Page 62 of Coram House

Stedsan and Bill talk in low voices of golf and the mayoral election. Across the aisle, a few elderly women sit with bland expressions, as if they’re in a doctor’s waiting room. I wonder if they’re friends or neighbors, here to pay their respects. Is it possible they’re connected to Coram House? Though it’s hard to imagine any of the former children coming, and all of the other nuns are dead now. There’s no sign of Fred Rooney. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

Father Aubry passes up the aisle in a swish of robes and steps up behind the lectern. He welcomes us, then opens the red leather Bible. “The righteous perish, and no one takes it to heart,” he begins. His voice isn’t loud, but it echoes in the empty room, as if there’s another Father Aubry crouched beneath the casket, speaking on a slight delay.

“The devout are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil.”

The righteous.The urge to laugh bubbles up, so strong I pretend to cough, and bite the heel of my hand.

The psalm done, Father Aubry produces a vial of holy water from the folds of his robe and sprinkles it over the casket. He motions for usto rise. There’s a rustle of clothes and a few grunts as people haul themselves up, using the pews for leverage.

Father Aubry opens his mouth, but his words are drowned out by a sharp crack from behind us. A blast of freezing air blows up the aisle. Every head turns.

The church’s doors swing open wide, revealing a figure standing in silhouette. It lurches forward into the light.

Fred Rooney.

He takes two steps up the aisle and then stumbles into a pillar. “Sorry,” he says, patting it like a dog. “Must—lost track of time.”

He burps into his fist and adjusts his tie. His buttons are mismatched and I notice he’s not wearing socks.

“Is he drunk?” Stedsan whispers.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill Campbell mutters. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up to the ceiling, as if in supplication.

Rooney weaves his way up the aisle now, toward the casket. The bruises on his face have turned a sickly yellow beneath his shock of white hair. “Go’on,” Rooney calls to Father Aubry, who’s staring at him from the altar, speechless. “I’ll just sit right here.”

He tries to slide into the pew in front of the cops, but can’t seem to figure out how to wedge himself in. Parker stares at Rooney, a mix of surprise and interest on his face. His eyes meet mine and he gives a tiny shrug. Rooney finally sits.

“Ah, well, shall we,” Father Aubry says. He adjusts the Bible on the lectern and smooths his robes. An elderly lady, puffs of white hair above a blue dress, walks briskly toward the open door, but before she can close it, Rooney is back on his feet, roaring, “Leave it open, ya dumb cow!”

The woman freezes, one hand on the door, her face pale under too much blush. Parker’s face has lost any trace of amusement.

Then, like he’s turned off a switch, Rooney begins to laugh. “It’s the bullshit—the smell of the bullshit’s too strong. Needs some air.”

People whisper and shift in their seats, clearly waiting for someone—someone else—to do something. “Now,” says Father Aubry, a quaver in his voice. “Now I think that’s enough.”

But Rooney just laughs harder. He’s started forward again and seems to grow more sober with every step toward the casket. A foot away he stops and reaches out toward the smooth wood, but just leaves his hand hanging there.

Garcia leans over and whispers something to Parker. Rooney is so close that I could touch him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring up at Father Aubry. “This is a fucking joke,” he says. “Up there—in your robes. You should be in the ground with all the others.”

He spits on the floor. The glob of phlegm sits there, wet and shiny.

“Then I’ll dig you up too—like I dug up that kiddie fucker. Take a shit on your bones too while I’m at it.”

“Oh, God,” Bill Campbell mutters. I turn to look at him. His face is white.

“Mr. Campbell?” I whisper. “Are you okay?”

He replies as if in a trance. “I— A couple days ago, one of the smaller excavators was missing. I didn’t— Do you think?” I think of what Rooney just said.Like I dug up that kiddie fucker.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Stedsan looks from me to Bill. “Does someone want to fill me in?”

In the aisle, Rooney fumbles at his belt buckle. “Or, you know what,” he says, “maybe I’ll just do it right now.”

A woman in the front row screams and covers her eyes. Bill is on his feet now, pushing past me, into the aisle. “That’s quite enough, Fred,” he sputters, his face now red with outrage. “This is a funeral. Your behavior is completely inappropriate.”

Rooney lets go of his belt and turns to Bill. “Inappropriate, is it? That’s pretty good, Bill.” He leans forward and drops his voice, so low that I barely hear him. “Especially coming from you.”

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