Long Bright River(98)

—That fucker, says one, and another repeats, That fucker.

At first I think they are talking about Fran Mulroney. They’re looking in his direction, at least. But then the conversation shifts, slightly. At one point I hear, distinctly, the word cop. At another I hear wrong guy. Bail, I hear. My view is mainly of the back of their heads, but every so often one of them turns to another and inclines her head to whisper something, and I catch a glimpse of her face and her expression, in quarter-turn.

Suddenly, one of them—she is standing at the front of the pack, turning back to listen to something her friend is saying—spots me and freezes.

—Yo, she says to her friend. Yo. Shut up.

All four of them, seeing where she is looking, turn in my direction. I keep my eyes on my phone, pretending not to notice. But I see, peripherally, that no one is turning back around.

The woman closest to me is short and strong looking. She’s wearing purple jeans. She points her finger right at me, almost touching my chest, so that I am forced to look up.

—You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve, she says. Showing up here.

Her hair is slicked back into a low ponytail. She wears earrings that come almost to her collar.

—I’m sorry? I say.

—You should be, says another woman.

All four of them are moving toward me now, menacingly, hands in pockets, chins thrust forward.

—Get the fuck out of here, says the woman in purple jeans.

—I don’t understand, I say.

She snorts.

—What are you, she says. Stupid?

It’s a word I’ve never liked. I frown.

The woman is snapping her fingers in my face now. Hello? she’s saying. Hello? Go home. Leave.



* * *



—

A sudden movement, behind my aggressors, catches my eye. Someone is entering the church, moving in the opposite direction as the departing crowd.

I don’t recognize her at first.

Her hair is light brown, as close to her natural color as I’ve seen it since she was a child. Her complexion is pale. She’s wearing glasses. I’ve never seen her wear glasses before.

Kacey. My sister.





Despite looking healthy, she also looks frazzled, running late, her belly protruding through an unzipped jacket. Under her coat, she wears a white shirt and gray sweatpants. Perhaps the only pants that fit her at the moment, I think. She is weaving, now, past the receiving line.

The woman in purple jeans glances back at her friends and then, wordlessly, two of them come toward me and take me by both elbows.

—Don’t say a fuckin’ word, one of them mutters into my ear. Be respectful. You’re at a funeral.

But instinctively, my police training kicks in, and I spin hard enough to knock one of them over onto her hands and knees. The other lets go.

—Oh, no, says the one who’s still standing. She did not just do that.

I hold up my hands. Listen, I say. I think there’s a misunderstanding here.

Suddenly, Kacey is at my side.

—Hey, she says, looking at the four women, not me. Hey. What’s going on?

—This bitch just put her hands on me, says the woman who was knocked to the floor—forgetting, I suppose, who actually laid hands on whom first.

Kacey won’t look at me.

—She’s sorry, says Kacey, about me. Mickey, tell them you’re sorry.

—I don’t, I begin, and Kacey elbows me, hard. Say it, Mickey. Say you’re sorry.

—I’m sorry, I say.

The woman in purple jeans is looking not in my eyes but at my forehead, as if a target were painted there.

She turns to Kacey. She shakes her head. No disrespect to you, Kacey, she says. No disrespect, I know she’s your sister. But you should watch your back. You don’t know everything about her.

Kacey is quiet for a second, looking back and forth between me and this woman, and then—as if a decision has snapped into place in her brain—she flips the woman off and puts her hand roughly on my shoulder, steering me out of the church, past Fran and his mother, who are watching us, confused. I think suddenly of Kacey as a child, rising over and over again to my defense, just waiting for someone to cross me.

A chorus of jeers follows us out of the church, down the steps, to the street.

From inside, the woman calls out to Kacey one more time. Watch your back.





My sister says nothing to me for a while. I walk toward my car, parked just around a corner, and she walks next to me, her breathing heavy.

I don’t know what to say to her either.

—Kacey, I say at last. Thank you.

—No, she says, too quickly. Don’t do that.

We’re at the car already and I pause, embarrassed, uncertain how to proceed.

She looks me directly in the eye for the first time.

—Dad says you came looking for me, she says.

—I wasn’t, I begin. I am about to deny it. I wasn’t looking for you.

Instead I say, I was worried.

She folds her arms over her middle defensively, above her belly. She doesn’t respond.

—Mickey, she says finally. What were they talking about? Those girls?

—I have no idea, I say.

—Are you sure? she says. Is there anything you want to say?