by Anne Emery
September 20: Tenth grade, big deal. They asked me to join the band but I don’t know. Maybe if Denise joins. Dad’s away, and I have my fingers crossed that he never comes back. Mom sat me down all serious and tried to tell me where he was. I just said: “Who cares?” Jimmy found a job up in Boston and he never comes home. Lucky duck.
November 28: Guess who’s back? Dad. He’s different. I hope. He took me out for a walk. I tried to say no but he kept asking me. At least he didn’t look embarrassing. He was clean, his hair was cut and he had on a nice sweater and tie. And a new coat. He said he had been away at some kind of drunk’s hospital. (Thank God none of my friends were around when he said that!) He turned my face towards him with his hand and said he loved me, that he loved Mom and us kids more than anything in the world. That he was sorry for all the bad things he had done, that he had given up drinking (!) forever, that these monks or priests or doctors, whatever they were, had helped him stop. He promised he would be like a new father for all of us. Maybe he’s serious because he didn’t wink or give me a stupid grin, or any of the other dumb things he used to do.
December 12: Dad took Mom and me to a play. We got a babysitter for Beth and Kevin. It was this Irish play called The Shadow of a Gunman. I didn’t get some of it, but Dad explained it at intermission. He told me all about this Sean O’Casey, how he lived in poverty in Dublin, and grew up to be a dock worker and write plays. Whoever would have guessed Dad knew about all these old writers?
March 17. Saint Patrick’s Day, but Dad stayed home. Mom got a night out with some of the ladies. The Fitzes had a party for the little kids and ours went. Good riddance. It was just me and Dad home and he asked me if I wanted to learn to play poker. Said I could win money for college next year! You’re supposed to have a “poker face,” not letting on if you have great cards or lousy ones. Dad has a really good poker face; I just kept giggling. He was making me laugh. I never knew he was so funny. I would die if he ever started drinking booze and being an idiot again like he used to. But he won’t.
June 28. Graduation was beautiful! I had a white dress and won an award in history. Shane kept smiling at me but I noticed Gianni Sodano was looking at me too. Sometimes I like Gianni better than Shane. The prom was great. The school wanted Mom and Dad to chaperone the dance but Mom couldn’t go because Kevin was sick. Dad came anyway. It wasn’t that bad. I actually danced with Dad and he was really sweet. He said: “Mary, I will love and protect you for the rest of my life.” I started crying, I don’t know why. But I was really happy. After the song was over, Gianni came up and was really polite. He said: “Mr. Desmond, may I dance with your daughter?” Dad said: “That depends. Are you light on your feet?” “Yes, sir.” “Are you a good Catholic?” “Yes, sir.” It went on and on. When I finally got to dance with G., he said: “Your father is a neat guy.” “He’s the best father in the world, so what?” I told him. I’m glad he likes Dad because I think things could become serious between me and Gianni.
July 3. I’ll soon be Mrs. Gianni Sodano. I’m finally getting married! Mom says twenty-two is not old but it seemed to take forever for Gianni to finish college and me to finish biz school. Gianni fits right in with my family — what a relief! He even thinks the Irish are charming! A couple of weeks ago me and Gianni stayed up with Dad listening to him read from that book by the well-known author James Joyce. That was on “Bloomsday.” I never laughed so hard in my life the way Dad imitated all those accents. He wanted us to stay up with him and have cocoa in the middle of the night like they do in the book but I couldn’t stay awake. When I got up next morning, there was Gianni and Dad, asleep at the kitchen table with their cocoa mugs and a big puddle of cocoa spilt in the book! The wedding is going to be beautiful.
July 26. The wedding was beautiful, or so I see from the pictures. One good thing, my name isn’t Desmond anymore. I hope Gianni and I can change apartments after a couple of years, to get farther away from — my ex-father! Where do I begin? How about when he got to the church just in time to walk me down the aisle? He didn’t even come home the night before the wedding. Mom was frantic. Why even care? I couldn’t believe it was the same person I’d come to respect and love over the past six years, fool that I was. Yes, it’s him — the same person I hated all the years before that! I practically had to hold him up on the way to the altar. He had his chin kind of stuck down in his collar and he had on this fake solemn look as if he was trying to keep from giggling. When Mamma and Papa Sodano turned and looked at us I could hardly keep from crying. The expression on their faces was so kind, I wanted to throw myself in their arms. I hope they don’t think our kids will be like that. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for a girl first, to relieve everyone’s mind. Who ever heard of a lady alcoholic? There is not enough space in this book to describe all the hideous things he did at my reception. But why bother? After your father jumps up from the head table, stumbles out into the hall, throws up and slips in it, and lies there giggling and sobbing, is there anything more to say? Is he still your father? NO! He’s dead as far as I’m concerned. I’ll have to ask Ruth about the thing the Jews have for someone who’s disgraced the family way beyond the point of embarrassment. Chivas or Shiva or something. Now, for the good things. SEE the wedding album. Pictures carefully selected!
Neither of us spoke after Brennan finished reading. Who was Desmond? Why did someone — his wife? — storm up to Declan and Teresa and thrust this envelope into Teresa’s hands? I finally said: “We have our first real names. Mary Desmond Sodano, sister of Jimmy, Beth and Kevin. Do you know them?”
“Doesn’t strike a chord. And Mam says she didn’t know the woman.”
“Maybe this Desmond was a drinking buddy of your father’s, and the wife blamed your dad instead of blaming her husband. Though it seems a bit extreme to go operatic about it. Wouldn’t you think?”
“Maybe not. If this girl’s diary is any indication, drink destroyed their family life, and the love that had blossomed between the father and his little girl. Must have been like a disease coming back after years of good reports.”
“What are the chances your dad will sit down with us and reminisce about Mr. Desmond?”
“What are the chances Vatican City will win a year’s supply of nappies for having the highest birth rate in the Western world? And is this diary even related to his current troubles?”
“Assume for now it is. So we’re talking about a family named Desmond with a daughter named Mary, who married Gianni Sodano sometime before 1956.”
“Morceau de gâteau.”
“And the icing of course — we dare not overlook it — is another ruined wedding. So, Brennan, who do you have in mind to search the parish records?”
“I’ll call in the services of my nieces and nephews. One of them will track it down for us.”
“Oh? Your word is law with these kids?”
Burke raised one eyebrow as he picked up the phone, and assured me his word was “infallible.”
†
That evening Brennan and I were still at the House of Burke, making small talk with his mother and debating where to go for a night out. The answer came to us soon enough. We watched from the living room as Declan made his way along the hall to the door, making every effort to walk like a man who had never required so much as a glance from a medical professional. He was pale but scrubbed, and his stocky frame was arrayed in a beautifully tailored dark blue sports jacket over a white shirt and silver tie. Teresa started to get up from her chair but Brennan put a restraining hand on her arm. “Where are you going, Da?” he demanded.
“Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest?” Declan snapped. “I am going out on the town with some old, old friends.”
Brennan got up and loomed over his father. “Monty and I would be delighted to join the party. Let’s go, gentlemen,” he declared, holding the door open for us and neatly filching his father’s car keys from his pocket. “Don’t wait up, Ma.”
There was no conversation in the car
, other than Declan’s terse directions.
We pulled up before a nondescript building on a commercial street in Long Island City. There was no sign on the door. To my surprise, a parking valet materialized to deal with the car. We were met inside by a maitre d’, with whom Declan exchanged a rapid whispered conversation. He led us inside. A platoon of hulking doormen broke formation and allowed us to pass. The White Gardenia was a spacious club with a stage taking up one end of the room. Murals along the two side walls depicted elegant couples from the 1930s and 1940s dancing, sipping cocktails or strolling the boulevards of New York. Eye-catching young women glided between the white-clothed tables bearing trays of drinks. They were attired in men’s black dinner jackets, and starched white shirts, their tiny waists cinched by brightly coloured cummerbunds. We were taken to a table at the far left of the stage.
Two men stood to greet us. One was of Declan’s height and stocky build. He was expensively dressed in a charcoal suit, a black shirt and no tie. His hair was iron grey, brushed back from his forehead. He had large, deep-set brown eyes that were locked on Declan’s blue ones. The other man was taller, younger, and bulky within the confines of a shiny black suit.
“Paddy,” Declan said, extending his hand to the more senior of our two hosts.
“I could say the same to you,” the man replied.
Declan gave a little laugh, and made the introductions. “Mr. Corialli, my son Brennan and our friend Montague.”
“Call me Patrizio. Please,” Corialli answered. We shook hands. “Sit. Will you have dinner? I have ordered a bottle of Irish for you, Declan. If your guests would prefer something else . . .” We shook our heads. Patrizio “Paddy” Corialli’s voice was outer boroughs with a trace of southern Italy. I sat on his right facing the stage; the other man, who was not introduced, sat on the left. Declan and Brennan were across from us. In the background, we heard the voice of Luciano Pavarotti.
“It has been a long time, Declan.”
Declan’s glance took in his son and then me. “Patrizio was a friend of the Irish here in the older days, sort of a bridge between the two, em —”
“Immigrant communities?” Brennan offered.
A dark-haired Italian beauty appeared at our table in black tie, size six, with a bottle of Jameson’s, and menus tucked under her arm. She looked like a dancer. “Good evening, Mr. Corialli. Will you be joining us for dinner?”
“Yes. Thank you, Angela. Bring two bottles of the Pio Cesare Barolo I have set aside. We’ll look over the specials.” She favoured us with a dazzling smile and went for the wine.
“What do you do, Brennan? Did you follow your father into business?”
“I’m a man of the cloth, Patrizio.”
“Benissimo. I congratulate you, Declan. I alas have no sons in the church.”
“Is this your club, Patrizio?” I asked him.
“No, my nephew owns it in partnership with two other men. It is almost like the old days when we were over in the East Fifties. Giorgio has captured the feel of the old club very beautifully.”
Angela came with the wine and took our orders. Pavarotti ended his set. Declan and Patrizio chatted — uneasily, I thought — about old times and old timers. I started to say something to Brennan but the activity on the stage had caught his attention. Or so it seemed from a slight widening of his black eyes; otherwise there was no change in his expression. I looked over and saw the members of a brass band picking up their instruments. They were all women and they all had on spike heels, black silk panties, dinner jackets, brightly-coloured cummerbunds, black ties and no shirts. The band master was a very tall, Nordic blonde with a domineering manner. She tapped her baton and the band began with a rousing version of “In the Mood.” They played passably well. I mentally thanked fate for plunking me into a seat where I could view the stage without having to wrench myself around. Though I noticed that Brennan and Declan managed to catch some of the show without completely turning their backs on the rest of the table.
Corialli said: “Not the most appropriate entertainment for a man of your profession, Padre.”
“It’s true,” Brennan replied, “that I’m a choral director, but I enjoy something a little brassier once in a while.”
Corialli smiled and raised his glass slightly in Brennan’s direction. Our dinner was sumptuous. I ordered seafood linguine expecting the usual mix of scallops and shrimp I would have been served at home; here, the ocean tossed up octopus and starfish along with other less recognizable denizens of the deep. I took the cannoli for dessert. Cigars were offered at the end of the meal, and Corialli, Declan and Brennan fired them up.
The band brought the tempo down with “Moonlight Serenade.” Corialli nodded in their direction. “We have a history of high-quality talent here. Female talent. Those were glorious years for the female voice. The songs of the forties and fifties, even the thirties. Our little Evie met with great success, did she not, Declan?”
“Mmm,” Declan agreed.
“She is here in New York, performing somewhere. Such a voice, such a presence. Evie always wore a white dress when she sang, and a white flower — I don’t think it was a gardenia! — in her yellow hair,” he informed us. “Did you know her well when she was with us, Declan? Was it not you who arranged for her debut out in —”
“I hardly knew her,” Declan interrupted. “If I gave her career a boost it was off the cuff, but I’m happy to hear it.”
When the girls in the band took a break, the room was quiet and Declan leaned over to Corialli. “There was an attempt on my life last week, as you may have heard.” Corialli nodded, and Declan continued with considerable understatement: “I’m asking myself who might have been behind it.”
“You have some possibilities in mind?” Corialli asked.
Declan glanced sideways at his son and turned back to Corialli. “I may have offended someone in your, em, family a few years back.”
“Back when my brother was head of the family. Long time ago, Declan.”
“Indeed it was.”
Corialli turned to the silent man at his side. “Mr. Burke stepped on our toes once, long ago. But Mr. Burke made it up to us later. Go talk to Alfredo and find out whether there was a misunderstanding.” Corialli turned again to Declan. “I do not see why this unfortunate matter would come back to haunt any of us after so many years.”
Brennan certainly looked haunted, as we waited for the valet to bring our car around. Declan was taking no questions on the drive home.
†
Brennan moved across the river to his parents’ house in Queens the next day. For my part, I decided it was time to rent a car. I was spending so much time across the river that it made sense to have my own transportation. So I arranged for a vehicle and was assured the hotel provided valet parking. My son gave me a bit of a rough time for acquiring a vehicle on his last day in the city; to compensate, I promised Tom he could take the wheel for a while once we got out of Manhattan. The four of us headed to the suburbs for a tour. We made our way north through the Bronx to Westchester County, through Yonkers up to Tarrytown, then across the county to Long Island Sound. Tom took over the driving. He chafed at the bit when his mother and I insisted on a leisurely pace so we could admire the stately old houses in Larchmont and the boats in Mamaroneck. We stuffed ourselves with seafood and made our way back to Manhattan. We stopped at the hotel, collected Tom’s luggage, and drove him to the airport for his flight to Halifax. We assured him he would be loved and missed, then we laid on the instructions. Call us often, eat properly, don’t drink, and remember: your home on Dresden Row is not a frat house. No parties. Right. I remembered when my brother and I had the house to ourselves; I kept that to myself.
†
The next morning I got a call from Brennan. “Progress. We’ve found Mary Sodano.”
“Great. How did we do that?”
“Terry’s son and my sister Brigid did some digging. Best of all we have a day, a month and a year. The marriage
records show that Gianni Sodano and Mary Desmond were married July 12, 1952. And, by the way, Brigid’s working through the Murphys in the phone book. The only Cathal she came up with was somebody’s little boy. But there were a lot who didn’t answer so she’ll keep at it. Back to the Sodanos, Saint Brigid made a few calls and charmed some information out of them. I don’t know what line she fed them but she learned that, although Mary and Gianni are away in Italy, Mary’s younger sister Beth is in town. And we now have her address.”
“And we’re going to materialize on her doorstep behind a big bouquet of roses, right?”
“Something like that.”
“So we know the big piss-up occurred in July 1952. Desmond hitting the booze, aided and abetted perhaps by your father.”
“If a boozer can be said to need assistance.”
“All right. So what do we say to Beth Desmond?”
“We’ll think of something.”
So that afternoon, Brennan and I were at the door of a boxy brick apartment building in Richmond Hill South, a working class area of Queens. It was a damp, windy day and I wished I had worn more than my Sunday go-to-meetin’ suit. Beth Desmond Dowd answered our ring at one-thirty. She was an overweight and harried-looking woman in her middle fifties.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dowd. I’m Brennan Burke and this is Montague Collins. We’re wondering if you can help us. We’re trying to find a gentleman by the name of Barry McDermot. He was a member of Saint Finnian’s parish back in the fifties and sixties. We’ve been asking around and we understand he was a friend of your father. We haven’t had any luck so far and we’re wondering if you might remember something that could put us on the right track.”
“McDermot, you say? Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Perhaps you’ll recall the names of some of your father’s acquaintances from those days, and we’ll get a lead from that.”