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Everybody Calls My Father, Father
by
Tim ‘Dr. Hope’ Anders
Copyright 2010 by Timothy Anders
Published by Alpine Publishing, Inc.
1119 S. Mission Rd., # 102
Fallbrook, CA 92028
All right reserved.
Originally published under the title: The Strength of a Sparrow.
ISBN 978-1-885624-77-2
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank the following people for their contributions and encouragement in the making of this book: Anita Coolidge, Jolie Miller, Julie Donlon, Liba Coplen, Marlaine Hopper, and Marti Avila.
Dedication
I dedicate this book in loving memory of my mother; her happy smile and optimistic attitude will always hold a special place in my heart.
Chapter One
Perhaps this story should not be told. Perhaps some things are better left unsaid. But I ache to tell this story of the strength and passion of a remarkable woman. Indeed, were it not for this woman, I would not be alive today.
Our story begins…
“No, I mustn’t do this,” thought Hughie Hewitt. He envisioned devastating consequences, consequences that would befall not only him but also the lovely twenty-five-year-old woman who sat before him.
The year was 1946. On this cold, wintry night in the upper east side of Manhattan, a slender man in his late thirties and a beautiful young woman sat in the dimly lit bar of Rao’s Italian Restaurant. The spicy aroma of marinara sauce filled the air as an old wooden clock chimed the hour. It was three a.m. They were the only patrons left. The candle’s flame flickered rays of light onto her delicate face as she moved closer to him.
Bouvette Sherwood gazed into the deep blue eyes of this attractive, clean-shaven man not knowing the danger that lay ahead. Hughie Hewitt knew the danger, but still, he said nothing. She entranced him.
Hiding the agony that was within him, Hughie watched as she gently brushed the fiery auburn hair from her face. The movement formed a waterfall of brilliant color, sending ripples of light cascading through her long red hair. His infatuation increased. She sipped on her cherry coke.
“An angel,” Hughie thought, “I’m in the presence of an angel.”
The door bell jingled, and a small man with a cigar stub in the corner of his mouth entered the bar.
“One a’ yooz guys call a cab?” he asked, wiping the moisture from his nose.
“Yes, I did. I’ll be with you in a moment,” Bouvette said, smiling politely.
She turned toward the tall, distinguished man she was sitting with and said, “It was very nice to finally meet you, Mr. Hewitt.” Although she had seen him many times before, it was only a few short hours ago that they had been properly introduced. “Your stories were simply delightful and so was your company. I haven’t laughed this much in years.”
“I enjoyed being with you as well, Miss Sherwood,” he said, circling the rim of his glass, with a slender finger, “probably more than I should have.”
“What does that mean? Do you have a jealous wife?”
“Oh no,” he replied, “I’m not married—it just probably isn’t a good idea for us to see each other.” He had the face of a small boy whose puppy was missing.
“Why not?” she asked, perplexed by the sudden change in his demeanor.
“It’s probably not a good idea.” He slurped down the rest of the Dewar’s White Label scotch he had been drinking.
“Suit yourself,” she said flippantly as if she didn’t care. “Nonetheless it was a very pleasant evening and...”
“Lady, I ain’t got all night,” said the cabby.
They rose from the table and moved toward the black enameled coat rack in the corner of the room. He helped her don her long mink coat and was aroused by the delicate scent of her perfume. She paused and turned to him, watching tenderly as his arms found the sleeves of his own slightly worn wool overcoat. She sensed something was wrong.
“Why are you so sad all of a sudden—was it something I said?”
“Oh no, it’s not you... it’s me... I’m sorry... I really had a wonderful time this evening,” he said, smiling to cover his sadness. In a flash he slipped past the cabby and out the door. Hughie’s eyes revealed the hint of a painful hopelessness. He turned back toward her, hastily waved and said, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” she replied. In an instant he was gone.
She adjusted her coat and went over to the bar. Turning to Vincent Rao, the bartender and owner of the restaurant, Boo said, “Your friend is mighty handsome, but he seems a bit melancholy.”
“A kinder, more gentle person you could never hope to meet. We growed up together.” Bouvette could see Vincent’s sincerity shine through his soft brown eyes. He had a thick set of distinctly Italian eyebrows.
“Does he come in often?”
“There ain’t a day that goes by without me seeing my pal Hughie.”
“Lady, I ain’t got all night. You wants the cab or what?” said the cabdriver, wondering how much more of his time this dizzy redhead was going to waste.
“Yes, I do. Let’s go. Goodnight, Vincent.”
“So long, Boo,” said Vincent. Most of Bouvette’s friends called her Boo. In a moment she was out the door, the cabby trailing her. Boo’s soft cheeks pinked in the frosty night air. She could feel the searing cold from the door handle penetrate through her leather gloves. She pulled open the door and got into the yellow cab.
“Where to?” asked the cabby.
“737 Park Avenue,” replied Boo.
As they drove off, snow began to fall like a million tiny parachutes twirling at the whim of the breeze.
Hughie Hewitt tramped down the cold sidewalk, downcast, his thoughts haunted by the captivating redhead he had just left. The cold blistering wind whipped snowflakes into his face, blinding him momentarily as he forged his way toward St. Paul’s Catholic church.
He needed to pray.
Oblivious to the cold and the murmur of crushing snow beneath his thin-soled shoes, his thoughts kept drifting to Boo.
“God, I need help,” he thought. Alcohol usually calmed his passion for women, but tonight it had the opposite effect. He was wrestling with the desire that raged deep in his soul.
He wanted her. He needed to feel her, to hold her, to taste her sweet essence, to savor her young firm body on fire next to his, her precious lips pressed intimately against his own. These visions tormented him.
Hughie had never allowed himself to succumb to these urges. The yearning for female companionship sizzled unbearably deep inside him, setting his loins on fire. Alcohol had been his only escape and now that was failing. He needed strength—he needed to pray.
He stood in front of St. Paul’s and watched the snow cover the high-pitched roof of the old church. In the distance the mournful cry of a siren pierced the silence of the night. Holding back his tears, Hughie wondered if he should go inside. He needed his God. He entered the house of worship.
Hughie paused briefly to dip his slim fingertips into the holy water. His light touch sent shallow ripples to the sides of the vessel—ripples like the pangs of agony he felt within him. He genuflected. Only the tapping sound of his heels could be heard as he made his way down the marble floor to a pew. Hughie knelt down. He saw the statue of Jesus before him on the crucifix. He wept openly.
“What’s wrong, Father Hewitt?” An elderly, heavy-set woman wearing a black sweater walked up to him, a broom in her hand.
“Oh nothing, Mrs. Sullivan. I just had a very sad thought. It’s gone now. I’m fine. What are you doing here this time of night?” said Hughie.
“Now, Father Hewitt, you know perfectly well what I’m doing here. ‘Tis nearly five a.m. and I have to sweep up the place before Father O’Brian’s six o’clock mass,” said Mrs. Sullivan, her Irish brogue tattling on her immigration many years before.
“Oh, is it that late already? I seem to have lost track of the time. Well, goodnight Mrs. Sullivan. Ah, I mean good morning.” With each word he sent his alcoholic breath toward her.
“Good day, Father,” she said, twisting the broom handle. Through her wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes reprimanded him.
Father Hewitt slid somewhat awkwardly through the brown door next to the hand-carved confessionals and disappeared into the confines of the rectory. He snuck quietly through the hallway, toward the craggy staircase that led up to his private quarters. Father O’Brian’s bedroom was at the other end of this dark corridor. Hughie stepped quickly but softly, hoping not to encounter him; he didn’t want to have to explain himself again.
Father Daniel O’Brian, an Irishman with a full head of white hair, looked much older than his sixty-four years. He was sitting in the rectory library, perched on his favorite overstuffed chair. With a flick from his liver-spotted finger, Father O’Brian thoughtfully turned the page of his sermon notes for the imminent six o’clock mass. He wetted the lead of his pencil with his tongue, and jotted notes with penmanship not unlike that of a physician.
He heard a “swooft, swooft” in the hall. It was the soft sound of Hughie’s light footsteps, muffled further by the oriental carpet on the floor.
“Father Hewitt?” said Father O’Brian, rising to his feet. Hughie froze in the open library doorway.
“Heavens, Father Hewitt, you haven’t been out all night drinkin’ again, have you now?” said the old Irishman. He wasn’t always this stern with his colleague and friend. Although Hughie was in charge of the parish, he stood sheepishly before Father O’Brian, like a schoolboy caught dipping his little sister’s ponytail into an inkwell. He said nothing.
“I’ll not be taking your place again like I did Sunday last when you were in such a pitiful state from over-imbibin’ the night before!” The ire in his voice rose until he sensed the deep sorrow in his comrade. Then he said gently, “Don’t you think you’ve been over doin’ it a wee bit of late?” Still silence. “Well Hughie, I’m off to prepare for the mass then. Rest yourself. We’ll talk of this tomorrow.” He reached up to Hughie’s six-foot three-inch frame and patted him on the shoulder.
With his head hung low, Hughie climbed to his bedroom apartment. The staircase creaked as if wounded by the extra weight that tugged at Hughie’s soul. He entered his chambers. He went straight over to a cherry wood cabinet, opened it, and grabbed a half-empty bottle of Dewar’s scotch whiskey. With trembling hands he poured a generous amount into a water-spotted glass. He slurped down the whiskey and quickly poured another, his hands less shaky now.
As he undressed, he finished off the second glass and then fell into bed. The alcohol was doing its job—the turmoil inside him was succumbing to the numbing effect of the drink. His mind drifted to the strong smell of incense that had hung in the air the day he took his vows. He remembered how joyous he had felt kneeling before old Bishop Newhart, finally becoming a priest. It had been his boyhood dream. He knew he could never leave the priesthood; it was who he was and all he had ever known or wanted to be. But this secret yearning for companionship in recent years had grown painfully present in his thoughts. In the darkness and warmth of his bed a tear glided from beneath his closed eyelid and down his cheek, soon swallowed up by his pillow. Boo was his last dreamy thought as he sank into a welcome state of unconsciousness.
Chapter Two
The afternoon sun shone brightly through the window of Boo’s uptown apartment. Charming, elegant and utterly feminine, the furnishings befitted a successful woman of the theater.
Her coffeepot gurgled on the kitchen stove, filling the air with the sweet aroma of fresh coffee. Wearing only a blue terry-cloth robe, Boo was having a giggly, girlish conversation with her best friend, Mary Stevens.
Mary sat patiently awaiting her coffee. She twirled a few strands of her brown hair between her thumb and forefinger. Her slender shape, and delicate facial features betrayed that this beauty was indeed a talented actress and model.
“Gosh, Boo, I just realized that it has been five years since we first met. Remember that crazy audition we went to in the east village? Can you believe it? Five years… And remember that lecherous producer, George what’s-his-name?” said Mary, smiling broadly while adjusting her black cashmere sweater.
“Goldstein,” said Bouvette.
“Yeah. And how he came on to all the girls while we were trying to read our lines until…” giggled Mary.
“His wife showed up that day and slapped him so hard that his toupee flew off and into…” chuckled Boo.
“The table fan! And it chewed off little puffs of fuzz and blew them all over the stage!” roared Mary.
“It was like thousands of bearded moths flying around. That pervert George acted like a crazed bug catcher, chasing them down and wrestling to paste them back together…”
Boo put a dainty china creamer and sugar bowl onto the lace tablecloth that covered her kitchen table. Still laughing, she walked to the stove to get the pot of coffee.
“Five years… Now look at you. You’re the one producing plays, and you’re a darn site more successful than anything old George Goldstein ever put together,” said Mary, referring to Boo’s current production of Revival of Petrified Forest. Mary starred in the play.
“Yeah, well that’s because I have a much better toupee,” said Boo, theatrically tossing her hair over her shoulder. Boo delivered some toasty warm Danishes on a silver platter. She poured the coffee into two petite cups and handed one to Mary.
“Mmm, this coffee is delish,” Mary said, pausing briefly. “So tell me about this mysterious stranger that kept you out ‘til four a.m. Did he kiss you or anything else?” Mary winked a long eyelash.
“Mary, I’m surprised at you, asking me that after our first, ah, well, gee, it actually wasn’t even a date,” said Boo.
“Well, did you kiss him?”
“Mary!” Boo said, feigning embarrassment. She gracefully slid onto the chair across from her friend and dipped a silver teaspoon into the sugar bowl.
“Okay, I’ll take that as a no,” said Mary, with part of a Danish in her mouth. “Come on, give!” Boo just stirred her coffee. “The scoop Boo, juicy details! Come on! What’s he look like? How did you meet him? Come on!”
Boo opened the floodgates. “Well, he’s tall and absolutely gorgeous and his name is Hughie, although I still call him Mr. Hewitt. And I’m very attracted to him. He makes me laugh. He’s so handsome and polite and gentle, and he’s got steel gray hair and deep blue eyes and he’s the kind of guy you could fall instantly in love with. And did I tell you that he’s tall and ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS and I wish he would have kissed me?” Boo exclaimed as she rambled on like a schoolgirl talking about her first crush.
Mary hung on every word. “He’s a long time friend of Vincent’s. You know Vincent, one of the brothers who own Rao’s on the upper east side. That’s where we met. You know the one, on East 114th Street behind that cute little iron fence.”
“Oh yeah, the Mafioso place.”
“Mafioso?” said Boo blankly.
“Don’t tell me that you didn’t know that the Rao brothers are wiseguys.”
“Wiseguys? You mean they crack a lot of jokes?” said Boo innocently. She took a sip of her coffee.
The seriousness in Boo’s voice made Mary cackle like a speckled hen. “Gee, Boo, for such an intelligent woman your naiveté is astounding,” chuckled Mary.
“When you’re done laying that egg, it would be nice if you would simply educate this poor ignorant California girl. Need I remind you, little Miss Perfect, glass houses—stones?” said Boo in remembrance of a similar circumstance in which Mary was the ignorant one.
“A wiseguy is another word for mobster, you know. Mafia, organized crime—they’re in the mob!”
“Oh… Oh no, that can’t be. Vincent’s such a nice fellow. He couldn’t be a gangster! I’ve known him for years. You must be wrong,” Boo remarked, somewhat shocked by the words of her friend.
“I can prove it, but you have to promise you won’t tell another living soul,” Mary uttered almost in a whisper.
“I promise.”
“Remember three years ago? I had a quick roll in the hay with Sam, the stage manager?”
“Uh huh.”
“We weren’t serious about each other. We just did it for fun. Anyway, I got, you know, in trouble.”
“You were pregnant!”
She nodded. “The last thing Sam or I wanted to do was get married and raise a child. I knew I couldn’t handle being a single mother all alone in this city and frankly, I didn’t want to end my career and end up taking it out on the kid. So he took me to his cousin, who happened to be Vincent. They made arrangements for a doctor to perform an abortion.”
“Wow, how did they get the doctor to break the law?”
“Boo,” Mary said bluntly as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin, “the mob can put pressure on people. Turns out some doctor owed big money for a gambling debt. They checked me into Flower & Fifth Avenue Hospital where it was written up as ‘a minor gynecological surgery.’ It was easy, no problems.”
“Were you scared?” said Boo, her eyes as big as beach balls.
“A little, but everything went real smooth. Thanks to Vincent. He’s a real pal.” Mary poured some more coffee into her cup.
“I don’t think that I could have done that. Well maybe, if I were pregnant and the father was someone I didn’t love.” Boo sighed deeply. “To me, having children with the man I love is the ultimate reward in life. To raise kids and nurture them means more to me than fame or fortune or anything… But I certainly wouldn’t want to have children by accident or if the father was a real jerk,” Boo was thoughtful as she pondered Mary’s revelation. “So Vincent is in the mob. I’ll be...”
“Yep, but let’s not talk anymore about that. Tell me more about this attractive man of yours.”
“Oh no,” Boo wailed, sitting down, “that explains it. Oh no!” Her heart sank as a thought came over her.
“Oh no, what? Explains WHAT?”
“It was something Hughie said. We had been laughing and having a great time. I was telling him how much I enjoyed his company and he said how much he enjoyed mine, and then all of a sudden he looked really sad and said that he probably enjoyed it more than he should have. Oh Mary, he looked so sad. At first I thought he might be married but he had no ring or, you know, that telltale white mark when they take their ring off and pretend—so I asked him and he said he wasn’t and I believe he was telling me the truth. But he was so sad. Oh no, that must be it. He must be in the mob and afraid of a relationship or something. Oh Gosh. I have to find out.”
“How are you going to do that? I can see it now—Oh, Hughie, I really like you. Oh, by the way, are you pals with Al Capone?” said Mary.
“No silly, I’ll just go to Rao’s and ask Vincent.” Boo jumped up and rushed into the bedroom to dress.
Warm rays of sun shimmered on the quilt of snow that had fallen during the night. The air, tainted only by the smell of auto exhaust, was uncharacteristically warm for this time of year, a welcome change for New Yorkers. The rattletrap Checker cab Boo had hailed clattered to a standstill in front of the red facade of Rao’s Italian restaurant.
Vincent stood alone behind the bar, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, his black tie loosened at the collar. He was a hard worker and basically a kind man, but people never crossed him. The East River was full of people who tried to cross the Rao brothers. He took up all the slack while his brother Louie was doing time in Sing-Sing for racketeering. If it could be called ‘doing time.’ It was more like a vacation. True, he spent his days in a cell—a very private cell with blackout curtains and every modern convenience, including a phone. The Raos had the prison guards greased so well that during the nights a private boat would pick up Louie, dressed in top hat and tails, and deliver him to Manhattan nightclubs. Vincent didn’t go to parties very often; he did the legitimate work.
Vincent was drying glasses when Boo entered the cozy bar. A trained eye could see bullet holes in the dark wooden crown molding. Only Vincent’s reflection showed between the bottles of spirits on the mirrored barroom wall. He was alone.
“Hello, Boo,” greeted Vincent cheerfully. “Your usual cherry coke?”
“Yes, please,” replied Boo. She sat down on the black leather barstool, across from her friend.
Vincent squirted some cherry syrup into a glass half filled with crushed ice, popped open a coke, poured it, and placed the glass in front of Boo.
“Why such a serious face today—your cat die or something?”
“Vincent, we’ve known each other for some time, right?” said Boo. Her bright red fingernails toyed with the folds of the napkin under her drink.
“Yeah.”
“Would you tell me the truth if I asked you a personal question?”
Vincent removed the white apron from his slightly protruding belly, and dried his thick hands with it. “Well, I think that would depend a lot on the question, but probably I would.”
“Vincent, now don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t care if you are or aren’t, I just have to know,” Boo said almost in a whisper. She looked around to make sure no one had come within earshot, “Are you in the mob?”
“Why you ask me that?” Vincent said while raising an eyebrow, “You need something?”
“I just need to know. Please tell me. I promise I won’t tell a soul,” she pleaded, with a hopeful look in her eye.
“We been friends for a while an’ I don’t think you’d rat me out. Besides, you don’t know what I do anyways, so what the heck, I’ll admit it,” said Vincent. He pointed a warning finger and continued. “But listen doll, you should keep that to yourself, capeche?”
“Absolutely.” She dipped her head down and drew the cool bubbly coke into her mouth. Boo spun the crushed ice in a slow circle with her straw.
“Why did you wants to know anyways?”
“I needed to know if you would tell me the truth about yourself before I asked what I really want to know...” She squirmed slightly. The ice swirled faster as she chased it with her straw.
Vincent pulled up the crease in his brown slacks and placed his right loafer on top of a case of whisky. Resting his forearm on his knee, he leaned forward and asked, “What’s that?”
Boo mustered up her courage and asked, “Is Mr. Hewitt in the mob?”
“Hughie, in the mob!” said Vincent, his foot plunging off its resting place as he burst into laughter, “now that’s a good one.”
“Well, is he or not?”
“No, Boo, Hughie is definitely not in the mob—definitely,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. He was laughing hard.
“What’s so funny about that question?” asked Boo. Her shoulders straightened, her back rigid like that of a new recruit in front of his drill sergeant.
“Sorry, Boo. It’s just that Hughie ain’t the mob type, definitely—it’s against his nature. When we was kids he never got into fights or stole or nothing. All he ever wanted to do was help people. He used to help me out with homework for nothing, ‘til I dropped out anyways. He never snitched on nobody. He’s a great guy. Maybe he drinks a little too much, but he never gets nasty or mean like some other guys do.”
Boo was startled by the affectionate tone with which Vincent spoke of his friend.
“To give you an idea what kind of guy he is, when we was teenagers he used to see young boys and girls, you know eight or ten years old or so, trying to sell lemonade in makeshift stands in our old neighborhood. Well, he would always buy a glass and drink it down while telling them how good they was for them working at a business and not going out stealing or getting into trouble. But you knows the funny part?”
Boo shook her head.
“He was allergic to those damn lemons! Can you believe it? Made him get sores in his mouth, but he drank down every drop of that lemonade like it was the best thing he ever tasted. Just to help out those kids… Women always loved him, too. I think because he was always so nice and helped everyone without nobody even asking… or maybe because he was so damn handsome.”
Boo stabbed the remaining crushed ice with her straw. “So… is he married then?” she asked.
Again he laughed. “Nope, he’s definitely not married. So what you asking all these questions for anyways?”
“It’s just that I think he wants to get to know me better, but there’s something stopping him. Do you know what that could be?”
“So you got eyes for him or what?” Vincent could see her blush slightly, revealing her attraction. “Well, if you wants some healthy advice, you should forget about it.”
“Why? If he’s not married…”
Vincent gave her a knowing look but said, “He’s the guy you should ask, not me. Hughie’s a private guy. He likes to come in and drink and mingle with the customers, you know, tell his funny stories and such. But he doesn’t want every Tom, Dick or Harry that walks in the joint to know too much about him.”
“Well, can you at least tell me what he does for a living?” said Boo, letting out a deep sigh of relief. The thought that Hughie was married or in the mob was happily out of her mind. She exhaled again and with her spent breath, the trepidation she had felt left her body.
“Again, he’s the guy you should ask, not me. And speaking of the devil, look who’s walking down the sidewalk.”
The door chime rang out just as Boo turned her head and saw Hughie coming through the door.
“Hello, Miss Sherwood. What a wonderful surprise seeing you here,” Hughie said. He shook her extended hand. The touch of her soft skin in the palm of his hand made him want to hold on forever. “I am awfully sorry for the way I left last night. To apologize, may I buy you lunch?”
She could feel the electricity in his handshake, the warm gaze from his deep blue eyes. Boo said coyly, “There’s nothing to apologize for, but I am hungry.”
“Would you care to join me then, Miss Sherwood?” continued Hughie.
“I would be delighted,” Boo said. They walked over to a corner table with a checkered cloth. There was a red candle stuck in the top of a Chianti bottle. Hughie pulled her chair out for her, waited until she was seated, and then sat across from her. They ordered the house specialty, baked mostaccioli marinara. Hughie ordered himself a scotch and Boo another cherry coke. Vincent delivered their drinks.
“Thank a you Vincente, you so nice guy,” said Hughie.
“How about this guy? He does that accent better than me and I’m Italian!” said Vincent. He smiled and then went to the kitchen to check on their order.
“Heavens, Mr. Hewitt, how did you ever learn to speak with so many different accents?”
“Senorina Sherwood, you to please call me Hughie, you no have to call me Mr. Hewitt, capish?”
“That’s very good… Japanese, right?” said Bouvette slyly. Hughie raised a well-groomed eyebrow and peered down his Irish nose as if to say, “You dare to insult my Italian accent.”
She giggled. “Did I say Japanese? I meant Italian of course. And ‘you to please call me Boo,’” she said, demonstrating her own Italian accent. “Do you know any more Irish stories like you told me last night?”
“For you I would make one up on the spot,” said Hughie. He ran his long fingers through his hair and then said, “I am going to be turning your head with the charm and wit of two old crusty Irish birdwatchers, Clancy O’Flaherty and his brother Darby. I will dazzle you with the lush green pastures and quaint villages that speckle the Emerald Isle as I spin a yarn about the fabled Mugwump bird. But nay lassie, instead might I simply ask if you be knowin’ what a Mugwump bird is?”
“I have no idea,” she said, smiling and giggling at his animated facial expressions.
“Well lassie, a Mugwump bird is a bird that sits on a fence with his mug on one side and his wump on the other!’”
She laughed heartily.
“Hughie, that’s rich!” giggled Boo after regaining her composure.
“Ain’t that the same joke you told last week, only the birdwatchers was German and they was drinking beer at the Oktoberfest?” questioned Vincent while delivering their plates of food.
“You mean, Das Mugwump!?” chuckled Boo.
“Hey, Vinny, so she wanted the Irish version,” said Hughie while touching his fingertips together and rocking his hand on his wrist. “So what’s a matter for you? Ireland, Germany. You busting my chops over a thousand miles of geography?” Vincent laughed all the way back to the kitchen.
“Now, does this look delicious or what,” said Hughie mimicking the speech patterns of his friend. Hughie’s mouth watered as he inhaled the aroma of spicy cheese and tomato. “Now, that’s Italian.” They ate heartily.
Hughie took a sip of scotch to make sure his mouth was empty before speaking and asked, “Tell me, Miss Sherwood. Ah, I mean Boo! When did you start producing plays?”
Boo dabbed her red lips with the napkin and smiled. “I produced and directed my first play in a very exclusive theater,” she winked. “My parents’ living room—I was seven years old—it was a raging success—we were sold out for weeks!”
Hughie chuckled and said, “I meant professionally. Vincent told me you were the youngest woman to ever produce a show on Broadway—is that true?”
“So, you’ve been pumping Vincent for information about me,” Boo said, thinking to herself, “He is interested in me.”
“Oh, I was in earlier today, and I couldn’t help asking what he knew about you. You don’t mind, do you?” said Hughie, blushing slightly.
“Of course not. And yes, it is true, I was just 21… So… what is it that you do for a living?” Boo was deeply curious.
Hughie thought for a brief moment then replied, “Among other things, I am a writer. I’ve written short stories, a few plays, and humor. Never sold any of the plays though. I don’t make much money at it.” He couldn’t bring himself to lie or tell the whole truth.
“A starving writer,” thought Boo, “no wonder he’s afraid of a relationship. He can’t afford one. ‘Among other things’ is probably waiting on tables or sweeping floors to support his art. How romantic. I won’t embarrass him by asking.”
Captivated by each other’s wit and charm, they laughed and talked for hours. They left the restaurant in good spirits, their feet barely able to touch the ground. They were invigorated by the fresh air and intoxicated by the company. They laughed and they flirted all afternoon, walking around the city companionably.
Hughie felt like a truck careening down a winding mountain road with faulty brakes, brakes that could still work, if only he would use them. He had to stop. He knew it. But he was in trouble. He wanted to be with Boo. He needed her.
And she felt a sense of kindness and selflessness glowing around him that attracted her to him far more than his looks, his charming ways, or the mystery that surrounded him. Their attraction grew exponentially. As evening approached and shadows from the tall buildings quickly added to the chill in the air, Hughie said that he must go.
“Well, okay, but I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come to the 42nd Street Theater tomorrow night and see the play we are putting on? I’ll leave a pass for you at the will-call window.”
“I’d love to, but I really can’t. I, ah, don’t have anything to wear,” Hughie said, struggling to think up any excuse to save him from himself. That sad look was starting to creep back into his face.
“What you’re wearing right now is just fine. And people don’t get dressed up nice anyway for a mid-week performance—not that you’re not dressed nice—‘cause you are. You look nice. Oh, you know what I mean,” Boo exclaimed, a little embarrassed at the precession with which she had planted her foot in her mouth. “Come on! Just say yes so I can stop making a fool of myself.” Who could resist the pleas of this charming woman? Hughie agreed to meet her at the theater.
Chapter Three
Hughie walked through the fragile mist rising from the heavy iron slats of the sidewalk. It was a frosty, beautiful New York night. He could feel the rumbling of a subway train deep below his feet, or was it the deep resonating pulse he felt inside when he thought of her? What was he doing, he asked himself, as he approached the brightly lit will-call window of the 42nd St. Theater?
“May I help you, sir?” asked the young man in the ticket booth.
“Yes, my name is Hughie Hewitt You have a ticket for me?”
“How do you spell that, sir?”
“T-H-A-T.” Hughie paused and winked at the young man. “Oh, you mean my name: H-e-w-i-t-t.” Hughie always liked to make people smile and had done so throughout school and even at the seminary, much to the chagrin of his teachers.
Smiling, the young man handed the ticket to him, “Here it is sir. Enjoy the performance. You’ve only missed about three minutes.”
Hughie entered the theater and checked his overcoat with the hatcheck girl. A page escorted him to the only two vacant seats in the theater: fourth row, center. Where was Boo? At the intermission, Hughie drank a double scotch at the bar before going back in. The seat next to him was still vacant.
As the red velvet curtains drew closed, the thunderous applause turned to the sound of people scurrying into the lobby. Still, no Boo. Elbow to elbow among the exiting crowd, Hughie went into the lobby and retrieved his overcoat. It wasn’t ‘til then that a mildly flustered Boo threaded her way through reams of jovial theater goers to eventually be at his side.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you. Sorry about not getting here sooner, but we had several minor catastrophes backstage. Thank goodness you didn’t leave. Anyway, come on backstage and I’ll introduce you to the cast. Did you like the performance?” Boo asked. She tugged his arm in the direction of the stage.
“I loved it,” said Hughie.
Mary came up to them while they were making their way toward the stage. She was holding Boo’s mink coat.
“Boo, I don’t think you should go back there unless you want to play referee to a kindergarten squabble. It looks to me like you have better things to do,” Mary said, eyeing Hughie’s physique. “If you’re smart you’ll duck out the side entrance and let me handle it—I already called you a cab.” Mary ushered them toward the glowing red exit sign, which marked the exclusive side entrance. Boo nodded her head knowingly.
“Mary, this is Hughie Hewitt. Hughie, this is Mary Stevens,” said Boo, hurrying out the side entrance. A lone Yellow Cab idled in the alley.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hewitt. Sorry, I have to rush; I’ve got some crazies backstage. Boo, I’ll meet you at Sardi’s in an hour,” said Mary. Before another word could be spoken, the thick stage door clanged shut. Soon they were snuggled in the cab’s warm back seat. They giggled as they set off on their brief ride to Sardi’s, the late night place to be for theater people.
“Good evening, Miss Sherwood,” said the pink-cheeked doorman. The shiny brass buttons on his overcoat gleamed brightly as he pulled open the heavy wooden door to the entrance of Sardi’s restaurant. Boo and Hughie stepped into the warmth, and the aroma of delectable cuisine greeted them.
“Thank you, George,” said Boo to the doorman.
“May I check your coats?” asked the hatcheck girl.
“Heavens, no,” said Boo quite seriously, “Checks are out of the question. I might consider a nice plaid though. What do you think Hughie?”
“Stripes, without question!” said Hughie. The hatcheck girl giggled. Boo and Hughie peeled off their overcoats.
“Thank you, Stella,” said Boo. They walked over to the Maitre d’.
“Hello, Miss Sherwood,” said the Maitre d’. He looked at the reservation book that was spread on a lacquered mahogany podium. “Your table is ready. If you will please follow me.” They followed him through a sea of impeccably appointed tables.
Even though Sardi’s caters to the after-theater crowd, it was a Wednesday and they were not busy. As the Maitre d’ ushered them toward Boo’s reserved booth, they passed several tuxedoed gentlemen dining with elegant ladies who dripped with expensive jewels. Some of Boo’s friends and acquaintances nodded and waved from behind silver candelabra and white linen. Boo sensed that Hughie felt uncomfortable so she didn’t stop to chat. She merely waved politely as they passed.
They arrived at a private, dimly lit booth toward the rear of the restaurant. Hughie waited for her to be seated then sat down himself. A middle-aged waiter with a black mustache approached them.
“May I get you something to drink while you decide?” he asked.
“I’d like a glass of Chardonnay,” said Boo, who rarely drank anything stronger than soda water. The faint sound of a romantic love song wafted over the murmur of people engaged in chatty dinner conversation.
“I’ll have a Dewar’s White Label on the rocks, please,” said Hughie. The waiter walked away.
“Nice restaurant. I take it you’ve never been here before?” said Hughie in an attempt to say anything rather than just stare at this heavenly creature. He was almost hypnotized by the soft glow of the candlelight that reflected off her fiery red hair.
“Yes, first time. How astute of you to pick up on that,” she replied with a coy smile. She thought to herself, “Gosh, this man is sooo good looking and so charming and I love the way he looks at me. I wonder why some girl hasn’t landed him already?”
The drinks arrived and they ordered.
“Excuse me, Miss Sherwood, a Miss Mary Stevens called and left a message saying that she wouldn’t be joining you,” interrupted the Maitre d’ upon arriving at their table.
Boo thanked the Maitre d’, then turned to Hughie and in her sexiest voice said, “I guess I have you all to myself.” She winked, and clinked her glass against his. “Here’s to,” she paused seductively, looked deeply into his eyes, and said, “the food getting here soon. I’m famished!”
They talked passionately about their love of music, art, literature, and the theater. They discovered that they shared another love: each other. They laughed, drank, and flirted until 2:30 in the morning. All the other customers had left. Only a few employees were left, hands in their pockets, indicating that they wanted to go home, too.
“Well, I guess it’s time to call it a night.”
“Ok, it’s a night!” Hughie said. His mouth muscles were sore from the grin he had worn all evening. They both laughed as he motioned for the waiter to come over. “Would you please call me a cab?” Boo asked.
Hughie and Boo looked at each other, smiled, and in unison said, “Ok, you’re a cab!” They both laughed. They were still chuckling when they got into the cab and headed for her apartment.
She snuggled up next to him in the back seat of the taxi to ward off the cold night air. The warmth of her body next to his intoxicated him, but he knew he must resist. The scent of her perfume filled him with passion.
The cab sloshed to a halt on the snow-covered street in front of Boo’s uptown apartment. Through the door of Boo’s building, they could see the doorman, fast asleep in an easy chair. Hughie went around and opened her door.
“I had a wonderful time,” he said. He walked her to the front door of her building.
“So did I. A very good time,” she replied, looking up at him with her sultry blue eyes.
Nervously, Hughie extended his hand to shake hers and said, “Well, good night.”
She clasped his hand and shook it saying, “Good night, Hughie.” She let go of his hand.
As he turned to leave she said, “Hughie.”
He turned around. Without warning, she kissed him quickly on the lips and ran inside her building saying, “Good night.”
“Good night,” he replied, but she was already gone.
Hughie climbed back into the cab. He felt confused and bewildered. He savored the taste of her lips. “What am I doing?” he thought. He needed a drink. He needed a friend who would listen.
“Rao’s Restaurant, please,” Hughie said to the cabbie.
Chapter Four
Snow fell gently on the sleeve of Hughie’s coat as he exited the cab. A beam of moonlight reflected off the snow, guiding him safely around the shadows of the building that housed both Rao’s restaurant and Vincent’s three-room apartment above. Hughie rambled toward the side door. He silently pushed the doorbell and stood there patiently. Except for the muffled sound of a cat rummaging through the garbage, the city was quiet and peaceful.
Over a screechy speaker came the raspy voice of his friend. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Hughie.”
“Just a minute and I’ll buzz you in,” said Vincent.
An electronic thud sounded and the door unlocked. Hughie brushed the snow from the shoulder of his overcoat and entered. Vincent held his door open at the top of the narrow staircase.
“Geez, Hughie, what are you doing here at this hour?” said Vincent. With a ham sandwich in one hand he let his friend into the flat.
Hughie looked at his watch. “Hmmm. 4 a.m. Well, you said come by any time.”
“And I meant it. Hell, you know me. I rarely go to sleep before five anyways.” With one hand, Vincent slung Hughie’s coat onto a brown recliner. Hughie sat down on the parchment-colored sofa and watched Vincent put the last morsel of his sandwich into his mouth. “You hungry? Can I get you something?”
“I could use a drink—a stiff one,” replied Hughie, his face suddenly serious. Vincent left the room.
“How do I begin to tell him?” thought Hughie.
In a moment Vincent returned with a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses full of ice. He placed the glasses on the lacquered coffee table and poured the drinks. He handed one to his friend. Hughie took a couple of quick gulps.
“You look terrible, Hughie. Something wrong?” asked Vincent.
“Wrong? If you call having your heart pulled out of your chest by its roots wrong, then yes, something is definitely wrong.” Hughie decided to be forthright and blurted out, “I am so deeply in love, I’m miserable. I love the most adorable, thoughtful, intelligent, humorous woman who has ever walked on the face of this planet. She is an angel, straight from heaven. I’ve lost my mind. I can’t think straight anymore. I am consumed by her.”
“You WHAT!?”
“I’ve fallen in love. I didn’t mean for it to happen—it just did. And I don’t know what to do,” said Hughie. With furled brow he stared down at the ice swirling in his drink.
The full weight of what Hughie said struck Vincent like a hockey puck slamming into a goal. He sprung to his feet. “Jesus Christ, Hughie. You can’t fall in love. You’re a goddamned priest for Chrissakes.”
“Too late. I already have.” Hughie poked a melancholy forefinger at the ice cubes.
“Who is it. Do I know her?”
“You introduced us. It’s Boo Sherwood,” replied Hughie. He slurped down the rest of his whiskey.
“Jesus Christ, Hughie, she’s just a kid for Chrissakes. You’re damn near old enough to be her goddamn father,” said Vincent, screwing the cap back on the whiskey bottle. Vincent continued intensely: “Son-of-a-bitch, didja screw her, is that what this is about? Didja screw that nice kid? Does she know you’re a goddamned priest?” Vincent refilled his glass.
“She doesn’t know. We haven’t had sex either. Not yet anyway. But I feel she wants to and, God help me, so do I,” Hughie said, fighting the tears that welled in his eyes. “I think about her constantly—being with her, holding her, touching her. I need to love her. I can’t stop; she is in my every thought. Even when I say the evening Mass, I think of her... Vincent, what should I do?”
Vincent raised his hand to his forehead and rubbed his brow. “Hughie, you have to decide what you want. Ever since we was kids you wanted to be a priest. Do you still wanna be a priest?”
“I love the church. It’s my life... all I have ever known. It’s what I do, what I want to do. How can I give that up?” Hughie squirmed in his seat. He grabbed his glass and downed the whisky.
“But the love I feel for this woman doesn’t feel wrong. How can love be wrong?” Vincent noticed Hughie’s glass was empty and refilled it.
“This celibacy thing always struck me as a stupid rule…” Vincent took a long drink from his own glass, “but you’re the guy who agreed to it, ain’t you?” Hughie nodded. “So are you willing to give up the priesthood or what?”
Hughie sat there dejected, unable to answer.
“Well, are you?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“The hell it ain’t! Are you going to give up being a priest?” said Vincent, raising his voice. He hovered over Hughie, waiting for a response.
Silence.
“Well, are you?” Vincent banged his empty glass down on the table.
“No, damn it. I’m not!”
“Okay then. Now we’re getting someplace.” Vincent took in a deep breath and said, “Think about it Hughie. If you ain’t willing to give up the priesthood, then what? Do you tell her? Or do you screw her on the side? Boo’s smart, she’ll find out anyways. What do you think it will do to her if she finds out she’s screwin' a goddamn priest? If you really love her you wouldn’t do that to her. You ain’t got no right. Your choice is simple: break it off with the church or the girl.”
Vincent moved around the room like a district attorney addressing a jury. “You said you ain’t giving up the priesthood, so what’s left? You’ve got to break it off before it goes any further, don’t you?”
“But she loves me. I can feel it…I don’t want to hurt her…”
“You’ll hurt her worse if you continue,” said Vincent, a stern look in his eye.
“Damn it! Why is God doing this to me? Damn it… Damn it…” Hughie refilled his glass and gulped it down. He leaned back and exhaled a deep breath. “Of course, you’re right… This relationship can go nowhere without hurting her. I love her… I don’t want to hurt her… I don’t know what I was thinking… It could never work out. I see that now... I’ll call her tomorrow and break it off,” moaned Hughie.
Vincent put his hand on Hughie’s shoulder. “You have to do what is best for both you and her. I’m sorry, but I think that breaking it off is the only thing you can do.”
“…You’re right, Vinney, and that’s what I’ll do.”
They sat and talked ‘til dawn. The irony of a priest asking a wiseguy for guidance had escaped them both. They were just two human spirits, one friend compassionately relieving the anguish and suffering of another. Hughie thanked his friend for turning a kind ear and left, resolved to break off the relationship.
The sizzling sound of fried fish permeated the kitchen as Mrs. Sullivan prepared a late afternoon meal for the priests. They generally ate around three p.m. to accommodate the confessions at noon.
“Will you be eating with us today, Father Hewitt?” asked Mrs. Sullivan. She scurried around the kitchen like a pigeon chasing breadcrumbs.
“I think not. Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan. I have some work to do in my office,” said Hughie.
“Sakes alive, Father Hewitt. If you don’t mind me saying so, you hardly eat enough to keep a sparrow alive. Are you sure you might not be better off to eat a little something? I’d be more than happy to bring a bit of lunch to your office.”
Knowing that he would get no peace from this woman until he succumbed to her wishes, he agreed. She brought him a nice plate of fried halibut, billowy mashed potatoes, and carrots and peas. He thanked her. After she left, he busily hunted for Boo’s phone number in the New York City Phone Directory. He found it right away. “How do I tell her?” he thought to himself. “Maybe I should eat first.”
Hughie managed to eat everything on his plate, not out of hunger so much as procrastination. A day had already passed since he had committed himself to making this phone call, but now he could stall no more. Boo, his precious Boo. How could he tell her he couldn’t see her anymore? He didn’t know how to approach the subject.
Hughie paced back and forth on his office rug like an Einstein in search of a new theory, carving a path into the deep pile carpet with each step. After an hour he thought to himself, “This is ridiculous. Just do it.” He stalked over to his desk drawer, pulled out a half-filled bottle of Dewar’s White Label, and had a drink. Soon he would have to make ready for the evening Mass. He had to call her now. He poured another, and fortified with courage, went to the phone and dialed.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice answered.
“Boo?”
“No, just a moment. I’ll get her. Who should I say is calling?” asked the voice.
“Hughie Hewitt,” he replied, trying to clear the lump from his throat.
“Mr. Hewitt, how are you? Remember me? Mary Stevens. We met the other night after the show,” Mary said, wrapping the phone cord around her finger.
“Oh, yes, Miss Stevens. How are you?” With sweaty palms, Hughie brought the glass of scotch to his lips and took another swallow.
“Just hunky dory. Give me a sec and I’ll get Boo.” She gently set the receiver down onto the end table and playfully called out, “Boo, it’s Mr. Hewitt. Shall I tell him to call back?”
“No! Tell him I’ll be right there!”
Boo ran from her dressing room where she had been preparing to go out. She found Mary in the living room, smiling like a proud cat that had just swallowed its first goldfish. Mary picked up the receiver and covered the mouthpiece.
Hughie could still hear Mary’s muffled words. “I told you your lover boy would call, didn’t I?”
Boo scowled at her and yanked the receiver from her hand. “Hello, Hughie?”
“Hello, Boo. Sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. I didn’t have your number. I didn’t think of the phone directory until today.”
“My fault entirely. I meant to give it to you at the restaurant, but I was having such a good time, it just slipped my mind that you didn’t already have it. Can you forgive me?” Boo said in a coy, sexy tone.
Hughie melted, thinking, “How can I do this over the phone? Only a real cad would do it this way. Maybe lunch. Yeah, lunch. What could happen at lunch?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Hughie said. “It was I who forgot to ask you. Anyway, I’m kind of busy right now but I, ah, was wondering if you would like to join me for lunch tomorrow?” said Hughie. He wiped the perspiration from his palm with the lunch napkin.
“I’d love to. Where did you have in mind?” asked Boo with a hint of excitement.
“Gee, I really hadn’t thought about where,” Hughie said, desperately trying to think of a neutral place.
“I know,” Boo said, the thrill in her voice building as she spoke. “A friend of mine just gave me two tickets to go on a yacht tour around Manhattan Island. We can have lunch on board; it’ll be great fun! Isn’t that a great idea, Hughie?”
“Sounds great,” he said not knowing how to say no. “Where shall we meet?”
“How about in front of my place. Say, noon. We can take a cab from here.”
“That’s perfect,” replied Hughie.
“And Hughie?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Yeah, what is it?” he asked, thinking that his surprise would surely outdo hers.
“You’ll find out tomorrow,” Boo said mysteriously.
“OK, then I’ll see you tomorrow. ‘Bye.”
“’Bye, Hughie,” said Boo. She hung up the phone and started twirling and dancing around, nearly toppling over a ceramic lamp. “He called, he called. Mary, he called!”
“Yes, I know he did. I’m the one who answered the phone, remember?” said Mary smiling at her friend’s behavior.
“I love him, I love him, I LOVE HIM! Mary, he is so bright and witty and we love the same things: art, music, everything—he’s perfect, I LOVE HIM!” Boo grabbed Mary and danced her around the room.
“You forgot to say he’s gorgeous.”
“Yes, he’s gorgeous and I LOVE HIM!”
“Now, why do I get the feeling you like this guy?” said Mary.
Out of breath, they stopped their dancing and Boo said, “Mary, I was so afraid he wouldn’t call.”
“I told you he wouldn’t think that your kiss was too forward! He’s a man. They love that stuff. He’s so good looking, I’m surprised you didn’t take him upstairs, if you know what I mean.”
“Mary!”
“Don’t tell me that thought never crossed your mind! After all, this is 1946. Women can be forward now.”
“I must admit the thought crossed my mind. I’ll bet he’s a great lover. Did you see the size of his hands?” said Boo, winking.
They talked like schoolgirls while Boo finished preparing for the theater. Her show would soon end and she wanted to attend every performance.
Chapter Five
A sharp blast from the horn proclaimed the ‘Evening Bliss’ ready to sail. Boo and Hughie scurried along the wood planking toward the yacht.
A brass bell clanged and a man wearing a white captain’s hat shouted, “All aboard!”
Hughie handed the Deck Officer their boarding tickets. Boo had given the tickets to Hughie in the cab and told the white lie that a friend had given them to her. She loved this man and didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable or reject the harbor cruise on the basis of her paying. In her mind that would have been a silly reason not to go as she could easily afford it. Perhaps her nose grew a little bit but she felt that it was worth it.
The gangplank swayed gently during their brief ascent to the deck above. The crisp afternoon air nibbled at their ears as they strolled over to the railing.
Another deep-throated whistle sounded, marking the time to cast off. As the boat drifted from the dock, Boo peered at the clear blue sky and said, “Isn’t it a gorgeous day?”
“Yes, utterly beautiful.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “and so are you.” He bit his tongue. This wouldn’t do at all, not with the news he was about to share.
“Why, thank you Hughie. You sure know how to make a girl feel special,” Boo replied. She gave his arm a little squeeze. “Shall we look around?”
“Absolutely,” said Hughie. Arm in arm they leisurely strolled over the promenade deck. They heard the hollow tapping of a beak on the hardwood decking and saw two cuddly seagulls fondly sharing a morsel of food before they flew off into the crisp ocean air.
“An unromantic lunch, hrumph. God, what are you doing to me?” thought Hughie, visibly moved by the evocative atmosphere. Hughie looked at the ticket stubs, which promised a four-hour dinner cruise. “How can I tell her now and then have her upset for the remainder of the voyage? That wouldn’t be fair to either of us,” pondered Hughie. He decided to be a gentleman and wait until they were about to dock. After all, there was no danger of sex in the middle of the Hudson River—or was there?
The Evening Bliss steamed down the river toward Coney Island and South Beach.
Boo tugged on Hughie’s arm. “Oh, look. There’s the Statue of Liberty!” she said.
“And Ellis Island. That was my dad’s first stop when he came over from Ireland,” said Hughie, pointing toward the small landmass.
“Where’s your father now? I’d love to meet him,” said Boo.
“Unfortunately, neither of my parents are alive; they died within a year of each other while I was in high school,” said Hughie, his pale ears turning pink. “They were wonderful folks though…” Boo silently expressed her sympathy by snuggling closer to him. Hughie continued. “Where are your parents?”