Terminal

Like Sean, Brian had always been an athlete, although not as successful. He’d been a studious child and usually at home. He’d gone to the University of Massachusetts, then on to law school at B.U. Everybody had always liked Brian. Everyone had always known that he would be successful and that he would surely escape the Irish curse of alcohol, guilt, depression, and tragedy. Sean, on the other hand, had always been the wild one, preferring the company of the neighborhood ne’er-do-wells and frequently in trouble with the authorities involving brawls, minor burglary, and stolen-car joy rides. If it hadn’t been for Sean’s extraordinary intelligence and his facility with a hockey stick, he might have ended up in Bridgewater Prison instead of Harvard. Within the ghettos of the city the dividing line between success and failure was a narrow band of chance that the kids teetered on all through their turbulent adolescent years.

There was little conversation during the final dinner preparations. But once they sat down, Brian cleared his throat after taking a sip of his milk. They’d always drunk milk with dinner throughout their boyhoods.

“Mother is upset about this Miami idea,” Brian said.

Anne looked down at her plate. She’d always been self-effacing, especially when Brian Sr. was alive. He’d had a terrible temper made worse by alcohol, and alcohol had been a daily indulgence. Every afternoon after unplugging drains, fixing aged boilers, and installing toilets, Brian Sr. would stop at the Blue Tower bar beneath the Tobin Bridge. Nearly every night he’d come home drunk, sour, and vicious. Anne was the usual target, although Sean had come in for his share of blows when he tried to protect her. By morning Brian Sr. would be sober, and consumed by guilt; he’d swear he would change. But he never did. Even when he’d lost seventy-five pounds and was dying from liver cancer, his behavior was the same.

“I’m going down there to do research,” Sean said. “It’s no big deal.”

“There’s drugs in Miami,” Anne said. She didn’t look up.

Sean rolled his eyes. He reached over and grasped his mother’s arm. “Mom, my problem with drugs was in high school. I’m in medical school now.”

“What about that incident your first year of college?” Brian added.

“That was only a little coke at a party,” Sean said. “It was just unlucky the police decided to raid the place.”

“The lucky thing was my getting your juvenile record sealed. Otherwise you would have been in a hell of a fix.”

“Miami is a violent city,” Anne said. “I read about it in the newspapers all the time.”

“Jesus Christ!” Sean exclaimed.

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Anne said.

“Mom, you’ve been watching too much television. Miami is like any city, with both good and bad elements. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll be doing research. I won’t have time to get into trouble even if I wanted to.”

“You’ll meet the wrong kind of people,” Anne said.

“Mom, I’m an adult,” Sean said in frustration.

“You are still hanging out with the wrong people here in Charlestown,” Brian said. “Mom’s fears are not unreasonable. The whole neighborhood knows Jimmy O’Connor and Brady Flanagan are still breaking and entering.”

“And sending the money to the IRA,” Sean said.

“They are not political activists,” Brian said. “They are hoodlums. And you choose to remain friends.”

“I have a few beers with them on Friday nights,” Sean said.

“Precisely,” Brian said. “Like our father, the pub is your home away from home. And apart from Mom’s concerns, this isn’t a good time for you to be away. The Franklin Bank will be coming up with the rest of the financing for Oncogen. I’ve got the papers almost ready. Things could move quickly.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, there are fax machines and overnight delivery,” Sean said, scraping his chair back from the table. He stood up and carried his plate over to the sink. “I’m going to Miami no matter what anybody says. I believe the Forbes Cancer Center has hit on something extraordinarily important. And now if you two co-conspirators will allow me, I’m going out to drink with my delinquent friends.”

Feeling irritable, Sean struggled into the old pea coat that his father had gotten back when the Charlestown Navy Yard was still functioning. Pulling a wool watch cap over his ears, he ran downstairs to the street and set out into the freezing rain. The wind had shifted to the east and he could smell the salt sea air. As he neared Old Scully’s Bar on Bunker Hill Street, the warm incandescent glow from the misted windows emanated a familiar sense of comfort and security.

Pushing open the door he allowed himself to be enveloped by the dimly lit, noisy environment. It was not a classy place. The pine wood paneling was almost black with cigarette smoke. The furniture was scraped and scarred. The only bright spot was the brass footrail kept polished by innumerable shoes rubbing across its surface. In the far corner a TV was bolted to the ceiling and tuned to a Bruins hockey game.