Obit

by Anne Emery

  I got back to the hotel at three in the morning. Burke obviously thought I was gone for the night: when I walked into the suite, the door to his room was open. There he was in his bed, flaked out on his back, with Cassie asleep across him, her head on his belly, her long black hair forming a veil that might have been strategically placed by the Legion of Decency. I quietly closed their door and went to my room.

  I dropped off instantly and didn’t wake up until I heard the shower come on. I looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was seven a.m. It took me a while to remember who was there. Oh yes, Brennan. And? I heard Cassie’s husky voice coming from the bathroom. “I’m in here trying to clean up my image, and you — again? How many times do you generally do this in the run of a night?” I didn’t hear whatever answer he came up with to that. The last thing I heard before I clamped a pillow over my head was her saying: “Just don’t drop me,” and him, in a voice as husky as hers: “That would hurt me more than it would hurt you right now, darlin’.”

  When I awoke again it was nearly ten, and the room was bright. One of my suite mates was leaving. “I’ll go down by myself, Brennan. I have to peel myself away from you some time. It might as well be here and now.”

  “I’m walking down with you.” I recognized the tone all too well. It brooked no argument.

  I was sitting up having a cup of coffee from the self-serve when he came back, dressed in jeans, a white shirt with the tail hanging out, and nothing on his feet. “When did you get here?” he wanted to know.

  “I just walked in.”

  “Horseshit.” I smiled at him. He kept going, nearly staggering, towards his room. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Again?”

  “Feck off.” He tore his pants and shirt off and threw himself face down on the bed. I suspect he was asleep by the time his nose hit the eiderdown.

  I showered, dressed, and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door before I left the hotel.

  Chapter 3

  Mama put my guns in the ground

  I can’t shoot them anymore

  That long black cloud is coming down

  I feel I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door.

  — Bob Dylan, “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”

  March 8, 1991

  I may as well have been at work that Friday. I decided to check out the Criminal Courts Building in Lower Manhattan, and ended up spending the whole day observing a murder trial. Monty Collins, law nerd. Then it was time to meet the train from Philadelphia, get a cab to the hotel, and dress for the wedding. The Philly trip was by all accounts a success but, by the time we arrived in the hotel lobby, my irrepressible daughter had moved on.

  “Can we go to the wedding now? I think I should put my hair up.” She pushed her auburn curls into an up-do and squinted around the lobby for a mirror. “This makes me look older, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, nine instead of eight,” her brother replied.

  “Ha ha, very funny. I think it makes me look mature.”

  “How are you going to see the wedding without your glasses, Normie?”

  “Daddy, I can see.”

  As if to prove her point, she held my gaze with her big beautiful near-sighted hazel eyes. We had bought her enough pairs of eyeglasses over the years to outfit the entire membership of the Junior Mensa Chess Squad. She claimed she had no idea what had become of the pair we had bought her the week before.

  Tommy Douglas had my dark blond hair and blue eyes; at the age of seventeen he was fast approaching my height of five feet ten. He was only with us for a week. His girlfriend, his rock band, his high school buddies — life for him would be unfolding in Halifax, and he did not want to be away for long. It was no accident, I’m sure, that he decided to be with us this week, when school was on, and would return to Halifax in time to have the house to himself for the school break. So, with time at a premium, he was anxious to begin his New York adventure, notably checking out the Greenwich Village and Harlem landmarks once frequented by his many musical idols. A wedding was nothing but an obstacle in the way of the real excitement ahead, but he was an easygoing lad and would make the best of it.

  We got into the elevator, Normie pressed the seven, the doors closed, and Maura asked: “Is Brennan still here?”

  “Christ,” I muttered, “I hope not.” I’m sure she was giving me an odd look but I was busy beseeching the Almighty that the room had been made up and Burke was not still passed out naked in a post-coital stupor. I had been so intent on the proceedings at the court house that I had forgotten my plan to call and roust him out. The elevator stopped, we emerged and walked down the hall to room 703, and I put the key in the lock. The absence of the Do Not Disturb sign gave me hope. We were in and, yes, he was gone.

  †

  Saint Kieran’s Church was a neo-Gothic stone building with a triple arch leading to its three wooden doors, a large rose window with white tracery and a heavy square side tower crowned with finials. The taxi let us out across the street, in front of a block of low-rise apartment buildings. We crossed Botsford Street and climbed the steps along with hundreds of other guests. I noticed a young teenage girl giving my son the eye; he looked handsome indeed in his navy tweed sports jacket and pale blue shirt. Normie was wearing a pink frilly dress that did not suit her personality or her colouring, but I knew enough to keep my own counsel on the matter.

  Night had fallen and the church was lit by a hundred candles. The light glimmered against the jewel-like stained glass windows in the nave. We managed to choose seats with a minimum of debate, and it was not long before the pipe organ announced the arrival of the bridal party. Katie Burke was a very young bride, eighteen or nineteen years old. Five foot two, with auburn hair and sparking hazel eyes; she wore a cream suit with a sprig of shamrock in her lapel. Young but obviously game for the big step she was taking; she was wearing a grin from ear to ear as her dad walked her down the aisle. Brennan’s brother Terrence, father of the bride, was a very Celtic-looking man of around forty, with thick chestnut brown hair and bright blue eyes. The groom, Niccolo, was a short, broad young man with Mediterranean colouring; he rocked back and forth on his feet as his bride approached.

  Father Burke, in vestments of white, looked upon his niece with unabashed tenderness and gently kissed her hand when she arrived before him. She held his hand and then went up on the tips of her toes to plant a big kiss on his cheek, which sent a ripple of affectionate laughter through the congregation. The priest made the sign of the cross over the gathering, and the ceremony began.

  “Is Father Burke an angel?” my daughter whispered to me. “He’s wearing white robes and there are spirits all around that altar.”

  Maura and I had long known that our daughter was able to see or experience things that most people could not. Like Maura’s grandmother in Cape Breton, our daughter apparently had “the sight.” Father Burke had picked up on it the first time he met Normie; it seemed they shared a moment of mutual recognition, a rich vein of ancient knowledge passed down from their Celtic forebears. For my part, I’d never had a clairvoyant moment in my life. If I had, I might have been able to predict what my clients were going to say on the witness stand, and saved myself a lot of grief.

  “So, is he?”

  “What?”

  “An angel?”

  “You’d know that better than I would, sweetheart. Now pay attention. You’re going to get married some day and you’ll want to know what to do.”

  “Oh no. I’m going to do what he does. He gets to boss other people’s weddings and he doesn’t have to get married himself. Plus he gets to say secret prayers right to God, and he can sing by himself at the front of the church. Nobody tells him if he’s singing the wrong notes.”

  “He doesn’t sing the wrong notes, Normie. Listen.”

  Father Burke sang the simple, ancient and moving Kyrie Eleison from the Gregorian Mass of the Angels. I enjoyed the unaffected beauty of his voice, and not a note was out of place. As always, I was
struck by the reverence and grace he exhibited in his sacramental role. The Mass proceeded, and he gave a short homily in English, Italian and — Dia anseo isteach — Irish: God bless all here. The marriage ceremony itself came next and we heard a few selections from soloists chosen by the newlyweds: a young woman who was a friend of Katie, and a man from the D’Agostino side. I noticed that Burke could not stop himself from giving the young female a little signal with a raised index finger, to sharpen her pitch. When it was time for Holy Communion we all lined up to receive the Host from Brennan. I looked into his eyes for the first time since the events of the morning. The priest’s gaze was direct and unflinching. “Body of Christ, Monty.”

  “Amen.”

  The young couple made their exit in a barrage of flashbulbs, and we all gathered on the massive stone stairway of the church. Everyone appeared to be in a celebratory mood, with the exception of Declan Burke. He was standing off to the side, peering through the darkness at the roofs of the buildings across the street. Brennan’s mother, Teresa, looked regal with her silver chignon and elegant dress in the same shade. She was tall, slim and oval-faced, with great dark brown eyes and an air of unflappable dignity. “Monty! What a pleasure to see you.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and we spoke for a few minutes about the bride and the ceremony. When she was called away I went over to Declan.

  “Mr. Collins.”

  “Mr. Burke. Good to see you again.” We shook hands.

  Declan was shorter than I was, and stocky, with thick white hair brushed from a side part. He had an aura of strength and power, and a disconcerting way of fixing you with his wintry blue eyes. A very vigorous man of seventy-three. His speech was Irish, terse, to the point: “Thank you for your efforts on my son’s behalf last year. Without your detective and legal work, he’d be having his morning crap in a prison cell for the rest of his natural life. And we both know he’s much too fastidious for that.”

  “Thank you for your kind words, Declan. That’s all behind us now.” His eyes turned from me and sought out the roofs across the street again. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Why would there be? Excuse me, would you?” And he moved farther away from the crowd.

  Declan’s worries, whatever they were, seemed to be groundless. The whole gathering moved to the reception in the gymnasium of the parish school, adjacent to the church. We entered a large foyer with glass cabinets displaying trophies going back to the 1950s. Ahead of us were the gym doors bedecked with white streamers, but Normie veered off to the left and then turned right, with two little boys hard on her heels. I made a detour and went after them down the corridor, which ran along the length of the gym. By the time I caught up, the kids were standing in the windows on the east side of the building, making faces into the dark outside. Tongues being stuck out at old aunts on their way to the reception? No, all I saw was trees out there. One of the windows looked as if it was ready to fall out of its casing. That was all I needed, my kid crashing out of the building and me stuck with the repair bill. Normie laughed when she saw me, but the smirk was wiped off her face when she caught sight of Declan Burke scowling at the end of the hallway.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh, is right. Get off there, the three of you.” One after the other, they jumped from their perches and ran to a side door to the gym, but it was locked. “Go back where we came in; that’s the entrance.”

  Declan eyed the windows and the locked side door; then he turned back and entered the gymnasium.

  I heard someone announce: “Family pictures!” The death knell for any hope of an early start to the party. Fortunately, the bar was open and doing a brisk business. After ordering a beer I took the opportunity to ask the bartender if he had ever heard of a brew called — I hoped I had it right — Lameki Jocuzasem. The beverage mentioned in the obit. He looked at me as if I were a pint short of a six-pack. Well, it was worth a try.

  I made conversation with some of the other guests and was on my third beer by the time the wedding party entered, sat at the head of the room and invited the rest of us to choose our places at the elegantly dressed tables around the hall. Normie found four seats close to the action and hovered by them until we all got to the table and settled in.

  A multi-course meal got underway, a well-designed mix of Italian and Irish, heavy on the Italian. The wine was plentiful and of excellent quality, a gift, we were told, from relatives in Tuscany. People stood to make toasts, including Brennan, who said what a lucky young man Niccolo was, and how much joy the young pair had in store for them over the years. “Love is a joyous event, or series of events — at least if my distant memories serve me well.” This brought laughs from the crowd.

  Maura leaned towards me and said out of the side of her mouth: “I wonder just how distant those memories are for Brennan.”

  I looked at my watch and said: “What time is it?”

  Her reaction was instant and gratifying. “What are you saying!” I looked up and saw Brennan’s black eyes on me, and I knew he had seen my little performance with the watch. He continued his spiel without skipping a beat and wound up with a toast to the bride’s parents. There were more speeches, more fabulous food was produced, wineglasses were filled and refilled. Brennan, his brothers Patrick and Terry, and another fellow of similar vintage formed a quartet, got down on their knees in front of Katie and began to croon a number of old-fashioned love songs, including “True Love,” with its assurance of a guardian angel for each and every one of us. It was hokey but it was good, and the crowd loved it. Katie was laughing and wiping tears from her eyes at the same time. Niccolo beamed with pleasure.

  “Will you do that at my wedding, Daddy?” Normie begged.

  “I thought you didn’t want to get married.”

  “I changed my mind. Please? I want all those songs. Plus that one from my opera.”

  “‘Casta Diva,’ you mean.”

  “Right. Mummy can sing that one.”

  “I’d pay to hear that.”

  “You could hear it any time you wanted if you still lived in our house.” I had to look away.

  The quartet made way for the band, which would be offering a mix of Italian and Irish music. I took the opportunity to switch from wine, of which I’d had too much, back to beer. I heard Brennan ask for two double Irish whiskeys; he passed one to Patrick before moving behind me. Patrick and I got into a conversation about the music. Suddenly I lurched forward, spilling my beer on the floor. I had just been given a sharp clout in the back of the head. Brennan’s retaliation for the watch incident.

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. “What brought that on?”

  “If I told you, I’d just get clouted again. Harder.” I rubbed the back of my head. “I enjoyed the quartet. Good voices.”

  “If you enjoyed that, you’ll have to hear our ‘Lola’ some day. You know, the Kinks song.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “If you can ever get the Burke brothers tanked up enough to do it, you’ll see a new side of Brennan’s musicianship.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. Excuse me for a minute, would you Patrick?”

  “Sure. Catch up with you later.”

  I had seen Maura crooking a finger at me to come over and join her. Just as I started in her direction, she caught sight of Declan and waved. As he recognized her from his visit to Halifax, his scowl gave way to a wide smile. He looked like a new man.

  “Good evening, Badness!” he greeted her, and opened his arms. They embraced. He whispered something in her ear; she whispered back, and they shared a laugh. They chatted for a few moments, then she came my way.

  I drew her over to a series of shallow storage cabinets along the east wall of the gym. They were about six feet high, made of plywood, and had padlocked doors; I supposed the basketballs and other pieces of equipment were kept in there. Standing beside the farthest closet in the row, we were partially sheltered from the eyes of the other guests. I leaned back against the cabinet, feeling the effects of the alc
ohol that was thinning my blood and impairing my judgment. My wife wanted something.

  “Well? What was all that about? The business with the watch.”

  “Just a joke,” I hedged, but the professor of law wasn’t taken in by that, any more than a four-year-old would have been.

  “We’re all in this together, this little New York excursion you and Brennan cooked up. Part of the reason for the visit, aside from the nonsense you told me about Declan and that obituary, was Brennan’s insistence on seeing Sandra again. I guess they’ve patched things up. He does seem a little different tonight. Why are you being so buttoned up about it?”

  “How badly do you want to know?” I asked her. Fuelled partly by the alcohol and partly by the way her blue silk top set off her grey eyes and dusky hair, I put my arms around her and murmured: “You feel so good in this. Is it new?”

  “All my clothes are new to the touch as far as you’re concerned.”

  This wasn’t going to be easy. But, stupidly, I persisted. I moved my hands down her back and pulled her against me. She must have recalled something she still fancied about old Monty because she relaxed against me and put her mouth close to mine. “Tell me what went on,” she urged.

  “Why don’t we talk about it later?”

  “Feels to me as if you’re not going to last till later, Collins.”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I? Considering we’re in a room with three hundred people. Unless you want a quick and furtive encounter in one of these closets here.”

  “Right.” She pulled back. “So tell me. Who made the first move? Did Sandra call Brennan?”

  “I don’t think he heard from Sandra.”

  “What? That was Tuesday; this is Friday. You’re telling me he found someone else between then and now?” Her eyes were wide. The effects of our embrace were wearing off fast.