Free Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe Page A

room,
slamming back the door on its hinges. He held up two potatoes and crowed, “Look what I found!” He winked at Tom, who winked back with a grin, recognizing the youngest boy from the front stoop. “Can we mash them tonight with butter, Grandma? I love them with butter.”
    â€œWe’ll see, Mikey. Thank you. There’s a good lad. What a fine big boy ye are. Come here for a bit an’ give yer old grandma a hug. Haven’t had a hug since yesterday, an’ Grandmas need hugs, ye know, to keep us young.” Mike walked over to her a bit slow it seemed. With too much hugging a boy could lose his dignity. Patricia held him tight for a very long time. He didn’t seem to mind.
    Turning to Tom, he asked, “Did you find me da? When’s he coming home, sir?”
    Tom had started to speak, but looking over Mike’s head he saw Mrs. Bucklin shaking her head, so he said, “That’s what I’m here to talk to your grandma and grandpa about, Mike.” He searched for something else to say to him without telling him more. He finally said, “I’m here to help, son. My name’s Tom. I’m a detective.”
    â€œDo you have a gun?” Mike asked, brightening.
    â€œWell … yes, Mike, I do,” Tom answered, a little surprised.
    â€œCould I see it?” Tom looked over at Mrs. Bucklin, who nodded. He pulled back his jacket to show Mike the Colt .38 in its holster hung on his shoulder.
    â€œWow, I don’t suppose I could hold it, could I?” Mike asked, the longing clear in his voice.
    Tom let his jacket slide back. “Sorry, Mike, maybe when you get older.”
    â€œI’m big for my age, everyone says so,” Mike said, clearly fighting a losing battle.
    â€œBig isn’t what’s up here,” Tom said, tapping his chest. “It’s what’s in here.” A finger tapped his temple. “You get my meaning?”
    â€œI think so, sir. It’s like when Tommy Gallagher stuck some hard candies in the back o’ his pants down at Lasher’s store, and Danny the cop standin’ right behind him. Tommy’s a year older than me, ye understand.” They all laughed, even Eamon, whose laugh sounded like drowning.
    â€œThat’s right, Mikey. Always use your head, and you’ll go far, lad.”
    â€œI will, sir,” Mike said over his shoulder as he went out the door, slamming it hard behind him. From down the hall they heard him call “I’m out with Mouse and Smokes, Grandma, I won’t go far.”
    â€œAll right, then, Mike. Be home for supper, lad.”
    â€œThank you for not tellin’ him, Detective, I mean Tom. He’s had it hard with his mom and sis gone not a year yet.” Her eyes welled up and Eamon held his head like it might come off in his hands. Tom couldn’t remember when he had heard of so much trouble and sorrow in one family. It was like
something out of a penny awful. His mother had been addicted to those things; the house had been cluttered with them. The heroes had scores of calamities to overcome, which they always did in the next installment. But it didn’t look as if there was a next installment for the Bucklins.
    They had been quiet for some time, when Patricia said, “The typhoid took them, you know.” They had moved to the tenement not yet two years ago, and hadn’t been there for more than eight months before the sickness started galloping through the building, the neighborhood too. It carried off Julia and Mary Elizabeth within a day of each other, and they were buried together in a cemetery in Brooklyn. “A big part of my Terry was buried there in Brooklyn.” Patricia took a long shivering breath, then sighed. It seemed to well up right from her feet. “There’s some comfort in knowin’ that they’ll be together there. There’s that … at least.”
    â€œMa’am, I want to find the person