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“Hey, everyone! Dad said we can wear jeans!” Jane shouted as she took off down the hallway.
“Dad, can I borrow your razor?” someone else asked a minute later.
This new query came from a groggy-looking Brian, still in his pj’s. I looked at his smooth, pale, sixteen-year-old cheeks. There was no hair to speak of. I didn’t say this, of course. Not passing on my observation was a no-brainer. Dad 101. Maybe his eyesight was better than mine. Make that definitely.
“In my medicine cabinet,” I said. “But hurry up. Please. We need to do this for Seamus. We need to pull together, or we’re all going to be late.”
Ten minutes later, I had everyone ready and gathered in the living room. Jane had actually found another dress and was looking quite spiffy, as was everyone else. Even I was wearing a tie for the special occasion. Everyone was present and accounted for except Seamus and Ricky and Juliana.
Which reminds me, I thought as I checked my watch. I nodded to Fiona, and at my signal she hit the stereo as the clock struck eleven precisely.
The door to the back bedroom opened just as the first strains of “Immaculate Mary” filled the room. Out the door came Juliana, holding a bookmarked Bible, followed by Ricky, wearing his altar-boy robe and holding a lit candle, then lastly, Seamus, wearing a surplice and clasping his hands in prayer.
As they arrived at the front of the room, I elbowed a daydreaming Trent to up the volume or, better yet, actually start singing from the lyric sheet I had printed out.
Since Seamus needed to take it easy after his stroke, I’d decided to turn the apartment into Saint Bennett’s Cathedral this Sunday and do Mass at home. He seemed to be fine enough since we brought him home, but I was still quite worried about him, of course. Not having Mary Catherine here to help me keep an eye on him, I decided to err on the side of caution.
The good news was that Gramps really seemed blown away when he saw the furniture rearranged in the living room and all the kids in their Sunday best.
“Good morning, parishioners,” he said, winking, as he stood smiling at the front of the room.
“Good morning, Father,” everyone said, smiling back.
Seamus stood there, then suddenly brought a finger to his open mouth as a vacant look glazed his eyes.
“Now, what’s next?” he said, looking down at the carpet, confused.
“Seamus?” I said as I stepped forward.
“Psych!” he said to me, snapping out of it after another moment as everyone laughed.
“Don’t worry: I’m not ready for the glue factory yet, Detective. Still a marble or two rolling around in this old gray head.”
“Very funny, Father,” I said, stepping back. “I’ll be the one with the stroke next if you keep it up.”
“Nonsense,” Seamus said. “Now, where was I? I know. Let us begin today as we begin every day. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
Chapter 8
That evening, I was minding my own business, sheltering in place on the couch with a pint of Smithwick’s, about to watch the Yanks at Boston—ESPN’s game of the week—with Seamus and the rest of the boys, when I made the mistake of checking my phone for messages.
My boss, Miriam Schwartz, had sent a text about an hour before. In it she let me know that during the week I’d been in Ireland, the department had appointed a guy I’d vaguely heard of named Neil Fabretti to be its newest chief of detectives.
Chief Fabretti was trying to get up to speed before officially starting on Monday, Miriam explained, and was requesting a quick informal meet and greet with his transition team at his house up in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. In the next half hour, I thought, groaning, as I checked my watch.
Get up to speed during a New York–Boston rubber game? I thought as I stared at my phone, dumbfounded. I’d been busting my hump all day with laundry and homework and getting dinner on the table. I’d even been to Mass—or at least Mass had been to us. I’d been looking forward to a little Sawx-crushing, male-bonding downtime all day.
Are you sure this guy is the new chief of detectives for the New York police department? I almost texted back.
Instead, I reluctantly put down my Smithwick’s and stood and found my keys.
“Excellent idea, Michael,” Seamus said as I headed out. “We could use some goodies for the game. And don’t forget another six of Smithy’s.”
“Sorry, Father. No goodies tonight. It’s all baddies, in fact. A.k.a. work.”
“Work, Dad? But it’s Yanks-Sox! That’s sacrilegious.”
“My sentiments exactly, Brian,” I said as I hit the door. “Keep me posted on the score. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
