Fiction 3, Epilog
"Baby Rose and the Shaydjook" Copyright © 1998
Epilogue
A main difference betwixt men is, whether they attend
their own affair or not. Man is that noble endogenous
plant which grows, like the palm, from within outward.
UNION SQUARE - NEW YORK, N.Y.
The insistent band in the central dining room scattered strains of elevator music through every corner of Luchow's Restaurant on a certain summer evening in 1961. Captain Henry Locknane finished his cherry cheesecake, then settled back and gazed benevolently on his extended family.
The word had been out for weeks that the gathering would be held so that further members of the clan might attend in honor of the shaydjook whom they had adopted, the man who had captured the contrary heart of Rosemary Quirk, once called Rozheen. He had always been there when they had needed him and, in return, had welcomed him and his family into their fold when he too went a-traveling on occasion.
Over the years, he'd even learned to understand much of their Cant, perhaps the only policeman in the world to do so. But in all that time __whatever the language__ there had been no word of Michael Quirk since the Second World War, and only a few unsigned post cards to his mother before that.
The group sat toward the back of the restaurant on both sides of several end-to-end oblong tables that were covered as one unit with white tablecloths.
This was officially a celebration of his and Rosemary's silver wedding anniversary.
It had been a busy time, the last twenty-five years. He had studied long and hard to earn his career advancement. There was some talk that he might be made a Deputy Inspector soon. Privately, Henry thought not; he was too easygoing with his men for his own good. Popularity with rank-and-file was the kiss of death at Centre Street.
No, Captain Henry Locknane had gone as far in the department as he could on merit, he knew; the rest was politics. With only one semester of night school to finish, though, he would soon earn his degree in Police Science. He knew and didn't care that he still had remnants of his original diploma in Speech from Hell's Kitchen. There was always a considerable demand for him as a speaker, nevertheless, to address a broad spectrum of local community groups.
In some ways the Locknanes had been a catalyst, exposed many younger members of their clan to a more productive and stable way of life. Many of the current generation were making a furious effort and enormous sacrifices to educate themselves any way they could. Some were better educated already in their twenties than he was in his fifties.
Nothing could stop them now.
It had been Henry Locknane's own picture identified as a paradigm of community relations __reprinted from LIFE MAGAZINE__ that had appeared in one of the textbooks for the course he had taken in sociology.
At a Captain's Benevolent Association dinner the previous week, Sammy Davis Jr. had been an honored guest and had spoken very eloquently about the unknown patrolman who had set him on the correct path in his youth. Henry had been on the dais along with the entertainer, and introduced to him, but had chosen not to reveal their association so many years before, preferring to remain a noble symbol in the other man's mind.
Still modest and polite__to a fault.
In the course of those long years an older generation had sadly passed away, but now he had two strapping sons of his own; one of whom had just graduated grammar school, and the other had recently returned from active military duty.
His beautiful wife, Rosemary, was still his great love, his support, his greatest social asset and __it must be admitted__ a constant challenge that kept him on the emotional hop all of these years. Rosemary had even become a reasonably good cook; although a few recipes on occasion seemed to have been gleaned from the I LOVE LUCY Sampler. Henry's full stomach lurched slightly in protest against ancient memories.
He gulped the last of his white wine to change the subject, just as the women passed their subliminal signal and rose to leave as one. The cool smoothness of the chablis soothed both throat and mind, not to mention his stomach, so he stayed seated for an extra moment.
The thought occurred to him now that the rest of his life __with any luck__ would run a lot more smoothly than the last quarter-century of generally happy turmoil.
A wave of satisfaction with life __his life, in particular__ swept over him like a warm tide_____ perhaps it was the wine.
Poor, foolish man. There would be more; much, much more such turmoil for almost thirty additional years. A life sentence.
Starting in again, then.
Rosemary walked around the others to take her place at the head of the exit procession. And as she did so, a black face seemed to telescope toward Henry Locknane from the far wall. It was __inevitably__ Sammy Davis Jr., dining with his wife, actress May Britt. He didn't notice Henry.
At first.
The problem started with Rosemary's sister Mary, who had leaned on the edge of a table on rising from her chair. The table leg had not been properly locked in place and it started to tilt toward her. Another sister, Betty, had inadvertently tucked the corner of one tablecloth into her belt, along with a napkin, and so her own more graceful exit precipitated the disaster.
The shattering sound of broken glass slashed through the civilized surroundings and even called a sudden halt to the live music. Bowls, dishes and glasses flew everywhere_____rolled and slid and were smashed apart when they could no longer fly.
Dozens of glib New Yorkers dining nearby all stubbed their tongues at the same time. The abashed band, however, quickly recovered and started up again with a loud, upbeat march number from THE KING AND I, a perfect melody for a musical coverup.
Henry could only sit motionless, holding his empty wine glass, although the table before him was now at his feet. He still looked rather composed; in truth, he was shocked, suspended in awful time. One of Sammy's eyes __the right one__ had become absurdly large and was staring at him_____in sudden recognition, he was sure.
But his wife Rosemary, stately as a Queen, merely asked her following, "Are we all ready to go?" and then turned his world all the way around. "Staish?" she asked. __Yes?__ "Then soony'em in the soolies," she continued, "and let's jawl this gammy norch lushin!"
His Rosemary winked at him. His Rosemary? The social climber?
Neither expecting nor hearing any demurral, The Traveller Queen fixed a very near-sighted smile on her beautiful face, then led her courtiers out __single file__ to the stirring beat of "The March of the Siamese Princes."
To Henry, still amazed at hearing the Cant tumble from his wife's lips in public, they were throwbacks all __for the moment, at least__ a group of haughty nomadic nobles rejecting an inferior caravanserai. Soony'em in the soolies indeed: Look them straight in the eyes; stare them down. And the remainder: Let's beat it out of this greasy spoon!
Words to live by, perhaps.
He began to breathe again, on becoming aware that he had stopped at some point. My God! What a walk. Finally he too stood up and carefully placed the wine glass on the collapsed table, amidst crystal shards and other debris.
There was a growing grin on his face and a sudden urge to laugh out load and take a bow. It was almost irresistible, but he contented himself with an unhurried and dignified exit from the immediate area.
Then Henry Locknane hastened a bit to catch up with his Rozheen, his Rosemary, saving his laughter to share it __and much, much more with her.
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