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From the novel Westlake Village by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Wives of Pat Hogan
It's hard to say what got the O'Reilly sisters started on the booze. Whatever it was, it began a long time ago, and by the time I got around to writing this story they were polishing off three bottles of wine a night.
They lived together
in a two bedroom bungalow without any men around, and
there are men who might say that was cause for the boozing. Such men would
probably not consider the fact that they were identical twins, and I think that
was a greater reason for the heavy drinking. Imagine, being condemned to looking
at yourself as you are day after day. People have been driven to drink for less
than that.
Tessie O'Reilly was a widow and her sister Kate was a spinster. They lived in each other's company from the day they were born, and except for the brief period of Tessie's honeymoon in Boston they had never been apart.
Very few people took the time to console Tessie when her husband Patrick met his untimely end. There were few at the wake and even fewer who dropped in to extend their sympathies after the funeral. The fault was ours, we should have been more considerate, but the facts surrounding Patrick's demise were impossible to take seriously. In short, he fell asleep on the beach and was drowned by the incoming tide. Tessie and Kate had gone back to the truck to get another six-pack, and in that short space of time poor Patrick washed out to sea. When they returned with the beer, they found Patrick and the blanket missing. They assumed he had awakened and finding himself alone, was wandering about the beach trying to find them.
"He ain't
the brightest, Kate. Could be he's lost. You go this way and I'll go that --
holler if you see him."
They did that. Kate went one way and Tessie went the other. It was Tessie herself
who heard a little girl shout to her father who was in the process of trying
to open a rented umbrella.
"Look, Daddy -- there's a man rolling in the water."
"Jesus Christ." Her daddy said as he pulled her away. "Get up
here on the blanket and don't look, okay? Oh my God -- where the hell's y'mother?"
"She's up in the John, Daddy."
Tessie and the little girl's father pulled Patrick out of the breakers at about
the time the life guards arrived on the scene.
"Stand back! -- stand back!! Give him air!! We'll handle this." Reassuring
words indeed -- words punctuated with much whistle blowing. The gathering crowd
stood back as directed and the lifeguards unsuccessfully attempted to revive
Patrick. Nothing worked. There was no Med-e-vac in those days and the only doctor
on the beach was an elderly lady dermatologist who would not get out out from
under her umbrella.
Patrick's name was Hogan, Pat Hogan. It's a fine Irish name to be sure, but Tessie didn't have it long enough to make it stick. Before a month had passed, it was back to Tessie and Kate O'Reilly again. Before a month had passed, Pat's clothes were off to St. Vincent De Paul and his Toyota pick-up had been sold to Greg's Auto Repair. So far as the neighbors could tell, Tessie's loss did not appear to be overwhelming to her or her sister. Pat had simply floated into their lives one day -- and floated out the next.
They say the booze, in one way or another, harvests all Irishmen -- and many Irish women as well I expect. But the booze is not a scythe, it doesn't mow its victims down. It creates situations the boozer cannot cope with, such as drowning, and, (in the case of Tessie and Kate) perhaps grieving as well. If it doesn't get them that way, it will go underground and attack the liquor lover's liver or the well-being of his family. I have Irish blood in me, and I'm fond of spirits myself, so I do not endorse this philosophy wholeheartedly. Yet I must confess there is a grain of truth in it.
The passage of time is a great healer. Tessie and Kate were alone and together, just as they had been since birth, and the simple people of Westlake Village quickly forgot there was once a Patrick Hogan. Tessie worked as a teller in a branch bank within walking distance of their modest bungalow and Kate worked for the local Water District. They lived in back of me, and from my patio vantage point in the summer, I often had the uneasy sensation that they were really one and the same person -- sharing two bodies. They were just one more odd couple in the village.
They grew to resemble
each other more than they did as children. They wore each other's clothes. It
was obvious that neither woman would buy anything the other wouldn't wear. I
often saw a hat on one or the other of them for instance -- a brown straw hat
with fruit on it -- cherries, perhaps -- and a yellow velvet affair with a
floppy brim. A dress, in a peculiar shade of green. A watery, whitish green
that I've seen on old Chevrolet "Impalas." There was a brown dress
with a wide orange sash. In the winter there was a brown overcoat with a fur
collar, and a black one which looked like a wet cat. There were occasional black
overshoes and I remember seeing a lavender umbrella with a broken rib.
Common sense would dictate that when Kate was in the Water District Office and Tessie at the bank, they were both dressed differently, but I suspect their clothes were interchangeable and chosen blindly before they started off to work in the morning.
Whenever I encountered
one of them climbing over my fence on her way to the
liquor store, I was never sure whether it was Tessie or Kate .... yes, they
did that. My house was on a direct line between theirs and the liquor store.
To be fair, I should explain that at the time I had a split rail fence which
was easy to climb, and "the girls," as we called them, preferred to
vary their route to avoid the prying eyes of their neighbors. They continued
the charade by depositing half of their empties in my trash.
I generate very little trash. Widowers really have nothing to throw away, so I had no objection to sharing my garbage can with the O'Reilly girls. It has often been said that a person's trash reveals what they're made of. Tessie and Kate's tastes tended toward Mountain Lake Red, Taylor's Sweet Vermouth and a variety of frozen fish and beef dinners. Mine displayed empty prune juice bottles, banana skins and an occasional "dead Scotchman." Seeing it all together, a passerby would naturally assume a well adjusted all-American family with a taste for the grape lived inside.
The citizens of the Village paid them very little heed, and in spite of our common trash can I paid them very little attention. From time to time I would see them in church going through the ritual of the Mass with angular grace, and usually a quarter beat ahead of Father Stanley. I would see them at the supermarket, usually at the frozen food chest. Once I saw Tessie, (or it might have been Kate) alone at Blockbuster's rummaging through the adult film section. I thought they had themselves under control -- I really did -- so I was utterly unprepared for what happened next.
School had just
closed for the summer, and my daughter and her husband had
driven off on a rainy Thursday morning for a week's vacation in the Adirondacks.
They left their dog, Samuel, in my care. Samuel was a large dog, a setter I
think, and we were not fond of each other. Contrary to all accepted patterns
of canine behavior he would growl at me in my own house. He paid for this by
spending his first four days tied to an apple tree in my back yard. In a vain
attempt to bond with him, and when there was nothing better to do, I would go
out and sit with him in the shade. From this vantage point I could see the O'Reilly
bungalow.
Neither Tessie nor Kate had climbed my fence on their way to Angelo's "Wines and Liquors" in four days, and as a fellow imbiber, (though of lesser caliber) it seemed to me they were long overdue.
I checked my trash can and noticed they had not been eating or drinking either. Had they found another can more attractive than mine? I doubted it. Gourmands and boozers do not change their habits unless it's absolutely necessary. Perhaps they were reluctant to climb the fence while Samuel stood guard, but I doubted that too. It would take more than an Irish Setter of his cowardly nature to keep them away from Angelos'. Add to this, the strange behavior of Samuel himself, who seemed edgy, and in spite of our mutual antipathy, tried to get in my lap when I sat with him. He is a sizable animal and not usually given to displays of affection. All the while he would stare at the O'Reilly bungalow with his tongue slavering, then he would look back at me and whimper.
He wasn't much help, but his mood set me thinking and I decided to put the useless animal back in the house and check on the O'Reilly's. In spite of my age I approached the house by the same route they took to get to Angelos'. I didn't like the looks of the house at all. One living room window was open an inch or two from the bottom, and it seemed highly unlikely that it would have been left open if they were away. Why were all the blinds down to the sill? I had more questions than I had answers, in fact I had no answers at all.
I walked around
to the front of the house and saw four morning newspapers on the front porch.
The windows there were closed so I tried the doorbell. I could hear it ring
inside. But there was an awful eerie, echoing silence. The only noise was the
high pitched whine of Syd Livingston's hedge clipper across the street. I walked
over to him and shouted, "Syd -- SYD! ...." He switched it off and
looked at me dully through his protective goggles. "You seen anything of
the O'Reilly girls?"
He looked up at the afternoon sky and thought a bit. "Can't say I have.
Leastways not in the last few days. Guess they're away."
"Back window's open."
"Mebbe they forgot."
He didn't share my concern apparently. Maybe I was only imagining things ....
fidgety. I went back home the way I came. Samuel growled at me from his bed
under the stairs.
"What do you think, Samuel? Think I should forget it?" No answer from
Samuel,
he just looked at me spinelessly. Then, with utter disdain he began licking
his private parts.
It was getting on to four o'clock in the afternoon. I mixed myself a scotch and water and looked out my bedroom window at the O'Reilly bungalow. When you're in this state of mind, it doesn't help to discuss the pros and cons with man or beast. I sat down in the chair next to the bed and dialed 911. The young lady was sympathetic but decided the situation was not critical. It didn't require emergency response. In short -- "We'll send a man around."
Patrolman Leahy arrived around nine in the evening. Samuel and I, thinking he would never get there, were getting ready for bed, Samuel is afraid of the dark and will not go to bed under the stairs. In spite of our incompatibility he prefers to sleep with me. The sight of Patrolman Leahy, with his bright buttons, leather boots and truncheon reduced him to a shivering vegetable.
We went through
a lengthy itemization of questions and answers before Leahy
decided to act. The over-the-fence route to the liquor store. The garbage cans
-- Samuel's behavior -- the newspapers on the porch -- even the bizarre tragedy
of Pat's demise. Leahy took notes -- he was a slow writer.
"I gotta go check this out," Leahy said. This meant he had to go back and sit in his patrol car for twenty minutes talking to headquarters on his radio. Then, without a word, he drove off and came back a half an hour later with someone sitting next to him in plain clothes. Another patrol car eased up behind him.
"Hadda getta
cawdawda." Leahy said. "We're drivin' around to da frontada house.
We'd like yuh duh come widdus -- y'know them, right?"
"I'll meet you over there, soon's I get my coat -- s'cuse me, but what's
a cawdawda?"
"Oh, -- we just can't bust into somebody's house widdout havin the authority
of the court. Hadda get a judge outta bed and sign a cawdawda."
Marveling at their efficiency, I got my coat and took the short cut by way of
the back fence and arrived at the front of the house about the time they did.
After the slow process of ringing, then knocking loudly, one of them used a tool I'd never seen before. It simply removed the lock with its dead bolt from the front door leaving a hole where it had been. The door was opened and that's when I got a whiff of what had been bothering Samuel all afternoon.
Leahy was the last to enter, he turned to me before going in and said, "You'd better wait out here." He screwed up his face. "You don't wanna see what's in there."
In a minute or so the porch light came on and one of the officers came out carrying his jacket and wearing rubber gloves. "Won't be a minute, old-timer -- have to call for the coroner. You tired of standin'? Why dont'cha sit in the squad car?" I didn't relish the idea of sitting in a police vehicle, and I really didn't want to get any more involved than I was.
"I'd rather sit out here on the porch steps if it's all the same to you -- matter of fact, would it be okay for me to go home?"
"Tell y'what, old timer .... my name's Sergeant Laskewitz, by the way -- soon's I make the call I'll get Leahy out here. He's got some questions."
I sat down on the porch steps, weak in the knees. It seemed to be all right with Laskewitz. Damned O'Reilly sisters! I thought -- it's inconsiderate enough to die, but to keep people up all night -- get a judge out of bed to sign a 'cawdawda' -- what about Samson? He must be a nervous wreck by now. Then I looked at it from the other side of the fence. Poor O'Reilly sisters, how did they ever get themselves in such a fix -- well, maybe it was an accident. No it wasn't -- something told me it was no accident. I sat there, knees drawn up to my chin, waiting for Leahy -- almost as though I was the guilty one. Finally Laskewitz got out of the patrol car and started inside. He stopped when he saw me.
"Still there Pop? I'll send Leahy out. No sense in keepin' you up all night." He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a shake. "Funny thing about death. All of a sudden you're important, y'know? Y'can live a lifetime and nobody gives a shit -- until you're dead. Then you're a star."
Somehow a philosophical Police Sergeant only made things worse. I could see lights in the houses across the street, people were up staring out at the O'Reilly house -- trying to share some of the reflected glory. I wondered if they could see me huddled on the front steps -- "He did it! I'm sure he did it -- I always thought there was something strange about him. Old man, livin' alone like that -- y'never know what's goin' on in an old man's mind."
Leahy came out just as the deputy coroner pulled up in the County Coroner's van. Leahy sat down next to me -- "How'ya holdin' up, Mr. Buschman, okay?" Before I could answer, he got to his feet again to say a few words to the coroner. All I could catch was " .... we don't know who did it or who's who .... see." The coroner shook his head and looked at me.
"Who's he," he asked?
"He's nothin' -- neighbor, that's all." The coroner and two assistants walked inside and Leahy came back to me. "These two, they were identical, right?"
"That's right Officer, you couldn't tell one from the other."
"They have kin?"
"I've never seen any."
"You know this guy?" He showed me a color print of Pat Hogan in a silver frame.
"Yes, it's Tessie's husband. His name was Pat Hogan -- I told you about him, he accidentally drowned down at the beach."
"There must be fifty pictures of him inside." He took the picture from me. "Pictures in both bedrooms -- on the living room walls -- even one in the bathroom." He looked at the picture in the light of the porch lantern. "He must'a been somethin'. Right now I'd say it's a murder suicide."
I stood up and stretched. "I gotta get home Officer Leahy. I'm done in." He walked down to the sidewalk with me. "How can it be murder," I asked him, "when you don't know which one is the murderer?"
"The one holdin' the gun -- she's the murderer. I figure she's also the wife, the one you call Tessie."
"Goodnight Officer. I'm glad you've got it all figured out." I stumbled off in the dark and I could feel Officer Leahy's eyes on my back as I headed home. "Officer Leahy," I thought -- "Have you ever heard of a triple suicide?" In my mind I could see the threesome. Pat, and Tessie and Kate. Who am I to judge? I was going home to sleep with an animal.
©Harry Buschman 1999-2001
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