All Through The Night

2 Seven Years Later

Frowning, Willy Meehan sat at the piano his wife, Alvirah, had bought him for his sixty-second birthday. With intense concentration, he attempted to read the notes in the John Thompson’s Book for Mature Beginners. Maybe it will be easier if I sing along, he thought. “Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee,” he began.

Willy has such a good voice, Alvirah thought, as she came into the room. “All Through the Night” is one of my favorite carols, she reflected, as she looked affectionately at her husband of more than forty years. In profile, his resemblance to the late Tip O’Neill, the legendary Speaker of the House of Representatives, was even more startling than when viewed full on, she decided. With his shock of white hair, his craggy features, his keen blue eyes and warm smile, Willy was often the recipient of startled glances of recognition, even though it was several years since O’Neill’s passing.

Now, to her loving eyes, he looked simply splendid in the dark blue suit he’d worn out of respect for Bessie Durkin Maher, whose wake they were about to attend. Alvirah had reluctantly switched from the size twelve navy suit she’d been planning to wear to a black dress that was a size larger. She and Willy had just returned the previous evening from their post-Thanksgiving cruise in the Caribbean, and the sumptuous food had dealt a mortal blow to her diet.

“Guardian angels God will send thee,” Willy sang as he played.

The dear Lord God sure did send his angels to us, Alvirah thought as-not wanting to disturb Willy-she tiptoed to the window to enjoy the breathtaking view of Central Park.

Only a little over two years ago Alvirah, then a cleaning woman, and Willy, a plumber, had been living in Jackson Heights in Queens, in the apartment they had rented long ago as newlyweds. She had been bone weary after a particularly hard day at Mrs. O’Keefe’s, who always felt that she didn’t get her money’s worth unless Alvirah moved every stick of furniture in the house when she vacuumed. Still, as they did every Wednesday and Saturday evening, they had paused to watch television when the lottery numbers were announced as the balls popped into place. They’d almost had a collective heart attack when one after another, their numbers, the ones they always played, came up.

And then we realized we’d won forty million dollars, Alvirah thought, still incredulous at their good luck.

We weren’t just lucky, though, we were blessed, she corrected herself, as she drank in the view. It was quarter of seven, and Central Park was softly beautiful with fresh snow that had left a shimmering white coverlet on the trees and fields. In the distance, festive Christmas lights illuminated the area surrounding the Tavern on the Green. The headlights of cars and taxis were a moving river of brightness as they wound their way along the curving roads. Anywhere else they would just look like traffic, she mused. The horse-drawn carriages, not visible to her now, but no doubt present in the park, always reminded her of the stories her mother told about growing up near Central Park in the early part of the century. Likewise the skaters waltzing on the Wollman Rink ice reminded her of evenings years ago when she had roller-skated to organ music at St. Raymond’s in the Bronx.

After winning the lottery, with its yearly income of two million dollars, minus taxes, she and Willy had moved to this luxurious apartment. Living on Central Park always had been one of her fantasies, and besides, the apartment was a good investment. However, they still kept their old rental apartment in Jackson Heights, just in case New York State went broke and quit paying them.

Truthfully, though, Alvirah had made good use of her newfound wealth, giving quite a lot to charity while managing to enjoy herself immensely. Plus she’d had some memorable experiences. She had gone to Cypress Point Spa in Pebble Beach and almost got murdered there because of her nose for news. The experience paid off when she became a contributing columnist for the New York Globe, and, as one thing always leads to another, with the aid of the recording device in her sunburst lapel pin, she had solved a number of crimes, gradually earning herself a reputation as a real sleuth, though still an amateur, to be sure.

Willy’s skills as a plumber were now utilized exclusively by his oldest sibling, Sister Cordelia, who tended to the poor and elderly on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She kept Willy busy repairing sinks and toilets and heating units in the tenements of her charges.

Before they left on the cruise, he had worked double time fixing up the second floor of the abandoned furniture store where Cordelia ran a clothing thrift shop. Called Home Base, it was also an unofficial after-school center for young children, from the first to the fifth grade, whose parents were working.

Yes, Alvirah had decided, having money was a fine thing, so long as one never forgot how to live without it, something she and Willy intended never to do. It’s nice that we can help out other people, she thought, but if we were to lose every dime of the money, we’d be happy as long as we’re together.

“All through the night,” Willy concluded with a decisive crescendo. “Ready to go, hon?” he asked as he pushed back the piano bench.

“All set,” Alvirah said as she turned to face him. “You sounded just great. You play with so much feeling. So many people just rush through these sweet songs.”

Willy smiled benevolently. While he heartily regretted the moment he had casually mentioned to Alvirah that he wished he had taken piano lessons as a child, he realized that he was beginning to derive intense satisfaction whenever he managed to play through a song without a single mistake.

“The reason I played so slowly was because I couldn’t read the notes any faster,” he joked. “Anyhow, we’d better get going.”

The funeral home was on Ninety-sixth Street, just off Riverside Drive. As their cab made its laborious way uptown, Alvirah reflected on her friends Bessie and Kate Durkin. She had known Bessie and Kate for many years. Kate had worked as a salesperson in Macy’s, and Bessie had been the live-in housekeeper for a retired judge and his ailing wife.

When the judge’s wife died, Bessie had handed in her resignation, saying she could not possibly stay under the same roof with the judge without the presence of another woman.

A week later, Judge Aloysius Maher had requested her hand in marriage, and so, after sixty years of maidenhood, Bessie promptly accepted the offer. Once married, she had settled in to make his large and handsome townhouse on the Upper West Side her own.

After over forty years of marriage, and a blessedly happy one at that, Willy and Alvirah had reached the point where they typically thought about the same subject even before they discussed it. “Bessie knew just what she was doing when she quit her job,” Willy commented, his words melding seamlessly with Alvirah’s own unspoken thought. “She knew if she didn’t grab the judge before other women got their hooks into him, she didn’t stand a chance. She always treated that house as if she owned it, and it would have killed her to be booted out of it.”

“True, she loved it all right,” Alvirah agreed. “And to be fair, she kept her part of the bargain. She was a marvelous housekeeper and could cook like an angel. The judge couldn’t get to the table fast enough. You have to admit she waited on him hand and foot.”

Willy had never been a fan of Bessie Durkin’s. “She knew what she was doing. The judge only lasted eight years. Then Bessie got the house and a pension, invited Kate to move in, and Kate’s waited on her hand and foot ever since.”

“Kate’s a saint,” Alvirah said in agreement, “but of course the house will be hers now that Bessie’s gone, and she’ll have an income. She should be able to manage just fine.”

Cheered by her own optimistic statement, she glanced out the window. “Oh, Willy, don’t you love the Christmas decorations in all the windows?” she asked. “It’s such a shame Bessie died so near the holidays; she always loved them so.”

“It’s only the fourth of December,” Willy pointed out. “She made it through Thanksgiving.”

“That’s true,” Alvirah conceded. “I’m glad we were with them. Remember how much she enjoyed her turkey? She ate every bite of it.”

“And everything else in sight,” Willy said dryly. “Here we are.”

As their taxi pulled up to the curb, an attendant at the Reading Funeral Home opened the door for them and, in a subdued tone, told them that Bessie Durkin Maher was reposing in the east parlor. The heavy, sweet smell of flowers drifted through the hushed atmosphere as they walked sedately down the corridor.

“These places give me the creeps,” Willy commented. “They always smell of dead carnations.”

In the east parlor they joined a group of some thirty mourners, including Vic and Linda Baker, the couple who had rented the top floor apartment of Bessie’s townhouse. They were standing at the head of the casket next to Bessie’s sister Kate, and, like family, were accepting condolences with her.

“What’s that all about?” Willy whispered to Alvirah as they waited their turn to speak to Kate.

Thirteen years younger than her formidable sister, Kate, was a wiry seventy-five-year-old with a cap of short gray hair and warm blue eyes that were now welling with tears.

She’s been bullied all her life by Bessie, Alvirah thought, as she enveloped Kate in her arms. “It’s for the best, Kate,” she said firmly. “If Bessie had survived that stroke she’d have been a total invalid, and that wasn’t for her.”

“No,” Kate agreed, brushing away a tear. “She wouldn’t have wanted that. I guess I’ve always thought of Bessie as both my sister and my mother. She might have been set in her ways, but she had a good heart.”

“We’ll miss her terribly,” Alvirah said, as behind her Willy breathed a deep sigh.

As Willy gave Kate a brotherly hug, Alvirah turned to Vic Baker. So formal was his mourning attire that Alvirah immediately was reminded of one of the Addams Family characters. Baker, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, with a boyish face, dark brown hair and shrewd china-blue eyes, was wearing a black suit with a black tie. Beside him, his wife, Linda, also dressed in black, was holding a handkerchief to her face.

Trying to squeeze out a tear no doubt, Alvirah thought dryly. She had met Vic and Linda for the first time on Thanksgiving. Aware of her sister’s failing health, Kate had invited Alvirah and Willy, Sister Cordelia, Sister Maeve Marie and Monsignor Thomas Ferris, the pastor of St. Clement’s who resided in the rectory a few doors from Bessie’s townhouse on West 103rd Street, to share the holiday dinner with them.

Vic and Linda had stopped in as they were having coffee, and it seemed to Alvirah that Kate had pointedly not invited them to stay for dessert. So what were they doing acting like the chief mourners? Alvirah asked herself as she dismissed Linda’s apparent sadness, assuming it to be phony.

A lot of people would think she’s good-looking, Alvirah conceded as she took in Linda’s even features, but I’d hate to get on the wrong side of her. There’s a coldness to her eyes that I don’t trust, and that spiky hairdo with all those brassy gold highlights is the pits.

“…as though she were my own mother,” Linda was saying, a quiver in her voice.

Willy, of course, had heard the remark and couldn’t help adding his own. “You rented that apartment less than a year ago, didn’t you?” he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he took Alvirah’s arm and propelled her toward the kneeling bench.

In death as in life, Bessie Durkin looked to be in charge of the situation. Attired in her best print dress, wearing the narrow strand of faux pearls the judge had given her on their wedding day, her hair styled and combed, Bessie had the satisfied expression of someone who had successfully made a lifelong habit of getting other people to do things her way.

Later, when Alvirah and Willy were leaving, they said good-bye to Kate, promising to be at the funeral Mass at St. Clement’s and ride in the car with her to the cemetery.

“Sister Cordelia is coming too,” Kate told them. “Willy, I’ve been worried about her this week that you’ve been away. She’s been under so much strain. The city inspectors are giving her a terrible time about Home Base.”

“We expected as much,” Willy said. “I called today, but she was out and didn’t get back to me. I had expected to see her here tonight.”

Glancing across the room, Kate saw Linda Baker bearing down on them. She dropped her voice. “I asked Sister back to the house after the funeral,” she whispered. “I want you to come too, and Monsignor will be there.”

They said their good-nights, and because Willy said he had to get some fresh air just to get the overwhelming smell of flowers off him, they agreed to walk a ways before hailing a taxi.

“Did you notice how Linda Baker came running when she saw us talking to Kate?” Alvirah asked Willy as they strolled arm in arm toward Columbus Avenue.

“I sure did. I have to say there was something about that woman that bothered me. And now I’m worried about Cordelia too. She’s no spring chicken, and I think she’s bitten off more than she can chew by trying to mind those kids after school.”

“Willy, they’re just being kept warm and safe until their mothers can pick them up from work. How can anyone find fault with that?”

“The city can. Like it or not, there are rules and regulations about minding kids. Hold on, I’ve had enough of this cold air. Here comes a cab.”