Chapter 11
The Family Priest
Tommy stayed home with his family after his mother's funeral. One morning a month after the funeral, Uncle Eamon waited for him outside the village church where Tommy attended morning mass.
Eamon took Tommy by his shoulders and held him in front of him. “Tommy, it's time you returned to the Brothers.”
“I'd like to go back.”
Eamon patted his shoulders as he released him.
“Then we've settled that in a quick. I'll get you on the bus in the mornin'.”
“But Da needs me here.”
“If we ever figure out what your da needs, I'll be here to get it for him. You need to go to school.”
They walked the road out of the village to the cluster of cottages where both families lived.
“You have a notion what Da needs?”
“You're the one the Brothers are trainin' for this sort of thing. What do you think he needs?”
“The Brothers would say it must start with an understandin' that whatever it is he thinks he did wrong, the Lord forgives him.”
“That's what the Brothers teach, and they're right to do so. But I'm thinkin' it's his own forgiveness that's needed here. And it's never been clear to me which comes first. That's why you're on the bus in the mornin'. We'll be needin' a priest in this family. I'll tell your da it's time for you to go.”
A week after Tommy returned to seminary, Katie and baby Patrick were both sleeping in Brian's bed, as they often did when Tommy was at seminary, and Brian sat close to the fireplace for the last warmth of the peat turf. Outside a cold rain fell, and inside there was a damp chill. Brian had wrapped his neck with the wool scarf Deirdre had knitted him when they were courting.
Brian clutched a crumbled collection of papers in his left hand. His other held a small round bottle of the local poitin. He took a sip against the chill and placed the bottle on the floor at his feet, then picked up the last paper that was laying there. He read it, as he had read the others. Then he crumbled it into his left hand with the others and picked up the bottle for another drink.
Brian mumbled a few words as he put down the bottle, and laughed bitterly, then mocked a genuflect as he leaned forward to feed the papers into the fire, one at time, each one adding a brief, bright flame, until all the papers that had held his notes and ideas and plans for the Great Lodge at Innish Cove were nothing but ashes.
Brian took one last drink, returned the bottle to the cupboard, and found his way through the dark to his bedroom. He felt for the children to move them aside, too late realizing his weight was coming down on Katie's leg.
“Ouch, Da. That hurt.”
“Sorry, Katie, just tryin' to move you over here a bit.”
“But Patrick made it wet over there.”
“What?”
“He wet through his nappy again.”
Brian roared “Feckin' hell!” and kicked the bed in anger and then felt Katie recoil in fear. He immediately stepped away from the bed, his heart pounding, his head pounding; he retreated to the door and stood there, trembling, afraid himself at such quick fierceness in him, from him. From the dark Katie spoke, a soft whisper Brian could barely hear.
“I moved him to a dry spot. I'll clean the bed clothes in the mornin'.”
Brian took a deep breath, then another, and he clenched and unclenched his fists.
“I moved him out of his pee.”
“Ah, thanks, sweetheart. I am sorry if I scared you just now.”
“I'm sorry Patrick peed your bed.”
Brian was breathing more easily now.
“Has he cried?”
“Not a sound.”
“Nothin'?”
“None.”
“You go back to sleep. I'm out here… takin' care of you.”
“Thanks, Da.”
“Good-night, Katie.”
Brian returned to the hearth, and fanned and fueled the dying coal to a heat-generating glow. He straightened up and retrieved the bottle from the cupboard, realized there really wasn't much left, and decided to finish it all.
Chapter 12
Cries
It was trout season, the spring of 1942, nearly two years since Deirdre's funeral. Brian stood on shore as the British gentleman cast the river. Brian's eyes were moist and framed in fire-hot redness.
“Excuse me just a moment Mr. Evan.”
The fisherman shook his head.
“It's Devon, not Evan. Mr. Devon.”
“Mr. Devon, yes, that's right. But I've got to relieve meself an' that grove up there will serve me fine.” After a few steps Brian turned, “But let me make sure I'm clear. It's that fold of current along the far bank, that's what you need to be workin' along this stretch of the River.”
“I understood you the first time, I understood you the second time.”
“Because it's the hole between them two big rocks what's makin' the water roil, an' that's where the big brownie is a sittin'. Not five yards to the right nor five yards to the left, but just in that bit of current right along that bank there.”
“Thank you, I appreciate the completeness of your directions.”
“I take pride in doin' a job right.”
Brian entered a small oak grove in the field above the River, emptied his bladder behind a tree, walked back around to the front of the tree, and removed a bottle of poitin from a pocket inside his coat. He took a good drink, leaned back against the heavy trunk, licked his lips to enjoy the entire sweet aftertaste unique to each batch, then closed his eyes. He smiled, first his mouth, then his whole face. As he slowly shook his head back and forth, the smile went away.
His eyes still closed, he raised the bottle to his lips for a second portion as Mr. Devon entered the grove looking for him.
“You must think me an idiot.”
Brian made it a deep drink, then opened his eyes and showed a harder smile.
“I will if you try to say it's me been keepin' you from catchin' trout.”
“Look, at the proper time I can understand a little drink. But this is inexcusable.”
Brian took a quick sip to show he could, then wiped his lips.
“It's so very important to me that you understand.”
“If you think this is accomplishing something, I don't know what it would be.”
“I've been trying to accomplish you catchin' one of them brownies swimmin' around in the River. I'm bringin' you to their doorstep all day.”
“But this seems a deliberate effort on your part to be rude to me. What have I done to you to deserve such treatment?”
“We can't have you bein' the only Brit I've taken out who doesn't catch a fish. Say, how 'bout I hook one for you an' you just reel 'em in, an' we can tell ever after wonderful tales of your heroic battle.”
“I am sorry for you and whatever your troubles may be, but I'm being irresponsible if I don't tell the full story of your gross impertinence to the steward.”
“Ah, Jimmy himself, he knows the full story. It begins Brian Burke is the best damn ghillie in three counties an' he knows the story always has the same happy endin', with a couple of nice brownies floppin' on the bank of the River and the proud Brit starin' down at his good fortune.”
“I can't imagine any self-respecting British gentleman would allow your drunken disrespect, or is it mockery?”
“Fact is, they're usually too busy catchin' trout for me to have a chance to slip away. It's the likes of yourself makin' the bottle needed who also make it available for relief.”
“The likes of me? Where's the fault in my behavior?”
“You got yourself the finest piece of split bamboo in your hands. I took one look at your flies an' wanted to feast on 'em. But your holdin' it back when it wants to fly, an' you're forcin' it when you hain't collected the energy first. You're yards short on half your casts, an' when you do reach the pools your presentation is scarin' the fish. But the fact you can't catch any fish is my fault now, because you Bri
ts enjoy feelin' insulted when an Irishman drinks in your presence without beggin' your bye or leave.”
“I imagine you're just carrying on so because we both understand what happens next.”
“You tell me what happens next.”
“What happens next is that you're through. I will make sure of that.”
Brian made a dash at Mr. Devon, a man trained and drilled in hand-to-hand combat as a British officer, and Captain Devon was stone-cold sober, so it was easy to sidestep the mad rush of the Red Bull Demon and then flip Brian over his hip and into the base of a tree where Brian heard something pop but was so stunned he didn't understand it was his own shoulder. He jumped to his feet but then the pain came hard, and both his brain and his gut were so completely defeated by it he had to lean against the tree, then slowly drop back down to his knees.
Mr. Devon stood back.
“I didn't mean to hurt you. I am sorry. I had no time to choose your landing site.”
“Get the feck outta here, or I'll be comin' at ya again.”
Mr. Devon turned to leave. He looked back once as he walked along the bank of the River and saw Brian sitting against the tree, holding his left arm tightly to his side, trying to relieve the sharpness of the pain in his left shoulder, replacing it with a steady, throbbing ache.
Brian sat there for some time, watching clouds go by, listening to the wind in the oaks, feeling his heart pumping in his ears, feeling foolish. Feeling defeated. When he stood to get to his feet, though he never let go of his arm, the worst pain returned and it took long moments of hot, sharp jaw-clenching burn before he found a new way to hold his arm for some relief. He slowly walked through the trees down to the River, following the path Mr. Devon had taken to the fishing lodge, practicing the story he would tell Jimmy, flinching again as his shoulder spasmed.
Brian and Jimmy were talking in the gamekeeper's cottage. Jimmy was a humble old man. Brian still held his left arm close to his body with his right hand, and he tried to ignore the deep ache and frequent flashes of pain.
“So why pretend indignation of a sudden, Jimmy? We have our understandin', so long as your guests are catchin' trout an' I'm keepin' it under control.”
“My understandin' was some guests actually enjoyed a big wild Mick ghillie playin' tragedy as a comedy, takin' on the role they expect us to play for 'em. As long as they was catchin' limits regularly they was fine laughin' at your sideshow.”
“Whatta you sayin' here Jimmy? No one was laughin' at me.”
“But when it's barely a trickle a' Brits is comin' over in the first place, Bri, an' them that does is lookin' for a respite from violence… An' this fella here, Bri, he hasn't struck me as anythin' but fair in all my dealin's with him. But he makes the second you take a swing at.”
Brian's anger was rising, and he held his arm tighter as the ache and pain was spreading with his anger.
“An' I'm sayin' no one was laughin' at me.”
“No? Okay, but we have very important things to talk about an' I deserve a break here, Brian, so calm yerself. We get few guests and you've gotten your share, even as you're late one day and failin' to show up at all the next, 'cause I know what you're facin'.”
“No feckin' pity fer me either, ya hear.”
“An' after I took you back even though you swung a punch at one of me best guests.”
“Years ago, Jimmy, an' you wanted to take your own poke at him, you admitted that. Anyway that hain't got nothin' to do wit—”
“With you drinkin' all the time now? Not just some of the time, not just most of the time, but now it's all of the time?”
“I'm like the man whose wife divorced him after thirty years when he came home sober for the first time, yeah.”
“They think there's a charm to you when it's a quick nip in the afternoon tea, Brian. But a drunk hain't that charmin' to most people.”
“You put up with it for yer own benefits, not mine. I'm the best damn ghillie been around in your sorry old lifetime—you says so yourself.”
“Truth be told, the rest are either too old or off fightin' the Nazis, so it's yourself I been stuck with.”
“An' so it is.”
“But not anymore, Bri. Until you get the drinkin' under control, I'll take 'em out meself if I have to, but I got no more work for you here.”
“With my three children to feed.”
“An' I got a wife who is expectin' I will be lookin' after her in our old age—”
Brian shot out of his chair but held the desk to stop himself, and his shoulder flashed so hot his stomach cramped hard and his head buzzed.
“Now, I meant nothin', Bri. I'm sorry for what I said, but I'm too old for you to be threatenin' me, even when you're drinkin', you can't be that foolish.” Brian stepped back and supported his shoulder again. “This job here, Bri, this is all I got, an' I just can't be riskin' it. If you leave now an' quietly, I'll pay you for a full day today an' for tomorrow as well an' that second bit I'll be takin' outta me own pocket.”
“Pay me what you owe me, old man, an' I'll forget you offered me charity.”
Tommy had returned home from seminary two days before to see for himself the state of his father and the condition of Katie and little baby Patrick, for Eamon had called the Brothers to tell them that Tommy was needed. With Tommy home and a few extra pounds in his pocket, Brian decided to try and drink away his shoulder's pain at the pub before he returned to the cottage. Drink helped, and more drink helped more, so he stayed and drank until the pub closed.
He walked the road away from the village to his cottage. Just before he opened the door, he took a last sip from a bottle and returned it to his pocket. As he stooped to step inside, baby Patrick cried.
Since the day of his mother's funeral and for all the days thereafter, Patrick had been absolutely silent except for a soft sort of cooing sound when taking a bottle. Everyone who stopped by noted the quiet baby boy. First they called him “a brave little Paddy” and Brian hoped they were right. But as soundless days became weeks and then month after month, some grew afraid that the constant quiet found about “poor Patrick” just wasn't natural. They began to call it “Patrick's deep quiet”. Some became uneasy in his presence.
For Brian, the guilt he felt over the death of Patrick's mother had settled in with the silence of their son. He found this final mute testament of his neglect and abuse was a companion to his guilt.
Then one day as Patrick was struggling to learn to walk he tripped, he hit his head on the chair as he fell, and he began to cry. Brian was surprised by the sound, and as he held his son in his arms to care for him, he realized just three days before he had awakened early to attend Mass for the first anniversary of Deirdre's death; the day Patrick cried was the anniversary of her burial.
Once he started, Patrick's cry continued, but it brought Brian some relief for it gave him a role to play, a role that comforted him as he comforted the child. Night after night as Patrick cried, lying on his father's chest, Brian sang to him and called him “brave little Paddy”. He patted his back until Patrick's deep sleep brought them both peace. And many nights he put Patrick aside, sleeping deeply, and picked up Katie to quiet her fears and wipe her tears.
Only after the children were both asleep would Brian retrieve the bottle.
Why one night was different than all those before, Brian would never fully understand. Why was it that one night, just two days before Brian injured his shoulder, that the baby's cry no longer sounded like a son's sad song asking for his father's comfort? Instead it seemed to carry a hard condemning wail that scratched and tore at a widower's guilt.
It might simply have been fatigue. In order to bring comfort to his children, Brian had been in constant struggle with the Red Bull Demon that fed on his guilt and pity, and the fight was exhausting.
And earlier that day he'd had no choice but to borrow some money from Eamon for the first time, and he asked for it, knowing his Cos had little. And he asked for it knowing much of it
would go to buy another bottle.
But on this night, after months of comforting Patrick's cry every night with a song or a story and his loving arms, Brian popped the baby on his butt, harder than he meant to, and Patrick stopped crying.
The next night Patrick's cry seemed fiercely resistant and Brian slipped again, spanking him hard, and his baby son stopped crying.
So the third night, when Brian entered the cottage, his shoulder's pain growing in intensity, he ignored Tommy's questions about why he was so late and he yelled at Katie.
“Make him shut up.”
Katie had her eighteen-month-old brother in her arms, rocking him, and Tommy was at her side, singing a song. They didn't know it was the searing shoulder pain that twisted their da's face and darkened his brow, but the look of it frightened them. When he roared again to quiet the baby Katie said, “Da, I don't know how, Da.”
The fear they showed of their father angered Brian more and he reached out to grab the sobbing baby boy from Katie's arms, the pain in his shoulder sharp and hot.
“No, Da!”
He held the little body against his chest, first to try to position his shoulder for the least pain, and when little relief came he popped the baby on his butt, but this time Patrick's cry added a scream that drove the pain in Brian's shoulder through his whole body. Brian clenched the child in a quick jerk chest to chest, to shake even a bit of the power out of him, trying to get even a moment of relief from the baby's scream, or from his pain, so he could think about what came next, but the baby cried a new fear, and the children pulled at their father's arms to get at their brother. Tommy's pull wrenched his father's shoulder, and Brian's painful fury exploded and he pulled away from his children and roared down at them.
“I'll take care of my son.”
Katie froze, Patrick screamed, and Tommy dashed to the door and out into the night while he called to his sister, “I'll get Uncle Eamon.” His voice acted as a release for Katie who ran to grab the back of her father's shirt as he carried the baby into his bedroom. Brian pulled away and slammed the door shut against her pleas.
The 53rd Parallel Page 7