Our Lady Of Greenwich Village

by Dermot McEvoy

  “There, there,” said O’Rourke trying to hide a smile. “There, there.”

  “There, there, yourself,” replied McGuire.

  O’Rourke often thought of himself as the “spinster’s son.” His mother had not married until she was forty-two and, in reality, should never have married at all. It was funny. He had been all over the world, yet he was almost back to where he began.

  His first encounter with the fairer sex was violent. It had been just around the corner at Hollis Street Hospital in 1946 when after two days of excruciating labor they finally yanked him out by the head, clamps scraping, from between his mother’s legs. In Dublin you apparently got natural childbirth whether you wanted it or not. Mary Kavanagh was forty-three and this was her first child and, by God, she was terrified.

  Her life had been hard after her father had succumbed to Black and Tan thuggery. Out of the orphanage in Sandymount and into her first job in a tobacconist shop in Bray by the sea. His mother was a woman of few vices, but it was here that she acquired her most virulent one. On the counter they sold “Lucys”—single, loose cigarettes. A Woodbine for a ha’penny. If you worked in a sweets shop, you might pop a chocolate. In a tobacconist shop, it was a Lucy. She lit up for the first time at eighteen, and it was three packs a day until she drew her final breath at eighty-two. Her right hand looked like it belonged to a Negro, it was so brown from the nicotine. But she loved her smokes from the first light-up in the morning to the last snuff-out at night.

  After the tobacconist there were jobs as scullery maids and housekeepers in all the fine Protestant houses in the wealthy, manicured suburbs of South Dublin. Her life was literally just like Upstairs, Downstairs, which became her favorite TV show. She was unlucky in love—as her son would be—but she filled her time away from work with a deep devotion to the church—and a penchant for the movies. When she worked for the Anglo-Irish—O’Rourke couldn’t utter the hyphenated words without thinking of Brendan Behan’s bulls-eye definition: “A Protestant on a horse”—she found herself with a half day on Thursdays and Sunday evenings off. Thursday afternoons were reserved for the cinema and she took the tram to O’Connell Street for some Hollywood escape at the Carleton, the Metropole, or the Savoy. She confessed years later that Tyrone Power “did it for her” and O’Rourke first realized that she was as interested in sex as everyone else was. Her Sunday nights were different as she would often find herself in the City Centre, on Dame Street, when the loud, solitary bells of Christ Church Cathedral would strike the Angelous at six o’clock. “Oh,” she said to her son years later as they walked together on the same Dame Street as the bells sounded again. “I remember them as a young girl and they were so, so lonely.” O’Rourke looked across the deserted street—long before Temple Bar became the place to be—and understood completely, for loneliness was another trait he shared with his mother. It was as if loneliness stalked the Kavanaghs, for just down the street was Temple Lane, the girlhood home of her mother, Rosanna.

  Her life changed when she went to work during the “Emergency”—as World War II was known in the Irish Free State—for Mrs. Darley out in Foxrock. O’Rourke’s mother was a fantastic chef and a superb baker. Her gift was her simplicity. She could take a piece of fish and fry it—sauté was not yet in the Irish vocabulary—to a golden, delicious perfection. Mrs. Darley was suspicious of this O’Rourke fellow—a land steward from Donabate—his mother was seeing and demanded that he come to the fancy house in Foxrock for an interview. It did not go well and Mrs. Darley advised against marriage, but Mary Kavanagh was adamant. She was married in July 1945 at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow.

  O’Rourke, years later, had asked his mother if she loved his father when she married him. “I liked him enough,” she replied, which was the wrong answer, for O’Rourke at least. And now he remembered his mother’s marriage certificate and the marriage certificate of Rosanna Conway. Spinsters. Spinsters to the core. Now he was about to marry another spinster, one Simone McGuire.

  “The maid of honor and the best man?” asked Father Conway.

  “They’ll be here any minute. Driving down from Phibsborough.”

  “Fine,” said the priest, “I’ll meet you in the church momentarily.”

  O’Rourke took McGuire by the elbow and began walking her toward the church. “So this is it?”

  “You sound like a prisoner walking the last mile,” laughed O’Rourke.

  “Well,” replied McGuire, “maybe I am.”

  O’Rourke tapped her gently on the behind. “I don’t think so.” “You can’t keep your hands off my ass even in church!”

  “And you love it.”

  “I do love it, and I love you.”

  O’Rourke and McGuire were joined by O’Rourke’s cousins Jerry and Maura Bartley, who would be their witnesses.

  The church was empty and the mass was quick. Immediately following the mass, the marriage ceremony took place. It was all over in half an hour. Father Conway pronounced them man and wife, and O’Rourke kissed his bride. The four of them headed for O’Rourke’s limo to go back to the Shelbourne for breakfast.

  As O’Rourke helped McGuire into the limo, she said, “I guess I’m not a spinster anymore.”

  O’Rourke smiled, then gave her a peck on the cheek, thinking of two other spinsters. “I guess not.”

  56.

  The fire had gone out of O’Rourke’s political belly. After nearly two months in Europe, he had returned to New York in early October with serious doubts about running for Congress. His political drive had taken a backseat to Sam and the baby. He would have pulled out in a second, but he felt an obligation to the party. His poll numbers had been steady while he was away, and he had felt no urgency to return. He and Sam had actually looked at houses in Wexford and West Cork, but he knew that was just fantasy. He belonged in New York. Or did he? Now he couldn’t decide.

  “Nice of you guys to finally show up,” said Clarence Black as they settled in for their first campaign meeting of the fall.

  “Did everyone have a pleasant summer?” asked O’Rourke sweetly.

  “Yes!” said McGuire, and everyone laughed. She was getting really big now and it took some effort for her to move around. “How are those polls coming, Nuncio?” she asked. Baroody pulled out copies and passed them around.

  “Fifty-nine percent overall,” said O’Rourke, shaking his head. “That’s okay.”

  “It should be higher,” said McGuire and O’Rourke nodded. “Let’s look at the breakdown,” she said.

  “We’re doing really well with the gays,” said Nuncio. “You’re nearly 92 percent. I don’t know what the hell the other 8 percent is thinking.”

  “Ah,” said Black with amusement, “the Log Cabin Republicans have spoken!”

  “Fuck them,” said O’Rourke. “How about the Limousine Liberals on the Upper West Side?”

  “Could be better,” said McGuire. “You’re at 55 percent.”

  “That sucks,” said O’Rourke.

  “It does,” confirmed McGuire.

  “I should be killing Swift up there.” There was quiet in the room. “Okay, guys, tomorrow we start hitting the subway stations morning and night. We’re going to the Upper West Side first. Seventy-second Street. I hope no one bleeds on me this time.”

  “Why start uptown?” asked McGuire.

  “Because those people would rather vote than fuck and if they don’t vote for me I’m fucked. Got it?” Everyone nodded as O’Rourke’s phone rang. McGuire came out of her chair to pick it up and O’Rourke waved her off. “My God, Sam, calm down,” he admonished. He picked up his own phone.

  “Tone, it’s Kevin Griffin.”

  “Bubba,” he said delighted, signaling to everyone to stay, “how’s it hanging?”

  “I hear you got married and didn’t invite anyone,” said Griffin.

  “I got married in Dublin,” said O’Rourke in explanation.

  “I see,” replied the taciturn Griffin.

  “Fuck you
,” said O’Rourke and Griffin laughed. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I got a call last night from someone in Congresswoman Fopiano’s office.”

  “Hold on, Kev. I want to put this on speaker phone.” He hit the button and made the necessary introductions. “Kevin and I were in the same outfit in Vietnam. He also took me into custody,” he said laughing, remembering that it was to Griffin he surrendered to in 1972 at the American Embassy in Dublin. “So what did Congresswoman’s Fopiano’s office want from you?”

  “They wanted to know if you really earned your medals in Vietnam?”

  “What did you tell them.”

  “I told them you were a big fucking hero.”

  O’Rourke and the others laughed. O’Rourke turned serious quickly. “What else did they want?”

  “They wanted to know about you and me in Dublin in ’72.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I told them it was none of their fucking business.”

  “Thank you, Bubba.” Griffin was Bronx Irish tough.

  “What are they up to?” asked Griffin.

  “I have a pretty good idea,” replied O’Rourke. “And it ain’t good.” O’Rourke looked around the room, and the three faces were dead serious. “Thanks, Bubba. If they call you back again, get in touch immediately.”

  “Will do,” said Griffin.

  “Siemper Fi,” said O’Rourke.

  “Siemper Fi,” responded Griffin, and he hung up the phone.

  There was silence all around for a good minute. “What do you make of it?” asked McGuire.

  “They’re about to try and fuck us. So get ready.”

  “Get ready?” repeated McGuire.

  “Yes,” said O’Rourke, “have the ad agency ready to respond within twenty-four hours to any major attack by Swift. Also, start polling the district every Monday and Thursday from now on.” O’Rourke looked at his team. “Okay, everybody,” he said, “Tip O’Neill 101 . . .”

  “Money is the mother’s milk of politics,” they said in cultlike fashion, and they all laughed.

  “As far as we know,” said McGuire, “they’re hurting for money since Costello was deported.”

  “Correct,” said O’Rourke, “but we must be vigilant. Got that, Clarence?” Black nodded. “Keep a close eye on their bank statements.” O’Rourke got out of his chair and stretched. “Bó airgead,” he said in Irish and laughed. “Cash cow,” he repeated in English. “Let’s keep a sharp lookout for that GOP cash cow.”

  57.

  Julie-Annie was giving Brogan a headache. She was wailing away as her mother tried to calm her by gently rocking her in her arms. Brogan saw the child as a living insult to her own relationship with Swift. She wondered, if she had a child with Jackie, would it look like the unfortunately named Julie-Annie?

  This was the big meeting Vito had been trying to arrange for weeks. The whole gang, including Georgie Drumgoole, was here. There was only one person missing.

  “And how is the scion of Rancho Mirage?” asked Vito.

  “He’s coming along,” said Madonna-Sue. “Rancho Mirage is lovely this time of the year.” Rancho Mirage, California, was the home of the Betty Ford Center.

  “If he gets his ticket punched one more time, his next stay is f ree,” said Vito, laughing at his own joke. “Maybe he should get a timeshare.”

  It was in the week after the Republican National Convention that Jackie Swift had been packed away to sunny California. Brogan had been awoken by moisture. At first she thought there was a pipe leaking. She had almost been right. There was a leak, but it was Jackie leaking into the bed. He was so coked up on one of Fischbein’s Fish-Packs that he had peed on Brogan without even waking up. That was it. Brogan called Vito and Jackie found himself on the first plane out to Los Angeles that morning. This stay was going to take longer, they said at Betty Ford. He might be there for up to twelve weeks, which would get him back into the campaign near the end of October.

  “Well,” said Vito, “Jackie may as well enjoy his stay out there because we’re broke.”

  “Broke?” repeated Madonna-Sue.

  “Bankrupt,” said Vito. “Zilch.”

  “Where’s Costello’s money?”asked Brogan. “What did Mandelstam do with it?” It was an accusation, not a question.

  “We had to get rid of it,” said Vito. “Couldn’t keep it around.”

  “Where is it?” the persistent Brogan demanded.

  “RNC got it.” That was the Republican National Committee.

  “Why can’t we get it back from them?” asked Brogan. “The laundry should be clean by now.” Laundry. That word. Brogan thought that the money had been cleaned by now. This was the kind of talk that got people indicted.

  “They won’t give it back,” replied Vito softly. “They think this campaign is going nowhere. Let’s admit it, it’s really a Democratic district and O’Rourke has plenty of his own money to spend.”

  That was part of it. Vito couldn’t get it back because he had no clout anymore. D’Amato as a senator was history. Giuliani had dropped out of the senatorial race with Hillary Clinton because of cancer. (“He’s out walking his pet prostate,” Vito had been heard telling colleagues.) And pretty soon, it looked like his son-in-law would be out of a job, further reducing his influence within the party. It came down to no juice, no clout, no money. The RNC had spoken.

  “Well,” said Madonna-Sue, “we better do something.”

  “How did your little fishing expedition go?” asked Brogan of Madonna-Sue. They seldom asked face-to-face questions of each other, but this was business, desperate business.

  “Kevin Griffin,” said Madonna-Sue, lighting up a Camel,

  “O’Rourke’s buddy from Vietnam, told my guy to go fuck himself.”

  Brogan gave a cynical laugh. She knew the fucking Irish. “What did you expect?” Madonna-Sue shrugged.

  “You know you shouldn’t smoke in front of the baby,” said Vito.

  “It’s not healthy for her.”

  “Neither is politics,” shot back the congresswoman.

  “I guess O’Rourke really is the real thing,” offered Vito, quickly changing the subject. They sounded stumped, then Drumgoole piped in. “How about O’Rourke’s trouble with the IRA?”

  “What about it?”

  “I heard he was really connected back in the ’70s.”

  “Can you document it?” asked Madonna-Sue.

  “Maybe,” said Drumgoole, lowering his head. “If we get something on O’Rourke maybe I can get Wellington Mulvaney to run it in his column in the Post,” he added, his second idea of the day wearing him out.

  “Well,” said Vito, “we better get lucky and we better get lucky fast or we’re going to be out of one fat salary come election day. One-hundred-sixty-grand down the toilet.”

  “So much for idealism,” thought Brogan to herself as she looked at a bunch of people who saw Jackie Swift as nothing more than a meal ticket for their own greedy aspirations.

  58.

  New York Post, October 29, 2000

  THE TERRORISTCANDIDATE

  By Wellington Mulvaney

  It has come to my knowledge that one Wolfe Tone O’Rourke, the Democratic nominee in the 7th Congressional District, has terrorist ties to the IRA.

  Between August 1971, the beginning of internment without trial in Northern Ireland, and the spring of 1972, he was responsible for getting dozens of IRA men “on the run” into the United States of America on “lost” American passports.

  America is the target of terrorists worldwide. Do we need one representing us in the U.S. Congress?

  59.

  New York Daily News, October 31, 2000

  Eye on New York by Cyclops Reilly

  SMEARING TONEO’ROURKE

  If there’s one thing you can count on in this town, it is that Wellington Mulvaney will type whatever the right-wing tells him to. I am referring to his column of a couple of days ago called “The Terrorist Candidate.” (By the way, Bo
ots, I like it when you have trouble breaking 100 words.) This column was directed at Wolfe Tone O’Rourke who is running against Wellington’s boy, Jackie Swift, in the 7th Congressional District.

  O’Rourke was a corpsman in Vietnam. I freely admit that he saved my life when I was hit by Viet Cong fire. When the Republicans can’t beat you fair and square, they take your strength and try to turn it into a weakness. You can expect another 100-word column from Mulvaney any day now, followed by one after that. These columns will drip pieces of information. O’Rourke called me yesterday and he told me the whole story.

  The story is simple. After coming home wounded from Vietnam in 1971 the Navy found out they were running out of corpsmen—that’s a “medic” in the movies—for the Marine Corp. O’Rourke’s tour was about over. The Navy put a stop-loss on corpsmen to keep them in an extra year and ordered O’Rourke back to Vietnam for another tour. O’Rourke had done his duty. The Navy didn’t care. O’Rourke told them what they could do with their extra tour of duty in Vietnam.

  O’Rourke left for Dublin just as internment without trial was being introduced in Northern Ireland. Some people think that Britain is a democracy. It isn’t. Democracies don’t lock their people up without trials. But they do this a lot in Britain, and Belfast, because their injustices drive the poor to rebellion. To make a long story short O’Rourke—proudly—admits to getting IRA men out of the country. He won’t say how he did it, but he did it. And he said he would do it all over again.

  O’Rourke finally returned to New York and spent some time in the brig at the Brooklyn Navy Yard until everything was straightened out. He was reprimanded for not following an order—going back to be killed in Vietnam for the vainglorious politicians—censured, and given an honorable discharge in 1972.