The Strangler by William Landay

Author:William Landay [Landay, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical, Thriller
ISBN: 9780593049365
Google: K4gmTqeFNwEC
Goodreads: 9644106
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2005-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

After dinner Michael sprawled on the couch, dazed in front of the television.

One by one the family drifted away. Kat helped with the dishes, then stamped a kiss onto Michael’s forehead before leaving. Little Joe waved dutifully, “Bye, Uncle Michael.” Ricky lay draped across the armchair, then abruptly he got up and went home, too. He chucked Michael once on the shoulder on the way past: “See ya, Mike.” Margaret went upstairs to read and fall asleep.

The sudden turn of the ebb tide left Michael beached on that couch, alone with Brendan Conroy, to their mutual discomfort. Michael would have taken off, but a stubborn sense of turf kept him there. This was still his home, Michael’s and his brothers’, though soon Brendan would displace them. He would roll that big pink body into Joe Senior’s bed, as he had already enthroned himself in the father’s seat at the dinner table and his armchair in the living room. But for now, as long as Michael remained on the couch, he could stave all that off. He could exercise a child’s life tenancy in his mother’s home, and there was nothing Conroy could say or do to dislodge him. Maybe he would even fuck with Conroy by staying long enough that Conroy would go home to his own bed instead of climbing the stairs to sleep next to Margaret.

If Conroy was troubled by any of this, he was not letting on. He watched the TV through a pair of black-framed reading glasses that rested on his mug awkwardly, like a costume. When he pried the shoes off his feet with much struggle and shoe-scraping, Michael said, “Make yourself at home, Brendan.”

At nine o’clock, Michael insisted on watching The Judy Garland Show instead of Bonanza.

“Bonanza is in color.”

“I know.” Michael would rather have watched Bonanza, too, but he could not help himself.

“You’re a pisser, there, boyo.”

Michael did not respond. He lay on his back, head propped on the armrest, one arm curled around his head. He knew how it must look to Conroy: a fruity pose, Byron come to Dorchester. Fuck ’m. Michael would lie there any way he damn well pleased. It was his couch. He’d lie there all night just for spite. The little fuck-yous are the sweetest.

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“Keep what up, Brendan?”

“Moping.”

“The word is mourning.”

“Mourning is it? How long will you be doing it?”

“Amy’s only dead a few weeks. You in a hurry?”

“Oh, come on. You’ve been at it longer than a few weeks, boyo.”

“Have I? Must have lost track of time. Been having too much fun, I guess.”

“You’re mourning your dad.”

“Well, he’d do the same for me.”

“Not this long, he wouldn’t. You know, there comes a time, Michael. You don’t mourn forever. Life is for the living.”

“Hm. I thought it was for the dentist’s office. Now, Time, that’s for the living. But Dad does not get Time anymore. Or Life. He got thrown out of the Time-Life Building, the poor bastard.”

“I’m trying to talk to you here, seriously, man to man, and you’re making jokes.

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