Authors: Richard Bowes
Under the photos were blocks of Felice’s copy. One was:
Fashion is a cyclical phenomenon
—
the newest sensation withers but never dies.
Another was:
An amazing top found in a vintage thrift store, a haircut seen in the old photo: we are fascinated and want more. A look, a style starts again.
Paulo had a yo-yo in each hand. His left was slack, his right performed Shoot the Moon. “We found the boomlet and played it perfectly,” he said. “By spring it will be nasty and we’ll be nowhere nearby.”
He turned to Marguerite. “It’s always an inspiration to work with Maison Herrault.”
Marguerite said, “An old vice gives comfort like any old habit.” She got up slowly and went to the door. “Until next time.”
The Kindly Ones rose, made little waves with their fingers, but kept their distance as the ancient woman exited.
“Remember us to M. Herrault,” Felice said.
“In whatever corner of hell he occupies,” Paulo added when Marguerite was gone. “Undying but at what cost?” The ancient voice wondered.
“Something to consider as old age closes in,” said Katya.
They all looked relieved to turn and see Lilia also on her feet and clearly leaving. “Nice working with you,” Paulo said in parting. “Maybe again someday.”
Lilia glanced back to see Katya put her feet in glistening new ankle boots up on the table. They all picked up copies of a proposal.
Paulo’s right hand kept on with Shoot the Moon, while his left began doing “Skyrocket to Mars.” The yo-yos orbited around one another as he said, “Here’s a related investment opportunity we might look at.”
Reliquary was jumping, if that word could be used to describe the cold, covert way Nightwalkers shop for clothes and stalk each other for blood. In the crowded store, each one stared and got stared at from behind dark glasses.
Two cash registers were working. At one, Scarlet Jones wore a blood red scarf from Maison Herrault around her neck. Her face immobile, her skin dead white, fang tips visible though her mouth was closed, she racked up sales without seeming aware she was doing so. Bret more or less bagged the purchases.
Just as attractions the two were worth far more than they were paid and even a good deal more than they stole. Lilia calculated that around the start of the summer this would no longer be true.
By then Reliquary and the Vampire Revival would be edging their way into the limbo reserved for old fads, and she’d have accumulated a nest egg.
Already the store’s customers were largely from New Jersey and outer boroughs. Complaints from the neighbors about the crowds were making her landlord nervous. Building and fire inspectors had put in their appearances, and an unmarked car with plainclothes cops sometimes parked across the street.
Lilia sat on a stool and watched it all through a mild haze. The trick, she told herself, was to keep the nips and bites small and the haze manageable. She remembered the bone-wracking horrors of withdrawal too well to want a repeat.
Just then Larry came in the door looking sloppy and vulnerable. He scanned the customers, all of whom ignored him.
Lilia and he had begun hanging around, talking over old times at CBGB’s and the Mudd Club. She’d bitten him once or twice—playfully with a bit of vengeance thrown in. Her teeth were hardly fangs.
She wanted to make sure he didn’t blow the money he got in the divorce settlement. While the Kindly Ones had said their goodbyes to Marguerite that last time at Savage Design, Lilia had managed to get a couple of glimpses of the investment proposal on their table.
They were involved in the development of a Betty Ford style clinic for vampires on an estate up the Hudson. Kids like Scarlet, Bret and many others had families able to pay for their recoveries.
Lilia intended to invest Larry’s money. If that worked out, she might invest some of her own savings. He crossed the shop towards her and she watched his throat.
Certainly one of my best known stories, “
If Angels Fight
” won the World Fantasy Award for best novella of 2007, was on the Nebula Awards short list, and got reprinted in five Year’s Best volumes
—
this last was a record which I believe still stands.
Parts are set in contemporary and bygone New York, in the Washington suburbs and even in Canada. But I believe it’s the segments around Codman Square, in Dorchester, in Boston in the 1950s that seal the deal.
So much of this was pieces of memory I’d carted around with me. The perilous ledge around the District Courthouse, the rescue of the little kid on the Neponset River ice, the gradual alienation of the gay narrator, the overgrown vacant lot that was Fitzie’s, Melville Avenue with its politicians’ houses: all of that was used (repurposed I suppose we’d say now). The encounter with the young JFK sat unused for decades. Only years later did I consider the amount of nagging that Rose Kennedy, the ultimate Irish mother, must have expended to get her son to visit his aunt on her birthday.
Now I’m amazed it took me so long to find a use for this snippet.
Politics is the lifeblood of this story as it is with others of mine (“The Mask of the Rex” earlier in this book is one). It was there and then I learned it, not taught but in the air, possibly in the water, certainly in the bars. All very Irish and surviving now mostly in tellings like this one.
IF ANGELS FIGHT
1.
O
utside the window, the blue water of the Atlantic danced in the sunlight of an early morning in October. They’re short, quiet trains, the ones that roll through Connecticut just after dawn. I sipped bad tea, dozed off occasionally, and awoke with a start.
Over the last forty years, I’ve ridden the northbound train from New York to Boston hundreds of times. I’ve done it alone, with friends and lovers, going home for the holidays, setting out on vacations, on my way to funerals.
That morning, I was with one who was once in some ways my best friend and certainly my oldest. Though we had rarely met in decades, it seemed that a connection endured. Our mission was vital and we rode the train by default: a terrorist threat had closed traffic at Logan Airport in Boston the night before.
I’d left messages canceling an appointment, letting the guy I was going out with know I’d be out of town briefly for a family crisis. No need to say it was another, more fascinating, family disrupting my life, not mine.
The old friend caught my discomfort at what we were doing and was amused.
A bit of Shakespeare occurred to me when I thought of him:
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm off from an anointed king
He was quiet for a while after hearing those lines. It was getting towards twenty-four hours since I’d slept. I must have dozed because suddenly I was in a dark place with two tiny slits of light high above. I found hand and foot holds and crawled up the interior wall of a stone tower. As I got to the slits of light, a voice said, “New Haven. This stop New Haven.”
2.
Carol Bannon had called me less than two weeks before. “I’m going to be down in New York the day after tomorrow,” she said. “I wondered if we could get together.” I took this to mean that she and her family wanted to get some kind of fix on the present location and current state of her eldest brother, my old friend Mark.
Over the years when this had happened it was Marie Bannon, Mark and Carol’s mother, who contacted me. Those times I’d discovered channels through which she could reach her straying son. This time, I didn’t make any inquiries before meeting Carol, but I did check to see if certain parties still had the same phone numbers and habits that I remembered.
Thinking about Marky Bannon, I too wondered where he was. He’s always somewhere on my mind. When I see a photo of some great event, a reception, or celebrity trial, a concert or inauguration—I scan the faces, wondering if he’s present.
I’m retired these days, with time to spend. But over the years, keeping tabs on the Bannons was an easy minor hobby. The mother is still alive, though not very active now. The father was a longtime Speaker of the Massachusetts House and a candidate for governor who died some years back. An intersection in Dorchester and an entrance to the Boston Harbor tunnel are still named for him.
Carol, the eldest daughter, got elected to the City Council at the age of twenty-eight. Fourteen years later she gave up a safe U.S. House seat to run the Commerce Department for Clinton. Later she served on the 9/11 commission and is a perennial cable TV talking head. She’s married to Jerry Simone, who has a stake in Google. Her brother Joe is a leading campaign consultant in DC. Keeping up the idealistic end of things, her little sister Eileen is a member of Doctors Without Borders. My old friend Mark is the tragic secret without which no Irish family would be complete.
Carol asked me to meet her for tea uptown in the Astor Court of the St. Regis Hotel. I got there a moment after four. The Astor Court has a blinding array of starched white table cloths and gold chandeliers under a ceiling mural of soft, floating clouds.
Maybe her choice of meeting places was intentionally campy. Or maybe because I don’t drink anymore she had hit upon this as an amusing spot to bring me.
Carol and I always got along. Even aged ten and eleven I was different enough from the other boys that I was nice to my friends’ little sisters.
Carol has kept her hair chestnut but allowed herself fine gray wings. Her skin and teeth are terrific. The Bannons were what was called dark Irish when we were growing up in Boston in the 1950s. That meant they weren’t so white that they automatically burst into flames on their first afternoon at the beach.
They’re a handsome family. The mother is still beautiful in her eighties. Marie Bannon had been on the stage a bit before she married. She had that light and charm, that ability to convince you that her smile was for you alone that led young men and old to drop everything and do her bidding. Mike Bannon, the father, had been a union organizer before he went nights to law school, then got into politics. He had rugged good looks, blue eyes that would look right into you, and a fine smile that he could turn on and off and didn’t often waste on kids.
“When the mood’s upon him, he can charm a dog off a meat wagon,” I remember a friend of my father’s remarking. It was a time and place where politicians and race horses alike were scrutinized and handicapped.
The Bannon children had inherited the parents’ looks and, in the way of politicians’ kids, were socially poised. Except for Mark, who could look lost and confused one minute, oddly intense the next with eyes suddenly just like his father’s.
Carol rose to kiss me as I approached the table. It seemed kind of like a Philip Marlowe moment: I imagined myself as a private eye, tough and amused, called in by the rich dame for help in a personal matter.
When I first knew Carol Bannon, she wore pigtails and cried because her big brother wouldn’t take her along when we went to the playground. Recently there’s been speculation everywhere that a distinguished Massachusetts senator is about to retire before his term ends. Carol Bannon is the odds-on favorite to be appointed to succeed him.
Then, once she’s in the Senate, given that it’s the Democratic Party we’re talking about, who’s to say they won’t go crazy again and run one more Bay State politician for President in the wild hope that they’ve got another JFK?
Carol said, “My mother asked me to remember her to you.”
I asked Carol to give her mother my compliments. Then we each said how good the other looked and made light talk about the choices of teas and the drop-dead faux Englishness of the place. We reminisced about Boston and the old neighborhood.
“Remember how everyone called that big overgrown vacant lot, Fitzie’s?” I asked. The nickname had come from its being the site where the Fitzgerald mansion, the home of Honey Fitz, the old mayor of Boston once stood. His daughter, Rose, was mother to the Kennedy brothers.
“There was a marble floor in the middle of the trash and weeds,” I said, “and everybody was sure the place was haunted.”
“The whole neighborhood was haunted,” she said. “There was that little old couple who lived down Melville Avenue from us. They knew my parents. He was this gossipy elf. He had held office back in the old days, and everyone called him The Hon Hen, short for ‘the Honorable Henry.’ She was a daughter of Honey Fitz. They were aunt and uncle of the Kennedy’s.”
Melville Avenue was and is a street where the houses are set back on lawns and the garages are converted horse barns. When we were young, doctors and prosperous lawyers lived there along with prominent saloon owners and politicians like Michael Bannon and his family.
Suddenly at our table in the Astor Court, the pots and plates, the Lapsing and scones, the marmalade, the clotted cream and salmon finger sandwiches, appeared. We were silent for a little while and I thought about how politics had seemed a common occupation for kids’ parents in Irish Boston. Politicians’ houses tended to be big and semi-public with much coming and going and loud talk.
Life at the Bannons’ was much more exciting than at my house. Mark had his own room and didn’t have to share with his little brother. He had a ten-year-old’s luxuries: electronic football, enough soldiers to fight Gettysburg if you didn’t mind that the Confederates were mostly Indians, and not one but two electric train engines which made wrecks a positive pleasure. Mark’s eyes would come alive when the cars flew off the tracks in a rainbow of sparks.
“What are you smiling at?” Carol asked.
And I cut to the chase and said, “Your brother. I remember the way he liked to leave his room. That tree branch right outside his window: he could reach out, grab hold of it, scramble hand over hand to the trunk.”
I remembered how the branches swayed and sighed and how scared I was every time I had to follow him.
“In high school,” Carol said, “at night he’d sneak out when he was supposed to be in bed and scramble back inside much later. I knew, and our mother, but no one else. One night the bough broke as he tried to get back in the window. He fell all the way to the ground, smashing through more branches on the way.
“My father was down in the study plotting malfeasance with Governor Furcolo. They and everyone else came out to see what had happened. We found Mark lying on the ground laughing like a lunatic. He had a fractured arm and a few scratches. Even I wondered if he’d fallen on his head.”
For a moment I watched for some sign that she knew I’d been right behind her brother when he fell. I’d gotten down the tree fast and faded into the night when I saw lights come on inside the house. It had been a long, scary night, and before he laughed Mark had started to sob.
Now that we were talking about her brother, Carol was able to say, almost casually, “My mother has her good days and her bad days. But for thirty years she’s hinted to me that she had a kind of contact with him. I didn’t tell her that wasn’t possible because it obviously meant a lot to her.”
She was maintaining a safe zone, preserving her need not to know. I frowned and fiddled with a sliver of cucumber on buttered brown bread.
Carol put on a full court press. “Mom wants to see Mark again and she thinks it needs to be soon. She told me you knew people and could arrange things. It would make her so happy if you could do whatever that was again.”
I too kept my distance. “I ran some errands for your mother a couple of times that seemed to satisfy her. The last time was fourteen years ago and at my age I’m not sure I can even remember what I did.”
Carol gave a rueful little smile. “You were my favorite of all my brother’s friends. You’d talk to me about my dollhouse. It took me years to figure out why that was. When I was nine and ten years old I used to imagine you taking me out on dates.”
She reached across the table and touched my wrist. “If there’s any truth to any of what Mom says, I could use Mark’s help too. You follow the news.
“I’m not going to tell you the current administration wrecked the world all by themselves or that if we get back in it will be the second coming of Franklin Roosevelt and Abe Lincoln all rolled into one.
“I am telling you I think this is end game. We either pull ourselves together in the next couple of years or we become Disneyworld.”
I didn’t tell her I thought we had already pretty much reached the stage of the U.S. as theme park.
“It’s not possible that Mark’s alive,” she said evenly. “But his family needs him. None of us inherited our father’s gut instincts, his political animal side. It may be a mother’s fantasy, but ours says Mark did.”
I didn’t wonder aloud if the one who had been Marky Bannon still existed in any manifestation we’d recognize.
Then Carol handed me a very beautiful check from a consulting firm her husband owned. I told her I’d do whatever I could. Someone had said about Carol, “She’s very smart and she knows all the rules of the game. But I’m not sure the game these days has anything to do with the rules.”
3.
After our little tea, I thought about the old Irish American city of my childhood and how ridiculous it was for Carol Bannon to claim no knowledge of Mark Bannon. It reminded me of the famous Bulger brothers of South Boston.
You remember them: William Bulger was first the President of the State Senate and then the President of the University of Massachusetts. Whitey Bulger was head of the Irish mob, a murderer and an FBI informant gone bad. Whitey was on the lam for years. Bill always claimed, even under oath, that he never had any contact with his brother.
That had always seemed preposterous to me. The Bulgers’ mother was alive. And a proper Irish mother will always know what each of her children are doing no matter how they hide. And she’ll bombard the others with that information no matter how much they don’t want to know. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Bannon not doing that.
What kept the media away from the story was that Mark had—in all the normal uses of the terms—died, been waked and memorialized some thirty-five years ago.
I remembered how in the Bannon family the father adored Carol and her sister Eileen. He was even a tiny bit in awe of little Joe who, at the age of six, already knew the name and political party of the governor of each state in the union. But Michael Bannon could look very tired when his eyes fell on Mark.
The ways of Irish fathers with their sons were mysterious and often distant. Mark was his mother’s favorite. But he was, I heard it whispered, dull normal, a step above retarded.
I remembered the way the Bannons’ big house could be full of people I didn’t know and how all the phones—the Bannons were the only family I knew with more than one phone in their house—could be ringing at once.
Mike Bannon had a study on the first floor. One time when Mark and I went past, I heard him in there saying, “We got the quorum. Now who’s handling the seconding speech?” We went up to Mark’s room and found two guys there. One sat on the bed with a portable typewriter on his lap, pecking away. The other stood by the window and said, “. . . real estate tax that’s fair for all.”
“For everybody,” said the guy with the typewriter, “Sounds better.” Then they noticed we were there and gave us a couple of bucks to go away.
Another time, Mark and I came back from the playground to find his father out on the front porch talking to the press who stood on the front lawn. This, I think, was when he was elected Speaker of the Lower House of the Great and General Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as the state legislature was called.