Reprisal

Bill shook his head in wonder. All that energy. He never ceased to be amazed at Da

Yes, he was a lovable kid. Prospective^ parents came in, took one look at him—the blond hair, those eyes, that smile—and said that's the boy we've been looking for, that's the child we've always wanted. His hyperactivity would be explained to them but the parents were sure they could handle it—Look at him… it's worth anything to raise that boy. No problem.

But after Da

Bill didn't hold it against them. Euphemistically speaking, Da

So day after day the almost-incessant activity went on. And one after another, Da

Which somehow made Bill grow more deeply attached to him. Maybe it was the fact that of all the kids now residing in St. Francis, Da

But the days of the St. Francis Home for Boys were numbered. The Society of Jesus was cutting back—like all the religious orders, the Jesuits were gradually dwindling in membership—and St. F.'s was slated as one of the casualties. The city and other Catholic agencies would fill the void when it finally closed its doors in another two or three years. There were fewer boys in residence now than at any time in the old orphanage's history.

As he tucked Da

But he was certainly determined to enjoy Da

"Good night, Da

"'Kay. Where you goin', Father?"

"Going to visit some old folks."

"Those same old folks you see all the time?"

"The same ones."

Bill didn't want to tell him he was making one of his regular trips out to visit his own parents. That would inevitably lead to questions about Da

"When you comin' back?"

"Tomorrow night, same as ever."

"'Kay."

With that he rolled over and went to sleep.

Bill returned alone to his own room where a half-packed overnight bag waited. If he stepped on it he could probably make it to his folks' place before one A.M.

As usual, Mom had waited up for him. Bill had told her over and over not to do that but she never listened. Tonight she was swathed in a long fla

"David!" she called. "Bill's here!"

"Let him sleep, Ma."

"Don't be silly. We have plenty of time for sleep. Your father would never let me hear the end of it if I didn't wake him when you arrived."

Dad shuffled into the kitchen, tying his robe around him. They shook hands, Bill noting that his father's grip was not what it used to be. He seemed slightly more stooped every time he saw him.

The regular ritual followed.

Mom made him and Dad sit down at the kitchen table while she plugged in the Mr. Coffee—all set up, loaded with decaf and water, ready to go. She served them each a piece of pie—it was cherry this time—and when the coffee was ready, they all sat and talked about "what's new."

Which was never much. Bill's routine at St. F.'s was set so that one day was usually pretty much like every other. Occasionally he could report a successful placement or two", but as a rule it was business as usual. As for Mom and Dad, they were both hovering around seventy. They'd never been the types for golf or much socializing, so their existence was sedentary. They went out to di

Not much of a life as far as Bill was concerned, but they loved and were comfortable with each other, laughed together, and seemed happy enough. And that, after all, was what really counted.

But the house was getting to be too much for them. Mom did all right keeping the indoors clean and neat, but slowly, steadily, the outside had got away from Dad. Bill had tried to convince them to sell, get an apartment closer to downtown where they'd have a fraction of their present maintenance and could walk to the harborfront. Uh-uh. They weren't having any of that. They'd always lived here and so they would continue to live here and let's not discuss it anymore.

He loved them dearly but they could be royal pains when it came to this house. Though in a way he couldn't blame them. The idea of selling the old place and letting someone else live in it didn't sit too well with him either. This house seemed like an island of stability in a world of flux and flow.

So, since last summer, a couple of times a month, Bill would devote his Sunday off to the upkeep of the three-bedroom ranch that was the Ryan family homestead. Nearly two decades at St. F.'s had turned him into a skilled handyman. And he was almost caught up. By summer he figured he could reduce his maintenance schedule to once a month.

"I think I'll hit the sack," he said, pushing himself away from the table.

"But you haven't finished your pie."

"Full, Ma," he said, patting his thickening waist. He was carrying more weight than he liked. Mom didn't seem to realize that a man approaching his mid-forties did not need cherry pie at one in the morning.

After good nights, he headed for the bedroom at the far end of the house—his since childhood. He was beat. Without bothering to change out of his sweats, he slipped into the creaky old bed like a tired foot into a well-worn slipper.

Bill awoke coughing, with stinging eyes and nose. Either he was having an allergy attack or—

Smoke! Something was burning!

Then he heard the approaching sirens.

Fire!

He jumped out of bed and turned on the lamp but it didn't work. He pulled the flashlight he'd kept in the nightstand since he was a kid and that did work, but feebly. He stumbled through the white smoke that layered the air of his room and swirled in his wake. His bedroom door was closed. He spotted the smoke eddying in around the edges.

The house was on fire. Mom! Dad!