Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,62

you on the wrinkled ass.”

Crimson-faced and speechless, the Jesuit abandoned his benevolent posture and signaled for the ushers at the back of the church to escort Pop from the premises.

Pop never did grasp the concept of gracious defeat. “Dignity,” he used to say, “is the last refuge of scoundrels.” He started swinging the moment they came near him.

The choir continued its protracted torture and murder of “Ave Maria.” Pop shook his fist up at the balcony. “Catholics cannot sing! Catholics cannot sing!” he shouted in a desperate parting shot, his voice echoing from the vestibule.

I felt the eyes of the world on the back of my head. Poor Collie, what do we make of him, having recently distinguished himself as a moral and physical coward? And what of the old man, his shanty Irish father whom he obviously takes after, a raving drunken lunatic?

Back at my grandfather’s house, I was subject to endless rounds of solicitous inquiries and compassionate murmuring from people who could hardly bear to look at me. I was nodding and smiling weakly, good manners my formal wear, as around me the conversational buzz grew loud and uniform, absent melody, sounding like the godless chant of cicadas deep in August.

“Poor Anais, she died of a broken heart.” I overheard two women talking, friends of the Falcon. “She adored that boy. I understand her heart stopped beating on the spot.”

“I heard she’s the one who broke the older boy’s jaw. Imagine. She must have been out of her mind with grief. What a tragedy. It makes me shudder to think about it. Her death feels like a curse. Poor Colin. . . .”

The other woman looked startled. “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic? Anais wasn’t a Gypsy, after all. Oh, by the way, I think his name is Collier.”

I stopped listening and wandered alone into the study, where I sat in the window seat and stared outside.

The Japanese call what happened to Ma tako tsubo, which means “octopus trap” in English. The left ventricle bulges and balloons—in an X-ray, the affected part of the heart looks like a traditional fishing pot for snaring octopus.

When Ma died she let the octopus out of the bag. I had already begun to feel the long strangulating reach of its tentacles.

Ingrid, the housekeeper, came looking for me and, with her arm around my shoulders, ushered me back to the main part of the house, where the Falcon’s guests continued to circulate.

“This is no time for you to be alone,” she said.

It was hot. The sun was bright and hard. I went and stood by the open window in the cherry-paneled dining room. The curtains were blowing, but the breeze was warm as wool. Everyone was embarrassed, discomfited—each awkward kindness a searing rebuke.

Parched and feeling as if I were about to burst into flames, I retreated to my room on the second floor, where I sat dejected on the edge of my bed, cradling my glass jaw. Eyes wide open, still I couldn’t see a thing. It was dark where I was.

“Collie!” I heard a muted shout as a spray of gravel hit the bedroom window.

I drew the curtain. Pop stood below, a debauched Romeo pleading his mottled case.

“Collie,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’ll come to the point. Could you spare a twenty? It seems we were living a lie. Your dear mother ran through most of her fortune years ago, spending it all on the Commies. Your grandfather’s been supporting us, and now he’s frozen the accounts and left me practically penniless but for a meager monthly honorarium. I’ve got only enough for dog food.”

I signaled him to wait a moment, walked over to the dresser, picked up my wallet, and withdrew the contents—three twenties. After taking a moment to fashion them into paper airplanes, I leaned out the window and let fall all three bills, watching as they drifted gently downward, an incongruous rescue flight, Pop struggling to catch them in midair.

“You’re a peach, Collie. I won’t forget it. I’m a broken man, but I’ve got my integrity. I can’t be bought, and by God, they’ll never own me. They can’t take it away from you, try as they will, don’t let the bastards get to you, promise me, Collie, you’ll never surrender.”

It’s hard to surrender when you’re not putting up much of a fight. I wasn’t Pop—Pop didn’t know how to give in.

“Collie,” Pop said, turning to leave, pausing, not looking up at me there in the window, holding