“Henry’ll be okay.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “You want a drink?”
“Yeah.”
She went to the kitchen. He heard the icebox open and then a glass shatter on the floor. He found Clara standing with her eyes closed, gripping the edge of the counter. When he approached her she moved away. It was embarrassing for her to be like this. She felt like she had used up the last of her strength and courage at the hospital.
“It slipped out of my hand.”
She dropped a few shards of ice into tumblers and poured some rye. The ice popped. She handed one of the tumblers to McCloskey.
“Cheers.”
The rye went down nice. It warmed you when you needed warming and cooled you when you needed cooling. It also listened to you when you had something to say and talked to you when no one else would. It was the drink and the drinking companion all rolled in one. Possibly the only thing you couldn’t do with a bottle of rye was make love to it.
“Tell me,” he said, “did you see much of Billy after I left town?”
She was already walking to the window.
“No,” she said without turning. “They contacted me when he was admitted to hospital. The doctors said he’d probably pull through. After that I just followed his progress in the papers.”
McCloskey swirled the ice around in his tumbler. “Did you ever believe what you read about me?”
“What? That you had shot him?” Clara let McCloskey hang for a moment. “No. It never sounded right. I know the both of you too well. Unless —”
“Unless it was an accident — which it wasn’t. I didn’t even have my finger on the trigger. I was just trying to give Billy a scare.”
She turned to McCloskey. “Then who did it?”
McCloskey was still trying to piece together what happened in the alleyway behind the Crawford.
“The only other weapons I remember seeing were in the hands of the cops. But there was so much going on, and it happened so fast.”
McCloskey finished his glass and Clara refilled it.
“Henry still thinks it was you that shot him.”
“I’ve never said anything that would make people want to think otherwise. You’d be surprised what it does to your reputation when people believe you’re capable of gunning down your own brother. In my line of work, it can really open doors for you. Does Henry ever talk shop with you?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Just wondering. Hey — you want to go to the track?”
“What?”
“Kenilworth. You wanna go?”
“Is this another Irish tradition I didn’t know about — placing a bet on your dead brother’s favourite horse?”
“You can wear black if you want.”
Clara gave him a look. “Is this business or pleasure?”
She knew that, as always, Jack was up to something.
“A little of both.”
“Why do I have to go?”
McCloskey paused. “I’d like to keep an eye on you right now.”
It hadn’t occurred to Clara that she might be in some kind of danger.
She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t dare. “But why would I be —”
“We don’t know how far they’re willing to take this, Clara.”
She rubbed her temple with her free hand. She was exhausted, confused. She sat down.
“Have you eaten?”
“No,” she said, “not really.”
“I’ll make you something.”
McCloskey went into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cupboards. He really had no idea what he was doing. “And I should probably stay here tonight,” he said.
“Okay.”
Neighbours would talk but she didn’t care. She’d stopped caring the third or fourth time she brought a man home. How could she expect them to understand? She kept Billy’s name on the register at the front of the building and still referred to herself as Mrs. William McCloskey. Had she hopes of her and Billy getting back together again? Maybe. Or perhaps like McCloskey she just enjoyed living outside of society’s boundaries, an exile in her hometown.
McCloskey leaned through the kitchen doorway holding a tin of corned beef. “Got a can opener?”
Clara sighed and got up. “Look,” she said as she took the can from McCloskey. “It’s got this little key on it, see? The little key is what you use to open the can.”
The kitchen was tiny. McCloskey stood close to Clara, almost on top of her as she twisted the key slowly around the edge of the can. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She stopped moving, sensing the inevitable, waiting for the wolf to pounce. McCloskey grabbed her shoulders, spun her around, and forced his mouth on hers. She dropped the can on his foot and he bit her lip. He kicked the can and broken glass out of the way and lifted Clara onto the counter. She hit her head on the cupboard.
“You still like to play rough, don’t you, Jack?”
He slid Clara’s skirt up her thighs, exposing the bare flesh above her stockings. He tucked the fabric under her hips and started working his hands up inside her blouse. Clara was already massaging him through his pants.
“You gonna use that? Or are you just trying to give me a scare?”
“Shut up.”
He closed her mouth with his. Clara stretched her arms out along the cupboards and McCloskey hungrily kissed her neck. When he got close to her ear he pinned her wrists against the cupboard doors and asked her who she was waiting for last night.
“C’mon, you can tell me. I need to know what I’m up against here.” McCloskey pulled her legs further apart. They were both feeling the rye.
“Actually, I was waiting for one of the boys from the department,” she grinned. “That’s how I watch Henry’s back for him.”
McCloskey leaned into her and held his mouth against hers until she almost lost her breath and had to pull away.
“What is it about me and you, huh, Jack?”
“I don’t know. I guess we both just bring out the worst in each other.”
They were lying on her bed with the little electric fan whirring next to them on the floor. They decided to take a quick siesta before heading out to the track.
Clara fell right asleep but McCloskey couldn’t stop turning things over in his mind. She had asked him whether he was settling in Border Cities. He didn’t have an answer. What could he tell her? That there was nothing for him here, nothing but bad memories? That the city felt like a prison to him now and all he could think about was going to look for Sophie? Depending on how things played out this afternoon with the Lieutenant, he might just leave town right away and try and pick up her trail.
He reached down and grabbed the bottle of rye, lifting it to his lips. Clara rolled off him and onto her back. He gazed at her and wondered about the love she shared with her husband, his brother, or the love that any two people shared for that matter. He was convinced that love, if there even was such thing, was in the moment. How can anyone in their right mind promise love? There were no promises, not anymore at least.
He took another swig from the bottle then climbed on top of Clara. Half asleep, she resisted