Obit

by Anne Emery

  “Brigid!” She started at the sound of Brennan’s voice. “You’re jumpy today. Terry’s taking you over to get the girls, and then to the station. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Father!” she said, and winked at me.

  “Respect, at last!” Brennan replied. “Have a good trip, darlin’.” He gave her a hug and said goodbye.

  She gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek and departed with Terry. Brennan did not allude to my goofy remark, and I did not allude to the fact that I was having dinner that evening with Sandra. Maura and I were, that is. Sandra had called with the invitation the day before. So, following a pint at O’Malley’s, over which Burke and I relived the events of the day, I headed back to Manhattan and he went to his parents’ place. He was planning to attend Compline at Saint Kieran’s. Perhaps the chanting of the ancient prayers in Latin would restore some of the peace and contentment he had achieved after Mass earlier that day.

  †

  “No children?” Maura and I had arrived at Sandra’s townhouse.

  “No, Tommy’s back in Halifax and Normie is over in Queens with one of the Burke kids. Terry’s daughter.”

  “Terry. He was a real character. What’s he doing now?”

  “Airline pilot.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Good for him. And Patrick grew up to be a psychiatrist. A highly regarded one too, from what I’ve heard. What about the little girl, Brigid?”

  “Mother of seven children in Philadelphia.”

  “And Molly’s still overseas? I don’t think she ever took to life in North America. And there was another boy. What was his name?”

  “Francis.”

  “I never really knew him, for some reason. Well, let’s have a drink and make ourselves comfortable. What would you like?”

  I asked for a beer, and the women decided on gin and tonic. When we had our drinks, Sandra asked: “How’s Declan?”

  “Full of piss and vinegar,” Maura replied.

  Sandra smiled and raised her glass: “Here’s to Declan.”

  “To Declan,” we chimed in.

  We sat and yakked about New York and listened to amusing tales about Sandra’s neighbours on the Upper East Side. It was not until we had nearly finished our baked stuffed lobster, and were on our second bottle of Chardonnay, that Maura gave voice to the question on both our minds: “Well? Are you going to see him or not?”

  “I rather doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “The simple answer, Maura, is that I’m not a stupid woman.”

  “We’re all agreed on that! But —”

  “I can see the writing on the wall — I saw it clearly that night at the restaurant. He made his decision twenty-five years ago. When I saw him last year in Halifax I toyed with the idea that maybe he’d done his time, given half his life to the church, and now it was time to return to the secular world. I was tempted to call him but, of course, I didn’t. I was afraid I was deluding myself. I’m not cut out for the role of jilted lover, or delusional hanger-on! When he called me, he said he was coming to New York ‘for a brief visit.’ I thought that was rather a pointed remark, but I may have over-analysed it. He had tickets for Norma. Was I interested? Sure. He phoned when his flight got in; would I like to have dinner? I made an excuse, he saw through it, and coolly said he’d see me at the Met. When I got there I couldn’t think of any common ground where we could begin a conversation. I know he was disappointed, but all my training in the social graces failed me! It was excruciating.”

  Maura nodded sympathetically and said: “I know it was difficult for you.”

  “Then, the dinner. Just when things started looking up, that man arrived, and Brennan got into a long song and dance about Gregorian chant. The fact that he immediately introduced himself as a priest spoke volumes to me. If he had been out to lull me into thinking he was the same old Brennan, he could easily have glossed over that. But what put the kibosh on the whole thing was him sitting down and hearing that woman’s confession. If his primary objective was a night with me, the Brennan I knew would have quietly told the woman he’d meet her the next morning, then rededicated himself to the goal of getting laid. But no. He is first and foremost a priest. A man who believes — hundreds of millions of people believe it, I know — that he has the power through God to absolve people of their sins, and to lift the veil between heaven and earth at communion time. That kind of sacramental mysticism, or whatever it is, is way beyond me. It’s as if he lives part of his life in another dimension. I grew up as an Episcopalian, and I don’t mean a high church type. We made polite obeisance to God just in case he really was pulling the strings, and the whole economy might come crashing down if we got too self-satisfied. But the Roman Catholic Church: that was way out there, according to what I had been taught. And of course it makes inhuman demands of its ministers. Bren’s a very, um, physical sort of man. If he’s given that up — which I find difficult to imagine —”

  Sandra must have caught something in my expression because she stopped and waited, with her eyes on me, as if she expected me to make a remark. But I wasn’t about to comment on this, of all subjects.

  She resumed speaking: “If in fact he has given it up, then whatever he has found in its place is not something he’s going to abandon. Almost an argument for the existence of God, you might say! So. He can’t have me, or any other woman, and stay in the priesthood. And I would not even consider accepting anything less than marriage or a close equivalent. If he thinks he’s going to whip his cassock off and unite his flesh with mine once a month or something, he’s been inhaling too much incense!”

  “I don’t imagine he’s thinking that,” I offered in his defence. But in truth I had no idea what he was thinking. When it came to Sandra, I suspected he was unable to project beyond the moment. Seeing her in Halifax had no doubt thrown him into turmoil, and he hadn’t managed to sort any of it out by the time he called her about the opera.

  “You two know him, or you’re getting to know him,” she said. “He’s not a man you take lightly. You don’t love him lightly; you don’t hate him lightly. It would be devastating to me to fall in love with him and lose him again. I have no intention of doing either. More wine?”

  Chapter 9

  The youth has knelt to tell his sins.

  “Nomine Dei,” the youth begins.

  At “mea culpa” he beats his breast,

  And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest.

  — Carroll Malone (William B. McBurney), “The Croppy Boy”

  March 25, 1991

  The telephone rang the next morning in the hotel suite. Normie made a grab for it. “Hello? Yes, it is!” Maura reached for phone. “It’s for me, Mum, not you!” Normie spoke into the receiver. “Oh. Okay, I won’t.” She looked at me and then her eyes immediately slid away. She turned her back on us and lowered her voice. “Uh-huh. Oh, that’s all right. I’m not supposed to be so sensitive about my glasses. Really? Do you think so?” Her hand went up to pat her hair, preening in response to whatever compliment was being offered. “Thank you! Yes. I understand. I’m sorry too. I have to learn not to say those things out loud. What’s a call-a-heen? You don’t mean a wicked little witch! Oh, good.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “How did you figure out my phone number? Your mum, right. Well, thank you for calling. Bye.” Click. She tried to look nonchalant as she sashayed back to her bed.

  “Who was that, sweetheart?”

  “I can’t say.” But she couldn’t maintain a complete silence. “I can tell you this, though. I’m trying to find evidence that Father Burke is an angel, and the person on the phone is not someone I would even think of asking.”

  Normie was jolted two feet in the air at the sound of the phone jangling again. She made a move in its direction, but I got to it first. It was Brennan. “I just got a terse call from Leo in Dublin.”

  “What did he say?”

  “‘Drop it.’ That’s what he said. When I asked what he meant he said: ‘Leave it alone.’ Then
he rang off.”

  “Didn’t take him long to make contact with someone. He just got back there last night.”

  “Right.”

  “That pretty well confirms the Irish connection, I’d say. Must have come as a shock to the poor man. Leo was so sure it could not have been the Irish.”

  “I know. Gotta run.”

  I wondered if this meant we would learn no more about the mystery of Declan and the attempt on his life.

  I banished the whole thing from my mind as I headed out with the family for a walk on the Upper West Side. Everything was in blue that morning: a ninety-four-foot blue whale and the Star of India sapphire at the American Museum of Natural History, and the deep indigo sky luminous with stars at the Hayden Planetarium. We walked around all day, sightseeing. Then we hoofed it back to the hotel, got ourselves all dressed up and secured a table at the renowned Russian Tea Room. It was the last week of March; Maura and Normie would be returning to Halifax in a few days’ time, and I wanted to give them a big night out. Maura and I were able to converse like the rational, intelligent adults we were; come to think of it, she had not berated me lately about any of my recent marital blunders. Perhaps there was hope for us after all. Normie spent the time mentally renovating her mother’s Halifax kitchen with red leather banquettes and chandeliers. She conceded, however, that she would not be demanding caviar again any time soon. For my part, I would be in no hurry to drink vodka again.

  I passed out when we returned to our suite at ten o’clock, and didn’t have another conscious thought until I heard a quiet knock at the door. I ignored it and sank back into sleep, but it happened again. I looked over at the clock. It was only eleven-thirty; it felt like three in the morning. Finally I got up, pulled on a pair of jeans and stumbled to the door. It was Terry Burke, not looking much better than I did.

  “Monty, I’m sorry but this is urgent. Can we go downstairs and talk?”

  “Sure. Hold on.”

  I grabbed a shirt and shoes, and we took the elevator down to the bar. I could feel the tension emanating from my companion. He didn’t speak until we had two beer in front of us. I couldn’t look at mine.

  “I have a friend in the police department. Gabe. He arrived at the house tonight, told me to come out to his car.” Terry took a long swig of his beer, and I noticed a slight tremor in his hand. “Gabe told me he was doing me a favour. He was telling me something he shouldn’t, and I had to promise not to breathe a word to anyone in my family. I agreed. I don’t suppose it occurred to him I’d spill this to anyone outside the family.”

  In spite of my queasy stomach, I took a sip of beer.

  “The police got a tip or learned of this somehow — anyway, they found a box that was brought over from Ireland. There are traces of soil and plant matter in the box.”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember I said they found traces of Irish dirt or something on the gun or on the scrap of clothing that was left behind?”

  “Yes. So they think this may be how the gun was transported.”

  “Right.”

  “Where was the box found?”

  “He wouldn’t say. But that’s not the point. They found fingerprints on the box.”

  All my senses were alert now. I looked at him and waited for the next shoe to drop. He wouldn’t be here if the prints belonged to some anonymous Irish smuggler.

  Terry took another sip and wiped what could have been tears from his eyes. “They ran the prints and found a match. With my brother.”

  “Your brother.”

  “Francis.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Exactly. They had his prints from an old narcotics conviction, years ago. You know fucking well the soil tests are going to show the gun was in that box. The gun was wiped clean of prints but now they have the container. With Fran’s fucking prints on it. I imagine they’ll have to do a bit more investigating before they — if they’re going to arrest him, right?”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “But we don’t know what else they know.”

  “Christ Almighty. We have to get to Francis before the police do. But we can’t, you know, try to spirit him out of the country —”

  “Forget it.”

  “We have to question Francis without him catching on. Because you never know what he’ll do if he’s cornered. I mean, you saw how he was at a family luncheon! Still. As much of an arsehole and a fuckup as he is, and as much as the old man rubs him the wrong way, I can’t believe he’d try to kill our father. At a wedding with the whole family there? And another thing I really can’t believe is that he’d manage to pull it off. Get away, I mean.”

  “There may be some other explanation,” I offered. Sure: the kind of other explanation I was forever trying to flog to the courts in my efforts to acquit my guilty clients.

  “How are we going to handle this, Monty? I can’t very well go and take the little Christer by the throat and question him. I’ll lose it. And when it’s over, one of us will be dead on the floor. But if you talked to him, you being a lawyer . . . If we still have some time, before the police get their soil samples tested, you could approach him on some pretext. After all, he doesn’t know what the cops have found. He’s been hanging around as if everything’s business as usual.”

  “What reason could I possibly have for talking to him, that he would believe?”

  “You’ll think of something!”

  I sighed. “Where does he live?”

  “I’ll try to find out.”

  Terry was a worried man when he left the hotel bar. I tried to get back to sleep but was assailed by images of Francis Burke’s angry face at lunch; his sardonic manner when he showed up a few days after the shooting; Leo at the crime scene, wondering how the scrap of material had been snagged; the gun wiped clean of prints. The gunman had likely worn gloves, and he would have wiped everything down. That would take a cool head. What did he wipe everything with? Something from which the scrap of fabric had come? How long had he been waiting behind that plywood door before his victim — his father? — had come within his sights in the gym? Then various pretexts for talking to Francis came into my mind, some so nonsensical that I laughed at them even in my dreams.

  Late the next morning Terry called to report he’d had no luck in finding his brother’s current address. But he did have the phone number of Fran’s old girlfriend. I told him I would call her and carry on from there. Maura and Normie headed out to the Children’s Museum of the Arts; I stayed behind and made a date with Marta Lesnik to meet in a Brooklyn pub. I fabricated a story about a court case in which the defendant had given me Francis Burke’s name as a possible character witness. I wanted to find him and I wanted to know what kind of person he was.

  †

  The Between the Bridges Pub was situated, as the name suggested, between the Manhattan and the Brooklyn bridges. A red awning shaded the length of the bar from the glaring sun. A lighted Guinness sign beckoned from the window, and I could hear rock music coming from the sound system. I went inside. Three men were arguing and gesturing with their glasses at the bar on the right. There was only one single female in the place, and I made a beeline for her table. She got up when I approached, and we introduced ourselves. Marta Lesnik was tall and athletic with dark blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail; the style accentuated her Slavic features. We ordered beer and engaged in a bit of small talk; then I asked her about Francis Burke.

  “Oh, God, I went with Frankie on and off for years. I don’t know why. I can’t see what either of us got out of it. Where he’d be now is anybody’s guess. He travels a lot on the cheap, bumming around Mexico or Ireland. When he’s in town he usually crashes with friends or lives in a rooming house. And there’s no need of that; he could have done a lot better for himself. The rest of his family did well. Frankie is a nice guy deep down, but he’s a mess.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, he was always quitting his work, then taking courses at some college or other, then q
uitting those. At one point he was taking psychology. A lot of good that did him. Ever notice some of the people who get real keen on psychology, and can’t see their own problems, which are practically stamped on their foreheads for the rest of the whole world to see? That was Francis.” She shook her head. “And sometimes — sometimes things didn’t go all that well between us. As guy and girl. You know.”

  This I didn’t want to hear. “Yeah, well —”

  “But other times he was perfectly normal. When we had problems it was usually after some ruckus with his family. Or he’d drink too much and start yammering on about his brothers or his father. On those nights, I just put on my flannel nightie and let him talk himself to sleep. Anything else? Fuggedaboudit.”

  “He didn’t get along with his father?”

  “Who did? From what I hear anyway. Tough old buzzard. I only met him a couple of times. Frankie went around in circles to avoid taking me to his house. The only place I ever saw his brothers was in this bar. It’s near my work so Frankie would meet me before my shift and we’d have a couple of beers. His brothers came in once in a while. That would ruin Frankie’s day of course but I got a real kick out of them. One time they all trooped in and sat up at the bar beside me and Frank. They were half in the bag already, and so was I. Probably didn’t make my shift that night. Anyway, I said: ‘Good afternoon, Father.’ One of the Burkes is a priest. ‘I see you’re worshipping outside the parish again today.’ The parish being O’Malley’s, the pub they practically live in, over in Queens.

  “So Brennan, the priest, says: ‘I heard there were a lot of sinners in this area, so I came over to hear confessions. Anything you’d like to tell me, young lady?’

  “And I said — like I told you, I had a buzz on — ‘I had lustful thoughts about a young man, Father, someone sitting at this bar right now.’

  “Brennan says: ‘Did you act on these sinful thoughts, my child?’