Right to Die

mentally. And you just can’t afford that over twenty-six miles, three hundred eighty-five yards.”

    You look like you did back in high school, John.
    Smiling in becoming modesty, I laid Mrs. Feeney’s St. Patrick’s Day carnations crossways to her, the dipped-green flower heads slanting down toward the foggy harbor.
    Well, maybe more like college.
    “I have to admit, Beth, I feel pretty good physically. I thought I’d get rickety running almost every day, but I feel better, more relaxed even, than I have in years.”
    And Nancy . What does she think?
    “She still thinks I’m stupid even to try it.”
    Really?
    “That’s what she says.”
    Oh, John. Always dense as a post that way.
    “What do you mean?”
    Don’t you see that Nancy ’s opinion might be her way of supporting you?
    “Frankly, no.”
    Then think about it some more. Are you still working on that case for the law professor?
    “Not much in the month since the shooting. I talked with everybody who seemed connected with guns.”
    What about the police?
    “Ballistics couldn’t do a lot with the slugs. Based on the alloy, they think it was older ammunition, though.”
    Older?
    “Yes.”
    Is that helpful?
    “Depends. If we can come up with another slug, they might be able to tell they came from the same batch and maybe even the same weapon. On the other hand, there haven’t been any more notes since the shots were fired.”
    What about the gay man who...
    “He’s been doing pretty well, I think. He left a message for me to call him early this week. I’ve tried three times since, but his answering service says he’s out of the office for a few days. The professor isn’t due back from the West Coast till April, so everything else is kind of on hold for another month.”
    Does that mean you and Nancy can enjoy the parade today at Chuck’s house?
    “I will. Nancy ’s working on a murder one, which means we’re just going to have dinner together afterward at my place.”
    So you’re going to the party stag?
    “Not exactly.”
    Not exactly?
    “There’s somebody I think could use some cheering up.”

    Inés Roja tugged on the bottom of her green sweater. “I have never seen a St. Patrick’s Day parade.”
    I inched the Prelude through the traffic just east of the veterinary clinic. “I thought New York staged a pretty big one?”
    “I never knew anyone to go with before.”
    The last time I’d checked in with Roja about notes and Maisy Andrus, the secretary had apologized for not being more available. She’d been putting in extra time with the vet because another volunteer had been sick. I’d asked her if that included Sundays. Inés said yes, but just in the morning. Knowing Nancy couldn’t make it, I’d insisted over Roja’s protestations that I’d be over to get her. At noon, in green.
    I said, “Nice sweater.”
    Inés looked at me solemnly, as if to see if I was kidding. Apparently satisfied, she said, “Filene’s Basement. A wonderful place.”
    I persuaded two barricades of cops to let us through on the strength of the address printed on our invitation. Chuck was born into the Lithuanian enclave in South Boston, his dad a marine wounded on Guadalcanal . Chuck left the city, making his fortune by wise investments. He returned to buy a huge white house occupying one of the few large pieces of land in Southie. A piece of land at the intersection where the parade wheels ninety degrees.
    A big Irish flag in green, white, and orange rippled in the breeze over Chuck’s front door. I parked the Prelude in his long driveway.
    As I killed the engine, Roja said, “Please don’t leave me alone with people.”
    “I won’t.”
    As it turned out, Inés was the hit of the party, a mixture of fifty or sixty people, only half of whom were descended from the Emerald Isle. We ate superb corned beef, drank enough Harp to float a PT boat, and got tours of the renovated house from Chuck himself, a rangy guy in a chartreuse shirt and cowboy hat. I took some good-natured ribbing about Nancy and heard Inés laugh for the first time, a merry, musical sound.
    A whoop spread through the first floor, a lead element of the parade just reaching our corner. We joined the others carrying green beer and stronger spirits into the cold. Standing on the lawn, everyone applauded the bands and toasted the heroes and jeered the politicians. In between targets there were good stories and silly jokes and painful attempts to affect a brogue.
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