Levine turned onto Forty-eighth Street. “All right, finish. I have other things to tell you.”

Devlin kept his eyes straight ahead. “The cursing stopped, and then he said, ‘So you’re out. Out of the house, out of our lives, out of my daughter’s life so that you’ll never see her again! Never, do you understand me? Never! If I ever see you again, if any member of my family ever sees you, or hears from you, or you attempt to communicate with Maryellen in any way, I will hurt you.’ He leaned in, and even though the last thing he said came through his teeth, the spit kept flying out of his mouth. He was shaking with rage, as if he were having a seizure. His face was almost purple. He said, ‘You’ll be worthless to Maryellen. If you don’t stay away from her, I will have your dick cut off. All that will be left of your sex life is the desire. Now get the fuck out of here!’ And then he spat in my face. Three times. It took me that long to get away from him. You can stop in the middle of the block.”

Levine was silent. Maybe he was thinking that Devlin had taken the story too far, but Devlin knew what he had omitted, or glossed over: why he had sat there and taken Brennan’s abuse until the spitting started. A drunk’s weepy cowardice. Devlin had known it at the time, deep inside himself, that he was at the climax of five years of disgracing himself. He’d known it and done nothing, frozen not by the force of Brennan’s monstrous rage, but his own craven hope that somehow he would be allowed, finally, to continue his mad waltz with Maryellen.

Devlin had to keep his head clear. He had to remember that he had been over all this again and again in the years afterward, as he put himself back together piece by piece, slowly, with the help of Bill Ward and a dozen other guys for whom 12-Step work was the joy of their lives—and the salvation of Devlin’s. Devlin had to remind himself that the years between September 1971 and the present had been years of sacrifice, struggle and, through A.A., service to others. He was a different person today. I am—he almost said it aloud.

Levine said, “And you don’t think Brennan is the cause of your trouble?”

“Why did he wait fifteen years? And even if he did, he would have needed advance knowledge of his son’s murder—his only remaining son. No. Absolutely not.”