We Are the Brennans

by Tracey Lange

  Kale held her gaze but didn’t say anything.

  What could he have said? She was right. The only person in their entire family who wasn’t in the business of keeping dark secrets was Shane.

  “We need to get back to Luke,” Vivienne said, an inkling of righteous victory in her tone, in the way she gathered her huge purse from the bar and squared her shoulders. Jackie had never clicked with Vivienne, could never decide whether she wasn’t trying at all or she was trying too hard. But it hardly mattered now. Whichever way the dust settled after tonight, they’d all crossed lines, and Vivienne and the Brennans were done with each other.

  Kale followed her, which had to be tough after hearing the news about Walsh. Or maybe not. Maybe he was relieved to get away after his wife’s brutally honest dressing-down of his adopted family.

  Everyone avoided eye contact as the Collinses headed out the door.

  That left the three of them standing in the quiet.

  “He’s dead,” Denny said.

  “I guess.” Sunday’s expression was a cross between confused and weary.

  “You okay?” Jackie asked.

  “I just want to go home.”

  “You guys go ahead,” he said. “I’ll lock up, be right behind you.”

  Denny followed Sunday out. Jackie left less than five minutes later.

  But first he checked behind the cooler.

  * * *

  When he got to the house they were sitting across from each other in the kitchen, jackets still on. He took the chair at the head of the table so they were huddled around one end.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead,” Sunday said.

  “Neither can I.” Denny turned his palms up. “But, I mean, it’s kind of good news. Right?”

  “Yeah,” Jackie said. Billy Walsh was gone for good. He would never be in a position to hurt their family again. Unless his murder came back to one of them. “It’s just the timing’s…”

  “Suspicious,” Sunday said.

  “That’s the word.”

  “Listen,” Denny said, “Walsh had a record, he was probably mixed up in a lot of bad shit. He had to have enemies.”

  “That’s right.” Hope edged into Sunday’s voice. “Michael said he didn’t want to go back to Belfast. Maybe it had something to do with that.”

  It was possible. But Jackie had checked the cooler. “The gun is missing,” he said.

  They both turned to him.

  “I checked behind the cooler before I left just now, and the gun is gone.”

  Denny looked at Sunday. “We saw Kale put it back the other night.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Jackie asked. “No chance he took it with him?”

  “What are you suggesting?” she asked.

  Jackie turned to Denny. “Who else knew about the gun?”

  “You two, me, and Kale.”

  “You don’t think there’s any way…” Jackie let it trail off.

  “Kale?” Sunday asked.

  “I don’t know. You guys were with him last night. What do you think?”

  “No,” Denny said. “He had other things on his mind.” He gave Sunday the raised eyebrows.

  “Well, if four of us knew about the gun…” Jackie allowed the thought to finish itself.

  “Wait,” Sunday said. “Billy knew about the gun because I pulled it on him. He knew it was somewhere behind the bar.”

  “You think he came back for it?” Denny asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m just saying he knew it was there.” She stood up in answer to the whistling kettle, walked over, and poured steaming water into the teapot.

  Maybe there was a scenario where that made sense. Walsh came back for the gun and then somebody ended up using it on him. But that was a pretty complicated explanation compared to the other one that kept presenting itself. The scenario where one of the people who knew about the gun, all of whom had motive, used it on Billy. The only suspect Jackie could unequivocally rule out was himself.

  “Wait,” Denny said. “Why are we assuming it was our gun that killed him?”

  “If it wasn’t,” Jackie said, “that’s a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Sunday spun from the counter and held up a hand. “Shhh. Did you hear that?”

  Then Jackie did hear it. Footsteps coming down the stairs. Dad’s leather slippers and plaid pajamas descended on the other side of the railing.

  “Well, now,” he said near the bottom of the stairs, standing up a little straighter. “What have we here?”

  No one answered him for a moment while they tried to determine just how much of their conversation he might have heard.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mickey

  “What have we here?”

  He hadn’t meant to spook his children, but he’d heard hushed voices and they looked like they would look after burying a dead body. Denny hunched over the table. Jackie with the wide eyes. Sunday standing near the sink, hands stopped in the air like she forgot what she was doing.

  No one said anything for a moment.

  “Do you want a cup, Dad?” Sunday asked.

  “That would hit the spot.” He took the seat across from Denny but wasn’t sure where to rest his gaze. He hadn’t talked to his eldest since their awful discussion opening night and he couldn’t risk catching that look of accusation in Denny’s eyes again. But he dared not look at Sunday for more than a quick moment either. Every time he went near her the last twenty-four hours, he thought he would collapse under the weight of shame.

  He laid his knobby old hands on the table and focused on them. “How was the new place tonight?”

  “Busy,” Denny said.

  “Imagine that. Another pub, even bigger than the first.” Mickey was proud of Denny, despite everything. But he’d never been given to gushing, and saying that now might seem like groveling. So he came the closest he could. “Did you take pictures to send back home?”

  Sunday placed steaming cups before him and Jackie. “Already texted them to Cousin Barry. He’ll make sure they get around.” She brought over another cup for herself and sat beside Denny.

  “You can text photos to Ireland, can ya?” he asked.

  “Yep.” She stared into her tea.

  His children’s silence and averted eyes felt like a condemnation of the highest order. Had everything good he’d ever done for his family been washed away in their minds forever?

  He took a sip from his cup. Two sugars, splash of milk. Sunday always got it just right. He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat and grabbed for a lifeline to break the oppressive quiet. “When are we going to have Theresa and Molly back home?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Denny said.

  “Now that’s good news to be sure.”

  Nods all around the table.

  “I think I’m going to head up.” Sunday stood and lifted her tea to take with her. “Night, everyone.”

  They mumbled good night as she climbed the stairs. After he heard her bedroom door close, Mickey pulled himself up in his chair. His sons might be angry with him, but this was too important. “You boys sure your sister’s doing all right?”

  Denny didn’t speak.

  “She’s fine,” Jackie said, pulling the band from his hair so it fell out of that silly-looking knot.

  They could give him the cold shoulder all they wanted, but he needed to see their eyes when they answered this next question so he could measure the truth in their words. He slammed his hand down hard on the table.

  Both their heads snapped up.

  “She’s not thinking of leaving again, is she?” Mickey asked, training his eyes on Jackie first.

  The startled spark in Jackie’s eyes faded and he shrugged. “I hope not.”

  For the first time in two days Mickey turned directly to Denny and waited for a response.

  “Not if we can help it,” Denny said, without looking away.

  Which gave Mickey hope, because, at least in this, they
were still on the same side.

  * * *

  They headed to bed after that. The boys looked ready to drop their heads on the table and were probably lights-out within minutes. But Mickey tossed and turned, wide awake, dark thoughts chasing sleep away. He had lived with regrets for a long time, but the list had grown mightily in length and depth during the last couple days.

  As much as he hadn’t wanted to believe what Denny told him about Billy Walsh hurting Sunday, even while he stood alone in Denny’s room and told himself it couldn’t be true, it had explained certain things. Sunday had seemed to change almost overnight five years ago. Mickey didn’t know what Billy had done to his daughter, and he would never ask for fear of the answer. But whatever it was, it had driven her away.

  They’d all been shocked when she left, but, really, half of her had already been gone. He had talked to Maura at the time, assumed she’d have some idea what was going on with her daughter. “Do you not see it?” he’d asked. “She doesn’t look well. It’s been going on for weeks now.”

  “Sure she’s still a bit under the weather from that flu. Maybe feeling a little sorry for herself. Having to stay home with me, Denny and Theresa getting all the attention with the wedding.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. It’s like she’s here, but she’s not really here.”

  “What’re you on about? ‘She’s here but she’s not here.’” Disagreeing with Maura was like leaning into a brisk wind. “Don’t be foolish. If anything’s wrong with her, it’s because you all spoilt her.”

  Mickey had pushed it hard, stepping in front of Maura so she couldn’t avoid his eye. “That’s nothing to do with it. I think there’s something you’re hiding from me.”

  She had cackled and pulled out the trump card she’d had on him for the last six years. “Now isn’t that rich,” she’d said. “Coming from the likes of you.” Maura had found Lynn’s green scarf under a seat in his pickup shortly after the affair ended. They’d had one conversation about it, Maura demanding answers and details in a cold, dead voice, and never spoken of it again.

  That had ended the discussion. Four days later, Sunday was gone.

  He bolted upright in bed, faster than he had moved in a long time, as questions sprang into his consciousness. Had Maura known what happened to their daughter? If she had known what happened to Sunday, and who hurt her, she would have been petrified of the truth coming out. Had she let Sunday leave so people wouldn’t know their dirty laundry? Heavy dread settled in his chest, the way it did when an unwanted truth is the simplest explanation.

  Maura had always been sharp-tongued, quick with biting sarcasm, but she made him laugh and early on he knew she was a woman capable of guiding a family. No nonsense, perpetually practical, so sure of the right way to do things—save money, buy a house, raise children. They’d been a good team for a time. He provided financial security while Maura was the center of the family universe, the sun that showed them the way.

  When she shut down after Shane’s diagnosis, he assumed she just needed some time. It wasn’t until the school counselor called Mickey to report Shane wasn’t getting to his classes in second grade that he finally confronted her.

  “I can’t,” she had said, sitting at the kitchen table, one hand along the side of her face. She’d lost weight the last few years, sharp angles poking out where soft curves had once been. “I can’t bring him to that classroom anymore. You’re expected to volunteer two days a week. All those children … It’s very loud. And they get so close.”

  That night Mickey asked Denny and Sunday to help Shane get to and from school until Mom was feeling up to it. For the next ten years they got him to classes, activities, sessions with his therapists. They made it work. And Mickey gave up trying to talk to Maura about anything. She responded to any challenge with physical complaints, and he had no clue what to do with that.

  He reached over and turned on his bedside lamp, moved to his closet with care, not wanting to wake anyone. After lifting the floorboard with a shoehorn he pulled out his notebook and sat back down on his bed. He used a small pencil to tick off an item on his list because he’d taken care of it earlier that day: Call Barry about Walsh. The doctor had been right. Writing things down helped with the spotty memory. Although he wouldn’t have had any difficulty remembering the name Walsh.

  He’d known Frank Walsh almost since coming to the States. They’d met while playing for the Gaelic Athletic Association, and years later Mickey had hired Frank on as part of his crew. Everyone had warned him against Frank—he wasn’t the full shilling, serious problem with the drink, unreliable. But Frank had come from Belfast, and Mickey was known to give a fellow countryman a chance when he could—that’s how he’d gotten his own start in construction. Frank had lasted ten years, despite countless tardies and absences. But when showing up to work half in the bag became his norm, Mickey had no choice but to let him go.

  That would have been the end of his interaction with the Walsh family, if he hadn’t decided to deliver Frank’s last paycheck in person. He’d heard Frank was on a bender and figured the wife could use the money. Better to give it to her rather than have it pissed away on drink or the horses by Frank.

  From the moment she met him at the door there was something about Lynn Walsh that Mickey couldn’t shake.

  “Wasn’t it kind of you to come all this way, Mr. Brennan.” She’d accepted the envelope in the entry of her small but tidy row house on the edge of town, wearing a modest plaid dress, long auburn hair in a loose braid. “Won’t you come in for a cup?”

  He hadn’t intended to stay, but the lyrical lilt to her voice had drawn him in, along with her smile. By then Maura was so steeped in her misery that he’d forgotten what it was like to have a simple conversation with a woman, have her ask about his day, what his work was like. Just take an interest. He enjoyed Lynn’s girlhood stories and lively laugh, and sharing experiences of living through the Troubles that defined Northern Ireland while they were growing up.

  The idea of committing adultery seemed ludicrous, and when he showed up at the dry cleaner’s where she worked a week later, he told himself it was because he’d heard of a temporary crew hiring men and wanted to pass the tip along to Lynn, rather than hurt Frank’s pride by going to him directly. The time after was to bring her a coffee-table book he’d come across, quite deliberately, on the mountains of Ireland. “People don’t think we have mountains in Ireland,” she’d said. “But we surely do.” She spoke with a wistfulness and his heart went out to her. Like so many women in Ireland, she’d been rushed into a young marriage by parents with too many mouths to feed. She’d left her home and family for a small, ugly life with Frank and that wayward son of hers, Billy, who seemed to suffer from a double dose of original sin.

  For a while it was just meeting for coffee, always on the pretense of job tips or sharing news from home, always at a diner in another town. The affair didn’t start for a few months and, once it did, they saw each other sporadically, only when they believed it was safe. Never did they talk about the future. They were both Irish Catholic enough to know they didn’t have one together, they were just finding comfort where they could. The first time Mickey offered Lynn money—the Walshes were again behind on the rent—she’d really gotten her Irish up. “Don’t be offering me money like a common whore, Mickey Brennan,” she’d said, hands on hips and hazel eyes aglow. He hadn’t made that mistake again, but he found discreet ways to help, like having groceries delivered or slipping cash in her purse. Lynn knew where the money was coming from, but she could only accept it if they didn’t talk about it.

  When Lynn realized her son knew about them, they both agreed it had to end. Billy had thrown it in her face during an argument, told her they were fooling no one. The neighbors had seen him drive her home at night, including men who worked for Mickey, as well as that gossip Sharon Martin, with her loads of makeup and shameful clothes that were too young for her. If that many people knew, how long would it be befo
re his own children knew? And Lynn was racked with guilt.

  So they ended it. Mickey badly missed those precious reprieves with Lynn, a woman he’d come to care deeply for, but he continued to find ways to provide relief for her because her story only grew more dismal. Frank never held down a job again, and no one was surprised to hear he met a nasty end with cirrhosis of the liver a couple years later. The last time Mickey talked to Lynn Walsh in person was one afternoon when she came to his office to ask for help. The affair had been over many years by then, their interactions limited to sightings in town or on the road, sad smiles and waves.

  “I don’t want to be putting you to any trouble now, Mickey,” she’d said. “You’ve done quite enough over the years. Especially after Frank died.”

  She meant her house. Mickey had bought it for her. “Lynn, there’s no need to be getting into all that. Just tell me how I can help.”

  When she looked him in the face he could see it had been six hard years of living for her. “My son went back to Belfast a few months ago. It was for the best, you see. He was getting into some trouble here, drunken fight with a girlfriend, some petty theft. And he said he had people after him.” She shook her head and fiddled with her purse straps. “But I’m still his mother and I’d like to know how he’s faring back home.”

  Mickey managed to get reports now and again from his nephew, Barry, who was on the Belfast police force. Unfortunately Billy dipped into a life of drug crime, getting himself arrested a couple times. Mickey kept Lynn updated periodically until she passed away. She was taken by a weak heart no one knew about while working at the cleaner’s one afternoon. He attended her funeral in Katonah from afar, happy to see her sister made suitable arrangements. Mickey assumed the house went to the sister after that. He heard it sold about a year ago. By then Billy was nowhere to be found. According to Barry, he’d caught the ire of some drug kingpin and had likely gone to Dublin or Liverpool to hide among the masses.

  But at some point Billy Walsh had come back to the States and loaned Denny money. Probably the money from Lynn’s house. Billy was responsible for hurting his family and it was Mickey’s own fault.