Inside the O'Briens Read Free Page A

change in Joe’s front pocket playing together like a song.
    As expected, he finds eighty-three-year-old Michael Murphy sitting on the far bench in the shade. He’s got his cane and his brown bag of stale bread for the birds. He sits there all day, every day, except for when the weather is particularly lousy, and watches over things. He’s seen it all.
    â€œHow are ya today, Mayor?” asks Joe.
    Everyone calls Murphy Mayor.
    â€œBetter than most women deserve,” says Murphy.
    â€œSo true,” chuckles Joe, even though this is Mayor’s verbatim reply to this same question about every third time Joe asks.
    â€œHow’s the First Lady?” asks Murphy.
    Murphy calls Joe Mr. President. The nickname began ages ago as Mr. Kennedy, a reference to Joe and Rose, and then at some point it morphed, skipping from father to son, defying actual US political history, and Mr. Joseph Kennedy became Mr. President. And that, of course, makes Rosie the First Lady.
    â€œGood. She’s at church praying for me.”
    â€œGonna be there a long time, then.”
    â€œYup. Have a good one, Mayor.”
    Joe continues along the path, taking in the distant view from this hill of the industrial silos and the Everett shipyard on the other side of the Mystic River. Most people would say the view is nothing special and might even think it’s an eyesore. He’ll probably never find a painter parked on this spot with an easel, but Joe sees a kind of urban beauty here.
    He’s descending the steep hill, using the stairs instead of the switchback ramp, when he somehow missteps and his view is suddenly nothing but sky. He skids down three concrete steps on his back before he has the presence of mind to stop himself with his hands. He eases himself up to sitting, and he can already feel a nasty series of bruises blossoming on the knobs of his spine. He twists around to examine the stairs, expecting to blame some kind of obstruction such as a stick or a rock or a busted step. There’s nothing. He looks up to the top of the stairs, to the park around him and the landing below. At least no one saw him.
    Yaz pants and wags his tail, eager to move along.
    â€œJust a sec, Yaz.”
    Joe lifts each arm up and checks his elbows. Both are scraped and bleeding. He wipes the gravel and blood and eases himself to standing.
    How the hell did he trip? Must be his bum knee. He twisted his right knee a couple of years ago chasing a B&E suspect down Warren Street. Brick sidewalks may look pretty, but they’re bumpy and buckled, brutal to run on, especially in the dark. His knee hasn’t been the same since and seems to just quit on him every now and then without warning. He should probably get it checked out, but he doesn’t do doctors.
    He’s particularly careful going down the rest of the stairs and continues down to Medford Street. He decides to cut back in and up at the high school. Rosie should be getting out soon, and he’s now feeling a stabbing pinch in his lower back with each step. He wants to get home.
    As he’s walking up Polk Street, a car slows down next to him. It’s Donny Kelly, Joe’s best friend from childhood. Donny still lives in Town and works as an EMT, so Joe sees him quite a bit both on and off the job.
    â€œWhaddya drink too much last night?” asks Donny, smiling at him through the open window of his Pontiac.
    â€œHuh?” asks Joe, smiling back.
    â€œYou limpin’ or somethin’?”
    â€œOh yeah, my back is tweaked.”
    â€œWanna ride up over the hill, old man?”
    â€œNah, I’m good.”
    â€œCome on, get in the car.”
    â€œI need the exercise,” says Joe, patting his gut. “How’s Matty doin’?”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œAnd Laurie?”
    â€œGood, everyone’s good. Hey, you sure I can’t take you somewhere?”
    â€œNo, really, thanks.”
    â€œAll right, I gotta go. Good