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KEANE FOUND A LONG—THOUGH late—breakfast, washed down with several cups of smoldering coffee, could dissipate the symptoms of an exhausted mind, as well as body. The diner was not nearly as competent as Mrs. McCarthy, nor was the food to the same caliber. It had been three days now since he had enjoyed a proper night’s sleep. Four nights and three days. His head felt increasingly sluggish, with only a minor jolt of stimulation as he forced another cup of coffee down his throat. The gears, corroded through long hours of use, gradually began to creak into motion; stuttering momentarily with the thought of having to endure the party that night, and, no doubt, well into the morning. At least his insomnia would be put to good use.
Keane slammed down the empty cup, placing his paid bill and a sizable tip beside it. There was no use in going back to the hotel, but he gave the taxi driver some vague instructions in that general direction all the same. As he sank back against the seats, he became all too aware that the dull ache, which had planted itself in his bad shoulder sometime that morning, had flared through his muscles; pausing in the center of his back. His eyes too felt a strike was suddenly necessary. The optical muscles stabbed into his weary skull relentlessly until he had staggered up the stairs to his hotel room and drawn all the curtains tight against the light.
Damn.
When had there been so many windows?
By the time Keane had called down for some strong liquor and reclined against the chaise lounge along one wall, he could have sworn one of Lawrence’s baseball friends had spent the past hour swinging a bat into his back. Every inch of his body was sore, throbbing in pain, or about to buckle from exhaustion. The alcohol did little to alleviate any of these, but it did give him some sense of lost dignity.
Dignity. Always dignity.
Damn dignity. He was going to bed. At least there he would be able to endure the inconvenience of age and war wounds without feeling like some pitiful old man. Yes, he consoled himself as he undid the knot in his necktie, he was tired—overly tired. That was his problem. That was the only problem. He wasn’t old enough to be feeling decrepit. After all, he had only just turned fifty-four, and that was most certainly not old enough to allow his aching form to control every aspect of his life.
Dignity. Always dignity.
Keane chuckled dryly to himself. What had his father ever known about dignity? More to the point, what had he known about growing old? He had at least died in the best of health, while his son was now cursed to endure—not so much as the spoils of age—but the incompetence of the world. A world that, twice in his fifty-four years, was unable to find some peaceful solution to their differences. Keane toed off his shoes and laid back against the bed; the soft whisper of springs welcoming his tired body.
Dignity?
What the hell did the world know about dignity? What did anyone know about dignity? The only other person who even thought about the term was—
Keane writhed as a sudden blast of excruciating pain burst through his shoulder, interrupting his thought as efficiently as would a bullet.
A bullet.
He had only fired one bullet; one skilled squeeze to the trigger that had pushed her over the edge, as soundly as if he had physically shoved her.
BANG!
He could feel everything about that moment as it surged upon him through another wave of sickening pain. The pistol had been cold in his hand, the trigger but a thin slip of metal beneath his forefinger. There had been little kickback from the weapon, but it was enough—more than enough—to jerk his mind to the reality of his actions. A thin yelp echoed through the air, followed by an overpowering splash. Everything in him—every instinct he had accumulated and honed during the war—screamed for him to jump off that bridge after her. He could swim. Of course he could swim. It had become second nature after all those years of training.
And yet he did nothing.
No, he did worse than nothing. He stood there. He stood there like those young men who refused to march into the swarm of bullets, though they already wore the uniform. He stood on the deck, cowering from a fate that was possible, but not sealed above his head. Yes, he stood there as the two men cackled and patted his shoulder before they drove off. And then he too left. Alone.
But hadn’t he done all he could to ensure her protection? Not entirely. He had tried to prove himself; shooting the pins out of her hair. She hadn’t flinched. Of course she hadn’t. She had trusted him. And yet, she had not rebuked his boldness when he kissed her. No powerful slap sent him staggering back to that pit from whence the other men came.
Virtue is always admirable to the foolish, and fear never coveted by the good.
––––––––
KEANE AWOKE. THAT was a miracle itself, for no one can awaken without first sleeping. Now there was a miracle.
He had slept.
It took a bit of effort to tug his mind out of the much needed rest enough to realise the room was dark. Or, if not dark, then dim. The sealed curtains were no longer illuminated by the sun’s rays, but merely glowed a tired amber. Even the pain in his shoulder had subsided into a somewhat more bearable stiffness. Keane carefully propped his back against the headboard and glanced at his watch. A few grains of satisfaction multiplied into a running stream as he realised he had been able to enjoy more than five hours of uninterrupted rest. A solid seven hours, in fact. Seven long, luxurious hours of the purest sleep known to man.
Keane ran a hand through his unruly waves of hair, allowing his fingers to then detour along his jaw, only to find it marginally concealed beneath a rough stubble. When was the last shaved? That morning? No, not that morning. He had gone to the casino again that morning in a vain attempt to lose some of his earnings. Keane slowly pulled his frame upright and sat along the edge of the bed, relieved when the action did not cause any new spasms in his shoulder. He took his time stretching all the knots out of his weary muscles. How glorious it felt to be free of age’s spindly grasp.
A few hours later, after a long, hot bath, not to mention a shave and hot towel from the hotel’s barber, Keane felt considerably relieved of his mortal frailties and ready to endure however many hours of celebratory life as his infamous host found necessary. Stuffing the pockets of his new suit with a generous amount of paper bills and cartons of cigarettes, he climbed into the first taxi that presented itself and relaxed into the leather seats. Through the waning light, he squinted at the passing surroundings in the event he may need to drive or—heaven forbid—lead a harrowing escape from the realm of armed fools and gambling simpletons. It was a never ending battle, to which Keane had become incredibly bored.
The long, gravel path led upwards toward a towering mansion, which had been seemingly built up from the ground by God’s own hand. Enormous decorations of marble outlined the house as pillars stolen from the minds and hearts of the Greeks. Overpowering blasts of music exploded through the cool air. Keane recognised the tune. (A similar was in his own collection; a purchase of Lawrence’s.) To arrive at the heart of the party itself, one was required to enter an elegant foyer and lead into the back gardens. A series of tables groaned beneath platters of meats, fruits, cakes, sandwiches, wines, hard liquors, lemonade, and a few pyramids of cigarette cartons still in their packaging. A well-stocked band played energetically in one corner of the garden; creating the music, rather than merely presenting it through a phonograph’s flat mimicry. Lights had been strung from polls until the entire expanse was illuminated with their gentle glow.
It did not take long to notice how the guests had divided themselves into separate groups, with only a dozen or so flitting about like lost butterflies. Many of the females were much too young to be entirely distinguishable from those sauntering about in similar bright dresses that were both too high and too low, which, he supposed, was the point. Keane was able to spot a few faces he recognised from the casino, but the majority of the guests were no more than figures whirling about the world in one, enormous, purposeless moment. He began with the pulsating conversations of the young things; nodding vaguely at ideas that were certainly modern, but not quite distasteful to his pallet. Many of the subjects included the ever popular debate of a woman’s inclusion into the ever changing world, something he agreed with on the whole. Perhaps a decade ago he might have been more leery of sharing such new opinions; especially with people half, if not a third of his age. But that had changed, hadn’t it?
Seven years before.
When he had finished his second cocktail in their boisterous presence, Keane ambled on toward the scotch-drinking businessmen. Within a matter of painful minutes, he found himself sufficiently aware of the miraculous recovery of the country’s various markets. Having learned enough about the stocks themselves to become quite sufficient in the world of investments, he then moved onto the next group. Then the one after that. Then the next. Soon he discovered he had explored all of the party’s nations except for the handful of young men smoking along the far wall of the house. Perfect. He could use a good smoke.
Keane tugged a package of cigarettes from his pocket, casually set one in his mouth, and approached the soft, sparse sentences passed between the unsociable of sociables. Each suit had been carefully tailored to its owner’s frame, which ranged from tall and stocky to a youthful figure, who, even with a hat, scarcely rose as high as Keane’s shoulder. It was by the latter of these he stationed himself, his back digging into the mansion’s brick exterior to prop up the rest of his long form. Puff by puff, draw by draw, the cigarette grew smaller between his fingers until he had no choice but to grind it beneath his heel. Before he could reach for a fresh one; however, an open case was offered to him. He took one gratefully, lit it, and glanced down at the considerably smaller guest next to him, who was busy on their own cigarette. A silence settled between them; comfortable, yet enshrouded in a tense combination of nerves. It was the other who first gave in to the fleeting glimpse of conversation.
“Strange, isn’t it?” The voice was quiet—scarcely carried beyond the smoke—but bore none of the rough traces one might expect. Keane’s match paused just before meeting the end of yet another cigarette.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t you think it strange, all this for a few hours? A man with all that money would spend it on a battalion of top of the line cars. Not this.” The frustrated character waved a hand out toward the tittering masses, as if to make the senseless words somehow more meaningful. “I mean, why a party of all things? Why not something more substantial? More sustainable?” Keane exhaled thoughtfully; a long, soft billow of white smoke spiriting upwards toward the heavenly stars. Some say the balls of hot air worked miracles, but he often thought the miracle was that things of such beauty and might would stay to illuminate their inconsequential, fleeting lives.
“I suppose . . . ” He took another draw, releasing it more leisurely than the last. “I suppose there are those who enjoy the company of others; overzealous though they may be. Some might even find the lifestyle of an extravert necessary to their existence. After all, not everyone can be so dedicated to hidden glories of life. Wouldn’t you agree, Lawrence?”