all right.”
“What’s the matter? Tell me.”
“There’s nothing the matter.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“You’re not getting a grippe?”
“Oh, stop it, will you? I’m all right. Let me get dressed.”
She left. He dressed and went to Mass. Sitting in church, he felt a heavy load of guilt. He had added a new betrayal. The dream wasn’t difficult to interpret: as soon as he had gotten Eva pregnant, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. Good, kind, sweet Eva.
Yesterday, when everything was going wrong—Phelan called him a sneak, his father told him he wasn’t worth a shit, Florence told him there was something wrong with him—he went to Eva and she had bound up the wounds, and he betrayed her now too.
It was just a dream. But it wasn’t just a dream. It was him. His stomach was bouncing.
He left Mass, chastened, resolved to do good things.
Florence was waiting for him at home. “Jimmy? Would you do me a favor?”
“What?”
She was hesitant even to ask. “It’s a trip all the way downtown.”
“For what?”
“I forgot the cranberry sauce.”
“Okay.”
He was so compliant, she couldn’t believe it. “Do you feel all right?”
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
“I’ll make breakfast for you.”
He sat at the kitchen table and pulled the sports section out of the Times.
His father always bought the Times on Sunday before he went to Mass. It was the thickest paper on the newsstand, and therefore obviously worth the money. Florence fried Canadian bacon, chicken livers, blood pudding, slices of tomato dipped in batter, and two eggs. She was a great cook. Amid a constant stream of conversation, he tried to read Arthur Daley’s sports column. “You don’t mind if Ralph is bartender today, do you?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“You don’t mind if Ralph is bartender?”
“No. Of course not. What do I care?”
“It will make him feel good,” she said. “And it will give him something to do.”
She poured two cups of coffee and brought one to Jim, and sat opposite him to drink the other. He continued to read the paper, and nodded automatically as she talked.
“It’s not that he’s that way, really. It’s his mother. He says that she influenced his sense of himself. She’s very fearful. She put all kinds of restrictions on him when he was growing up. She wouldn’t let him go to the pool when the other kids went, because she was afraid he would get some kind of a germ. And she didn’t want him to drive. And things like that. He says she practically destroyed his self-concept. He needs a lot of reassurance. You like him, don’t you, Jim?”
“Huh?”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, he’s a nice guy.”
“He’s kind. Sometimes lawyers are shrewd and hard, but he’s not that way. He’s got brains too. He presents his own cases, and that’s very unusual. Usually the younger ones just help the older ones in court. But he presents his own. And he wins. He just needs someone to tell him all the time that he’s good. To give him confidence.”
She brought over the plate of food, and Jim put the paper down. “It’s a terrific position for a young lawyer,” she continued. “Like Ralph says, he can go in a hundred different directions. Dewey was District Attorney in New York, you know.”
“Yeah, it’s a good job,” said Jim, opening the yolks of the eggs with the prongs of the fork.
“I hope everything goes all right today.”
“You’re really sweating this dinner, aren’t you?”
“They’re not as easy to land when they’re over thirty.”
Jim looked at her in surprise. It was such a naked declaration, especially for Florence.
“The mother will be watching like a hawk today,” Florence went on, “And she can ruin me before I ever have a chance.”
“What is she? A real dragon?”
“She doesn’t want to lose her baby.”
“At thirty-three he’s not exactly a baby.”
“Well, you know. Talk to her today, will you?”
“Who? The mother?”
“Be nice to her,” said Florence.
“Yeah, all right.”
“I’m worried about Daddy,” she said.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be a big hit.”
“If the mother annoys him, he’s liable to tell her off.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jim. “He’ll be a big hit.”
“Do you think so?”
“Sure. He appeals to the masochist in women.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m only kidding. He goes over big with the women, though. You’ll see.”
“I’m worrying about Arthur,” she went on. “If he comes in high, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“I’ll keep an eye open,” said Jim. “And steer him out if I have to.”
“You will?” she said, encouraging him.
“Yes.”
Chapter 9
Jim had to go all the way down to a store on East 70th Street for the cranberry sauce. Heaven only knew how Florence ever found it. It was the Frenchy kind of place that she loved. Probably the only grocery store in New York with a carpet out on the sidewalk. He couldn’t take the car either, because his father would be taking it to Fordham to see Father Phelan. He had to go all the way downtown on the subway. By the time he got to 42nd Street and shuttled over to the East Side, and then took the Lexington Avenue train uptown, he had lost his good resolutions and cursed Florence.
The cranberry sauce was three dollars for a pint. It was unbelievable,