Chapter 11

FOX News' Darren Thornburg: "Domestic spying is a non-issue with the American public. Everyone knows that godforsaken heretical elements, hostile to our American way of life, have infiltrated our cities and towns. Their intent is to stir up unrest and discontent with this new golden age in which we find ourselves. With the New Destiny Patriot Act in place, our democratically elected government has the ability and the power to root out these subversives and remove them from our neighborhoods and our streets. We can rest easy at night knowing that our loved ones are safe and secure."

Still sleepy and a bit fuzzy, Brendan was upset with himself for throwing up after dinner last night. It was such a waste of food and an obvious demonstration of weakness. He had rushed out to the back yard in order to hide it from the other adults in the house. He didn't want to have to answer any uncomfortable questions about his day.

Paul had already left for the garage. Even though Paul had tried to be quiet, Brendan had been awakened by his brother in the kitchen. The kids and Sheila were still sleeping, which was a blessing in the cramped confines of the house where privacy was rare. Besides, Sheila was too intelligent. He wouldn't be able to hide much from her; she could ferret out anything she suspected.

Brendan couldn't keep the images of the day before out of his mind. Like a slide show, the pictures kept playing over and over. The image of Worthington, Michael E. Worthington according to his wallet, kept popping into his dreams — the man yelling with a vein popping out of his temple, sprawled on the floor, pressed into the couch, and finally, on the bed with his legs tucked under him with his blood encrusted butt pointed towards the bedroom door.

He couldn't believe that it had been his idea, but then again, he did believe. He believed with the fervor of a convert that Michael E. Worthington deserved everything that had happened to him. Even more, if the other dickwad got snared as well, then the world was righting itself, slowly and surely. Yesterday wasn't revenge, Brendan told himself. Oh, no. It was war and justice. Today, Brendan Capelli was no longer a victim — at least that's how he tried to convince himself.

Unable to sit, Brendan put on his pants and walked down to the bus station. Ignoring his normal frugality, he bought a morning paper and sat down to read it on a bench in the cold. The bottom of the front page showed him that he hadn't wasted his money. State Senator Pressman had been arrested for murder, deviant behavior, and a list of other offenses stemming from the discovery of a dead body in the senator's bedroom by his wife. The file photo of the senator showed him with a spiffy head of hair and a lapel pin of the NBC.

Brendan laughed so loud, so mischievously, that the couple next to him on the bench collected their bags and left for another spot. Brendan flipped over to the inane comics just to provide cover for himself from the snitches and undercover dicks that were reputed to cruise the bus station. He was freezing from the cold, but life was good.

He walked home with a bounce in his step. With Sheila's consent and despite her squeamishness, he went back to the open-air market in Jersey City and bought a live chicken. The seller was an old Costa Rican man with huge wrinkles around his cheeks. He broke the bird's neck at no extra charge. The carrots looked really tired, but Brendan felt he got an okay deal on a bunch of parsnip and a couple of squashes. He would tell his nephews they were white carrots to make them happy. In any case, their mother would do something with them and everyone would eat something special. Feeling like he was beginning to learn the basics of the underground economy, he walked with a bounce in his step to the bus stop.

Brendan picked up a tail as he left Jersey City. He wasn't sure whether the man was a thief or a snitch, but the scruffy looking man kept trying to duck out of sight whenever Brendan turned to look. Outside the Secaucus bus station Brendan slipped down an alleyway he knew from his youth and hopped a fence behind Fulton Brothers Appliance Parts. He waited silently among the PVC pipe for his tail to walk past and back again when the man reached the next street and didn't find his target.

He hadn't been overly paranoid after all. Thirty minutes later Brendan scanned the alley from the top of the fence and jumped back over to make his way home.

Sheila wasn't thrilled with the idea of plucking a chicken, but her sons made a game of it and feathers drifted through the measly tufts of dead grass in the small backyard. Brendan teased the nurse about being particular gutting the chicken and removing the entrails. They really did stink. Even so, the organs made a lunch. So what if the giblets were a bit strong tasting? The bird was trussed for roasting with white carrots and bread for stuffing, nestled in a pan with hard squashes.

There wasn't a scrap of meat left on that bird by the end of dinner. Anxious and giddy at the same time, Brendan offered to wash the dishes and volunteered his nephews to wipe down the table and counters. Paul gave him a wink as he slid his arm around his wife and steered her to the back of the house. Thinking ahead, Paul had stopped by a local swap meet and traded a couple of DVD's for new bootlegs.

Keeping his eye on the clock, Brendan gave himself plenty of time to engage his nephews with a movie and get himself out the door. Walking to church, he marveled at the cinematic irony of murdering a man one day and going to church the next. Yet, in the reality of the moment, all of the threads of these past weeks made perfect sense, coming together in a House of God.

His ears were burning from the cold and Brendan was sure that they were bright red. He turned onto one of the main thoroughfares, still deep in thought despite discomfort.

'Who was right and who was wrong in the eyes of God', Brendan asked himself. The wretched state of national affairs made it obvious who was wrong, but who was paying attention to the obvious. More people were passive and oblivious like his brother Eddie. Few were agitators like himself. Most people did their best to duck and cover.

The sidewalk was cracked and uneven.

If Brendan were to blame anyone for the sorry state of affairs, it was the Eddies of the world. They were everywhere, cowering on their couches. Their modus operandi was pretending that things weren't so bad or expecting someone else to stand up and address the ills of the day. Sure, they were against this injustice or that illegal act, but they were willing to fight for what is right only from the comfort of their couch, thank you very much. He snorted in derision.

A bus sped pass, hitting a puddle with a thin coating of ice. Dirty ice and water splashed up on the sidewalk catching Brendan's shoes and the cuffs of his pants. Without thinking he let out a curse that would have curdled milk. In the next instant, he was looking behind and forward in fear that someone had heard him. He breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his ruminations.

He picked up the thread of his contemplation. Someone had informed Carly and they must have planned for a riot. How else could one explain the two waves of rioters, spread out just enough to be destructively effective? The entire riot seemed to be pre-planned. They had flaming bottles of alcohol ready and lit for throwing. Look how many of them came prepared with face masks and bandanas. Maybe there were fewer Eddies in the world than he realized or maybe there were more people who were willing to fight. He wished he knew them.

His thoughts turned to Carly. If Brendan was being candid, their sex play had been awkward. Maybe it was just the alcohol that blunted their performance, but he had his doubts.

Jacinta on the other hand, she already had card-carrying credentials in his book and they hadn't had a first kiss yet. She had known what Carly did in her house and she had been at the church after the riot. She was beautiful, too, but Maryanne had been beautiful even if she wasn't pretty inside. Jacinta could be another shell of person beneath her beautiful face and figure. Finally, was there any chance of anything between them because she was Latina and he wasn't Latino? He didn't think of himself as a bigot, but her comment in the rectory kitchen had a distinct, ugly undertone.

His thoughts turned back to his decision to go to church beyond Jacinta's invitation. Beyond the promise of an evening with a beautiful woman who liked him, something else drew him. He wasn't going as a repentant sinner, certainly not, but as something he couldn't quite define. Maybe he was a soldier in a war praying to return alive and unharmed.

Brendan didn't believe in divine intervention; he didn't think he actually believed in God or Jesus. However, he had enough doubt in his doubts to allow that a little prayer couldn't hurt. Perhaps the sanctuary was the safest place to be on a Saturday night. No muggers or thieves hung out there and no undercover dickheads could sit in the pews because the parishioners recognized and knew each other. They believed they could pick out the informers who tried to sneak in, according to Sheila.

Jacinta was waiting inside the front doors for him. Three elders greeted Brendan, handing him a hymnal in the narrow foyer. Their faces broke into warm smiles of welcome when he identified himself. "Welcome back," one whispered as they stepped past.