Kerrigan sat down in a chair near the sofa. He sensed that his father was in a talkative mood, and he was perfectly willing to sit here and listen. Somehow he always felt relaxed and content when he was alone with Tom. He liked Tom.
“Let me tell you one thing,” Tom said. “It ain’t no cinch living with a woman like that. It’s like playing around with a stick of dynamite. The thing that beats the hell out of me is why I stay here and take it.” Tom shook his head slowly and sighed.
Kerrigan shifted his position in the chair. He settled back halfway against the wooden arm and flung both legs over the other arm.
Tom said, “It’s always something. Last week she claims I’m monkeying around with some woman lives upstairs. Now for God’s sake, I ask you man to man, would I do a thing like that?”
“Of course not,” Kerrigan murmured, and checked it off as a lily-white lie. Tom had quite a reputation in the neighborhood.
“You’re damn right I wouldn’t,” Tom declared. “When I marry a woman, I stay faithful to her. If I say so myself, I think I’m one hell of a good husband. I was good to your mother and after she died I was loyal to her memory for three entire years. For three years, mind you, I wouldn’t let myself look at a skirt. Now that’s the truth.”
Kerrigan nodded solemnly.
“Come to think of it,” Tom said, “your mother wasn’t so easy to live with, either. But let her rest in peace. She was an awful nag, but she wasn’t so bad compared to these other wives I’ve had. Like that second one, that Hannah. I swear, that woman was completely out of her mind. And the next one I married, that Spanish woman. What was her name?”
“Conchita.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “Conchita. She was one hot tomato, but I didn’t like that knife she carried. It bothers me when they carry a knife. That’s one thing I can say for Lola. She never reaches for a knife.”