Across town, Mike was far from sleepy. Wired after the concert, Steve had earlier encouraged him to do the one sure thing that always helped him cure insomnia. Doing two chicks at once. What were their names? Ashley and Beth? Joni and Raquel? It didn't really matter, particularly back at his apartment, where the coke was flowing (courtesy of Steve) and the naked girls serviced him like he had never been serviced before.
He crashed like a ton of bricks, satiated, dreamless. But it wasn't until noon the next day, when he went to take a shower, he noticed a small chunk of his long hair had been clipped and he was missing something from his bathroom shelf.
When Sonia called, Shannon sounded drugged. “How's Pete?” was her first question.
“Frankly, it's not good. They've set the bail unbelievably high. We can't afford that…”
“And what does Pete say?”
Shannon was bitter “He says he's innocent. Oh, Sonia, it's ridiculous. They've obviously got the wrong person.”
“What can I do?” Sonia asked helplessly.
“Just be there for us, and Sonia?”
“Yes?”
There was a pause. “I think Pete's really cracking up.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“He keeps talking about how much he always loved my brownies. How my brownies used to save the day for him. How it wasn't just anybody's brownies, only mine. Crazy talk!”
“Oh, Shannon. I'm so, so sorry. I'm gonna get Mike to get even more involved, I promise.” Right then was definitely not the time to tell her about how obsolete Pete had become.
When she hung up, the sudden, overwhelming need to escape overcame her. She thought of Mike and realized he was probably sleeping. Harry always made her so comfortable, but now that she knew Mike loved her, it wasn't really fair to bother him.
When her mom answered she asked if she could come straight over.
“Of course. But what's the rush?”
“Oh, nothing, just that I want to get Great-Grandpa Tony's journals back to you and find out about my next ancestor!”
On the way over to her parents she waxed philosophical. How good life could be sometimes, then, with just a flip of the switch, disastrous. Looking up, the sky was an ominous, mottled-gray, and all at once she envisioned the gigantic Dust Bowl of the 30's. How frightening those dark, ubiquitous clouds must have been, how insecure the entire nation felt, how her father got the short end of the stick in Vietnam, Martha, too, through genetic fate, and how Pete, always such a major part of the group, was now in No Man's Land, fighting for his life.
I shouldn't be content, she thought guiltily as she went upstairs to the attic with her mother. After the trunk was opened, she handed all the journals back to Lily.
“Tony really had his addictions, didn't he?” she said.
“Yes, he certainly did.”
The first thing that came out of the Daria box was an old, worn bible. “Look, this is what your great-grandmother Daria from Ireland wrote in. Good luck reading it. It's all written in between the printed lines, in margins, or even criss-crossed across pages.”
Sonia leaned in. “Oh, my God,” she muttered as she examined the yellowed pages. Putting it down gingerly, she tapped on it twice.
Next was a folded up, threadbare dress. “This is her morning smock,” announced Lily. “You'll read all about how thoughtful your great-grandfather was to his wife while he was out spending all their money.”
“You're being facetious, right?”
A raised eyebrow was her answer.
“Now, here is a little pressed four leaf clover. I think Joe gave it to her.”
“The Indian Joe? Why would he give it to her?”
Lily smiled. “Wait and see!”
Next came a telegram from Belfast, but Lily refused to show it or say anything about it. There was a box within the Daria box marked Rose, housing little toys and a china tea set.
“You'll start to see how your compulsions came about with this one,” was her mother's single comment.
The light was filtering in through the shutter windows, striating white bands against the trunk. Without warning, Sonia suddenly flung her arms around her mother.
“My goodness, what's all this about?” Lily laughed, holding up a little bag of coins.
“I just am feeling good today,” Sonia answered and fingered the bag. “Coins?”
“Oh, those. Now that's quite a story.” She reached in and pulled out a weathered piece of paper. “This is probably worth something. It's a Dance Marathon application.”
“Dance Marathon?”
“Yes, those were the rage. Don't forget, it was cheap entertainment and the winners could win a lot of money at a time when people were starving.”
“Marathon? Like a race?”
“In a way. You'll…”
“I know, I know, I'll see.” Both women grinned.
“Well, that's it. Go have fun, kid, as your father would say.”
“Speaking of father, Dad's being awfully quiet, isn't he? He's asleep?”
“Yes. Something's different about him these days,” Lily replied.
“Must be going around,” Sonia murmured.
Chapter 12: Daria—Living With Proverbs
To know a person one must live in the same house with him - Irish Proverb
I was named Daria Brigit, Brigit after the Celtic goddess Brigid, one of the patron poets. And they say I was born at an inconvenient time. The year was 1902, and the moment, the wee hours of a rain-soaked morn in County Kerry. A terrible storm it was, with lightning that crackled the sky and hoarse winds that rattled the trees. If it be true that St. Patrick had banished all the snakes from Ireland, it sure was a shame he didn't bother with the rain. But maybe that was too big a job even for the likes of him, who knows?
None of that mattered to me mam and me da that night. Sean and Maggie O'Reilly were more than a little preoccupied. Apparently I gave Maggie an awful time of it I did, and for the rest of me young years in Ireland, me aunts and uncles always laughed when recounting me da's very first words after I had inched me way out of Mam's body.
“Good-morrow kindly to you princess!” Sean had said, tipping his tweed cap like we were about to have breakfast with the Queen of England herself. But then again, he had come from a long line of Shananchies, those wandering storytellers who could recite a story at the drop of a hat, whether it be about the Celtic gods, saints, leprechauns, or proverbs. Unfortunately, not only was me da a fine storyteller, as the proverb goes, A drink precedes a story. Well, he be certainly good at that, too.
Mam wasn't so bad at storytelling either, particularly at night when she be sitting at me bed, me eyelids carrying the weight of the world on them they were. She loved to tell me about St. Dedan, St. Ciaran, or St. Brendan the Navigator, but by far, her favorite legend was about Kevin of Glendalough, the Tree-Hugger who stood naked in front of the animals he loved, to be a part of them. I don't know why that was her favorite tale. Maybe because after many pints, me da got in the buff himself one Saturday night just before they were married, saying Drink! Drink as if it was your last one but may the last one not come til mornin’! or maybe he just reminded her of the Tree Hugger, but that's not for me to say.
Sometimes Mam would pause with her story and mumble to me through clenched teeth, “Ach, the curse of the Irishman—wine drowns more men than water and good as drink is, it ends in a thirst, don't ya know,” matching her proverbs to his any day of the week.
But there were fine occasions as well. Three times a year we'd go to Dublin to visit Mam's cousin, Shamus Malloy, a Guiness factory worker with a household overflowing with children and animals. We be screaming around the house with laughter, stopping only to eat fresh brown soda bread or Barm brack, with delicious Gubbean cheese on top. Sometimes there'd also be Dublin Coddle and as a special treat, Irish coffee pudding.
Each morning came with a mighty breakfast. A cuppa tay right off, of course (no self-respecting Irishman could survive w
ithout that), fried eggs, sausages, black pudding, fried tomatoes, toast and jam.
“Nothing like a good cuppa Irish tay,” Mam would beam at six twenty a.m., surrounded by her warm, sleepy family around the table. But she'd stiffen as Da, next to her, often mumbled a few soft words. Later, she be showing The Tight Face for sure, after she'd watch Da go off with cousin Shamus to the Guiness Factory for a day's extra pay and no doubt a free pint with the fellas when the whistle blew four o'clock every afternoon.
The two men would still be gone at eight o'clock they would, and after our supper and the washed and dried dishes, that'd be Mam's signal to charge away to bring her husband home for the night and me signal to go upstairs to bed along with me cousins.
But just once, I snuck out and followed her at a safe distance as she wound through the Dublin streets, her cloak flowing phantomlike behind her. Her head it be wrapped with her plaid woolen scarf like a shroud and her boots made hollow clicks against the cobblestones as she be cutting through the thick, foggy air. When she got to a drinkery she stopped, stiffened up like she be facing the English herself, and marched through the door like a battering ram.
Crouched down behind the large metal barrels just outside the alehouse, I'd be waiting, not knowing what to do. Five minutes later, it be me da, me mam and Shamus outside, the two men leaning onto each other as they weaved and stumbled their way back to the house, Mam poking them when they had steered off course into a building or two. As for me, I waited a minute then hurried back, suddenly remembering what it was Da had been mumbling to Mam every morning, Have another drink and may St. Peter think it's tay!
I knew Da be filled with The Drink when he crooned to me, “Ach, Love of Me Heart,” or “You're me little princess you are. When you're next to me, you make the heavens themselves light up and bring us a rainbow!” because the next day, his face, the color of ashes lying in our fireplace, he'd be stone silent, distant and I'd no longer be a princess, just a speck on the wall.
It was at those times Mam chattered away like she'd never used her mouth before, reciting a childhood poem or two, or retelling one of our bedtime stories, anything to fill up the hush blowing in from the head of the table.
I noticed Mam wasn't only an angel to me. The Kilcullens received her kindness more than anyone else in the family. Tommy, Kathleen and their three children were a friendly lot they were, our cousins who weren't Catholic anymore because during the great Potato Famine, when Tommy's family were all starving to death, the only way they could get food from the local Protestant soup kitchen was to renounce their faith.
“Maggie O'Reilly, why do you even bother with those Soupers? After all, we suffered as well, and we didn't turn our backs on the church. Tis a sin, it is!” was the frequent tirade aimed at Mam.
She'd always raise up her chin and spit back, “Ach, leave those poor people alone! They did what they had to do to survive. Besides, they be family and that's the end of it!”
I loved them, too. Each time they came over, our house vibrated like a bodhrán drum, with a slow, steady throb that gave us smiles and a shot of spirit. And there always be talk about America there was, how they were going to go there soon because it was the Land of Opportunity, don't you know. Why, Kathleen had an uncle in Detroit who could get Tommy a job straight away at the Henry Ford Factory, where the wages were far better than anything he could garner in Ireland. He could raise his children as Americans and get some respect for himself on top of that, and didn't we want to come with them?
At those times, Mam would begin to look excited, but then turning towards Da's gray skin and shaky hands, a sadness would spread across her face. “Some day, maybe. Some day,” she'd mutter and moved us on to different matters altogether.
One night, I be awakened by Mam screaming like she be possessed by the Devil himself. “Death takes the young as well as the old!” she cried as I ran over to see her jabbing a motionless Da over and over again in his chest. Off they went to the doctor, leaving me with a craggy old neighbor for a good two days, and although me da did survive, the very next time the Kilcullens showed up for tay, Mam be asking them straight off if I could go with them to America. Da's face puffed out like a bright, red balloon. His wife must be away in the head, he stammered loudly, and wasn't it true that ships bound for America were still called coffin ships? But mid-bluster he froze. He had caught sight of Mam's fierce eyes and set jaw. It be all settled.
Mam and Da held a Mock Wake for me and our cousins they did, paying their grieving homage to us for leaving them and our village forever. But despite the laughter, the drinking, the dancing, despite the feast laid out on our kitchen table, me chest hurt inside me like the life was being squeezed out of it. I hid under the staircase, pretending it was all just another family gathering when suddenly, me mam's words rang out clear as the morning sun.
“The day he finds death is the day I go to America, I swear I will!” Instantly, me pain vanished like I was up in Heaven itself. I'd be seeing her again, after all.
Meanwhile, Da be reciting one proverb after another, his glass hand raised up over his head, his face the color of raw meat. “My thousand blessings and God's blessing on you, and may you never want for anything.”
The crowd applauded, but he wasn't half finished. “May there never be a rattle in your skillet.” More applause until he held up a single finger. “To the doctor may you never hand any money, and sweet be your hand in a pot full of honey!”
People started to cheer and cry out, “More—more—more!” clapping and stamping their feet so hard, I thought our floors couldn't take the force of it.
Da started again. “If God sends you on a stony path, may he give you strong—” and toppled over, useless as an empty bagpipe.
Everyone was hollering with laughter they were, but Mam didn't come to her husband's side. She was too busy saying softly to her cousin, Kathleen, “Promise me Daria Brigit won't be ending up like me. Swear it on your life!”
Although our first stop be New York, we soon were onto Detroit, a concrete city that reminded me of the Giant's Causeway of Ireland, with its barren honeycombed basalt shafts jutting out of the North Antrim coast. And barren me life seemed as I followed Kathleen around all day long. “Now, now, darlin’. Your mam will be here soon enough, she will. It won't be long,” she'd say, stroking me face.
As for Tommy, he did get a fine job at the Ford factory, earning good pay. And while he worked, we children be growing up polite and smart as English Parliament, a true testament to the Kilcullens’ child raising. Still, Mam was always in me heart, no matter how much time had passed since I last felt her arms about me, and I was wondering if I'd ever be seeing her again when a letter be showing up from Ireland addressed just to me.
Dear Daria Brigit, February 8, 1912
Remember, me love, there be many mixed blessings in life. Da has finally found Death he has, and you must know for sure he was a good man, but it was The Drink that changed him like the great storms that eat away at the rocks along the Kerry shore.
Continue to be the good girl that you are and I promise I be coming as soon as I can get on a ship from Belfast to America.
May God bless you, daughter.
Mam's telegram arrived a month later, delivered by a stiff young man in an ill-fitting uniform and cap. We huddled around our table, talking all at once, laughing at me trembling fingers desperately trying to open the thin, yellow envelope from Western Union. At last I simply tore it open.
DEAR FAMILY. STOP. HAVE BOOKED 3RD CLASS
PASSAGE ON LARGE STEAMSHIP. STOP. THE TITANIC WILL ARRIVE NEW YORK APRIL 17TH STOP. WILL PROCEED TO DETROIT. STOP. MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL. STOP. MAGGIE/MAM
Ach, we were squealing with joy we were. Smacking our hands together, our heels pounding drum-like on the over-trafficked floor, me heart fluttering like a baby sparrow. And on April 26th, 1912, when Tommy and Kathleen held a small wake for Mam in their apartment, they decided last minute to include Da as well. Every Irish person they c
ould gather in Detroit was there, and while Tommy raised his glass more than once to make a toast, it was the last one he delivered that stuck with me.
“God knows, Sean O'Reilly loved the drink, but still, Maggie O'Reilly stayed at his side, like the fine wife she was. So here's to Maggie, an angel, both in life and up in Heaven for all eternity!”
He looked around at his guests wiping their eyes with the back of their hands, taking more shots of whiskey, and ignoring me in the corner, where I be thinking with all me might how I was never going to marry a drinking man. Ever.
Fifteen years later, me eyes still green, me hair dark as unlit coal, and me mouth the color of cherry candy, I was a bit of an innocent for all me twenty-seven years. Oh, I did have me chances at marriage, but they be mostly with immigrants with accents as thick as soup and that just wouldn't do, don't you know. I be leaning towards the men with just a wee bit of an accent, true Americans I called them. And indeed, it be a true American I met one Fourth of July at the annual Ford factory picnic. We arrived at the Detroit Plaza Park, and walking up a winding path, past the striped tents set up for hot dogs wiped with mustard and glasses of ginger soda that tickled our noses, we be seeing a lively baseball game in the middle of McKensie Field.
Tommy got planted with his co-workers while I stood nearby, one hand shielding me eyes from the fierce sun and watching the players on the field grunt and shout. Soon, I centered on a single player straddling second base like he be proudly protecting his home. Even from far away, he was taller than most of the others, and his pale brown hair caught the sunlight just so it be looking golden, and when he caught the ball, he had a grace I not be knowing men could have. It's easy to see a white horse in a bog, filtered through me brain before I could stop meself.
The game ended and I could see him traveling towards us. I tried steadying me breath, because it was coming out strange, but before I could turn away to look for Kathleen and the children, Tommy called me over.
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