by Annie Murphy
Not wanting to burst into tears, I did not dare look back. That was when I knew finally after eighteen lonely years that Eamonn and I would walk our separate ways forever.
Chapter Fifty
NO SOONER WAS I AT MY WORKPLACE in Stamford at 9:30 than Arthur called. His tone was hostile.
“Where’d you stay last night?”
“Didn’t Mary tell you?”
“How could you stay with a raving bachelor like Jim Powers?”
“Peter and I slept on the couch.”
“I didn’t sleep a wink.”
I just managed to get in “Don’t you trust anyone, Arthur?” before he slammed the phone down.
When I got home that evening, Arthur fell on me like a tiger. His eyes were wild, his sparse hair was on end. Grabbing me by the throat, he pressed me against the wall. In slow, ominous tones: “I… want… answers.”
Fearing I would choke to death, I kneed him in the crotch.
His eyes were watering even before he fell on his knees, clutching at himself. When he was nearly recovered: “Why… do… that?”
“Because I can’t stand violence,” I said.
As we shared a cup of tea, he said: “I imagined you sleeping with Eamonn. Then I thought slimeball Jim slipped you a mickey and he had it off with you.”
“You are worse than Eamonn,” I screeched. “In one night, you have me in bed with two different men?”
“I can’t forgive you, Annie.” He went to bed and stayed there for two days.
When Peter came back from Jim’s, he was pleased Arthur was out of the way.
“The video,” he said. “Jim only got about half of the back of Eamonn’s head. We did, though, get a shot of him kissing you.”
“Great, Peter,” I said without enthusiasm.
“Where’s the tape you made?”
I fished it out of my pocketbook. I had made up my mind never to listen to it. I never did.
“The craziest night of my life,” Peter said excitedly before a sudden switch of mood. “Do you reckon Eamonn’ll call me?”
I said he might because he still had a few days before he went to Toronto to baptize the daughter of his first cousin Tim. Day after day I prayed that Eamonn would call Peter. He never did. Why was he so stupid?
Eventually, Peter said, “Isn’t this just peachy? He goes hundreds of miles to baptize a distant relative and he can’t give me a half hour. I really like my dear old dad.”
There were tears in his eyes as he said it. The tears were of grief; the eyes were of one hurt more than any jilted lover.
Next day, he told Mary that this grand family man, Eamonn, was in future going to have to deal with him. Without consulting me, he went to a lawyer I knew, Anthony Piazza.
Piazza got from Peter an assurance that this was on his own initiative, not mine. He pointed out that it would take six months to get the case to an American court. By then, Peter would be over eighteen and it would be too late. He suggested Peter get an Irish lawyer to represent him. He recommended an acquaintance of his, Justin McCarthy, a solicitor with the firm of Kenny, Stephenson & Chapman in Upper Mount Street, Dublin.
I called McCarthy on Thanksgiving Day 1991. I explained that I was representing Peter in his claim for child support and recoverability of arrears against his father.
“Who is?”
“A bishop in Ireland.”
I did not name the bishop, but from my description McCarthy seemed to have no difficulty identifying him.
Such cases, McCarthy said, were held in camera in Ireland but since it was such a small place, the Bishop, fearing the news might spread, should come to a speedy settlement.
In his follow-up letter to me on December 4, 1991, McCarthy stressed he believed in “basic rules of fairness.” He wanted no part in a vindictive campaign. If I gave him these assurances, he would go ahead in quest of arrears of maintenance, a financial contribution to Peter’s further education, and succession rights under Irish law.
Having received documentation from Piazza that included a copy of Eamonn’s check paid to settle his suit with me, he wrote me again on January 14, 1992. In his view, Peter might get a legal Declaration of Paternity, but an Irish court would probably hold that $100,000 was sufficient settlement of all outstanding claims against the Bishop. Anything more, he felt, would smack of blackmail.
He was also concerned that the father’s identity should be protected even from the court staff. “I am making arrangements,” he wrote, “to discuss this with our senior judge.”
Peter was furious. Eamonn had already agreed that my settlement was distinct from his. Moreover, Peter did not want any more cover-ups; he had been kept hidden as the Bishop’s secret sin for far too many years already.
McCarthy’s suggestion that the demands of justice were somehow a form of blackmail of poor Eamonn was bad enough. Worse was the thought that the Irish legal system, from a senior judge down, was prepared to shield Eamonn from the public gaze. Peter, a budding lawyer, exclaimed, “Justice must be seen to be done.”
He was more than ever determined to fight. Had Eamonn not been in the dead center of this hurricane, he might have approved of his son’s courage and resolve.
In mid-January 1992, Peter asked Peter McKay to take on his case. McKay was as keen as McCarthy to keep it in the private forum. Within days, he had renewed his contact with Father James Kelly from Brooklyn.
When, at McKay’s suggestion, I called Father Kelly, I found him anxious to work with us on a private solution to the problem of Peter’s education. I told him the boy was no longer interested in that approach. Kelly replied that no lawyer, certainly none in Ireland, would advise differently.
There was no movement for a few weeks. Until Peter said he simply had to prove that he was neither a blackmailer nor an extortioner. Money was not important, but justice was. He was fed up with his father always being seen as the innocent party in need of protection. “I’m the bastard, my mother is the bad woman. This has got to stop. I intend to clear my name whatever happens.”
There spoke Eamonn’s son.
He was fed up with taking what he called “dirt money.” Either his father talked with him and admitted everything or he would have to suffer the consequences. Peter told Arthur he now knew no lawyer was going to help us and that he wanted to air the whole matter publicly.
One night, Arthur whispered to me: “Peter can’t keep going through this torture, Annie. He’s going to do something wild, something he can’t control. He has no idea of the power of the Church of Rome. If he holds a press conference, he has no proof. He’ll be crucified.”
Right. Who would believe him? Publicity of that sort would only show me up as a thieving whore who was trying to blackmail a bishop who had proved himself the Pope of the Third World.
After getting my agreement, Arthur rose at four the next morning and called the Irish Times in Dublin. He asked for the editor because it was a highly charged political and religious matter. He was finally put through to the news editor. John Armstrong told him if he had documents to confirm his story, he would send his Washington correspondent to meet us within three days. He warned us it could be a long drawn-out affair, not least because the libel laws in Ireland are very stringent. Also, once the story was in the open, there would be no going back.
One cold early February night, Conor O’Clery of the Irish Times telephoned and came to see us at 10:30, soon after I got back from work. A tall, handsome man with friendly eyes, he struck us instantly as not only very professional but someone we could trust. We gave him lawyers’ letters, copies of checks received in recent years including the big one from Father Kelly, and my official letter of release to the Bishop.
After interviewing each of us, O’Clery’s conclusion was that we had a strong case. But not strong enough. His paper needed more proof. Father Kelly offered a “large sum” for Peter’s education.
“Too vague,” Arthur said. “Name a figure, please.”
Kelly said
that to get Peter through college would cost about $35,000. Law school would cost $30,000 a year for three years. “We’re probably talking one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to do it right. If he needs more, we can go higher.”
Arthur, never less than honest, said, “You have to understand, sir, I have already spoken to the Irish Times. We are not going to stop this. Eamonn may pay up and still be exposed.”
Father Kelly, who was tough but very fair, said it was a matter of basic justice. “I think you should take the money, anyway.”
Arthur said, “If we go public, I reckon Peter would think that wrong.”
In March, in addition to sending two checks totaling $10,000 on Eamonn’s behalf for Peter’s first year in college, Father Kelly wrote, “I have assurances from Eamonn that the total tuition costs will be paid.”
Eamonn had finally seen the raised paw of the tiger. If only he had tried shaking it, instead of thrusting money into it.
Feeling worried about Eamonn’s fate, I tried even at this late hour to make peace between son and father. “Peter,” I said, “money is your passport to an education. Please think about Father Kelly’s offer.”
He had thought about it and made up his mind not to take any more hush money even if it meant only one year at college. He wanted nothing less than a public acknowledgment that Eamonn Casey was his father.
At this time, strange things started to happen to our car. Tires were slashed, the brakes were tampered with. Arthur was a good mechanic. He tightened the lug bolts and, next morning, they had come loose. Arthur felt a noose was tightening around us. Each morning, he was the one to start the car in case it had been tampered with or booby-trapped.
Bridget, remarried, had moved back to Ireland and was living in Galway. I called her to tell her that a journalist from the Irish Times might want to interview her. Also, if it came to a court case, Peter might ask her to be a witness.
“If you don’t want to be involved, just say so.”
“I’ll have to think about this,” Bridget said. “Remember, I’m now living in Eamonn’s diocese.”
We joked a little about our Dublin days and how Eamonn and I had carried on our affair at Inch and in a Dublin gravel pit.
“Dear old Eamonn,” she said, “also spent many a juicy night in our flat, Murphy.”
For me, the most heartbreaking night was when Eamonn called Arthur. Peter and I were sitting close enough to Arthur to hear both sides of the conversation.
Eamonn was whimpering, “I’m begging you not to betray me, Arthur.”
I put my hand in my mouth to stop myself crying out in pain.
“How can you betray me?” Eamonn was saying.
“To hell with you,” Arthur said. “You betrayed your son year after year. You still are.”
Eamonn said that he had already sent $10,000. “Didn’t Monsignor Kelly tell you I’m prepared to pay the entire cost of the boy’s education?”
“The money isn’t important, never was,” Arthur snapped. “The kid wants recognition.”
“Sure I’ll give him that, too.”
“Too late, Eamonn. You may be a bishop and I’m only a carpenter. But I know a shithead when I see one. You’ve been given a hundred chances to make it up with Peter. That’s why I’m going to take from you your seat, your miter, your ring, your palace, your car. Every goddamn thing.”
“Plea-ease.”
I couldn’t take any more. I tried to grab the phone. When Arthur prevented me, I ran into the bathroom, jumped into the empty tub, and put my hands over my ears.
Afterward, Arthur told me he had given Eamonn one more chance. If he called Peter and talked with him man to man, he would stop the story and deny whatever the papers printed. He also said Eamonn was going to the Philippines for his usual two-week post-Easter break.
I waited and waited. Still Eamonn never called Peter. He intended spending a couple of weeks in the Philippines and he hadn’t one half hour to spare on his son?
In an angry mood, I phoned Galway. To the woman who answered, I said: “Bishop Casey, please. I want to talk to the father of my seventeen-year-old son.”
She dropped the phone, screaming, with laughter or tears, I don’t know, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
Eamonn came on the line with “What did you just say?”
“Only what I’m going to say to the whole damn world.”
“You know I’m going on my usual two-week holiday.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” I exploded, “you can run but you can’t hide.”
“Annie, please, what do you want?”
“I want you to know I have you taped. Literally. Remember Peter’s godfather, Jim? You were right—I did set you up. He was filming you with his camcorder when you kissed me in the Grand Hyatt.”
“Stop it, Annie, stop it.”
“Maybe Jim even recorded us in that motel room.”
“The devil’s got you by the throat.”
God, even his phraseology hadn’t changed over the years. “You keep ringing here and you don’t talk to your son? How dare you? So have a nice vacation in the Philippines and dream on. If I turn up in Manila —”
“You would not betray me.”
“I have already been to the press.”
“I am still going on holiday, so good-bye.”
And, on Tuesday, April 21, he went. I had the strange feeling that he had already made up his mind to resign.
I called O’Clery to tell him Eamonn was going to the Philippines. The Irish Times tried to trace him but failed. Eamonn had, in fact, gone to Malta.
He did call us once, again offering money for Peter’s education but still refusing to speak to Peter. That was when I knew beyond a doubt that he had some kind of death wish and not even I could save him.
I had the impression that the traditionally Protestant Irish Times was being overcautious. Reluctant to seem anti-Catholic or to intrude into a man’s private life, it was only interested in the public matter of where the Bishop got the money to pay us.
I decided to give the paper a bit of a push. On April 27, I called O’Clery in Washington, D.C. His wife, Zhanna, said he had gone to the Times office in Dublin. “That’s odd,” I said, “I’m speaking from across the street from the Times. I’ll wave to him.”
Conor’s wife telephoned him and he started a search for me. I wasn’t at work. Arthur said I wasn’t at home. They got frantic, thinking that I might be about to give their scoop to another paper. Finally, when Conor called our house again, I admitted I was there. He was not amused.
“Nor am I,” I said. “I swear if you don’t break this story, Arthur will. We’re scared. Last night, the lug bolts of our car came unscrewed again and a wheel flew off.”
Conor, who obviously thought we were paranoid about the car, said the news was about to break. It would be one of the biggest stories ever to hit Ireland. They had finally tracked Eamonn down. He had promised to speak with them as soon as he returned to Ireland.
On Saturday, May 2, Eamonn left Malta on the normal afternoon flight from Valletta to Rome. He was met at the Rome airport by a clerical colleague and taken to the Irish College.
On May 3, the Irish Times sent a photographer to take our pictures around Ridgefield and in front of our house.
In Rome, on Tuesday, May 5, Eamonn had two Vatican appointments. The first was to discuss Trocaire matters with Cardinal Etchegaray, head of the Pontifical Commission on Justice and Peace. The second was to hand in his resignation to the Congregation of Bishops. It was formally accepted by Pope John Paul II on Wednesday, May 6. Eamonn flew back to Dublin that same afternoon.
He broke his promise to talk at the Dublin airport with the Irish Times, presumably on orders from the Vatican.
Having driven to Galway, he told his colleagues in the Diocesan Chapter that he was resigning for personal reasons. He issued his public statement of resignation shortly before midnight, Irish time. We heard it on TV that same Wednesday evening, May 6.
On Thursday after lunch, he was chauffeured to Shannon and whisked aboard an Aer Lingus 747, flight El 105, arriving in the early evening at New York. There he was given VIP treatment. A blacked-out limousine picked him up at Kennedy, whence he disappeared.
It hurt me to see him run like a frightened rabbit without one word of explanation or regret. Is this the way, I wondered, that Catholics, especially Irish Catholics, deal with their problems? What lesson is this for young Irish people? Even more worrying to me was this final proof of what the Catholic Church had done to daunt this once brave man whom I loved.
Chapter
Fifty-One
ON THURSDAY, MAY 7, the Irish Times added to its report of Eamonn’s resignation a cryptic note about payments to a woman in Connecticut. It was hardly the presentation we had hoped for. Without intending it, the paper may have suggested to some readers that I had blackmailed Eamonn.
At one in the morning New York time, the madness started. We were besieged by journalists and photographers. It went on without a break for eight days. I was still working two jobs and getting three hours’ sleep a night. I was even followed as I drove to my office in Stamford.
I had naïvely thought the story would cause a stir in Ireland. I had no idea it would go around the world. I found myself entertaining the press from many countries, offering donuts and coffee in our small one-bedroom apartment.
The Irish media in particular treated me with courtesy but while some supportive letters did come in, I was deluged by hate mail. “Hell hath no fury like a slut scorned,” summed it up.
It was assumed that I had pilloried the Bishop or had not prevented it when I could. I was blamed entirely for the Bishop’s disgrace. Irish Catholics in America and Ireland took it for granted that I had wickedly tempted and betrayed a good man for revenge and/or money. Irish priests are always seduced, never seducers; they are frail and innocent even after their fall. Women are sinners always. I was told I should have kept my mouth shut.
One person wrote: “Everyone knows you seduced poor innocent Eamonn, in fact, people say you came to this country with that intention.… If you want to stay alive with your bastard son keep out of Ireland.”