Passenger(49)

I am late for Sister Eleanor’s funeral. It is a solemn, reverent event, and I stumble through the front doors of the little stone church like an intruder, making too much noise and riling the birds in the rafters into a frenzy. There are only a few mourners left, at this late hour, and they are all nuns in black robes. Two older men in bejeweled white and red robes sit toward the back of the chancel, their heads bowed. Propped up on steel struts before the pulpit, a smallish casket of unpolished wood glimmers under soft lights. The casket is open and, even from the back of the church, I can see the frail, wax-carved shape of Sister Eleanor, looking no different in death. I recall the way she winced when she spoke of her stomach cancer and I am grateful she is finally done with it.

I take a seat in the last pew and sit for a while, watching the nuns pray. Shafts of midday light slide in through the stained-glass windows. One of the nuns approaches the pulpit and sits before the organ. She begins to play “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” which seems strangely out of place, yet strangely suitable. I wonder if Sister Eleanor had requested it.

After a while, someone rings the bell in the tower. It rings eleven times and I wonder what the significance is.

What is the significance?

I never get up to view the body.

I sit and wonder who would come to my funeral.





*





As promised, Nicole Quinland shows up outside The Neighborhood one evening, standing at the back of a long line of people bitching about the cover charge. I am out on the corner with a cup of black coffee to keep warm, watching the boats navigate the harbor beyond Thames Street when I see her.

“Nicole!”

I take her by the arm and lead her through a side entrance and into the bar. There are a number of people here already and the tables are crowded. I secure a bar stool and prop it against the back wall. The stool is higher than the chairs at the tables; she will have no problem seeing over the big Baltimore hair.

“This is exciting,” she says in her small voice. She has come straight from work and still wears her uniform beneath a wool coat. She clutches her purse in her lap with both hands like she is afraid it will try to escape.

“You want something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“I get free drinks. Anything you want.”

“Maybe just a water.”

“Have a beer.”

“Oh. Okay. What beer is good?”

At the bar, I ask Timmy Donlon for a Fordham. He growls and wants to know where the hell Olivia’s run off to. I tell him I don’t know and he thrusts the beer at me across the bar in disgust. I bring Nicole the Fordham and sit with her for a while, mostly in silence, mostly examining my cuticles while she examines hers, until it is time to play.

The first set goes off without a hitch. We roll through the standard jazz numbers and, because the Devine brothers are in a good spiritual mood, stir things up a bit with obscure religious hymns like “The Great Speckled Bird” and “The Old Rugged Cross” as well as a jazzy rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Timmy Donlon, too, is in the holiday spirit—or perhaps the set just puts him in one—and he doles out a round of peppermint schnapps on the house. The Devine brothers drink like sailors at the intermission then vanish with their female conquests per their mode of operation to their loft upstairs. I linger with Nicole and am pleased to find her more relaxed.

“You’re very good. I had no idea.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Yes. I don’t come to places like this. It’s interesting.”

And before our second set is over, it gets more interesting.

Midway through “Salt Peanuts,” a group of rowdy men, collegiate types, burst through the front door. In Santa Claus hats and wearing mistletoe belt buckles, their shouts and cheers carry over the music. Above their heads they hoist one of the giant ceramic crab statues from the Inner Harbor, the bottom busted clean off the pedestal. As they pour into the place, the bouncer at the door grabs two men by the forearms, but he cannot keep the mob at bay. A second later, one of the grabbed men chucks a fist at the bouncer’s head. The place goes to hell very quick.

“There goes The Neighborhood,” mutters Maxwell, his drumsticks clattering to the floor. He rises and steps out from behind the kit and tugs at one of my ears.

Dougie Devine leans his bass against the side of my piano just as a beer bottle goes whizzing past his face. He dodges it with skill and seems unimpressed with the whole scenario.

“Come on, Wurl,” Maxwell says, still tugging at my ear. “This place on fire, hammer.”

Both brothers file through a hidden door at the back of the stage and vanish.

I turn and hop off the stage, immediately engulfed in the crowd. Fists are thrown like party favors and it takes all my strength—strength I do not have—to push through a wall of broad chests and steel-banded forearms. Someone plants their knuckles into my temple, temporarily causing my vision to blur, and I swing wildly back, unsure whether I hit anything or not.

Toward the back of the room, I grab Nicole’s hand—“Come on!”—and pull her around the mob toward the stage. I shield her with my arms, sustaining blows along my ribs and back, and hoist her up onto the riser before I’m slammed by a wave of heavy bodies. I strike a wall and feel the pressure from the mob crushing me. Each inhalation carries with it the scent of brute sweat and cheap cologne. By the front door, women are shrieking. I catch a glimpse of chair legs parading above the heads of the crowd.