out, my inner organs, too, pieces of me were scattered from one end of the hotel room to the other—I couldn’t pick myself up fast enough, and anyway, I couldn’t figure out where anything went anymore.
Bingo, ever merry in his willingness to believe, was enamored of reconstruction, always trying to refurbish old junk he found lying around the property, refusing to throw out anything; everything had a higher purpose as far as he was concerned.
Pop had his own way of adapting and adjusting to life’s little setbacks, insisted there was magic in third-person accounts. He called it tertium quid—a third something. He started talking to us about it when we were in our early teens.
“Boys, sometimes this I-slash-me-business just gets you down.” His voice raised an octave as he recited in singsong this confessional litany: “‘I drank the Communion wine. I got drunk. I passed out and missed my own mother’s funeral. I dishonored my dear wife with other women. Woe is me.’ Where does it get you? Try substituting ‘he’ for ‘I’ and it sets a lovely distance in place. Not that you’re trying to avoid responsibility—just you’re aiming for a little breathing room.
“Put it another way: ‘Charlie Flanagan stole the money his brother William had been saving for a year to purchase an old car and used it to buy drinks for everyone at the local bar instead.’ Do you see the merit? You view your deeds in the cold light of day with no great loss of self-esteem. Your good opinion of yourself is very important. Well, in the end, what else have you got? If I say, ‘Charlie Flanagan gave his aunt Colleen a Christmas gift of white bark chocolate, which he then took back and hid in his coat jacket as he was leaving her house—’”
“Did you really, Pop?” Bingo interrupted.
“He did indeed. But maybe he had good reason, which he’s not prepared to go into for the sake of an old lady who’s dead and whose memory, however complicated, deserves to be considered in respectful silence. Do you see the magic of it, boys? As a species, we tend to go easier on the other guy—at least in public. Make yourself the other guy. People will hurt you, boys. The world compels suffering. Satan is a first-person man. Be kind to yourselves, and always remember God is in the third person.”
I reached for Pop’s theory as if it were an analgesic; it was worth a shot if it would ease the ache. In the process I added my personal touch, discovering the merit of metaphor as an effective tool for putting distance between me and my misdeeds. My third-person version of events went something like this:
He lay back in the long grass, waiting, eyes closed, almost sleeping, arms at his side, sun on his face, the summer breeze stirring his hair. At first he thought it was the warm breath of the wind, the caress of the long grass, the burning touch of the sun. By the time he knew otherwise, knew what it was, it had him by the throat, had him, shook him violently, and carried him off. Dragged him through grass and ground, took to the air with him, landed with a thud far away, and dashed him against a flat rock. Shredded his shirt, cracked him open from stem to stern, ripped out his entrails, sucked his marrow, drained his blood, flayed his flesh, and tore strips of stringy tissue from his living body.
He opened his eyes. “What fragrance are you?”
“Shut up.” Oh, that’s right. No fragrance at all—just the ruthless scent of Kitty Paley, or maybe it’s her daughter, Edie, or maybe it’s someone whose name doesn’t matter. He was beginning to suspect he wasn’t built for promiscuity.
“I want to revive the dead,” he thought aloud. “I want my brother back.” He hesitated. “Possibly my mother as well—though that one’s up for a little negotiation.”
“For Christ’s sake,” she said, “would you keep your mind on your work?”
His mouth was full of her. He was drowning in bodily fluids, sinking to dangerous murky depths, his pulse ringing in his ears like a plunging diving bell.
“That’s for what you did to your brother,” she whispered in his ear before leaving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE PHONE WAS RINGING OFF THE HOOK. INGRID CAUGHT IT JUST as Pop was about to hang up. I’d done a pretty good job of avoiding him and Uncle Tom since my sailing debacle.
“Thanks, Ingrid,” I said as she handed me