Mooney was telling it to the dead girl, speaking in a conversational tone, as though he thought she could actually hear what he was saying.
“Comes a time,” he told the painted face on the wall, “when the battery runs down, the stamina gives out, and a man just don’t care any more. That happened long ago with this fine citizen. Not a damn thing I could have done for you, except lean on your shoulder and weigh you down. I’m a great leaner, one of the finest. I have a remarkable talent for making people tired.”
Kerrigan figured it was time for him to say something. “You have a pretty fair talent for painting pictures.” He gazed at the portrait on the wall.
“Thank you,” Mooney said quietly and formally, as though he were addressing an art critic. Then his tone became technical. “There was no live model. This work was painted from memory. There were more than thirty preliminary sketches. The portrait took three months to complete, and this is the first time it’s been exhibited.”
Kerrigan nodded, although he was scarcely listening. He went on looking at the painted face that was framed there on the wall and gradually it became a living face as the gears of time shifted into reverse, taking him backward five years to a summer night when he stood with Catherine on the corner of Second and Vernon. He’d been walking up Second Street and he’d seen her leaning against the lamppost on the corner. Coming closer, he’d noticed that she was breathing heavily, as though she’d been running. He said, “What’s wrong?” and for some moments she didn’t answer, and then she smiled and shrugged and said, “It’s really nothing.” But he knew the smile was forced, and the shrug was an effort to hide something.
He put his hands on Catherine’s shoulders. He said quietly, “Come on, tell me.”
She tried to hold the smile, tried to shrug again. But somehow she couldn’t manage it. Her lips quivered. Her pale face became paler. All at once she gripped his arms, as though to keep herself from falling, and she said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Catherine.” His voice was gentle. “Tell me what happened.”
She hesitated. Then, whatever the issue was, she made an attempt to evade it. She said, “You look so tired and worn out. Work hard today?”
“Overtime,” he replied. “They were short of men.” In the glow of the street lamp he saw the delicate line of her features, the fragility of her body. She always wore low-heeled shoes and loose-waisted schoolgirl dresses and looked much younger than eighteen. The dress was cotton, plain drab gray, and it needed sewing here and there. But it was clean. She wouldn’t wear anything that wasn’t clean.