by Hadley Finn
“I’m sorry?” It comes out as a question.
“How are you? Guessing the last couple of weeks have been hard for you.”
She nods, but says no more.
“How’s Clara?”
She looks around like I’m setting her up.
“No ulterior motive here,” I add. “Simply seeing how you’re doing.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders drop from her ears and her body slumps in the chair.
“She’s okay. It’s been a rough time for me and I think she’s reading that. And she misses her PawPaw.” Her voice gets smaller and then she adds, “I do too.”
Tears well in her eyes and I reach a hand out and rest it on hers in response.
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?” It’s a pointless question—an impotent one. What could I do, even if I could help?
“No, but thank you for asking.” Her smile this time is small, but genuine. And I respond in kind.
Eventually she relaxes. I ask her to tell me stories about her dad. There are a few, mostly benign. I don’t get the impression he was dad of the year, but even so, he was hers.
Twenty minutes later, as I push open the door, I look over my shoulder. Her smile is genuine and relaxed.
“Thanks for this,” she says plainly.
“My pleasure,” I say looking her in the eyes, and I mean it. “Lock this up behind me? Want to know you’re safe.”
I leave with key lime tarts and a dozen butterscotch bars.
Eight
I’m preparing for Easter services when I get a call about my father’s estate. His attorney, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, is as crooked as he was. Nonetheless, he has business to do, for which he’s been paid handsomely over the course of their relationship.
He asks me to plan a trip to Boston as quickly as I’m able. The estate needs to be settled. Several hiccups have thwarted both of us from finishing this paperwork. I agree and disconnect.
“Evelyn?”
She pops her head into my door and smiles.
“Yes, Father.”
“I need to take a trip the week after Easter. I’ll need someone to fill in.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I’ll leave Monday and return Wednesday. Can you arrange with the Diocese to have someone fill in for those three days, please?”
“I sure can. Want me to book flights for you too?
“Thank you, but no. I appreciate you so much but you don’t have to handle my personal affairs. I’ll take care of those.”
“Of course, Father.”
“And, Evelyn?”
“Yes?”
“Take Friday off. I can man the office. Enjoy those grandbabies and have some time with your kids. Nothing will happen here that I can’t handle.”
It turns out that’s a lie. Good Friday is insane.
In addition to multiple services, three deaths in the last week mean grieving families need help. Three men will be laid to rest next week—all three white, all three mid-fifties, all three danced the line between good and evil in this town.
Not one died of natural causes.
My curiosity would be piqued if I had a moment to give it a thought.
Four masses Saturday and Sunday come on the heels of confessions and services today.
The weekend flies by in a blur. It’s the Super Bowl, March Madness, and the World Series all in one weekend. Go for broke, all in, no sleep ‘til Brooklyn.
Monday afternoon, I deplane my flight from Louis Armstrong to Boston Logan and hail a cab to Whitman, Hall, and Staunchley to meet Hal Staunchley, my father’s former attorney and the man who is handling his estate.
I’m Irish. My mom’s heritage was never acknowledged while my father’s was celebrated. We’re as Irish as four-leaf clovers, St. Patrick, Guinness, and leprechauns. My dark hair and green eyes belie my heritage.
Staunchley, on the other hand, is a caricature of Irish-ness. His too-round, too-red nose sits on a wide pink face. His ginger hair flops over shaggy red eyebrows. If they’ve been trimmed in the last ten years, no one would know. They sit over brown irises that are too small and too hard for his comical face.
His belly protrudes and greets you before his chubby handshake can. He reminds me of one of the Tweedles from Alice in Wonderland. He hasn’t changed in the twenty years I’ve known him
“Sean.”
“Father O’Ryan,” I correct.
That makes him pause
Our warm handshakes juxtapose our curt nods and aloof greetings. Only this asshole would look at my collar and refer to me by Sean. I should’ve replied with “Hal,” but I, at least, remember my manners.
“Did ya have a good flight? Come on back.” He waves me forward though he’s already turned his back to walk away.
“Fine, thanks,” I mutter. Let’s get this shit done so I can go home.
Sitting in his finely appointed office, I listen as he drones on and on about my father’s last desires for me, for his holdings, his businesses, and his investments.
“Hello?”
“Yes,” I nod. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Lots of it. What did I miss specifically?”
“I asked what you wanted to do with it.”
“With what?”
“The property?
“Let’s back up. Which property?” I inquire, apparently having zoned out more than I’d known.
“The estate in Ireland.”
Well, that’s news to me.
An hour later, he’s on the back foot as I stand to leave his office.
“So, we’re agreed?” I press.
Staunchley has blanched of all color and has been stuttering for more moments than I care to relive.
“I don’t think you understand, Sean—uh, I mean, Father O’Ryan.”
“I understand fully, Mr. Staunchley. Please make the arrangements immediately and get me the documents to sign. I’ll get back to you within forty-eight hours as to when I’ll be back in Boston to sign the paperwork.”
“But your father…”
“My father is dead. I know my mind and I’m your client now. I have given you direction as to how to proceed. I expect it to be done when I see you next.”
With that, I let myself out the door to his office, walk down the long dark hallway to the front door, and push open into the Boston sunshine.
Beep.
“Evelyn. I’m sorry for the early message. Looks like my trip will be longer than I expected. Can you ask Father to fill in for me through next Monday, please? I’ll make sure the Bishop is apprised. And thank you so much for all you do. See you soon.”
At nine on Tuesday, I disembark my flight in Dublin and leave the voicemail for Evelyn for whom it is just four in the morning. Once through the rental car process, I am on my way, map in hand, to just outside of Galway on the west coast. A train would have been easier, but I’d rather be in control; that is, as in control as one can be with these crazy drivers.
Folded into this car, too small for my six-four frame, I have three hours to ponder my discussion with Hal and subsequent spur-of-the-moment trip to the Emerald Isle. Louisiana’s backward policies mean our drivers’ licenses are invalid for FAA purposes. You need a passport to fly home from most major airports, so I had mine to be able to return from Boston. Score one for Louisiana being in the dark ages, at least in this case.
Three hours also allows me think about the seminary and my life as a priest. My collar is conveniently in my luggage. Here I am just Sean.
I also think about my last summer in New Orleans as a kid.
That summer—the summer everything went to shit—I was in New Orleans as I had been every summer prior. As a boy of barely fifteen, I wished I was allowed to drive, like the Louisiana kids could at that time. Massachusetts wasn’t as lenient. Hell, no state was ever as lenient as Louisiana about almost everything, not just driving.
Not to say I didn’t
, just that I wasn’t allowed. Whether it was strictly legal or not wasn’t my concern.
Two neighborhood boys, Will and Tom, and I would roll around—on bikes if we needed, in cars when we could—to look for girls or look for fun or look for trouble. Our best days were when those three were one and the same.
Ma was different that summer. As if the weight of the world tried to rest on her shoulders. She would shrug it off when I’d study her, but when she didn’t see me noticing, she folded under the heaviness of some unknown thing.
One night, I returned home after swimming and playing baseball and joyriding with the guys to see a copper-colored Cadillac in our driveway, and a man leaving our back door. He was heavyset with black hair and seemed to walk with an air of a man who could not lose. He hiked up his pants—ones that sagged under his rotund belly—and continued to his car, head held high, eyes always scanning.
He never saw me. I came from the alley behind the house, where the guys dropped me off since I was late. I knew it was late because the streetlights were on and I could hear their hum as I bounded toward the back door, knowing I’d be reprimanded for my tardiness.
I opened the back door and walked into the kitchen and a scene I would not ever forget. Ma lay face down, hair splayed out around her face, blood surrounding her head like a crown. Her white dress was rumpled and stained with her blood and her legs were bent in ways that weren’t natural. Her right hand was clenched in a fist.
I rushed to her side and called for her. “Ma? Ma! Ma, can you hear me? Ma, are you all right?” I fell to my butt on the floor beside her and cradled her head, stroking her, crying, praying, hoping I was wrong—that my eyes didn’t see what they saw, that I didn’t hear the silence in the kitchen, that the blood at her forehead was not turning cooler and cooler. When I jostled her, her right fist opened and a silver doubloon rolled to the floor. I must’ve been dreaming. This couldn’t be real.
Eventually, and I had no idea whether that was minutes or hours, I stood, grabbed the bloody coin, and called nine-one-one.
The police came.
The medics came.
The coroner came.
And when they wheeled her out after zipping up the body bag, I ran. Ran through the back door, down the alley, out onto the street, and then continued. Eventually I found a pay phone. I had a cell in my pocket but that didn’t dawn on me.
“Collect from New Orleans. Will you accept the charges?” I heard before my father launched into the price of calls and did I know what I interrupted and why hadn’t I called from my cell and …
“She’s dead. Come get me,” I whispered before dropping the phone, still connected to my father in Boston, and walking aimlessly through the streets of New Orleans until I couldn’t walk anymore.
Shit!
My trip down memory lane does two things—ignites my rage and hollows my gut. It also distracts me from driving on the right side of the road—that is, the left side, and I swerve when oncoming traffic reminds me, honks and one-fingered salutes alike, that I don’t belong.
Nine
It takes more skill to understand the locals than it does to follow the map to the village of Knockferry. Upon arriving, I find a pub, just recognizing I haven’t eaten since the snack on the plane some twelve hours ago. I belly up to the bar, order a pint of whatever’s on tap and a bowl of Irish stew. Once done, I order another beer and make small talk with the barkeep. I thank him with a generous tip and fold back into my car to look at this land that my old man left me.
It’s on a hill outside the village, just up from the lake. I open the gate and drive through, despite the no trespassing sign, and wind through the brush until I find the clearing with a small stone cottage on it. An older man with a shock of white hair and deep, weathered skin sits outside smoking a cigarette with an orange cat winding between his legs. They both stop warily when I exit the car.
“Can I help you, lad?” He begins, only to pause and holler, “You’re Patrick O’Shaughnessy’s son. What in the blooming hell are you doing here?!” He promptly stands, walks into the house, leaving just enough room for the cat to glide in, and slams the door.
If I hadn’t spent the last little bit cruising down memory lane, I’d be more mellow and my emotions more in check. However, I have spent the last couple of hours cramped, irritable, and reliving the worst moment of my life, one that set shit in motion that I cannot come back from, so I do what I want and take my fist to the door to pound.
“Open up. I’m not leaving here until you do.”
I continue pounding.
My house. My land. My cat, for fuck’s sake.
So I can pound on my door if I damned well please.
“You can stay in there. I can stay out here. I have nothing but time.” That’s a lie, but what the hell? “I—”
“Don’t take that tone with me, O’Shaughnessy!” The door swings wide under my pounding flesh.
“How do you know my father?”
“Biologically, that’s how!”
“What the fuck?”
“Don’t’cha know? Your da was born in this country. Has family in this country.”
“Dad was born in Boston, Mass. Not in—”
“Bullshit.”
“Killian”—his hand shoots out, his eyes daring me to greet him—“O’Shaughnessy. Your da’s brother. Again, what in the blooming hell are you doing here?”
At least he has Kilbeggan. I take four fingers with this glass. Neat. No need to make it easier to digest. Drink imitating life.
“Thank you for the whiskey.” I nod and toast him with my glass while sitting around a small fire in the stone hearth.
My mind whirls. How did I not know about an uncle? Family land in Ireland? My dad was such a fucking liar. Everything about him. His “businesses,” his friends—or rather connections—his everything was such bullshit.
“Forgive me,” I mumble, barely above a whisper. “I’m at a loss.”
Killian smiles and nods, but his look has an edge of bitterness not comfort.
“I… I never knew,” I begin again, but all eloquence is gone. “Can you fill me in?”
“Your da’s an ass. End of. Good talk.”
That gets a bark of laughter from me that surprises us both.
“Nothing could be more true. He was an ass.”
“Was?”
“Was. He died in December.”
“I’m sorry, lad.”
“I’m not. I didn’t even know I had an uncle. Will you tell me about yourself?”
Afternoon turns to evening and too many drinks later, Killian offers me a blanket and the sofa. My body will hate me in the morning. Hotel reservation in Galway or not, I won’t make it there with the whiskey I’ve drunk.
I run each morning, fighting for clarity on how much has changed in the last week. The money, the properties, the businesses. More so the lies, the half-truths, the denials. I run and each morning I stroke one out in the shower. I work hard not to think of the blonde while I do. Mostly, I fail.
Three days later, I board my flight from Dublin, dreading the seven-plus hour flight to Boston. More so, I dread another meeting with Hal Staunchley. The three-hour time change means I can meet with him this afternoon and finalize all the paperwork.
After deplaning and going through customs again, I check into my Boston hotel and shower. I shave off four days’ worth of stubble and put on my blacks and collar and head to Staunchley’s office.
At six, I am greeted by the man himself and an otherwise empty office. His demeanor is combative, but I don’t care.
“Is it done?” I ask in lieu of greeting.
“Sean…”
“Is it done?”
“I must advise against this.”
“You must do what I have directed with the estate I was bequeathed. For the last time, Is. It. Done?”
He drops his head in defeat. “All but the business dissolution.”
“And what is the delay?
“I
wanted to talk with you again about your father’s wishes.”
I crowd his space and drop my head to look at his defiant, upturned chin. “My father has no more wishes. I know what he wanted. I don’t give a damn about what he wanted. Draw up the dissolution papers now. I’ll wait.”
“Sean?”
“Father O’Ryan,” I say through clenched teeth and hold his gaze until he acquiesces. “And bring me the rest of the paperwork. I’ll review and sign while you work.”
“I don’t work for you.” His reply is impudent.
“You damn well do.” I turn on my heel, walk to the conference room table, and grab a seat. “And you know it. And, bring me a cup of coffee when you bring the paperwork. I’ll be here a while.”
Friday night runs into the wee hours of Saturday morning. My body never fully acclimated to the time change in Ireland, but I’m feeling the effects the multiple time zones, the long early-morning flight, and longer evening with Staunchley. His presence is exhausting.
We shake hands and part ways a little before two Saturday morning with a promise that everything will be filed legally on Monday morning, and I’ll have confirmation before noon of each dissolved business, money transfer, trust creation, property and the like.
I make a pit stop on my way home the following day, to the Indianapolis suburbs and Bobby O’Shea’s office where he’s agreed to meet me.
“Bobby.”
“Sean.”
Hugs and man-slaps to the back are broken up by his serious tone.
“You’ve never sounded more serious than you did when you called. What’s going on?”
“Two questions: What’s your hourly rate? And has Sherrilyn had the baby yet?”
“For you, nothing. And last week, Eliza Beth.”
“I can’t wait to meet her. And ‘nothing’ won’t work. Street rate?”
“Two-fifty an hour. Man, what’s going on?
I whip out my wallet and pull out five fifty-dollar bills and ask the million-dollar question, “Are you willing to represent me?”