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The Wives of Pat Hogan
by
Harry Buschman
From The Westlake Village Collection.
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 some men I know who would say that was cause for the boozing. Such men
would probably not consider the fact that the girls were identical twins, and
I think that was a greater reason for the heavy drinking -- 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. That 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 went 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 both 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 that way and I'll
go this way -- 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 -- 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 to her. 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 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
fails to get them in such ways, it will go underground and attack the liquor
lover's liver or the financial security 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.
In most cases, the passage of time is a great healer. Tessie and Kate were
alone and together again, 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 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 Chevrolets. 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, (climbed over my fence I mean). 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 en
route.
I generate very little trash. Widowers really have nothing to throw away, so
I had no objection to sharing my trash can with the O'Reilly girls. It has
often been said that a person's trash reveals what they're made of and how they
got the way they are. 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 people 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 is a large dog, a setter I
think, and we were, and still are, 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 around 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 also 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. To appease me, she said -- "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. I stood at the window wondering what I
should do next. He was 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 dem, 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 latex 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 in front of
a house with two dead women inside, 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 a few 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 which one's what
.... see." The coroner shook his head and looked at me.
"Who's he," he asked?
"He's nothin' -- a 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 photograph 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
into 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. Wow! What a
scene! But who am I to judge? I was going home to sleep with an animal.
©Harry Buschman 1999-2001
(3080)
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