by Tracey Lange
Jackie gave her a knowing smile over Shane’s shoulder. She’d managed to convert his alarm to curiosity.
She swallowed a lump in her throat while she soaked in his sweet face. “It’s so good to see you, Shane. I missed you.”
He treated her to his huge, unreserved smile. “Me too.” Then he gave her a bear hug. She didn’t let on when he squeezed a little too hard.
* * *
The pain made it difficult to sleep through the night. No position worked for long, and when she was alone in the dark her mind gravitated to the accident. Her brain was piecing together what happened, just like the only other time she’d suffered a loss of consciousness. Of their own free will, mental snapshots were emerging: rushing to figure the right tip for the bartender, looking up to see herself careening toward a concrete barrier, flashing lights and the sensation of hanging upside down. She would drag her mind from the accident only to have it land on other upsetting thoughts. Old ghosts from the past, doubts about the future.
She headed downstairs when she heard movement in the kitchen early the next morning. Denny was at the table, wolfing down a microwave burrito. She poured herself a cup of coffee, leaned against the counter, and took a sip. Then she bent over and spit it in the sink.
“Jesus. How do you burn coffee?”
“You’re welcome,” he said, around a mouthful of food.
She poured out what remained in the coffeepot and made a fresh batch. While she waited for it to brew, she studied the calendars posted on the fridge. One tracked her dad’s fairly quiet days: midday shifts at the pub, the Gaelic football schedule, card games with his buddies. The other, which had hung on that same door since she was a kid, listed Shane’s shifts at the market, his medication schedule, appointments with his occupational therapist, and, of course, the Yankees game schedule. Keeping that calendar current used to be her job. Looked like it was a combined effort now. Each of her brothers’ handwriting, as well as Theresa’s, was splashed across it.
“What do you have planned for today?” Denny asked her.
“Nothing.” She poured some coffee and sat at the table. “Why?”
“I could use some help with the ledger for the pub.”
“He sure as hell could,” her father said, shuffling into the kitchen in his slippers and flannel robe. “I’m to here with his griping about it.” He brought his hands together as if in prayer and inhaled. “I smelled that coffee from my bed and knew it couldn’t be the muck your brother makes.” He poured a cup and joined them at the table.
“What’s going on with the ledger?” she asked.
“It’s in chaos,” Denny said. “I’ve had trouble holding on to bookkeepers.”
“For how long?” No way her brother was successfully tracking the details and numbers that went into maintaining accurate financial records. He just didn’t have the patience.
“Hard to say. We hired a few, but they didn’t work out. And then we’d go without for a while. Kale takes care of all the other administrative stuff so I tried to stay on it.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “At this point, I can’t even get anyone to consider taking it on because it’s such a mess, or if I can, they want to charge out the ass.”
“Well, I can try to help—”
“That’s great.”
“—but only for a little while, until you hire a new bookkeeper.”
“Deal.”
“I mean it, Denny.”
He held up a hand. “Understood.”
“Okay. I’ll come to the pub in a bit.”
“Thanks, Sun.” He flashed a smile on his way out the back door.
“Good luck with that,” her dad said, slurping his coffee.
“I know.”
Jackie came down the stairs in boxers, a T-shirt, and a bedraggled mop of hair. “Is there any coffee left?”
Sunday nodded toward the pot.
“You working today, Jackie?” Her father had tried for nonchalant, but clearly this was a touchy subject.
“Shift starts in thirty.”
“When will Shane be up?” Sunday asked.
“Not for a while,” Jackie said, checking Shane’s schedule. “He doesn’t go in until noon today.”
“Was he up late with the LEGOs?” her dad asked.
“I looked in on him around midnight. You should check it out. He just started Hogwarts Castle.” He headed for the stairs, taking his mug with him. “I gotta go.”
“Will you be home tonight?” she asked. “Maybe we can find some time to catch up.”
He gave her a pure Jackie smile, expansive and youthful. “Definitely.” Then he jogged up the stairs.
She pulled her legs up on her chair, sipped her coffee, and relished just being back in the house, with her dad and brothers, part of the morning routine. For the briefest moment it was possible to kid herself into believing she’d never left.
Her father, rarely given to gushing proclamations, looked down and spoke to his cup. “It’s grand to have you home, Sunday.”
And despite the lack of sleep, throbbing head, and nagging uncertainty about coming back to New York, a feeling swelled in her chest that she faintly recognized as hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mickey
“It’s grand to have you home, Sunday.”
He didn’t look at her when he said it because he was a bit overcome. Part of it was her sad, broken face. Part of it was the smile she’d managed to pull from Jackie—a smile he couldn’t remember seeing in a long time. But mostly it was knowing a missing piece of their family had come back into the fold after so long. Sunday being gone all those years had been like having a phantom limb. She still felt attached and her absence was painful. She’d been in the house less than a day and the atmosphere had already shifted, lightened and warmed up. The gentler voice, airier laugh, swish of hair. Mickey loved his daughter-in-law, Theresa, with her no-bullshit manner and gutsy opinions. But he had badly missed Sunday, including the soothing balance she was for Denny’s blustery energy.
She had occupied a special place in his heart from the day she was born, which was a Sunday, the name he insisted on giving her much to Maura’s dismay—What kind of name is that? People will think we’re mental. Normally Mickey had deferred to his wife in such matters. But what was the harm in blessing their girl with a name of good fortune, even if the idea did come from an old nursery rhyme.
He cleared his throat. “Call me when you’re ready to walk to the pub. I don’t have a shift today, but I’d like to go in. Besides”—he smiled—“two people shorten the road.”
He went out to collect the newspapers he had delivered to the house each morning. It was one of his indulgences, along with OTB for betting on the horses, and his bookie for football and fights. Then he headed to his room to spend a few minutes talking with Maura, something he’d done each and every day since her death four years ago.
The first thing he told her was that Sunday had come home. Then he promised to do whatever it took to keep her there.
* * *
They walked the four blocks south and three blocks west to the pub later that morning. Their house was in the oldest part of West Manor, often in high demand because it was within walking distance to downtown, a half-mile strip of restaurants, shops, and professional offices. Lampposts lined the streets and displayed hanging baskets overflowing with colorful blooms this time of year. All the buildings along Saw Mill Road, the main thoroughfare, were in keeping with height and square footage limits. The zoning laws in this part of New York were stringent. No one knew that better than Mickey, after being a project manager in construction in this area for over thirty years. Many a palm he’d had to grease along the way, be it with money or favors, to push projects through the approval process.
Sunday scanned the streets while they walked, asking him about new or renovated houses, businesses she didn’t recognize. She turned her injured face down or away when they passed people, mostly joggers or moms with strollers. When they r
ounded a corner and Brennan’s came into view she halted.
“Everything okay?” Mickey asked, stepping back beside her.
She nodded. Her eyes, which may have been a little moist, skimmed the exterior. “The place looks great.” He heard enthusiasm in her voice, but wistfulness too. She’d been a big part of the planning for Brennan’s, which opened the year before she moved out west to take that job writing for the internet. Whatever that meant.
He never approached the pub without a fierce rush of pride. It took up half the block and was a class place, starting with their family name above the heavy mahogany front door. The Gaelic translation—Ó’Braonáin—had been Sunday’s idea, and Jackie had designed the exterior, a deep emerald green with dark wood trim. When Denny and Kale told him what they wanted to call the pub all those years ago, Mickey insisted the loan he and Maura had given them didn’t warrant such an honor. After all, Kale was an equal partner, had put just as much blood, sweat, and tears into the venture as Denny.
“That’s okay, Mr. B,” Kale had said. “Brennan’s is fitting, and flows better than Collins’s.”
Kale was practically a Brennan anyway. He’d grown up four blocks away and spent the bulk of his time in their home. Mickey had never minded. What was another kid, especially one who was so unassuming, when there were already four.
He and Maura had met Kale’s parents at St. Monica’s Church in town, where many transplants from Ireland coalesced and celebrated the sacraments together so they still had meaning. Where all the children were baptized and their parents absolved of their sins each week, or when the wives could harangue the husbands into visiting the confessional. In his case that had been rare indeed. Mickey and Maura had been friendly with the Collinses, but not close. Keith Collins had been a fussy, priggish sort. It hadn’t been a shock to hear his wife left him for another man when Kale was four years old, though she’d also cut herself out of the boy’s life. The poor lad had no siblings, just a sickly father doddering around the house. No wonder he loved the warmth and bustle of the Brennan home.
Kale and Sunday had been together near eight years when she took that job in California. Initially Mickey assumed Kale deserved the blame, but after watching his almost-son-in-law suffer in the wake of her departure, he decided there had to be more to the story. Now that Sunday was back, he was determined to find out what it was.
As soon as they arrived at the pub, Sunday and Denny disappeared into the small back-corner office, leaving him up at the bar with a cup of coffee. Paul, the head bartender, was prepping for the day. He was a divorced fifty-something with an earring and tattoos, but he’d turned out to be a solid employee for Denny and Kale after Jackie had to quit working at the pub thanks to the terms of his probation.
“The Yanks playing this afternoon, Paulie?”
“Not today, Mick.”
Damn it. He could tell by the trace of weariness in Paul’s tone that he’d already asked that question. It was frustrating as hell. He’d always been healthy as a horse, other than a mild heart attack years ago that had alerted him to his high blood pressure. He could recall specific football games from his childhood, the details of the day he came over from Ireland almost forty years ago, all the guys that had worked on his crew over the years. But ask him what happened that morning and there was a chance he wouldn’t remember. And then there was the humiliation that came with promising not to drive at night after hitting that support pole in the garage. The worst thing about an aging memory was how people sidelined him, not bothering to mention things that might be confusing or upsetting. And it was as much for their sake as for his, to avoid explaining and repeating.
On second thought, the worst thing about a failing memory was the wondering if he’d brought it on himself, if it was a reckoning for past sins. His mind was trying to keep secrets from him. Fitting punishment for a man who’d long kept secrets from his own family.
“You must be thrilled to have your girl home,” Paul said. He was drying and shelving pint glasses. “By the looks of her, that must have been some accident.”
“Aye, it was a bad one.” Mickey had wanted to question Sunday more the night before, push for answers about what was going on out there in LA. But Denny had said to give her time, that she was embarrassed enough without having to get into all that.
Besides, that dinner had been the rightest Mickey felt with the world in a long time. Everyone gathered in the formal dining room, Sunday in her old spot again, immediately to his left. Clare, seated at the other end of the table in Maura’s old place, had allowed herself a glass of beer and had a flush to her cheeks. There was lots of banter, Mickey and Clare told tales about their eight siblings and growing up on a farm. And their children were always fascinated to hear about living through the Troubles in Northern Ireland. Though he had to be careful there, and he could feel Clare’s eyes on him when he talked about their lives before they came to America.
Mickey’s kids and Grail all believed Grail’s father died in Ireland before she was born. They didn’t know about Clare’s out-of-wedlock pregnancy, the reason his parents shipped her off with him to live in the States. Being with child and without a husband was still a big deal in Ireland in the ’80s, especially in the North when the woman was Catholic and the man was Protestant.
And none of the kids knew about the beating Mickey had given that bastard, to within an inch of his life. Married and twice her age, he’d used Clare and kicked her to the curb, pretended not to even know her when she went to him in tears for help. Mickey had enlisted friends to stand watch while he did the deed, and they’d had to pull him off the fella in the end.
For many years Mickey had helped the cause by running errands for the IRA. But transporting money and guns across the border from County Louth had required only mild strong-arm tactics. He had scared himself that night, the way he lost control with that man. He’d already been thinking about leaving Ireland for broader horizons. With the Orangemen after him for revenge and the IRA out to own him, that whole affair sealed the deal.
“Mickey?”
He looked up. “Sorry, Paul.”
“I asked if you’d care to wager on the subway series this year.”
“I’d love to take your money.”
Paul laughed. He favored the Mets and Mickey was die-hard Yankees. So was Kale, who was usually there to back Mickey up.
Where was Kale anyway? Felt like he hadn’t been around.
Mickey sipped his coffee and decided not to ask. He had the feeling he’d already been told.
* * *
Sleeping long and hard had never been a problem, though in recent years he was prone to waking during the night to go to the toilet. If it hadn’t been for Mother Nature’s late-night call, Mickey wouldn’t have heard movement and voices down in the kitchen. From his angle at the top of the back stairs he could glimpse the lower half of Sunday sitting at the table, tapping away at a laptop. Jackie was taking the seat across from her. Mickey was tempted to join them, but didn’t want to intrude. Besides, once those two got going about books and art he was lost anyway.
“You working on the ledger?” Jackie asked. “Denny’s a bag of dicks for making you clean up his mess.”
“No, it’s okay,” Sunday said. “I want to help, but I don’t know how much I can do. It’s like deciphering the Da Vinci Code. He kept track of almost nothing the last few months. And at some point a bunch of cash floated in and out of the account.” She lowered her voice. “Do you think he’s running up credit card debt?”
“No way,” Jackie said. “He wouldn’t do that. And Theresa and Kale would never go for it.”
“You’re probably right.”
Mickey agreed. He’d raised his kids to know better than to spend money they didn’t have. Looking down through the white wooden railing he saw Jackie’s leg start bouncing under the table.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked. “The night you had your accident … Was it because of the email I sent you that day?�
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“No,” she said. “I was just out for a friend’s birthday and had too much.”
“Really? Because slamming drinks and getting behind the wheel doesn’t sound like you. It’s straight-up stupid.”
“Kind of like getting busted with a giant bag of someone else’s weed?”
At least Maura hadn’t lived to see two of their children in trouble with the law.
Mickey sought out one of his favorite photos that hung among the many lining the stairway. It was of all the kids, standing oldest to youngest, ranging in age from Denny at eleven years old to Shane at six. Similar chestnut hair, bright eyes, and freckled cheeks, each a head taller than the one to their left. They had their arms about each other and wore wide smiles. Sunday and Jackie stood together in the middle. As two kids sandwiched between a can-do-no-wrong older brother and a disabled younger one, they had often seemed attuned to each other’s state of mind.
“While you were in LA,” Jackie said below, “did you ever talk to anyone about that night?”
Mickey expected “Which night?” But there was no response. He had to lean down to hear Jackie’s next words.
“It’s just I’ve read a lot about, you know, trauma. And you should talk—”
“Don’t.” Sunday didn’t sound like herself. So sharp and final. But … trauma. What the hell was Jackie on about?
“It wasn’t your fault, Sunday.”
“Stop it.”
“I just want to help.”
She shut her laptop. “I don’t need your help. I’m going to bed.” The legs of her chair scraped across the floor as she stood.
Mickey was about to get caught eavesdropping. He ducked back into his room, quietly shut the door behind him. A few minutes later Jackie and Sunday shuffled past in the hallway, mumbling good night to each other.
When he was sure they were tucked away in their rooms Mickey got out of bed and went to his closet. He crouched down and peeled back the carpet from the far corner of the closet floor. Then he wedged a shoehorn between two floorboards and lifted one, revealing the little compartment that had always been a hiding place for him. He grabbed the spiral notebook and pencil from among the items he kept there, flipped to a clean page, and jotted a note: S + J hiding old secret.