by Anne Emery
“Whatever became of the boy?” I asked.
“Don’t know. He may have gone back to the orphanage. Or he may have been placed in a foster home. It’s possible he was sent out of the city, or out of the province. He wasn’t a local boy. Who knows?”
“Probably in a psychiatric hospital somewhere, to this day,” Brennan commented tartly.
“Or prison,” I added. “Father O’Flaherty seems like such a gentle old guy. I cannot imagine him in a situation like that.”
“He was a gentle type of guy back then, too. This incident was rough on him, by the sound of it, mentally and physically. I think he took some punches from the kid; I suspect all three of them took some hits. But it was the verbal attacks that really had them spooked. ‘He couldn’t have known, he couldn’t have known,’ Michael kept saying. There was something they figured no human child of twelve could possibly have known. But he refused to tell me what it was.”
“Where’s Father Brosnan now?”
“He died not long afterwards. Maybe of old age, I don’t know.” Drohan pushed himself up from the table. “Hope you enjoyed your journey to the dark side, Montague. And you thought all priests talked about was the vintage of the communion wine. Sleep with your light on tonight!”
I left soon after. I slept well, and in darkness. But just before dawn, in a state between sleeping and waking, my mind was assailed by images of Brennan in white vestments splashed with red, looking on helplessly as a ghostly hand raised a Celtic cross and brought it down, over and over again, like a hammer, onto a figure dressed in black.
Chapter 21
O Sovereign, O Judge, O Father, always hidden yet always present,
I worshipped You in time of success, and bless You in these dark days.
I go where Your law commands, free of all human regret.
— Massenet et al., “O Souverain, O Juge, O Père,” Le Cid
I
With the cold light of day, I was able to shake off the disturbing images of the otherworldly tale I had heard the night before. But, obviously, questions remained. And they dogged me all morning as I got ready for a session in court on a personal injury case. Who was the boy at the centre of the exorcism drama? Father Drohan had suggested the name Jamie; it was not too much of a stretch to wonder if the name had been Jason. Or if Jason was a name made up by Jamie. Just how violent was the encounter between the boy and the two priests? Were these the “Fighting Irish,” or had that been directed at Burke? But the exorcism had nothing to do with Burke and everything to do with O’Flaherty. A sweet, gentle man caught up in a turbulent event that he believed was “beyond human ken,” to use a phrase I had heard from him once. Just what effect had it had on him? Of course, it was Burke’s sign that was carved on the victims’ bodies. Or had Jason heard the story of a priest at St. Bernadette’s who had the sign of the cross burned into him, and thought it was his old nemesis O’Flaherty? And didn’t Drohan say the sign of the cross was part of the ritual? My speculations were getting me nowhere. I put my mind to my other clients.
The day after that, Thursday, I was about to book off early to meet some cronies at the Midtown Tavern when I got a phone call from Sister Dunne. With everything else going on I had nearly forgotten that I’d asked her to set me up with the children at the choir school. Did I want to come over and talk to them now? No, I wanted to go out and have a tall, cool ale. But I thanked her and headed to St. Bernadette’s.
When the interviews were done, I raced across the street to see Brennan. I was met by Mrs. Kelly, with a face on her that said: “We regret to announce.”
“No, I’m afraid you just missed Father, Mr. Collins. He’s gone out to dinner.”
“Do you know where?”
“No.” She pursed her thin lips in disapproval. “He just laughed and said he had ‘a date’ and he scampered off.”
My next stop was Dresden Row, where my children were happy to see me but my wife was in a rush. Getting ready to go out. And she was looking quite delectable in a black dress I had never seen before. Somebody was going to be led into temptation tonight.
“You’re all dressed up,” I remarked.
“Yes, occasionally I still make an effort.”
“For favoured company.”
“Exactly.”
“Where are you going?”
“Dinner.”
Just then our ears were assailed by the loud beep of a car horn. “Not very gallant,” I remarked, “sitting outside and honking the horn.”
“You’re expecting gallantry? Consider the source. Goodnight, kids!” she called out. “Tom, make sure Normie doesn’t get into the Halloween candy. Well, are you going to tag along with us, Collins?”
She swept out, her bag and coat draped over her arm. I followed. No sooner did she clear the doorway, in her uncommon finery, than she was greeted with a wolf whistle from the direction of the street. Unbelievable. Just who did he think he... Oh. Maura’s best pals, Liz and Fanny, had their heads hanging out the car windows. Liz had a 1954 Chevy Bel Air, pale yellow with white trim, and I missed the occasional rides I used to have in it. Maura turned to me impatiently: “Get in, if you’re coming. We’re all anxious to get the feed bag on.”
“No, I’m not coming. Too much to do tonight. I have to find Brennan.”
“I was speaking to him earlier. He said he was taking somebody, a street kid, over to Hope Cottage.”
His dinner date. Hope Cottage was a small, early-i8oos house on Brunswick Street, where homeless men could get a meal. “I’ll call over there then.”
“All right. I’m off.” She turned and climbed into the back seat of the car, and the women peeled away.
I went back inside and called Hope Cottage, but Brennan had left. I finally connected with him at the rectory. When I arrived, he was standing by the window of his room, gazing out, with a glass of orange juice in his hand. He was wearing a T-shirt MacNeil would kill for. It showed a i95os housewife seen through a magnificent stained glass window. She was going at the window with a cleaning cloth and a jar of “stain remover.” She had managed to get down to plain, clean glass in one spot and was wearing an expression of grim satisfaction.
Brennan looked as relaxed as I had seen him in a long, long time. That was about to change.
“Sit down, Brennan.” I then relived for him the interviews I had conducted at St. Bernadette’s Choir School.
II
I had brought the children into an empty classroom one by one. Most of the kids had an anecdote about the choir, or Janeece, or last year’s variety show. But nobody remembered the wig being removed from Burke’s head until I got to the twelfth choir member, Ben Foley, a tall boy with curly brown hair, a freckled nose, and very light blue eyes.
“Father O’Flaherty near broke my arm! He was trying to pull my robe off after the skit. The stupid robe was too small for me and he pulled the sleeve of my shirt at the same time as the robe, and he jerked my arm up. I yelped, and Miss Darragh said: ‘Don’t be so rough, Daddy-O’ or something like that. And everybody laughed.”
I hardly dared to breathe. The entire case against Brennan Burke could stand or fall on what this boy said. “Let’s go through that once more, Ben. Father O’Flaherty was trying to get your robe off, and he pulled your arm.”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s when Ms. Darragh said: ‘Don’t be so rough, Daddy-O’?”
“Right. She turned and looked when I yelled. Father felt bad about yanking my arm. He didn’t mean to hurt me. I felt like a baby for crying out.” He looked down and busied himself rubbing an imaginary stain from his thumb.
“Ben, what was Ms. Darragh doing just before she turned? Can you remember?”
The bo
y shrugged. “I don’t know. Just getting the costumes together, I guess. She looked like she was in a hurry. It was funny. She tore that Mozart wig off of Father Burke’s head and practically lifted him right out of the chair with it.” The little fellow grinned at the memory. I didn’t move a muscle lest I interrupt the story Ben was telling. “Burke was rubbing his hair but you know how cool he is, like he forgets there’s anyone else in the room. You could throw a bucket of water on his head if he was reading something, and he wouldn’t look up. He didn’t even turn around or say anything to her. Just kept reading some paper he had on the desk in front of him.”
III
“It’s her, Brennan.” Burke was staring at me in disbelief. “It was Eileen who took the wig from your head and pulled your hair. Thanks to my inept questioning before, she didn’t have to admit it because I told her the story you told me, that Father O’Flaherty had done it. Which you assumed was the case. And Mike didn’t remember one way or the other. Because the incident meant nothing to him. But it meant everything to her, and she lied to me about it.”
“But why would she do this? Weren’t you just telling me the other day that she’s carrying a torch for me?”
“Oh, you can be sure there’s a motive. It’s her.”
“But what about this?” He pointed to the spot above his heart where God had marked him with the sign of the cross.
“That’s been a stumbling block for us all along, but there has to be an explanation. We have to confront her. Together. This is not a situation somebody walks into alone. As outlandish as it seems, the woman is a killer.”
Brennan sighed. “How could I not have noticed this in someone I see every day?”
“What was she like when you first arrived here? Last year I mean.”
“It had been twenty years since I’d been here. I didn’t even remember at first that I had met her.” I closed my eyes. She sure as hell remembered him. “I don’t recall how she was when I arrived last year. I was introduced to everyone, but I can’t picture the scene at all. Except for the penetrating gaze of Marguerite. And Mike got off on the subject of the old country the instant we met. Eileen? I don’t remember.” He looked uncharacteristically abashed.
“You loomed large in her young life, Brennan, at least for a short time. When all this started I was in Eileen’s office, and she was showing me pictures of the children at St. Bernadette’s when it was an orphanage. There was a story about you, and you came off looking good. I thought at that point you were pals.”
The priest shrugged. “Stories in which I’m the good guy are in short supply these days.”
I got up abruptly, no longer able to bear the suspense. “Let’s go. We’ll see if we can catch her in the office. I’d suggest you change out of that shirt and into something a little less entertaining. We’re not going to have any fun tonight.” He changed into a grey T-shirt that was too small, grabbed his leather jacket and keys, and we bounded down the stairs, nearly knocking poor Mrs. Kelly off her feet.
We ran across to the youth centre and I took hold of his sleeve before he could ascend the stairs two at a time and get to his destination. “We have to play this carefully, Brennan. I know I said ‘confront’ her, but I did not mean we burst in and shake it out of her. Nice and easy till we know what we’re up against.”
We entered the building quietly, but Eileen was nowhere to be seen. And why should she still be working, well after dinner time? “All right, Brennan. Where is Eileen Darragh when she’s not at the office? I don’t think I’ve ever pictured her in another location.” He shook his head. “Do we rifle her desk drawers to find her address?” Brennan shrugged. I looked at the photographs on the wall, the children at the orphanage. “There’s the picture Eileen showed me. She was eight. I think that was the year the proposed adoption fell through. Remember, I mentioned it to you.”
Brennan examined the picture, then looked away.
“Do you remember her when she was that age?”
He shook his head, then turned his attention to the photo. “Who’s this lad? There’s something familiar about him.”
I looked over his shoulder. “Georgie someone. What did Eileen tell me? I remember fantasizing about calling him as a witness... Of course! You saved his life. I had visions of him being a success and coming to testify on your behalf. Don’t you find it touching that, after twenty years of criminal law, I could still have a first year law student’s fantasy of things coming to a glorious climax in the courtroom?”
“I have that same fantasy, Monty. Same courtroom, same glory finish. But you’re right, I remember this kid. An annoying little gob-shite. I nearly drowned pulling him out of an undertow. I haven’t thought of that in years. Not even when I came back here. Guess I didn’t take the time to look at the photo display. Should have done. For a number of reasons.” He looked at me. “Eileen was on that beach trip, was she?”
“Yes, she was. And she had an endearing little story about you. I remember it now. Some complicated feelings on her part where you’re concerned, Brennan. You and another priest took the children out to the beach. That kid, Georgie, nearly ruined it by drowning before the party was over. As if that weren’t enough, he threw up in the bus on the way home. Eileen’s shoe ended up in the mess and you advised her to tell the nuns she had lost it so she could get a new pair.”
“I did?”
“Yes. And you offered to sit with her and hear her confession. You were going to give her absolution, in advance, for the lie to the nuns. Eileen treasured that story about you. Attention from the — dare I put words in her mouth? — handsome young priest on a day away from the orphanage.”
Brennan had dropped down onto the visitor’s chair. He put his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. “I’m remembering that now. Sitting on the beach, stretching my toes in the sand, watching the kids make sandcastles. It was so bloody hot. All I wanted to do was dive in and swim. But I had to keep watch over the kids. If something happened, I didn’t think the old fellow — I can’t remember the name of the priest now — would make much of a lifeguard. Good thing, as it turned out.”
I put a hand up to silence him. I was back with Eileen in the same room, hearing her voice, seeing the animation in her face as she spoke of that day in 1968. I heard what she heard, saw what she saw. Then I yanked open the top drawer of her desk and started a frantic search. “Monty! What’s got into you?”
“Turn the room upside down if you have to. Just find her address!” I motioned to him impatiently. We both started grabbing papers at random.
“This looks like a tax form. Ms. Eileen Darragh, 1798c Robie Street.”
“Right, the frat house. Let’s move.” I shoved everything into the drawer, slammed it, and bolted from the room, Brennan at my heels. “We’ll take my car.”
We pulled out of St. Bernadette’s parking lot and roared up Morris Street to the west, waited impatiently at a red light where Morris becomes University Avenue, continued to Robie, and turned north.
“What did you think of, Monty?”
“Your sunburned back. It must have been painful.”
“Yeah, must have been. But I’m over it now.”
“No, you’re not. When Eileen told me the story, I pictured you and the older priest sitting on the beach in your black summer shirts. Eileen said something about priests’ short-sleeved shirts, and something funny the older man was wearing.”
“Yes, I seem to recall the kids giggling about something he had on. A hat?”
I drove for a few minutes in silence. “A tie, that was it, with a funny picture on it. But I don’t think she said anything about what you were wearing. Not till she mentioned your sunburn.” I looked at Brennan in the passenger seat. “You sat out there bare-chested long enough to get a burn. ‘Some b
oy jumped on Father Burke’s sunburned back and he looked as if he wanted to screech.’ That’s what Eileen told me. You see what I’m saying?”
He nodded, looking miserable. “I was sunbathing long enough for Eileen to get a very good look at the cross above my heart.”
“We’ve got her.”
“This doesn’t feel like a glory finish, Monty.”
“It won’t. Not tonight.”
IV
Eileen’s flat was in a badly maintained three-storey house on the corner of Robie and Yew streets. I parked at the back of the house where there was a deck and a series of fire escape stairs to the top. By the time I had yanked on the emergency brake, Burke was out of the car. I called to him to wait, but he paid me no mind. Just as I opened my door, an old sedan pulled in behind me and the driver blasted the horn. When I turned my head, I saw a curtain move in the basement apartment. So much for the element of surprise. Several young men emerged from the old car and the driver said to me, courteously enough: “You can’t park here. But you’ll be all right on the street.” By the time I moved the car and got to the basement door, Burke had gone in.
I peered through the lace curtain in the door window. There was no sign of Brennan or Eileen. The door was unlocked and it opened directly onto a small vestibule, leading into the kitchen. There on the kitchen floor was Eileen, flat on her back with Brennan on top of her, kneeling on her legs, his hands holding hers together on her belly. Both were trying to catch their breath. I could not see the expression on his face; her expression was one of sheer terror. I was not sure whether they were aware of my presence. There was blood streaming down the left side of Brennan’s forehead. A big, heavy flashlight lay on the floor beside them.
The kitchen was dark and shabby, everything in ugly shades of avocado green, gold, and brown, from the torn linoleum floor to the appliances and cupboard doors. I could see part of the living room, a gold-and-brown patterned shag carpet and a flowered chesterfield.