chronicles of irene

By 2006, all nine of Olive’s offspring were dead.  Most died as a normal course of living.  Two died with suspicions, rumors attached to their passing: Budd Sr. and Irene.  Buddy waves off the “garbage” (as he calls it) story that Budd’s death was mob related.  And as to Irene, ”You ask ‘em,” he says to Karin, “and mostly they’ll say ‘suicide’ but she wasn’t that way.  Not Irene.  Not ever.  Knocked up or not, she wouldn’t have done herself in.  Not her.  I told them detectives she wasn’t the sort to do that.  I guess they maybe halfway believed me; they never did close the case one way or another.”

“Do you think Bucky did it? did her in?” Karin has asked before and asks again, always hopeful Buddy will have some slight variation to what he’s previously said.

“Nah.  Bucky didn’t have a mean bone in him.  He was tough, yeah, but not mean.  Besides, Irene was a head taller and twice what he was in strength.”

            “Buddy,” Karin says, “I’ll soon be 55.  Why is it, do you think, no one ever told me about Irene?”

            Buddy shrugs in that way that says, Maybe I knew once.  Or maybe I didn’t.  When he answers, he answers some other question or maybe an idea or notion that’s been there inside him like a spent bullet inside a crook, or a hero, that’s too close to a major organ to remove but brings on an extra ache when it rains.  He says, “I stayed quiet too long about my friends back then.  I could’ve saved their brother, some cousins.  The Shoenfelds, you know.  There was a girl, I think.  Maybe.  Maybe I could’a helped.”  He shrugs again.  “Maybe not.  Can’t say I killed them, but I sure didn’t help.”