Chapter Sixteen

Ah, God. Grace.

I should have known better.

I should have known better than to ever have walked through the door of her house. All the saints and angels couldn’t save me now. Maybe I can save myself, but I’m no saint and no angel, and I wonder if it’s even any use trying.

Not that it was a bad evening, or that anything particularly dramatic happened. Actually, if you had videotaped the whole thing, I don’t think anyone would be able to point out anything wrong or unusual. Certainly nobody would be able to say, “This -- this, then, is the point at which John Sullivan once again lost control of his life, his heart and the sense he was born with and placed it into the hands of a woman.”

It wasn’t obvious. It never is when it’s real. But the heart knows what the mind will not allow.

I got to Grace’s house around 7:30. The address she gave me turned out to be a nice little brick house in West Park, nothing fancy but a solid, pretty little post-WWII bungalow. Turning onto the street and approaching the house, I noticed immediately that there were rosebushes surrounding the porch -- mostly floribundas, but one climber on a trellis. I wondered if they had come with the house or if Grace had planted them herself. The floribundas were nothing special, but the climber was a Gloire de Dijon, I was pretty sure, even though it would be a few months before it broke dormancy. The canes had a familiar look to them, and it was the right growth habit. Gloire de Dijons will pull down a trellis and even a wooden porch if they aren‘t pruned carefully. From the look of it, someone had known what they were about with a pruning shears. I wondered if it had been Brad or Grace.

I hadn’t brought wine -- I just couldn’t see opening a bottle of wine with dinner all for myself. Grace doesn’t drink, Seanny isn’t supposed to and Kate is nine years old, so what would have been the sense in that? But I did have one arm around a big bag of groceries: some fresh French bread, a sack of apples, some fresh vegetables for a salad, a few bags of snacks for the kids. In my free hand I carried a 12-pack of Vernor’s ginger ale, to which Grace ad always been partial. I figured if she wasn’t drinking any more, it might be appreciated and…

My thoughts were interrupted by a four-legged Fury of brown fur, drool, tail and toenails flying a me from behind the shrubs at the side of the house, knocking me flat on my ass and sending apples rolling down the driveway from the spilled grocery sack. “AOOOOOF! AOOOF! UFF! AOOOFF!” roared The Thing.

The front door opened and an auburn-haired little girl ran out and down the steps after the dog. “Tick! TICK! STOPPIT! BAD dog! BAD, bad dog! STOPPIT!”

Tick stopped it, all right, long enough to grab the loaf of French bread and run like hell toward the back yard.

I pulled myself to my feet, attempting to retrieve the renegade apples and dust sidewalk salt off my navy blue trousers without looking too stupid. Much easier said than done.

“Hi,” I said, extending a hand. “You must be Kate. I’m John, an old friend of your mom’s.”

“She said your name was Sully.” She said this not with an air of inquiry but as if straightening me out on a matter regarding which I was obviously confused. She shook my hand firmly and quickly -- more like shaking on a bargain that a “how do you do“. “C’mon. I’ll get the rest of that. You ought to go in and sit down. Honestly, that damn dog -- sorry.”

I wasn’t sure if she was sorry for the language or the dog’s behavior, but she didn’t give me much time to consider it. “I’m Kate,” she said, grabbing up the Vernor’s, and proceeded to steer me by the elbow up the front steps and into the house.

As soon as the door opened, the rich aroma of roast beef made with garlic greeted my senses. There was something else, too -- cinnamon? A pie? I accepted Kate’s instruction to “Sit down right there on that couch, and I’ll get Her for ya.” I chuckled at the slender little figure retreating through the swinging doors of the dining room. The square shoulders, the brisk gait, the absolute no-nonsense attitude with which she seemed to regard her world -- whoever had told me she was like Grace had been wrong. Kate was Grace at that age.

I looked around the living room, which was furnished with very simple, sturdy furnishings in neutral tones -- Grace’s picks, I was sure. The décor was simple, earthy and welcoming -- a stoneware vase with some dried sunflowers, a low coffee table with a few picture books -- “Ireland: A Photographic Portrait”, with an introduction by the redoubtable J. P. Donleavy, a book of Ansel Adams’ work, and a photo album bound in unbleached muslin with a few sprigs of some dried herb tied on with ribbon.

I started to open the photo album when Grace came through the dining room doors, wiping her hands on a linen apron and looking flushed from the stove heat. Her haor was out of place in charming disarray, a wavy strand falling into her eyes.

“Well!” she said, grinning broadly. “Look what the dog dragged in! I hear you met Tick.”

“Oh,” I said. “Then it was a dog. I thought maybe you’d taken to raising wildebeests.”

“Sorry about the bread. That great idiot. I just fed him, too, to make sure he’d behave while you’re here. Ah, well,” she finished. “What’ll you have, John?”

“I brought some Vernor’s. I’m fine with that.”

“Sure you won’t have a beer? I bought a six pack of Anchor Steam in honor of your visit. Nobody here will drink it, so if you aren’t having one now I’ll send it home with you.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that. Um, sure, I guess; thanks…if it’s not going to bother you.”

“If it’s going to bother me, I’m in more trouble than can be fixed by your not having one,” she said a little cryptically. “I want you to enjoy yourself. It’s not much of a recovery if I’m not capable of showing hospitality, now is it?”

I had to allow as it wasn’t. Being tremendously fond of Anchor Steam, I concluded the only polite thing to do would be to drink it. Manners are so important.

Grace brought back a small tray bearing a cold bottle of the beer with a frosted mug, and a stemware glass filed with something effervescent, a neat curl of lime peel dangling from the rim. “Pellegrino water,” she said. “I’ve become a mineral water snob, I’m afraid, and this is the only stuff I like now.”

I admired this. I always thought of people who “couldn’t drink” as being relegated to consuming Hi-C from plastic tumblers. I found the sophistication endearing. Not sure if “brave” is the right word, and certainly not a word she’d want me to apply, but there was something heartwarming about it. Okay, another word Grace wouldn’t want me to apply.

As we sat and made small talk, sipping our drinks, I watched Grace’s face intently. Not so that she’d notice and be uncomfortable, but still, I wanted to take in every detail. It occurred to me that what I was doing was memorizing her in case this was the last time I saw her for a long time. “Taking pictures with the heart,” we used to call it, a hundred years ago when we were dating. A hundred years ago, they didn’t have digital cameras, I thought. This made me smile.

“Well, it’s nice to see you smile, anyway, John,” said Grace.

“Ya bring that out in me, Grace,” I said, broadening the smile to a grin.

But I remembered that I hadn’t come to talk of the weather, nor to flirt with Grace, and I asked her, “Grace, is Seanny around?”

“Oh, he’s around, up in his room, I imagine, unless he snuck out. He does that a lot. I tried to get him to promise that he would stick around tonight, at least for dinner, but I’m afraid if he knows that’s what I really want, he’ll do the opposite. It’s as bad as that.”

“Man.”

“Yep. The only reason he even agreed to stay tonight was that we’re having roast beef, which he loves, and apple pie. That and the fact I told him you were coming. He still remembers you. He adored you, remember?”

I did indeed. I remembered Seanny as a sturdy, active, outgoing little fellow with a huge cheery grin and a warm, friendly manner.

Which is why I was so ill-prepared for the person coming down the stairs, I guess.

Seanny had changed, all right. He had grown tall, muscular but lean, with finely planed features and rugged good looks. At least, what you could see of his face. He had hidden most of it under a maze of facial hair, cut in lines and patterns according to the current “raver” fad. We had a young guy at the firehouse who had done this. We called him “Crop Circles” until he shaved.

Seanny’s attire was a Hot Topic goth/raver/punk collection of skull wristbands and necklace, a black t-shirt bearing the jolly lowercase motto “you suck“ -- quite the icebreaker -- clown-wide black jeans with enough hardware to open a Home Depot fasteners counter, and bright red-orange tennis shoes with flames airbrushed onto them. For a tall kid with not much to him, the effect was unfortunately more comic than scary.

“Seanny,” Grace said. “You remember Sully, right?”

“Hi,” said Seanny flatly, looking bored.

I extended a hand. Seanny continued to stand there. It was awkward. Ugly awkward. As it was obviously intended to be.

“Right,” I said, and withdrew my hand, trying not to let my irritation show. Something told me it would have pleased him immensely to piss me off, despite his apparent flat affect.

“Seanny,” Grace said, an edge barely discernible in her voice, “why don’t you go wash up for dinner, okay?”

Seanny mumbled something and disappeared back up the stairs three at a time.

“You’d think he’d trip in those pants,” I commented.

“I wish he would,” muttered Grace. A pained expression clouded her features, and she pressed her lips together. We sat silently for a moment. At last she spoke again. “John, I didn’t say that,” she said. “I know I said it, but that wasn’t me. It’s been….rough.”

“I kinda gathered that,” I said. “He’s not exactly running for office around here, is he?”

“I don’t mind the sullen stuff, the brooding stuff, the rebellion. That’s natural. But Jesus, John, sometimes I think he hates me. Or maybe not just me. I think he hates everybody. Or maybe just himself….” she finished, musingly.

“Well, part of it’s the age. But I think maybe a part of it too is what’s happened. And maybe the problems with alcohol affected him. Uncle Eamonn drank a lot, and you say you had a problem, so who knows? Maybe it’s true, this stuff they say about it being hereditary. Is he drinking a lot?”

“Mostly I think it’s the drugs. But he’s drinking too. I think he just pretty much uses whatever he can get ahold of. And these friends of his are just…God, John, they’re just such assholes.”

For Grace, possibly one of the least judgmental people I know, to lump a whole group into the “asshole” category seemed at least as good an indicator of the severity of the situation as anything. (I was going to say “pigeonhole”, but then you have “pigeonhole” and “asshole” and the whole thing just doesn’t work…well, anyway.)

Kate burst into the living room and announced, “The potatoes are done. Ya better come on and eat, because they’re not gonna keep.”

We got up and headed toward the dining room, Grace calling briefly at the foot of the stairs for Seanny, who appeared momentarily. He seemed a little less sullen but I couldn’t be sure if this was because of an effort to improve his disposition or the prospect of roast beef and apple pie.

Dinner was, incidentally, absolutely delicious. Roast beef rare, rubbed with garlic and herbs, a potato souffle type dish with cheese and fresh green beans with bacon and onions. Kate had taken the fresh vegetables from the groceries I had brought and put together a very presentable salad. I have done my share of cooking in the firehouse and if there’s one thing I can appreciate it’s a good meal, especially one that someone else took the trouble to prepare. Everything was wonderful.

We had a very pleasant meal together. Seanny snapped out of his funk well enough at least to speak when spoken to. Grace and I were exchanging news on mutual acquaintances, and Kate supplied stories of schoolmates and offered a rundown of Tick’s genealogy. “He’s part Boxer and part Malamute,” she said, “and Ma thinks he may have some Airedale in there too. He is,” she finished with authority, “a mutt’s mutt.”

When we had finished the main course, I got up to help Grace take the plates into the kitchen. We were getting dessert plates for the pie, and Grace called out, “Seanny, will you please put these out on the table?” when we heard the front door close with a soft click.

“Dammit! He always does this,” said Grace.

“Ditches the dishes?”

“No, leaves without telling me where he is going. He’s off to get loaded with the friends, probably.”

“Will he be back tonight?”

“Who knows?”

“I hope not,” said Kate, who had come in to expedite the pie delivery system. She said this quite matter-of-factly while taking the vanilla ice cream from the freezer.

I was struck by such bitterness in one so young, but said nothing. It showed in my face though, known so well to Grace.

“She’s just used to it, Sully. She’s had to put up with a lot. Last week he swiped her bike to go to a friend‘s, someone took it, and we found it in a dumpster. And he said it served her right for leaving it unlocked.”

“Oh, shit. Seriously?”

“Very seriously.”

“Jesus Christ, Grace, he’s twenty years old! What kind of grade school bullshit is that? Doesn’t he even want a job? Or to make something of his life?”

“Sully, it’s as if the ability to care about anything was just left right out of him. All he seems to care about is partying and avoiding work. And getting on my last nerve,” she finished, putting the ice cream neatly on top of the pie slices. “He’s really had it in for me, for some reason.”

“Probably because he knows you won’t go anywhere. I mean, look -- he never knew his biological father, right? And God knows I didn’t stick around long. And then there was Brad -- well, you left him, but still, you‘re the one consistent person in his life. He knows you aren‘t going anywhere, so you‘re the lucky recipient of all his “angry young man” bullshit.”

“When did you become John Sullivan, licensed psychologist?” laughed Grace. “But you know what? I think you’re right about all that.”

We retired to the living room after dessert. The incredible Katie, who was fast becoming my favorite kid after my nephew Jay, offered to make us a pot of coffee. “I know how,” she assured me. “I help Ma when the AA’s come over.”

“Katie, darlin’, you’re my good girl,” said Grace. “But no thanks, sweetie. I think it’s about time for you to get ready for bed. Is your homework all done?”

“Nah. But it’s just spelling words. I already know ‘em.”

“Katie….” Grace cautioned.

“I know, I know, ‘there’s always room for improvement’, okay, okay.” She did a little sigh-and-eyeroll bit indicating that no matter how many times you explained things to some adults, they just didn’t get it, and it was a waste of breath arguing with them.

Katie stuck out her hand briskly, and I solemnly shook it.

“It’s nice to meet ya, Johnny Sullivan. Yer all right. Stay safe, okay?” Before I could respond, she had scampered halfway up the stairs.

“What an incredible kid,” I said.

“Thanks. She’s a handful, but it’s mostly because she’s very bright. She’s actually not a behavior problem excepting when she’s being stubborn. You have to know how to handle her. She’ll do anything for you if you work with her, but draw battle lines with her and you’ve already lost.”

“Imagine that,” I said.

“Are you being smart?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Not at all. It’s just that I have never known anyone like that in my life and can’t fathom where she gets it.”

Grace smacked me playfully with a small couch cushion. There was a time when that would have quickly resulted in some pretty rambunctious sex. I’m not saying it wasn’t an attractive idea, but it wasn’t appropriate even to think of it. Or was it? This was confusing.

“Well, anyway, she’s a great kid. Now. About the Seanny question….”

“I was hoping you would talk to him. Obviously, that isn’t going to happen tonight. But you see what I’m dealing with.”

‘Yeah, it’s bad. Seriously, do you think he’d listen to me?”

“I don’t know. You stand at least as good a shot as anyone. Certainly better than I do.”

“Well, I’ll try. I don’t know how much I have to offer him, though.”

“Sully, I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t think you could help.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe the best we can do is for me to try to get ahold of him again a little later. At least now he knows I’m around….”

“Are you?”

“Well, yeah. I’m around if you need me. You called, I came over, right?”

“Right, well….”

There was something she and I weren’t’ saying, and I didn’t know where to go with this. I tried changing the subject.

“So, this AA thing, this sobriety -- it’s working for ya, huh?”

“Sully, the drinking just had to go. I was a mess.”

“Hard to imagine, but I’ll take your word for it. You were never a mess that I knew of.”

“We all have our bottoms. Mine still hurts where I hit it.”

I laughed. “You’re a caution. Always were.”

Grace smiled fondly at me. “Yeah, well, you tore up a few miles of road yourself back in the day.”

We looked at each other. It seemed like a very long time passed. Finally, Grace lifted her hand and touched my face.

“John, I don’t want you to feel obligated here. I turned to you for help because I don’t know what else to do with Seanny. I’m not looking for anything else.”

“But if something else should come of it?”

Long pause. Long, long pause.

“We…I guess we shall see, won’t we?”

“Yes, Grace, I guess we will.”

I leaned toward her and gently kissed her. She returned the kiss, gently at first. But it was like we never had been apart. People say that sometimes, and until you’ve felt that way you just don’t know…how close, how quick, how dear….how passionate…and how fast it all comes back….

Memories washed over me. I wanted more and knew more was not mine to take. Grace’s soft, warm mouth, her agile tongue, her soft lips…

“Grace.” I stood up, hugged her to me a little bit. “Grace, I have to go.”

“I know,” she whispered, her eyes lowered. “I’ll walk to the door with ya.


We walked to her door, and I gently kissed her forehead, and she raised those eyes to me, those hazel and olivine eyes, so tender and expressive, and stood on tiptoe, kissed me quickly on the mouth, and said, “Stay safe, Johnny Sulivan. Until we meet again.”

I got halfway across the porch, turned and said, “That will be…when?”

She looked at me, shook her head, blew a kiss and closed the door.

God damn it. I’d settle for a night’s sleep, let alone a way to figure this out….

Chapter Fifteen

Well, I don’t like to be bored. It’s a good thing, too.

I took the half-tour for Bones, who went home with the flu. I don’t mind filling in when a guy is sick or needs a day, because it’s a chip you can always call in, and besides, it bugs me to think of the house being short a guy. The thing about having A, B and C shifts is that there is always a long list of people they can call, but if somebody asks, I say yes. No skin off my ass and generally comes in handy at some point.

It’s almost a rule, though. If you take an extra shift or a half, you’re in for some fun. Stuff that would never have happened seems to have a way of coming together -- what the news analysts are always calling a “concatenation of events” -- any time you’re overextended, you’re in for a ride. I don’t mind; it’s just how it seems to work out.

Tonight was no exception.

Early on, it was the usual for a Saturday night. There were a bunch of kitchen fires, an out-of-control barbecue in some guy’s garage -- by mid-February, Cleveland people are tired of winter and longing for a taste of outdoors -- and the usual smattering of false alarms and minor medical emergencies. Neighborhood stuff. Some lady locked herself out of her apartment, and she was half drunk, and I let Derrico talk to her, having had enough of that particular dish for awhile. She was pretty cute, but it didn’t help her case with me that her name was Jennifer, and as long as we could get her into the apartment, I really didn’t care to investigate the perks. I wore my hero hat Friday night, and it’s been my experience that if you’ve seen one drunk broad, you’ve seen ‘em all, at least for one weekend. It all depends, I guess, on how desperate you are and how lean a stretch it’s been, but after the Jenny debacle, I was good for at least a week.

Of course, Derrico the comedian was all jollies on the ride back to the house. “Drunk AND cute and her name was Jennifer. I think she smokes too, Sully. Shoulda given that one a go, brother.”

“Have I ever told you the joke about the shithead firefighter who keeps teasing his buddy about the drunk broad? No? It’s a long story. I’ll just give you the punch line: Fuck you.”

“Jesus, you’re not sore or anything, are ya, Sully?” He made a little noise like he had had too much to drink and was about to blow guts. Very convincing.

“Derrico, I hope your wife is in a three-day bad mood for ya. I hope your kid gets online with your credit card and buys a whole whorehouse. I hope the goddamn…”

The radio interrupted this cavalcade of kindly thoughts with a call for an address over in the ‘hood. The truck and engine were both called.

As we turned down the street, McCann, who was driving, said, “Payday, kids. Hope everybody’s rested up.”

It was obviously a good working fire, a hell of a blaze. It was about three o’clock in the morning, so it was likely a bunch of kids or drunks, arson. What we couldn’t make out for a moment was what type of a building it was, standalone on a vacant lot next to some apartments. It seemed like a strange place for a building. Maybe -- wait -- was it a trailer?

No, it wasn’t a house trailer, it was an 18 wheeler. Abandoned, perhaps stolen and abandoned -- but how likely was that? And why the hell was an abandoned 18-wheeler on fire? Must be a case of arson for fun rather than spite or profit, unless it was full of goods.

Well, it turned out to be full of goods all right, and as we rolled up, we also saw it was full of people. People were everywhere. Climbing out the back doors, standing in the lot, and some running and jumping the fence. A couple of CPD zone cars were pulling into the lot just as we parked. We got the pumper started, and the truckies got onto the roof and started venting it.

A guy was running across the lot and we shouted at him, “Hey! Anybody inside?”

“Oh, man, everybody was inside!” he yelled, and kept running. One of the cops shouted for him to stop but he was over the fence before they got out of the car.

It didn’t take long to get the fire knocked down, but the people standing around didn’t stick around to volunteer any information. They were off and down the street, melting away like the patches of February snow on the asphalt around the truck.

But when we got inside, the site itself told a story.

Inside the burned-out hulk of the eighteen wheel tractor trailer was the semi-destroyed remains of what had apparently been an illicitly operated bar, also known as a cheat spot. There were several folding card tables, a few wooden crates that had been draped with plastic cloths to serve as the bar, and an old plywood entertainment center stocked with a few dozen bottles of cheap liquor. They had everything -- brandy, vodka, bourbon, liqueurs, even a few fancy flavored vodkas. There were two Coleman coolers full of canned soda -- club soda and ginger ale, mostly -- and another cooler full of ice. Plastic cups were scattered everywhere, some melted together and stuck to the floor.

There were posters on the walls that looked like somebody had swiped them from a travel agency -- there was Italy, France, Spain and a huge outdated map of Russia that said “USSR” in block letters and hung crookedly over the bar back. There was also hanging over the bar a crudely lettered poster board that read: “Bar Drinks Three Dollars And No We Cant Take Checks So Don’t Even Ask. No Guns And No Drugs. The Management”. The sign was smoke-stained and warped by the water and hung crazily at an angle by its remaining thumbtack, but the printing was still clear. We weren’t sure whether the “No Guns And No Drugs” part meant they weren’t allowed or weren’t supplied. “Gotta bring your own, I guess,” said Derrico.

The source of the fire became readily apparent when the smoke had cleared. Running through the center of the truck was a collection of four or five frayed extension cords connected end to end. This was connected to a huge spotlight -- far too big to be supported by the power drawn by the misfit collection of cords -- which was trained on an improbably large mirrored disco ball suspended from the ceiling by a couple of coat hangers and some fishing line. Running off one of the plugs on the extension cord was a boom box. The cord had started a fire in one of the cheap throw rugs scattered around the floor, and the fire had spread to the glitter-impregnated gauze which someone had attached to the walls with a staple gun. It was a regular Four Seasons ballroom in a box.


“Hey, Sully,” said Cullen, “what do we do with the stuff that’s left here?”

A big red-faced cop whose badge identified him as Officer Degyansky had just lowered himself through the vent hole we had hacked in the ceiling. This really wasn‘t necessary since the truck‘s doors were wide open, but whatever. He bellowed out: “You don’t touch it. Crime scene.”

“He’s new,” I said. “He’s just trying to help. A probie.”

“Well, you better control your men,” snarled Officer D.

“Hey,” I said, “there’s no need to get that way about it.”

“Yeah,” said the cop, “and the next thing you know the booze disappears from the scene.”

“Oh, you know,” I said, “you’re right about that. That would be a goddamned shame, because then there would be none left for the cops.”

“Sully,” started Derrico.

“I got it,” I said. “Come on, Cullen, you don’t want to hang out with the criminal element here. You’re off to a good start and I don’t want ya getting corrupted.”

“Listen, asshole,” the cop began.

“Ah, keep yer goddamn hair on,” I said. “Come on, guys, let’s clear the scene. There’s stuff left here that hasn’t been stolen yet, so let’s let the cops do their jobs.”

“You got a problem with cops, jerkoff?”

“Oh, nooooo, Officer. In fact, one of my cousins is a cop. A uniform in the Second District.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s his name?”

“Pogue. Pogue Mahone.”

For the uninitiated, pogue ma thoin means “Kiss my ass” in Irish Gaelic. I figured there was no way somebody named Degyansky was going to get this unless he was half Irish, and this guy didn’t look half anything but stupid.

So we parted on fairly good terms. Derrico, who has hung around the mostly Irish firehouse long enough to become culturally enriched, turned away so the cop wouldn’t see him laughing. We walked outside with Cullen and started helping with the takeup.

As we rolled out of the lot, the cop waved a reasonably civil goodbye and asked warily, “Now what is this cousin’s name again?”

With a mind like a steel sieve, I had just about forgotten the exchange. Derrico was at the ready, though.

“Pogue Mahone,” he cried cheerfully. “If you know Pogue Mahone, you know every Irish firefighter in town.”

To say I found this funny is quite an understatement. I said to Derrico, “Ya know, for a complete shithead you do okay sometimes.”

We rolled back to the house, and when I got to my bunk and checked my cell phone, there was another message from Grace. I didn’t really want to call her so late, but Grace is a night owl just as I am, and since we’ve never stood on ceremony, I decided to go ahead and return her call. May as well get it over with, I figured. Her messages were never long or detailed, just “Call me when you get this.” If I wanted to know what was up, I was going to have to call her.

We have a little exercise room just off the shower room. I think it was meant to function solely as alocker room, but we’ve managed in the last few years to kick in here and there and raise ourselves enough money for some workout equipment. Nothing too fancy -- a couple of weight benches, a weight machine and a treadmill. Enough to keep us fit and keep us from going stir crazy in bad weather when we can’t get outside. Anyway, it’s far enough from the bunks to be somewhat private, so I took the phone in there and dialed Grace’s number.

“Hello?” Grace’s voice sounded tired, but not as if I had woke her up.

“Yeah, Grace, it’s me. Sorry I didn’t call you before this…”

“That’s okay; I never said what it was about.”

“Anyway, what’s up?”

“Sully, it’s…it’s Seanny. It’s…well, it’s about me and something I’ve done…”

“Grace, what? Are you okay?”

“No, no; let me finish. What I’ve done isn’t bad. But Seanny…”

“What did he do, the little shit? You want me to straighten him out for you?”

“Johnny Sullivan, will you please for once let me explain before you jump in, guns blazing? I’ve managed these last fifteen years on my own -- got married, had a baby, got divorced, all that -- and now you want to save the day for me. What’s going on is big and it’s going to take some explaining, and you can’t solve it with a bigger hammer.”

“Okayyyyyyy…then, what’s the trouble? I’m all ears.”

“Let me start at the beginning, or at least where the touble began…oh, Jesus, John, it’s such a mess….”

“Easy, Grace, easy. All will be well, remember?”

This had been our code phrase for years. “All will be well”. A school friend of Grace’s got it from the biography of some saint or something, Julian of Norwich, and passed it on to Grace, who passed it on to me, and we drew on it for everything from family deaths to running out of money before payday.

“Well, I hope you have some time to talk,” said Grace.

“I do,” I said, “and what concerns you concerns me, so let’s get it all out on the table.”

“Well, you remember in the old days how we used to drink and carry on?”

“Sure.”

“Well, Sully, that’s part of what went wrong in my marriage. I was still drinking long after the party was over. You know how I used to get so drunk sometimes that I wasn’t making sense and didn’t remember anything the next day?”

“Well, hell, Grace, everybody does that.”

“No, John, not everybody. At least, they’re not supposed to. And certainly I’m not supposed to. John, I’m an alcoholic.”

This struck me as pretty extreme. Now, that girl from the other night, Jenny -- she probably qualified as at least an alcoholic in training. But Grace? My Grace? Well, not that she was my Grace, but….

“Grace, don’t paste a label on yourself. I’ve never even seen you drunk. Sure, you liked to tie one on back in the day. We all did. Still do.” Here I ruminated on my own none too stellar history with the bottle of late. “But Grace, don’t be too quick to judge yourself. What is this, some kind of support group speak?”

“No, John, no” she said slowly. “I drank too much for too long. And this isn’t sudden. And I’m not drinking any more. As a matter of fact, with the help of God and the support of my fellows, I haven’t had to take a drink in eighteen months.”

“Wow. Well, that’s great. But the divorce? I thought that was recent.”

“It was. It was finalized last month. My marriage survived my drinking, but it didn’t survive my sobriety. It happens.”

“Oh….well….I’m sorry.” I mean, what the hell can you say to that?

“Anyway,” Grace continued, briskly shifting focus, “this isn’t about me. It’s about Seanny.”

“Yeah, okay, well, how can I help?”

“John, he’s lost. He’s totally confused and a mess. He started using drugs and drinking some time last year and I thought maybe he’d snap out of it, but it’s gotten worse. I thought the divorce and the move might actually help -- you know, the fighting and the tension ended, it got us away from his old crowd…”

“How’s Kate doing?” Kate, Grace’s daughter, is nine and looks and acts just like her mother, according to my many sources among family and friends. In my perhaps biased opinion, there needs to be a man in their lives in the future just to keep the shotgun trained on prospective suitors. Grace would probably be more than capable of handling that, though, if my experiences with her are any gauge. Anyway.

“Kate is fine. She isn’t happy, of course, misses her dad -- Brad and I have a split custody arrangement…”

Brad. Grace had actually married someone named Brad. I had forgotten that.

“…and Kate is doing fine in school, staying in touch with old friends, making new ones. But Seanny is about to drive me mad.”

“He in any legal trouble?”

“No, not yet….But John, this whole thing…it’s threatening my sobriety. I mean, I’m not about to rush out and get drunk. But it’s the water torture thing. He gets high in his room, I find the stuff, throw it out…he stays out all night, I change the locks, he climbs in the window…he gets mouthy with me, I call the police…they say there’s nothing they can do…”

“Wait a minute. Isn’t…err, Brad…isn’t Brad supposed to be helping you out here? How old is Seanny, anyway?”

“He’s nineteen. And Brad never had official legal custody anyway. And even if he had, John, they never got along.”

“Yeah, that sounds bad. Listen, Grace, do you think it would do any good if I talked to him? I mean, he may not even remember me…”

“Oh, yes he does. You know that little Tonka fire engine you gave to him when he was five? He still has it on his dresser.”

For God’s sake. The stuff we do that we never figure will matter a bit to anyone, and here come to find out….

“Listen, if you think it will do any good, I’ll talk to him for you. Just don’t hold me responsible for the results. Every time I’ve talked to anybody lately I seem to hve made bad matters worse.”

“Well, since he’s neither working for you, supervising you or sleeping with you, I’d say you stand a prayer in hell.”

“Thanks, smartass.”

“You’re more than welcome. When shall I expect you, then?”

“Tomorrow okay?”

“I have to work during the day, but why don’t you come over for supper around seven?”

“Okay; I’ll bring a bottle of wine. What kind…oh, wait….I guess I shouldn’t…”

“Sully, I don’t give a damn what’s in your glass; I only concern myself with what’s in my own. Kinda like the old days.” I could hear the sly mischief creep into her voice. “If you want something for yourself, bring wine. I’m drinking club soda. We’re having roast beef. See you at seven.”

“Okay…”

She had already hung up. God alone knew what I was getting myself into, but it would be good to see her. I wasn’t sure I understood all this business about her being an alcoholic, but I trusted her judgment.

Now if only I could be sure I can trust my own.