False Mermaid

The ugly fear that had gripped her at the river reared its head again. All these years spent resisting that insidious worm of doubt, insisting that everything Peter had said about Tríona was a lie. Stop it, said the voice in her head. It’s exactly what he wants you to believe. Don’t believe it. A single newspaper clipping meant nothing on its own. They still had no real proof that Tríona had been at Natalie Russo’s grave. Even if she had been there, Peter could have tricked her into going to the river, or forced her somehow—Isn’t it shocking, what you’ll do when you love someone?

Stepping from the library entrance a few minutes later, Nora saw a parking enforcement vehicle pull away from her car. She quickly crossed the street, but it was too late. She slipped the ticket from beneath the wiper, feeling a twist of bitter irony. With each passing minute of this strange day, she found herself becoming more and more convinced that there was no such thing as coincidence.

A knock sounded on the glass beside her head, and she turned with a start to find the homeless man she’d seen leaving the library. Harry Shaughnessy—she was certain of it now. As he motioned for her to roll down the window, his raincoat gapped open, revealing a stained gray sweatshirt. How anyone could wear such heavy clothes in this heat—

“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “You dropped this.” He handed over Tríona’s headshot. How on earth had it escaped from her bag?

As she glanced up, the white block letters on Harry’s sweatshirt—the few she could see—spelled out the word “LIAR.” The front of the shirt was also smeared with a rusty brown stain. Shaughnessy began to back away, raising one arm in a kind of salute, showing a few more letters, and Nora felt a surge of adrenaline. She opened the car door. “Mr. Shaughnessy—it is Mr. Shaughnessy, isn’t it? I wonder if you’d let me buy you lunch?”

He began to sidle away from her, uneasy at being recognized. “I was just on my way over to Dorothy Day—”

“Please—I’d like to thank you somehow for returning the picture. We could sit right here in the park.” She gestured to the hot-dog cart at Fifth and Market. Harry Shaughnessy scratched his head, and his eyes flickered to the corner, weighing the offer of immediate food against waiting in line for lunch at the shelter. “Well—I guess that would be all right.”

Nora climbed out of her car, trying not to make any sudden moves, and walked alongside Harry Shaughnessy to the opposite corner of the park. She ordered two hot dogs, studying Shaughnessy’s face as he watched the vendor at work. Impossible to tell how old he was—living rough made many men old before their time. But something in his manner, the upright, dignified way he held himself, reminded her of a certain generation of men born in the throes of the Great Depression.

After paying for their lunch, Nora found an unoccupied bench near the central fountain. How on earth was she going to broach the delicate subject of the stained sweatshirt? There was a very real danger that the man would bolt if she opened her mouth. She cast a few sideways glances, watching Shaughnessy—he ate slowly, almost daintily, savoring each bite, as though this were the most delectable meal he’d consumed in months. Perhaps it was. His nails were black with grime, and a few gray inches of waffled underwear peeped out between trouser leg and sock. His high-top sneakers were nearly worn through. But these were small details. The most notable thing about Harry Shaughnessy was that his body was in constant motion, his eyes on high alert. Like a wild animal, Nora thought. Maybe that was how he had survived so long on the street.

Just beyond him, at the edge of her field of vision, a group of preschool children were crossing the park, hands holding loops tied into a long cord. Their teacher led the little flock, pulling them along behind her like ducklings. Harry gazed at the children, holding out one hand as if to pet them, though he was twenty yards away.

“Yeah, she was a real nice lady,” he said, continuing some unfinished conversation. “That gal in the picture. Used to see her at the library. It’s a few years back now. Always asked how I was getting on. Sometimes she had the little one with her—such pretty red hair, just like her mama. Most people, they don’t see you, but she was different. Even bought me a cup of coffee a few times.” His eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he remembered. “Never wanted to kill anyone. Not like some—” The grimy nails dug into his palms. “That’s just was the way it was. The fellas on the other side, they were all as green and scared as we were. You could see it in their eyes—”

“Mr. Shaughnessy?” Nora said. He looked up at her, barely a sliver of recognition in his rheumy eyes. “I hope you don’t mind my asking—where did you get that sweatshirt?”

He looked confused. “What?”