Beware the Solitary Drinker by Cornelius Lehane Read Free Book Online

storefronts with drab displays behind foggy plate glass windows. In a men’s apparel store, the mannequins wore fedora hats and loose fitting double breasted worsteds, as if they had been dressed shortly after World War II and hadn’t changed since. This was what Chicopee felt like—frozen since World War II.
    The cab entered a traffic circle of the every man for himself variety. Beyond it, a bridge crossed a quiet river; next to the bridge, a red brick mill, a vestige of the New England textile era, stretched out along the riverbank. We turned right and passed the Hotel and Restaurant Workers Union office. It, too, was in a storefront, next to a store that sold surgical equipment. The funeral home was a large, old house a short way up a hill. When the cabbie dropped us off, he promised to pick us up again in an hour and take us to a restaurant in walking distance of the bus depot.
    A directory with a black background and gold borders listed Angelina’s name. When I read it, I wished I hadn’t come. I had to just stand there thinking about her being dead. I couldn’t make the idea of it go away anymore. Carl walked ahead of me into the viewing room and up to the casket. He stood with his head down. I stood beside him, holding myself still to keep from running away. I didn’t want to pray, and I didn’t want to look at Angelina’s dead body.
    On our way in, we’d passed two women, one young, one older, sitting in the front row of chairs. All of the other chairs were empty. I didn’t know how long we should stand in front of the casket. I didn’t know what to do when I stopped standing there either.
    Carl shifted on his feet beside me; finally, I turned and walked over to the older woman and asked if she was Angelina’s mother.
    â€œI knew Angelina in the city,” I told her. “She was a good person. I’m sorry she’s dead.”
    â€œThank you,” the woman said. Her eyes were expressionless; they seemed almost cold. I wondered if she felt responsible for her daughter’s death.
    â€œMy other daughter, Janet,” she said turning to the young woman next to her.
    â€œBrian McNulty,” I said, shaking her hand. This sister wasn’t anything like Angelina. Very businesslike in her tailored suit that seemed very obviously not borrowed, she shook hands like a salesman. But her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her face pale and drawn.
    â€œDid you know Angelina well?” she asked.
    â€œNot very well,” I said, while Carl mumbled his name to Mrs. Carter.
    â€œNice of you to come all the way from the city,” the mother said.
    Carl nodded, smiling, then thought better of it and wiped the smile off his face.
    â€œShe used to come into my bar,” I said.
    â€œOh,” said her sister in a tone that made me feel unwholesome.
    â€œShe sang there with a band sometimes,” I mumbled.
    â€œAnd you, Mr. —”
    â€œCarl.”
    â€œMr. Carl.”
    â€œNot Mr. Carl,” Carl said. He was more flustered than I was.
    â€œHow did you know my sister, Carl?”
    â€œFrom the bar…We were friends…She was really talented.” Carl spoke earnestly and meant what he said, but it was lost on her.
    Distaste dripped from sister Janet’s words; brooding anger smoldered in her eyes. Yet I couldn’t help noticing that, though this sister wasn’t at all like Angelina, she was attractive in her own right. Nicely built, shapely, nice legs. But she didn’t do anything with it—at least not for us. She carried herself with a mixture of elegance and aloofness, as if she’d been bred for respectability, her tone and manner suggesting she knew we were part of the seamier side of her sister’s life. Her politeness was vague. I felt like a delivery man.
    The mother, short and stocky, her hair tied in an efficient looking bun, her dark blue suit serviceable and nondescript, kept the empty