by Hadley Finn
Ireland could be much the same, but today, not needing to shovel or snow blow or worry about what this weather means for school or work, I remember why kids love it.
The acreage Killian’s cottage, and subsequently, our house is on, is substantial. The road in and out, normally maintained by the village up to our driveway, won’t be cleared today because of the holiday. Same for tomorrow with Boxing Day.
Clara and I build a snowman. She sings the song from her favorite movie the whole time. I take video with my phone and snap pictures. We struggle to find things to make a face for the man, and she eventually runs back to the house and returns with two potato slices—how Irish—and a carrot, along with a pocketful of red hots. I hope we remember to shake out those pockets before we go inside.
I take pictures of her with “Olaf” and she takes pictures of me with him too.
She makes snow angels. Lots and lots of snow angels.
“Poppa, now you make one.”
“Oh, precious girl, it’s too cold.”
“You told me it was like Frozen, and we were tough like Anna and Elsa.” She’s quoting me to me. Damn! Foiled by my own words.
I drop down and make a snow angel as fast as I can. Snow gets in my collar and around my ears. It sneaks up my sleeves and rests around my wrists.
I hop up and shake off everything. “You know, girls are tougher than boys in lots of things. Snow angels are one of those.”
She giggles and flexes her biceps inside her too big coat. When she grits her teeth to growl, I quickly snap a pic and make it my phone wallpaper.
“Come on, fighter girl, I’m cold.”
“Race you home,” she squeals as she flies over the snow.
I let her win. Her giggle is worth losing for.
Later that night, Killian comes over for dinner. Clara has taken to calling him Poppa too. I’m man enough to admit, I’m jealous. There’s a difference if you listen close enough that one is Papa and one is PawPaw, but still…
Sirona spent much of the afternoon checking on us in the snow and making dinner. She surprises me with shrimp étouffée, a salad, fresh baguettes, and a doberge cake for dessert. It’s a regular Louisiana feast, made all the merrier with Clara trying to convince Killian that they were “shwimps” and not “prawns.” This continues until Killian gives up, because even stubborn old Irish blokes know when they’ve met their match. Know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em and all that.
We exchange gifts. Well, we give Killian gifts. He’s taken aback, but not much I can do when Sirona and Clara set their minds to something.
I pour him Kilbeggan, but skip it myself. It hasn’t gone down as smooth as it used to.
After he leaves, I tell Sirona I have the dishes and to go grab a bath and enjoy some R&R. I promise Clara will help me with the dishes. I get groans from both of them on that note. I can be stubborn too, so Clara sits on the counter while I do dishes and cleans the plate that may or may not have gotten an extra sliver of doberge cake while I put away what few leftovers we have and load the dishwasher.
“Go brush your teeth and put on your pajamas, yeah?”
“Will you read to me, Poppa?”
“Of course, love. Pick out a book and climb under your covers.”
She runs away and I pause considering my life. Six weeks ago, I was cloistered, completely alone. Now I’m reading bedtime stories. I hope this is never taken from me. I can’t imagine going back.
I close up the house, locking up, always checking for vulnerabilities. Old habits and I go way back. I make my way down the hall and listen as Clara explains to her new dolls the nighttime routine. She drives a hard bargain, but the dolls don’t back talk her.
By the time I get into her room, she’s under the covers and her dark hair fans out over the pillow. “Did you decide what we’re going to read?”
She nods and pulls out Amelia Bedelia. This looks older than even her mother’s time, but I begin. By page three, she has given up the fight and her eyes are shut. She rolls onto her side and reaches her hand out for mine. We sit like this as I continue page by page.
I eventually hear Sirona clear her throat, not realizing I have been sucked into the tale of Amelia not understanding her homonyms and trying to keep my laugh low and quiet. Sirona leans against the doorjamb, dressed in only a nightshirt. Her feet are bare. Her hair is piled up on her head, and her hand rests on her hip.
The look on her face is all the motivation I need to close the book, turn off the bedside lamp, and follow her.
To the ends of the earth if I must.
She heads for my room and I don’t question it. I close the door as I follow her in and watch her go to the bed and sit down. I wait. I need to know she wants this too.
“Come to bed with me?”
“Don’t have to ask me twice.” I grab my Henley between my shoulder blades and have it on the floor before I make it to the bed.
She leans back against the pillow and I lean over her, taking her mouth as if I own it, as if it’s mine and mine alone.
She fumbles with my belt and I still when her small fingers fight for purchase.
“Sean?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask about, um… well, your vows. I mean, it’s….” She breaks off and looks back at me. “It freaks me out a little bit. You don’t. But it does.”
Well, that’s a boner killer.
I walk around the bed and sit, jeans zipped, belt open and loose.
“Come here.”
She leans over and assumes a similar position to what Clara had taken.
“No, come here.” I look down.
She slowly scrambles and tentatively straddles my lap.
“Have I ever broken a promise to you?”
She shakes her head.
“Have you ever heard a lie come from my mouth?”
“Besides the topic at hand?” She averts her eyes. Her avoidance is not like she’s thinking, but like she’s evading my gaze.
“Baby?” Forcing her gaze back, I reiterate, “Have you ever heard me lie?”
I wait. Everything hangs on this. If she doesn’t trust me, she doesn’t trust me, but this needs to be on the table. And now’s as good a time as any.
“I don’t remember you ever lying to me.”
“Think. All the words I’ve ever said to you…”
“I don’t know, Sean.”
“Well, I do.” I wait for her eye contact. “Never once lied to you. Never once asked you to call me anything other than Sean. Never promised you anything I haven’t made good on. I’ve said some hard things, some you didn’t want to hear, but I’ve never lied to you.”
She stares, waiting for more.
“This is important, Sirona. It’s critical, actually. I need you to get this. If no one else on the planet gets it, I need you to. Okay? Listen up. I never took all my vows to be ordained. As silly as it sounds, I got through on a technicality. I never worked to correct it, though. And by the time I left Chicago, no one bothered to check, including the diocese in New Orleans.
“I asked you not to call me Father because I never wanted to lie to you. More importantly, I never wanted to be a priest to you. Just a man. I said that over and over to you.
“Furthermore, I grew up Catholic. I have a lot of respect for the church. I have no interest in bringing shame to it or belittling it. It’s the reason I’ll never repeat what I heard in the confessional. I’ll never break any vow that I take. It’s just that I didn’t take the one you’re thinking of.”
She sits for a moment and stares at me. Confused. Maybe replaying conversations. Just working her brain around the mental gymnastics I’m presenting.
“So, you were never a priest?”
“I think it depends on who you ask. To my parishioners, would you say they didn’t receive their sacraments, weren’t baptized, weren’t married, didn’t receive last rites? I would say they did. But, if you were to ask the bishop, I think he may have
a wholly different view.”
She pauses.
“You’ve never lied to me.” It’s a statement, not a question, and relief is visible in her eyes.
“Why would you leave the country with a man who would?” Fuck! Now I’m getting angry. “Hop up, baby,” I say plainly, “Gonna go take a shower.”
“But I thought we were….” She lets that sentence die off when she sees my face. It must say what my words do not.
“I’ve never lied to you. I risked everything for you. I saved Clara and I saved you. And you thought I was lying and couldn’t be trusted? What? Was I just a better option than that goon Rocco?”
With that barb, I head to the bathroom and fire up the hottest shower I can stand. When I come back to the bedroom, my bed is empty and Sirona is gone.
Fuck!
Thirty-Three
Boxing Day starts not so differently from Christmas morning. The slapping of tiny feet fly from the door I left cracked last night, just in case.
“Poppa!” Clara hollers as her little body takes flight and bounces dangerously near morning wood.
When did I become the guy who sleeps in? Probably need to find my rhythm in the mornings again, but, eh, I can do it tomorrow.
“Good morning, beautiful girl!”
“Good morning, Poppa!”
“What’re you up to this morning?
“Waffles and hot cocoa!”
“Again? I thought that was Christmas morning breakfast.”
“Mommy says it’s something called a doover.”
“What a doover, love?”
“A ‘do-over’ is what she means,” comes a soft voice in the hall outside the bedroom.
“Come in, sweetheart,” I offer.
Sirona enters with coffee that she sets on the nightstand before backing up an odd distance for someone who is, for all practical purposes, living with me.
“Why do you want a do-over, Sirona?” My eyes are soft. My anger abated from last night. It’s not fully gone, but I’m not looking for a confrontation.
“Just think aspects of it could’ve been better.” She walks toward the door, shoulders slumped. “Waffles will be ready in ten.”
“Waffles!” squeals the distraction on my bed. With some tumbling genius, she’s down and running for the kitchen.
These women!
I make my way to the kitchen, sweats on, coffee in hand, and it’s like Groundhog Day. Clara is in her Christmas dress and setting the table while Sirona busies herself with the waffles.
“Cinnamon bun waffles this morning.” She lays them at our three places and asks, “Warm-up?”
“No, I’m good. If you keep this up, I’m going to have to figure out how to run.”
“Oh.” It’s a one-word answer and she drops into the chair next to me, allowing her hair to fall like a curtain between us.
“Baby?”
Nothing.
“Baby, that’s a compliment. Not run away. Run, like jog. I can’t eat all this without getting a gut. You’re a great cook.”
Still nothing.
“Sirona?”
I hear the sniffles before Clara reaches out.
“Mommy? Why are you crying?”
“Oh, baby girl, sometimes you cry when you’re happy. Now, eat your waffle before it gets cold.”
Clara takes that at face value while I silently call bullshit, but dig in, not wanting to waste the feast before me. When I get up to refill my mug, Sirona says quietly, “I could’ve done that.”
“Sure you could. So could I. Don’t need you to serve me.”
And that isn’t the right thing to say either, because she quietly gets up, gathers the plates and begins doing dishes. My protests do nothing. I’m losing a battle and the enemy is this unknown thing I can’t fight and I don’t have the right weapons for.
“Clara Bell?”
“Yes, Poppa.”
“Think we ought to go for a ride and see the ocean today?”
“I would love that!” And off she goes.
“Dress warm,” I holler down the hall and follow my gut. I head to the sink and circle my arms around Sirona while her back is still to me. I use my chin to slide her hair off her shoulder and kiss her neck softly and whisper, “I’m an ass.”
Nothing.
“Baby, last night was not what I wanted. I’m taking it from what you said that it wasn’t what you wanted either. Is that do-over still on the table?”
She freezes. Solid. “I don’t know.”
I pry the dishes from her hands and turn her in the circle of my arms. I tilt my head down to look into her eyes and quietly ask, “Why did you want a do-over, Sirona?”
“Because I fucked up.”
“How’d you fuck up, baby?”
“I made you mad.”
“Try again.”
“I… I… I wasn’t trying to make you mad or have you think…”
“Think what, baby?”
“That I don’t want you.”
“Okay, and…”
“You’re not a goon. There’s just stuff you don’t know.”
“Will you tell me? Can you trust me?”
She looks into my eyes and nods.
Our drive takes us past Clifden to the Atlantic Ocean. It’s ridiculously cold. The wind whipping off the water is icy and its gusts would have us running for cover if it weren’t for the four additional “picnic” blankets we packed.
Clara decided Boxing Day picnic lunch meant we should eat food from boxes, so we have an interesting assortment of non-congruous foods. Luckily exceptions were made for thermoses of coffee and cocoa.
I sit facing the ocean, legs wide, knees up. Sirona sits with her back to my chest, resting her arms on my knees.
Clara is on a mission, wandering the cliffs, wearing enough layers to look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Watching her walk and try to function should be enough humor for the day.
“Baby?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you tell me now?”
I feel her nod. “See that precious little girl out there?”
I have no idea where this is going, but I want to honor her courage.
“Yeah.”
“She’s the most important thing in my world. No, she is my world. She’s my greatest accomplishment, my biggest weakness. All my joys, all my dreams, and all my fears are wrapped up into a brilliant, funny, wonderful package.”
She pauses, but I don’t speak.
“She’s everything to me,” she whispers fiercely.
“I understand that, as much as I can, not being her mother.”
“You’re missing it.”
“What am I missing, baby?”
“I trust you with my world.”
My body goes still.
She continues, “I trust you with my everything. I got on a plane and flew across the world and trusted that you would protect her and bring her home to me. I trusted you with the only thing that would crush me to lose, the only thing that would derail my life. I trust you with my Clara”
I want to snapshot this almost-holy moment.
“Thank you, baby,” I whisper while kissing her neck in one of the few non-bundled areas.
“You’re not just somebody. You’re more. And I’ve never had more. Ever.” She leans back into me, giving me some of her weight. Her pause is so long I think maybe our conversation is over. Just when I wonder whether I should interject, she states, “Clara wasn’t conceived in the best situation, and that’s an understatement in every sense of the word.”
That makes me fight to not physically react in any way. Not soften, not stiffen, not allow my breathing to change.
“It’s been me and her against the world. My dad and mom, they sucked at being married.”
I snort at that. “I understand that.”
“My dad was great to us. So was my mom, but they could barely be in the same room with each other. Clara was sick when she was first born. I had a C-section. Think you noticed that�
�. I wasn’t in good enough shape to help her in all the ways she required after she was born. It killed me and I was ashamed of that, if I’m honest. My parents sucked it up for me and Clara and worked together to get us the care we both needed. Two people who couldn’t stand each other, a sick baby, and an incapable post-partum mother. It was rough.
“My dad borrowed money for her medical costs. I didn’t know that. He helped me with the shop not long after that, gave it to me, or so I thought. I had no idea he was in debt, but he was. He borrowed from Calabrese. And not a little.”
She pauses to let that settle in. I know my body reacts at that. I’m okay with that. This time it’s not about her.
“He borrowed a lot from Calabrese and he wasn’t quick to repay or even attempt to. I can’t prove it but I don’t think he died of a seizure as they reported. I think Enzo had him killed…”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Although I don’t want that to be the case for you.”
“Enzo immediately decided that Dad’s debt was mine—mine to owe and mine to pay. He allowed most of the profits from my shop to go directly to him. He only accepted cash and liked the payments made in bags that were removed from my cooler.”
“How generous of him,” I mutter, sarcasm evident in my tone.
“When that didn’t happen fast enough, he started delivering things to my cooler. I don’t know if it was incentive or threat. It was both, for sure. Frankly, it could’ve been just convenient for him, but either way…”
“What was he delivering?”
“Bodies.”
“What?!”
“I’d arrive in the morning and there was a chance there would be a body in my cooler. Men would show at different times to deliver or remove. Most of the times, they let themselves in with keys they took the liberty of copying and made themselves at home in my bakery. Rarely was one still alive. That was what the hook was for. Did you see the hook? It was for the ones who he was motivating.”
“Oh, I know the hook.”