Irish Tiger

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “If you haven’t risked your Sunday peace by reading the papers, you’ll be pleased to know that Eyes and Ears reports reconciliation in the Donlan family and a planned Christmas dinner in Oakdale.”

  “Isn’t that nice now!”

  “An invitation to the bad guys. And they’ll probably be quiet all week to lull us into thinking they have the Christmas spirit. . . . Joey would figure that he’d take over DAM, eh?”

  “Wrongly, I think, though that would depend on how much money he has socked away. More likely it would be a target for a hedge fund or private company like Blackstone . . . Anyway we’ll get on it first thing in the morning. . . . Don’t forget to watch the Bears.”

  “Game doesn’t matter. They’re in the playoffs anyway.”

  “Anytime they play, the game matters.”

  “I figure that without Tommy Harris and Mike Brown they’ll never win the Super Bowl.”

  There was a faint smile on me wife’s face when I hung up.

  “Don’t bother watching them today,” she said. “They’ll lose.”

  “You don’t have to be fey to figure that out.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of an alliance between Joey and the brothers, Dermot Michael,” Nuala said. “It fits perfectly. Crazy and sloppy.”

  “They’ll probably do something crazy on Christmas, blow up the house maybe.”

  “Och, Dermot, this time won’t they be more subtle?”

  “What will they do?”

  “Poison!”

  “Poison?”

  “Slip something deadly into what everyone will eat, something that might not show up in an autopsy.”

  “We’ll have to stop them?”

  “Faith, Dermot, of course we’ll stop them, but this time we’ll have to get the evidence against them.”

  The “dark” one was back. I shivered a little. That persona scares me a little anytime she sneaks into the house.

  “Why don’t you call your poor da, and himself knowing everything there is about medicine and everything else besides.”

  Poor in this case meant “long-suffering.” He was the instant pediatrics consultant for all his children, though in his career he’d been a cardiac surgeon.

  I called him.

  “Doctor Coyne.”

  “Nuala’s husband.”

  He loved all his children and their spouses, but he had a special soft spot for his own mother, Mary Anne or Nellie as she was always called. Hence our Nellie was the super favorite.

  “I see by the papers that she will get great reviews for her special.”

  “Probably on Wednesday morning. It was the best yet. She improves with age.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “She wanted me to ask you a question.”

  “Something about a nefarious way to commit murder?”

  “Just so. . . Imagine that she wanted to wipe out a whole family with poison at Christmas dinner. What would be a convenient and safe way of doing it?”

  “Well, she might introduce a very powerful dose of E. coli into the dressing. We’ve had a lot of E. coli poisoning going around lately. It would be lamented as a tragic accident.”

  “Where would they get it?”

  “Your local hospitals keep cultures around, for comparative purposes. They’re watched pretty carefully. Still . . .”

  “If someone wanted it bad enough. . .”

  “That would be a simple way to do it. I hope you’re able to catch them before they do any harm.”

  “Count on it.”

  Nuala, who had been listening on the other phone, looked glum.

  “Didn’t herself tell me that one of her nieces works at Kishwaukee Community Hospital, just down the river from Oakdale?”

  “And I’d bet that a niece or a nephew works at the supermarket where the Connors do all their shopping?”

  “This is too easy altogether, Dermot.”

  “Easy to know what they’re doing, hard to stop them.”

  Nuala Anne

  THE NEXT morning was another bad ’un for me. At my age in life I should know meself well enough to understand that after a successful show I would experience a deep letdown. But I always forget until it happens again. If the special didn’t do all that well, I’d bounce back immediately, but when it is a huge success, as Lullaby and Good Night was, I go into a tailspin. This is very Irish of me, but as I’ve learned here in Yank land, I am very Irish—cheerful and brave in defeat, melancholy and depressed in victory. My poor dear husband has figured out through the years to put up with moods and bring me back to the real world. He let me sleep in this morning, made breakfast for the small ones, and then took them over to school. Then he’s meeting with his publisher about the contract for the new novel which will be about me, like they all are and are very flattering, though no one recognizes me because the character in the story has such a stable disposition. I didn’t even wake up to wish him good luck, not that he needs it because they are so desperate for a new story.

  Poor Dermot needs a vacation away from this house, away from the kids, and away from me too. Except that would never work. So I would have to go with him. His parents would love to have the kids to themselves for a couple of weeks. I’ll just have to talk poor Dermot into it.

  Anyway thank you for sending me such a wonderful husband. Help me to be a better wife to him and help us solve this puzzle so Jack and Maria can have happiness together while there is still time. And themselves with at least thirty more years of life. We can’t go to the Cayman Islands until we solve it. Now make me get out of bed and have some soda bread and a cup of tea and get to work. I love you and thanks again for me poor dear overworked husband.

  The first thing I did after my breakfast was call that nice Mr. Casey. I chatted with his wife Annie Reilly for a couple of minutes. She’s so sweet to me, though she thinks I’m round the bend altogether.

  “Mr. Casey,” I says to him, “I presume that me husband told you that I think there will be another assault on the Donlans on Christmas out beyond in Oakdale?”

  “Woman, he did!”

  “And he told you that I think there is a conspiracy between the Sabattinis and this rodent Joey McMahon?”

  “Woman, he told me that you knew this to be true!” He likes to imitate Dermot Michael when me poor husband tries to imitate me.

  “So you’ll be after monitoring his phone calls to the Sabattinis out beyond?”

  “Haven’t we started that already and doesn’t it confirm what you know?”

  Me heart jumped just a bit. So I was right after all.

  “Sure was there ever a doubt?”

  “Not at Reliable. . . He’s making most of the calls from his office, which shows how reckless he is. Haven’t I been talking to the sheriff out there who has no love for the Sabattini boys? Won’t we be keeping an eye on them?”

  “Good on you, Mr. Casey. . . You’ll keep us informed?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  I hoped that I would be as lively as Mike and Annie when I’m that old and that me poor husband still loves me as much then as he does now. There’s no good reason why he should and meself being such a nag. How much longer will I be a good lay?. . . Now that isn’t fair to me poor dear Dermot at all, at all!

  I thought about it all and decided I’d better chat with Maria Angelica again. I called her at her office.

  “How are both of youse keeping?”

  “I’m keeping fine, my spouse still hurts all over, but that doesn’t interfere with his lovemaking.”

  “Still. And your company is doing well?”

  “As good as ever, given the present state of the housing market. It’s DAM we’re worried about, but we’ll know how much all this scandal stuff is hurting after the first of the year. My husband still has a few tricks up his sleeve.”

  “And you’ll be feeding the whole clan on the feast of Our Lord’s birth?”

  “My daughters and stepdaughters will be doing m
ost of the work. In the end I suppose I’ll have to banish them all from my kitchen if I’m going to get any work done.”

  I sighed in loud protest. “’Tis the way of it all, isn’t it?. . . No cousins invited?”

  “We don’t have any cousins. . . . Oh, you mean my brothers’ kids. . . . They’ve all been raised to hate us. Won’t speak to any of us. They’re afraid of us too. . . . The sons are thugs like their fathers, except the one that’s studying science at CalTech. The family doesn’t like him either. Why waste your time with that stuff when you should be home helping us in all our small-time deals and crimes?. . . People tell me that they think now that they have the local franchise on the Sopranos.”

  “They kill someone every week?”

  “They’re too dumb to be able to do that. It would be nice if they went to Vegas or somewhere like that and leave this town alone.”

  “Isn’t one of the daughters a nurse over at the hospital?”

  “Camilla. . . or Cammy as they call her, sister to Tammy who works at our local supermarket. Steals from the store all the time. My kids tell me that Camilla is not all bad. Wanted to be friends with them when they were teens, but too shy to try it. Shy is not fashionable in that branch of the clan.”

  “Cammy and Tammy, sound like a sweet pair,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t mind having them over for Christmas dinner, but Tammy would steal the silverware.”

  When we were finished with our gossip, I called Mr. Casey again on his mobile. He wasn’t there, so I left my message about Cammy and Tammy.

  Then me poor dear Dermot Michael called me. “Nuala Anne.”

  “Me first wife, is it?”

  “First and best!”

  “’Tis true.”

  “Did you get your friggin’ contract?”

  “Woman, I did.”

  “And?”

  “Well, they actually want three books instead of one, though they all have to be about this ditsy woman.”

  “The one that’s fey?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. She thinks she is one of the dark ones.”

  “A lot you know about the dark ones . . .”

  “They’re petty good stretched out naked in bed, I’m told!”

  “Give over, Dermot Michael Coyne! You have a dirty mind altogether!”

  “I’m just saying what I hear.”

  “And?”

  “And they have gorgeous tits.”

  “You know what I’m asking!”

  “You mean the money?”

  “I do!”

  “You never tell me what Kosmic Entertainment is paying you.”

  “’Tis a different matter altogether! You’re not the family treasurer.”

  “I don’t remember when we elected you. . . .”

  “How much are they paying?”

  When me dear sweet Dermot is teasing me and also trying to stir me up from a distance, he can be a desperate man!

  “Well, since you put it that way, a lot more than you told me I should ask for. You can retire now, Nuala, and we can spend the rest of our lives making love all day on a beach in the Cayman Islands.”

  “You’re round the bend altogether. . . . But congratulations anyway! You can show me the check when you come home!”

  I told him about the developments on the Donlan case that morning.

  “It looks like we’ll be able to fly to Ireland after all,” he said. “I’ll be looking forward to my annual Irish cold.”

  “Well, I’ll keep the bed warm for you won’t I and make the soup!”

  When the man is teasing me, he can be a real amadon.

  Stretched out naked on a bed! Well, he will be waiting a long time for that to happen, won’t he now!

  Till tonight anyway.

  Please God, don’t let him get sick this time.

  Maria Angelica

  ON THE Wednesday afternoon before Christmas, the day before Christmas Eve, I returned to Oakdale to prepare the Christmas festival. At Jackie’s insistence I went home in a Reliable limo. I made him promise he’d do the same. The bad guys were still around somewhere. I didn’t think they’d take time off for the holidays. I stopped at the office where my son Pete was holding down the fort while reading the Barchester saga.

  “Nothing happening,” he said, barely looking up from the book.

  “Go home to your family, Pete,” I suggested. “I have some phone calls to make.”

  “Okay, but then I won’t be able to finish this book today.”

  “Your daughter is more important.”

  His eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “I guess so . . . How’s Jackie?”

  “Dutiful and obedient. He’ll be out tomorrow.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t stay home alone tonight.”

  “No one would try to harm me here in Oakdale.”

  “If you change your mind, give us a ring. We’d be glad to have you share supper with your granddaughter who might even throw something at you if she’s in a playful mood.”

  I almost said yes. I should have said yes, but then I wouldn’t have met my late-night visitor.

  There was a big stack of Christmas cards waiting for me. I opened them carefully and set aside those to whom I had not sent a card or those who merited a special note of sympathy or congratulations. There was one, astonishingly enough from Sterling Silver Stafford in which he congratulated me on my marriage and wished me many years of happiness. He added that he and his wife were going to settle down in Oakdale after the first of the year and suggested we all have dinner sometime later. It was a peace offering. I would reply that my husband and I would welcome a dinner invitation—a return offering of peace. I gathered up the cards and the other mail and asked the Reliable man to drive me home. Then I suggested that he could drive back to Chicago and collect my husband who had better feel as lonesome as I was. Well, I didn’t say the last clause, but I thought it.

  So when I entered our house two blocks behind the office and turned on the lights, it looked very empty and very old. Well, it should have looked that way. It was empty and old. And I was lonely. In all the years since Peter’s death I had never felt lonely here. And it wasn’t Peter’s absence that made me feel lonely. I hoped that he wouldn’t mind my bringing another man into his home and into his bedroom. The blessed in heaven are not jealous are they? I love him, Peter, I said. That doesn’t mean I will ever stop loving you. But this is different.

  I had yet to make love to Jack in our bedroom. I would certainly do it at Christmas, no matter how many people were in the house or in the charming motel down the street. We all had to move beyond such a critical symbol. It would be hard on Jack’s daughters. Their love for me was genuine enough in the sense that they wanted to love me and had begun to love me, but still had some doubts. For that I couldn’t blame them. Everyone would be on their good behavior, too good perhaps to relax. By next Christmas we would have bonded sufficiently to be able to argue and fight.

  Enough philosophy. I was lonely and I wanted to tell my man that I was lonely.

  “Jack Donlan.”

  “I think I may divorce you and yourself leaving me all alone out here.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like that lovely Irish witch.”

  “I want you, Jackie, and I want you here.”

  “It was your idea that—”

  “I know it was my idea, but you shouldn’t have agreed with me. You know how besotted I have become with you.”

  “We’ll make up for it tomorrow.”

  “I’ll hold you to that promise. . . . I hope you have a difficult and lonely night.”

  “I’ll try my best. I hope you have a good, quiet night with peaceful dreams about our first Christmas together.”

  “You too,” I replied. “I didn’t mean what I said. I love you.”

  “And I love you, Maria Angelica.”

  We both wept, more from love than loneliness and said good night. I made him promise to call me before he went to sleep.


  I walked around the house, getting a feel for what it was like now that I had a new husband. The house was not interested in my changed state in life. It still tolerated me as did the ghosts of those who had lived in it for more than a century. I knew that their spirits checked in periodically to make sure I was being good to the house and departed approvingly. They did not live there anymore, but lived elsewhere. They were happy spirits.

  Was this all my superstitious Italian soul, or my serene Catholic faith? I figured that the two were not all that far apart.

  The phone rang and I jumped, startled out of my mix of nostalgic reverie and physical loneliness. It was the sheriff.

  “Hi, Maria, good to have you home for Christmas. It wouldn’t be Christmas here in Oakdale if you weren’t with us.”

  The sheriff, Jake Danzig, was an elderly man, of my father-in-law’s generation, but sharp and competent. Also a loyal Democrat.

  “Thanks for the welcome, Jake. It is good to be back.”

  “We’re looking forward to seeing your handsome husband.”

  “So am I! He won’t be here till tomorrow morning. I miss him already. . . .”

  “I’d say that’s a pretty good sign. . . . I know that you’re not the nervous Nellie type, but I thought I’d mention that the Oakdale chief of police and I have arranged to have cars cruise by your house alternately all night long. Just a precaution.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance, Jake. It is just a little scary being here alone on the darkest day of the year. I’ll sleep more peacefully knowing that the cruisers are out there.”

  And thanks to Mike Casey for alerting you.

  His call and his flat Midwestern voice brought everything back to normal. It was my house and my town and my county and I was perfectly safe. I took off my clothes and put on a nightgown, part of my quickly assembled trousseau, and made myself a salad and a cup of warm herbal tea and settled in to finish the mail.

  The phone rang again. My husband going to bed and calling me to tell me he was lonely too.

  A woman’s voice on the other end of the line trying to find words.