Irish Love

by Andrew M. Greeley

  He placed what looked like a manuscript on the coffee table between us.

  “You know a lot about it, Jack Lane. Aren’t you the one who should be writing the story?”

  “I think not.” He sighed. “No, not at all.”

  “And why not, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  He hesitated.

  “No, not at all. It’s not the kind of book that a priest could write, even today. A secular historian, should one be interested—that young woman who’s your nanny—could do it. But a priest shouldn’t. He’d be thought to be disloyal, perhaps rightly so.”

  “Really?”

  “Back in 1982 didn’t Father McGreil, you know the Jesuit sociologist who restored the shrine at MauMain, try to place a cross at the Joyce house with the inscription ‘pray for the dead,’ and didn’t he give it up when the locals opposed the project?”

  “And why did they oppose it?”

  “They told him that the dead should be left alone. Even after a hundred years they were uneasy about what the valley had done.”

  I considered the manuscript cautiously. What secrets might it hold?

  “Disloyal if it told about English cruelty?”

  “No.” He sighed, almost as loudly as my wife would. “Disloyal because it would have to tell about Irish brutality towards one another.”

  I said nothing. Jack Lane was determined to tell me the story, but in his own way and his own time.

  “You’ve seen the film by your man about the informer?”

  “Ryan’s Daughter or Liam O’Flaherty’s?”

  “O’Flaherty’s of course. The theme of the informer is important in Irish literature because so many of our ancestors were informers. In a cruel society, in which the foreign tyrant had reduced most of the population to penury, some men—and the occasional woman—saw informing on their fellows as the only way to survive. There is solid reason to believe that one innocent man was executed and others went to prison because some of their friends and neighbors saw a chance to pick up a few English pounds by falsely accusing them.”

  “And they survived?”

  “They did and a few—a very few—of their descendants are members of my parish still.”

  “Wow!”

  “Moreover, the people of the valley knew who the real killers were. They never denounced them to the English because they feared the wrath of English law if they told the unpleasant truth.”

  “My God!”

  “Oh yes, Dermot Coyne. The real killers continued to live in the valley, even when innocent men were released after twenty years of prison.”

  “And survived?”

  “There seemed to be no taste for vengeance after twenty years. Everyone seemed eager to forget about the murders. Some of the killers’ descendants also live in my parish.”

  “They know you know about it?”

  “No reason why they should … They know the story, however, in some mythological form. Alas, they don’t comprehend the dangerous truth that lurks behind the myth—people who live in a cruel tyranny can easily be cruel to each other.”

  I nodded solemnly.

  “I understand.”

  “Do you, Dermot Coyne? What do you understand?”

  “That the story would reveal that the Irish lived up to the stereotypes the occupying power had created.”

  “Of course … The Irish-speaking culture is not warlike. It is gentle and quiet. It becomes violent only when pushed into the ground and violence is seen as necessary for survival. Even then it is not very good at killing, which is why we lost all the wars. The remnants of Maamtrasna living in this parish are quiet and gentle indeed and no longer are forced to be violent as were their ancestors. The story of Maamtrasna should be told, but not by the priest.”

  “I understand,” I said again.

  “Here is a strange manuscript.” He pushed the stack of handwritten papers across the coffee table. “I found it when I arrived here, tucked away in the cellar. It’s part of a longer manuscript. I haven’t been able to find the rest of it, though to tell the truth, I haven’t looked very hard.”

  “‘A Diary of a Galway Crime, by Edward Hannigan Fitzpatrick, 1882,’” I read, squinting at the old-fashioned handwriting.

  “Your man was a young fellow, probably even younger than you. From your home city, in fact. Went on to become a journalist there. Lots of money. Came to Ireland in search of his family’s history. Galway Town, not at all like our area out here.”

  “He is a reliable reporter?”

  “Oh yes, he’s all of that. Candid about himself. I don’t know how the manuscript ended up in this parish house. He wrote about the story for one of your Chicago papers, accurately as far as I can tell from the quotes I’ve seen. For some reason he must not have wanted to take it home with him.”

  I glanced at my watch.

  “Jack Lane, I am in deep trouble. Me wife, er, MY wife is waiting for me to go water-skiing. I’m already fortyfive minutes late. Excuse me for running … May I read this?”

  “Surely … I’ll search for the rest of it. Ease my sense of responsibility. We can talk about what to do with it later.”

  I thanked him, shook his hand, and departed hastily, shielding the precious manuscript under my Chicago Bulls denim jacket (a memento of a happier time).

  I was soaking wet when I stumbled into the bungalow. In the family room, my son had arrayed a fleet of trucks around himself, and my daughter was carefully constructing what might be a house with her building blocks.

  “Dermot Michael Coyne! You’ve been lollygagging with the priesteen all morning.”

  “He’s not little, Nuala Anne McGrail. He played rugby.

  “For Ireland,” Ethne interjected, proud that her local priesteen had represented the country in international play.

  “Regardless, we have to leave now to go skiing and can’t with yourself soaking wet. Go put on dry clothes, or you’ll catch your death.”

  I had long since given up trying to persuade my wife that colds are caused by a virus and not by wet clothes.

  “Did it ever occur to you, woman of the house, that the very fact that I’m soaking wet should dispense us from skiing?”

  “If you’re wet, you’re wet,” she said imperiously. “Hurry up now! Isn’t poor Ethne dying to learn how to ski?”

  Ethne’s face suggested that this statement was something less than literal truth.

  “Didn’t he give me a manuscript?”

  “Did he now?”

  Manuscripts like that of Edward Hannigan Fitzpatrick had led to the solution of many of the mysteries on which we had stumbled.

  I showed it to her.

  “Och, isn’t that wonderful, Dermot Michael, and meself a terrible witch?”

  “I’ll change my clothes,” I said, enjoying the (temporary) moral superiority I had earned. “I don’t want to keep Ethne waiting.”

  That young woman and perhaps future historian looked as though she wouldn’t lament a delay. At all, at all.

  In our bedroom, I debated donning swim trunks and chose discretion over valor. The Maamtrasna painting was back on its easel, more detailed and more terrifying than ever. The murdered young woman had golden hair. One of the two boys seemed to be alive. The dead man was, as Jack Lane had said, a hulk.

  It was the first time I had seen proof of the detailed accuracy of my wife’s, what shall I call it, psychic sensitivity.

  Why not bet on the market on the basis of such evidence?

  “Dermot Michael Coyne, are you wearing a swimsuit?”

  “Woman, I’m not!”

  “Sure, ’tis your call, isn’t it now?”

  My phrase turned against me.

  Nuala and Ethne bundled our children, who were patently (as the little bishop would say) not eager to leave the warmth and the turf fire smell of the family room, into sweaters and rain slickers. They collected blankets and towels and clean jeans and sweatshirts for the return trip. The Mick would not leave his trucks, an
d Nelliecoyne refused to relinquish her toys.

  Naturally, Fiona had to come.

  “Sure we can’t leave her here to be blown up with the house, can we now?”

  Finally, we departed towards the small lake where, allegedly, there was a water-skiing facility. I wished that I had brought along the Fitzpatrick manuscript to read while the young women, as I had come to think of them, were frolicking in the lake.

  It was not, to tell the truth, all that much of a lake, not in the same category as Lake Michigan or even Pine Lake, to which we retreated when Michigan was too angry to permit us to ski. This lake, which had an Irish name that I could not catch, was at the most two miles around, with a small tree-covered island on the far side. Island trees sometimes escaped deforestation because Irish culture had decided that islands were sacred, that is more sacred than other things in a land where the sacred loomed everywhere.

  The perverse Irish winds had chosen the moment we arrived at the lake, having bumped down a muddy dirt road, to sweep the sky clean of clouds and leave the little mud puddle of a lake an inviting turquoise.

  “See, Dermot Michael Coyne, aren’t you disappointed now that you didn’t wear your swimsuit?”

  “No.”

  “Go ’long with you!”

  “That boat is older than the Republic of Ireland and the motor produced fifty horsepower only when it was brandnew, and that was a long time ago.”

  “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be able to lift a big, old man out of the water.”

  That was unfair.

  The “water-skiing facility” was a rundown frame house, an equally rundown little pier, and a wooden boat that might be useful for fishing, but little else. An elderly couple were in charge and welcomed us with characteristic Irish hospitality, offering us a small drop of something to keep us warm on the water. The young women declined, but Mr. Coyne, who was neither driving nor skiing, said he wouldn’t mind a wee jar at all, at all. Our host and hostess reacted as though my request had made their day a complete success.

  “The boats at Grand Beach have four times as much power,” I whispered to my bride.

  “Isn’t that because they have to pull old men out of the water?”

  After she had picked over a range of decrepit wet suits, she and Ethne retreated to the bedroom of the house and emerged after considerable delay in wet suits, which included wet boots. I arranged the children near the single window of the house so that they could watch Ma and play with their blocks and trucks.

  I thanked the angels for inspiring my decision to avoid the challenge.

  Rory, the man of the house, went out to the boat and, using a funnel, poured maybe half a gallon of gas into the tank of the old outboard. Nuala gave Ethne detailed instructions on how to bounce out of the water. The skis, I noted, as my wife carefully fit them on the young woman, may well have existed before the founding of the Republic.

  Fiona, who had showed little interest in joining us in the house, was poking around the environment, sniffing for other dogs who might be present.

  “Come on, kids,” I said, lifting the Mick into my arms, “let’s watch Ma hotdog.”

  “Hotdog, is it?” my wife said, a dangerous edge in her voice.

  Neither child seemed interested in my suggestion. However, Nelliecoyne, with a sigh, abandoned her blocks, captured her current favorite dolly, and walked out with me.

  After several minutes of tugging at the starter cord, Rory was able to persuade the ancient motor to come reluctantly to life. Still carrying their purses, Nuala and Ethne climbed into the boat, which seemed to me to sink dangerously close to the waterline. They putt-putted out into the lake. The winds died. The water was as smooth as glass or—as I thought—a sheet of ice.

  Rory stopped the boat twenty yards offshore. Fiona snuggled up to me, uneasy about the whole process. My son, who had never seen his mother ski, began to make noises like the beginning of a howl.

  “Hush, Mick,” his sister ordered. “Ma’s going to ski!”

  With that Nuala Anne, having tossed out the tattered rope and the aging ski, dove into the lake with supple grace. She shouted briefly with the shock of the cold and then yelled, “Och, Dermot Michael, ’tis brilliant!”

  The Mick wailed. Fiona barked. Nelliecoyne, having seen it all before, was bored.

  Rory started the boat and pulled the line taut. I wondered whether there was power enough to pull my wife out of the water.

  She popped up immediately. I feared she would tilt the craft over its stern. However, it struggled manfully—you should excuse the expression—and chugged around the lake as best it could. My wife shouted triumphantly.

  She was a picture of pure grace as she cut back and forth across the wake, a sketch of beauty against the blue lake and the sun-drenched sky. Fiona barked approval, and the Mick stopped his howl.

  Then it was Ethne’s turn, on two skis, naturally.

  “Won’t she get up right away? She’s a canogie player, isn’t she now?”

  Canogie is the women’s version of hurling, one of the Irish national sports. It equips a couple score of Irish women with clubs and a puck and sets them loose on a field. To compare it to hockey is unfair to the civilized gentleness of hockey.

  Poor, sweet Ethne, as my wife called her (in her absence), made it up on her third try and circled the lake once, screaming hysterically. She tried to cross the wake and flew into the air with a wondrous somersault.

  Nelliecoyne clapped her hands in approval.

  “I’ll take another turn,” Nuala informed her, “and then you can do it again.”

  She dived in again, rose triumphantly from the lake, now rough from the wakes the ski boat had created, and shouted joyously as she rose and skimmed the waters.

  This was the Nuala Anne I had married, a young hoyden innocent of depression.

  Then a crackling sound cut the air. Rifle shots, I thought. Nuala fell into the water.

  I heard a scream.

  It was mine.

  6

  THE WORLD went into slow motion. Nuala was swimming towards the boat, too slowly I thought. Bullets were slashing all around her.

  Marie, Rory’s wife, was keening, an Irish cry for the dead, a wail that began with three low notes and then two soul-wrenching high notes. Fiona was howling; the Mick was screaming.

  Nelliecoyne clutched my hand.

  “Ma’s all right, Da. She’s all right.”

  Ethne hauled my wife into the boat. Rory huddled on the thwarts, a man paralyzed. Ethne climbed over him and grabbed the lazily spinning wheel. She aimed the boat towards shore as the rifle bullets pinged in the water behind them.

  I was numb, frozen, dead. I could not move, speak, even feel. Marie was still keening, Fiona was still barking, the Mick was still wailing. It was a nightmare. It wasn’t really happening. Soon I would wake up.

  And the little girl next to me was still clutching my hand, still muttering, “Don’t worry, Da. Ma is all right. The bad man wasn’t trying to hit her.”

  The boat nudged against the dock. Ethne put the motor into reverse. The engine died. The boat started to slip away from the dock.

  YOU FOCKING EEJIT! Do SOMETHING!

  “What!”

  GO HOLD THE BOAT!

  “Right!”

  GIVE THE KID TO HIS SISTER!

  “Right!”

  In a trance, I put the Mick on the ground.

  “Take care of him, Nelliecoyne.”

  “Yes, Da!”

  Fiona stopped barking and thundered over to take charge of both children.

  With my lead feet slogging through a bog, I stumbled onto the pier and grabbed the bow of the boat. I pulled it to the pier.

  And fell into the water.

  “Dermot Michael Coyne!” a familiar voice shouted, “Whatever are you doing to yourself! You’ll catch your death!”

  God designed me to be a comic hero.

  Nuala Anne tied the bow of the boat to the dock and pulled me out of the water. As I
lay on the dock, shivering uncontrollably, she and Ethne lifted poor Rory out of the boat. I struggled to my feet. Ethne was talking to someone on her cellular phone—everyone in Ireland has one! Marie had stopped keening and was now singing a lullaby to the Mick. Nelliecoyne had her arms around Fiona’s neck. The world was slipping back to its proper form.

  YOU FOCKING AMADON. MADE A RIGHT PROPER GOBSHITE OUT OF YOURSELF, DIDN’T YOU!

  Then my wife clung to me, shuddering but alive.

  “Och, Dermot love, I’m so sorry!”

  “You didn’t push me in the water,” I said through quivering lips.

  “I was terrible mean to you, and meself thinking I would die without telling you I was sorry and I love you with all my heart!”

  “I’m not processing things very well, I’m afraid.”

  BECAUSE YOU’RE THE GREATEST ASSHOLE IN THE WESTERN WORLD. YOU LET THAT SHITEHAWK SHOOT AT YOUR POOR WIFE.

  “Dermot Michael, don’t you need a good strong shot of the creature and meself a hot cup of tea!”

  Then she seized her daughter and swept her into the air.

  “I told me da that the man wasn’t trying to kill you,” the little redhead informed her mother. “But I was scared too.”

  “So was I, me love, so was I. But we’re all fine now, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  A few moments later I was in the cabin, wrapped in towels and drinking my second “small jar.”

  “The focker was on the island,” Rory said for the fourth time. “He must have rowed over in a dory and hidden the boat.”

  “His car was on the far shore,” Nuala added grimly. “I’ll know him when I see him. I may break his friggin’ neck.”

  How would she know him when she saw him?

  Better not ask.

  “He wasn’t trying to hit you,” Ethne said. “Just to scare you?”

  “If he was trying to hit me, wouldn’t I be dead?” She shivered, slighted. “Still, what if he had killed me by mistake, the friggin’ gobshite!”

  “You’re planning on catching him?”

  “Of COURSE!”

  The children were back with their toys. Fiona was curled up protectively at her mistress’s feet.