Rat Catcher stood, fixing Rooney in his sights, ready to bare her remaining teeth.

“Why don’t you talk to him?” Finnerty said. “Digby don’t lie.”

“I would but for his hiding. As for his lying-”

“Digby’s not hiding,” O’Boyle said as he reached for the beer nuts. “He’s at the movies.”

Finnerty grimaced.

“The movies…” Rooney said. Draining the last of his bourbon and the foamy Rheingold, he slid carefully off the stool, avoiding Rat Catcher, who sneered at him nonetheless. Bending to peer at the mirror behind the liquor bottles, he matted down his hair, centered the shoulders of his work coat, and gathered up his change, leaving a dime for Finnerty. Without a word, he staggered toward the door, red neon reflecting in his pinwheeling eyes.

When Rooney left, Finnerty stared at O’Boyle. “Now why did you do that, putting Digby in his sights? You know full well Digby can’t-”

O’Boyle slowly raised his fist, which held Rooney’s baby sledgehammer.

Finnerty called from the bar.

“All right, Thomas,” Mary Catherine groaned. “I thank you. Give my regards to Lucy, and to your mother too.”

Anna’s sharp tongue and sinister logic made her unbearable to her siblings, so Mary Catherine had to drag her along. As they took their seats on the jitney, she turned to her daughter, who was pinned against the sidewall and rain-streaked window by her mother’s heft.

“Anna, if you say one word out of turn, I swear I’ll send you to Grandma before the night is through.”

“I don’t mind Grandma McIlwaine,” Anna replied.

“I wasn’t talking about Grandma McIlwaine.”

“Well, Grandma Rooney is dead.”

“Exactly so.” She stared ahead toward the driver.

Twelve blocks later, they hurried through the rain to under the sputtering lights of the Avalon’s marquee, late for the sunset matinee and early for the eight o’clock show. They paid full price-one adult, one child-and took the faded red carpet on the sweeping staircase to the balcony where, as long-time Narrows Gate’s residents knew, Francis Michael Digby napped. As furious Cossacks stormed into battle on screen, horses stampeding in rhythm to the glorious orchestral score, Mary Catherine ducked beneath the flickering projection. Hand above her brow, she located Digby nuzzled against a chipped wall, his chin cupped in his hand.

Dragging Anna behind her, she approached.

“Digby,” she whispered, in order not to disturb the other patrons sprinkled throughout the musty balcony. “Digby.”

The sound of gunfire ricocheted around the theater.

“Whack him,” Anna suggested.

A cannon exploded. But Digby continued to purr.

Mary Catherine hesitated, then jostled his shoulder. “Digby. Francis.” She sat in the seat next to his. “Francis, wake up…”

Suddenly, there was a ruckus down below. Patrons hissed, and then shouted over the picture as it blared. When Mary Catherine looked beyond the tarnished brass rail, she saw her husband climbing onto the stage, his shadow on the screen.

“Digby!” he wailed, as the battle raged behind him. “Digby, I’m here to kill you, I am. Where in God’s name are you?”

“They’re up here, Dad,” Anna screamed. She pointed an accusing finger at her mother and Digby, who now sat side by side.

Leaky Rooney raced up the stairs, an usher giving chase.

Fists on her hips, Mary Catherine stood before Digby, who was rousting himself from the grip of a deep sleep. She glared at her husband.

“Mary Catherine…” Rooney warned as he skidded to a stop. “So help me God.”

Almost alert, Digby peered over her shoulder. As quickly as he could, he silently recounted the strategy he crafted in his apartment.

The balcony patrons gathered above the exit.

“Step aside, Mary Catherine,” Rooney said as he slowly padded toward them. “I have no taste for harming you. But that… That… That attorney,” he sputtered. “Death is too good for his likes, believe me.”

“Where’s your hammer, Dad?” Anna said.

Staring at Digby, Rooney patted his empty belt.

Peering over his former classmate’s shoulder, Digby saw his opening. “I love Mary Catherine,” he blurted. “Always have.”

Rooney recoiled. Sweet mother of Jesus, it isn’t only in my head, he thought.

Mary Catherine turned. “Digby…?”

“He’s right, Mary Catherine. Your husband is right. I’ve tried to free you for my own gain…”

“Holy moley,” Anna said.

Digby recited his speech from memory. “Mary Catherine, I remember like it was yesterday the tears in your eyes when Sister Dolores told us President Roosevelt had died. Your beautiful face as you led us in prayer. Your hazel eyes… From that moment on-”

“That’ll be enough of that, Digby,” Rooney barked. “Step over here so I can kill you proper.”

The exit was now filled with patrons from downstairs, the picture continuing without an audience.

Digby took Mary Catherine’s hands. “You deserve the best, my dear,” he said as sweetly as he could manage.

“That’s it!” Rooney announced, raising an empty fist. “Say your prayers, Digby!” Charging in, he pushed his wife directly into Digby’s embrace.

Stunned, Digby tried to retreat, but he was blocked by a row of seats.

Mary Catherine held tight as she brought her lips to his ear. “Thank you, Francis Michael Digby,” she whispered.

“Dad, look! She’s saying she loves him. She said it!”

Rooney clapped his daughter on the back of the head. But then he said, “Is it so, Mary Catherine?”

In the eternity it took to turn, Mary Catherine had a fleeting vision of what might’ve been. She blinked to shake from its satisfying grip, though not before remembering that, yes, she had been beautiful and once had dreams. “And what if it is?” she said.

Rooney quaked. He could not believe his life was at its end. Mary Catherine, who he loved from the moment he saw her in her cheerleader’s uniform-pleated skirt, dimpled knees, socks drooping over her saddle shoes. Her face shone like a thousand suns and, as God is my witness, it still does.

“I-” Speechless, Rooney dropped into a padded seat. His sow of a mother was right: He was ending up drunk and alone.

Digby gave Mary Catherine a gentle shove. “Go on…”

Sighing, she stepped forward and held out her hand.

“Come on,” she said to her hapless husband.

Rooney looked up. “Me?” he said in amazement.

“Yes. You.”

Rooney raised slowly, his head bowed in shame. Then he looked up and stared in his wife’s eyes.

“I’m a dope,” he said.

“Indeed,” replied Mary Catherine.

“Congratulations, Rooney,” Digby said cheerfully. “You’re a lucky man.”

Digby waved as the Rooneys, the usher, and the downstairs patrons retreated, leaving much of the balcony empty.

On the screen, the battle had ended. Smoke had begun to clear, the cannons now silent. The remaining horses grazed somewhere far off and unseen.

Digby returned to his seat, wriggling until he reclaimed his warm spot. Contented, he nestled in, ready to resume a life of simple pleasures.

Soon, he was fast asleep.