Obit

by Anne Emery

  “And I said: ‘God knows, I tried to!’ Francis turned scarlet! I just meant it as a joke, the kind of thing anyone would say; I wasn’t talking about our problems. Jesus, he was sensitive. They wouldn’t have known anyway, unless they saw him turn red and get all upset. But he was always like that about those guys. I used to refer to Brennan as ‘Father What-A-Waste,’ the standard joke about a handsome priest, right? Frankie thought I had a crush on Brennan. Hell, I’m a little Polish girl from Greenpoint; I respect priests! And he has a brother Patrick who’s a psychiatrist; I used to call him the sexologist. No reason, just a joke. Again, Frankie thought I had my eye on Patrick. And the airline pilot, Terrence, well, naturally I must have been scheming to get into the cockpit with him.

  “That day I’m telling you about, when they came in and Frank got upset, Patrick’s wife showed up. Dressed to kill. She was one of these icy blonde types. ‘Patrick! Why do I feel as if I’m in a particularly baaahhd Irish film, having to park our vehicle in this sort of neighbourhood so I can drag my husband out of a bar? You look drunk, just to complete the scenario.’ She commanded him to leave.

  “And she stalked out, without even speaking to the rest of them. It was funny, they all lifted their pints at the same time, all eyeing her sideways as she went out the door. It looked choreographed but it wasn’t, just brothers with the same habits. Even Francis. Patrick got up and pretended he was being dragged out by his tie. ‘Henpecked Husband Disorder. Hirschfeld and Rosenblum in their monograph on the subject stated blah, blah.’ What a bitch. Frankie told me Pat had a really nice girlfriend all through high school and college, then he met up with this ice queen when he was in med school. As my mother used to say, she was looking to get her MRS.

  “That night Francis was all weird, accusing me of telling his brothers about his ‘infrequent’ difficulties. But I hadn’t told them! You didn’t have to be Doctor Freud to know he was intimidated by these high-powered brothers, and the tough old boot of a father. Come on!”

  “So you haven’t kept in touch.”

  “Not for a year or so.”

  “Any idea where he’s living now?”

  “There’s a house he stays in from time to time, in Astoria. One of those illegal basement apartments. He and the landlady don’t get along, so he comes and goes. Here’s the address if you need it.” She grabbed a coaster from the table, took out a pen and wrote it out for me. “You know, I hope he’s met another girl. Ideally, someone from out of state, so he can keep her apart from his family! If that’s still a problem for him.”

  Still a problem indeed.

  †

  So there I was at the door of Francis Burke’s basement apartment in a red-brick two-family house in Astoria. The house was in need of maintenance but it was swept and scrubbed. I had worked out a pretext and tried to ignore the pang of conscience I felt for using my little daughter’s name in such a sordid affair. The door opened in answer to my knock, and Francis did a double-take when he saw me. He was unshaven but clean, and was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and a faded T-shirt. There was a faint smell of dope in the air. Neither of us spoke for about thirty seconds, then he came up with something to say.

  “Let me guess. You’re here to defend my sister’s honour.” What? Oh yes, the ill-starred luncheon. “But you needn’t have bothered. I called and apologized to her. I have nothing against Bridey. Though she was stealing glances at you across the table. In case you’re interested. I never got along with her husband, so I don’t give a shit. He’s not good enough for her, never was. So. If that’s all, I’ll let you get on your way.”

  “That wasn’t it, actually, Francis. May I come in?”

  He looked wary, but shrugged and moved aside. The room was like the building: rundown but not dirty, except for a few beer bottles that had not been rinsed. There was a small collection of books in the studentesque brick-and-boards bookcase: Irish history, radical politics and a bit of psychology. His music ran to Celtic, heavy metal and — I was surprised to note — Gregorian chant. There was only one photograph that I saw: of his mother looking very young and exceptionally attractive.

  “I made three calls of apology in a single day,” he said, “one to my sister, one to my poor long-suffering mother, and one — as you probably know — to your daughter. She seemed to take my apology in good grace. I didn’t apologize to that prick Brennan or to Declan. The old sagart — the priest — had left by the time I was in a mellow enough mood to pick up the phone. So. Why are you here? Want a toke?”

  What to say to that? “All right.”

  “Shit, I don’t have any left.” He looked as if he really was sorry; obviously, he had not expected an affirmative answer. “But I can get some really fast if you’re keen.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “So. What do you want?”

  “Well, you mentioned my daughter and that’s why I came.”

  “She’s a sweet little kid, and a spooky one. I’m sorry I hurt her feelings.”

  “She understands that. She wanted you to have this, but was too shy to come with me.” I reached into my pocket and produced the portrait I had hastily forged over her signature that morning, using crayons and my memories of her artwork at home. It showed a red-haired girl with enormous dark eyes framed in spectacles, and a dark-haired young man, standing side by side, grinning. A bright orange sun, also grinning, shone on them from the top left corner of the picture.

  Francis took it gently and stared at it. “That’s cute. Thank her for me.” He went to his dresser and placed it carefully on the top, then came back and offered me a beer. He popped two open and motioned for me to sit in one of his two chairs. His was near the window, and he leaned back in it.

  “How long have you been a lawyer?”

  “Over twenty years.”

  “Like it?”

  I just shrugged: comme çi, comme ça.

  “I have to get myself into something decent. Brain work of some kind. I’ve wasted enough of my time on bum jobs and low wages. Or maybe it’s too late, I don’t know.”

  “It isn’t.” Unless you’re going down for the attempted murder of your father.

  “I also have to find a decent girlfriend. Someone marriageable. Not like the one I have now. She’s gotta go.”

  “Why?”

  “The simple answer is: she’s too dumb. She’s cute, but that’s neither a necessary nor a sufficient reason to maintain the relationship. Let’s just say she wouldn’t be able to hold up her end of the conversation chez Burke if the subject of Thomistic philosophy came up. As it sometimes does with certain people over there.”

  “So what? How many people would be able to hold their own on that subject?”

  “It’s not just that subject, obviously. She thought Ireland was where Wales is, for Christ’s sake. All she does is watch sob stories on television and read those women’s magazines with the health scares in them. I don’t have a college degree but at least I pick up a book once in a while, look at a map, get off my arse and travel. Jesus. If I didn’t have the hots for her I’d have said sayonara months ago.”

  “Where have you travelled? This is as far as I’ve got in years, but I used to travel a lot. I intend to take Father Killeen up on his invitation to Ireland.”

  “Good plan. We’ve all made trips over there. Except for oul Dec. He hasn’t been back.”

  “Why not?”

  “No idea,” he answered quickly.

  “Speaking of Declan, how did you learn about the shooting?”

  “As I said before, Mexico is not beyond the reach of the American press. We get the papers, I read them.”

  Francis turned to the subject of his oldest brother. “I don’t see what you get out of hanging around with Brennan. Jesus! I can’t believe someone would associate with him by choice.”

  “And I don’t see why he gets under your skin. I know he can sometimes be a bit — how should I say it?”

  “Brusque? Arrogant? Superior?”


  “You take too dark a view of him. And he certainly did not deserve the shelling you gave him the other day.”

  “Yeah? What about the shit bombs he dropped on me? Well, at least he finally declared his true feelings. As if I didn’t already know.”

  “Come on, Francis! No wonder he let fly at you, after the things you said to him.”

  “Look — he’s my brother, and he barely acknowledges my existence. Like that time in Rome. Now he says he doesn’t even remember sloughing me off.”

  “I’m sure he was busy —”

  “He was busy getting his ashes hauled.”

  “— getting his doctorate. So, you have two Doctor Burkes in the family.”

  “Three. There’s Molly as well. But only one of them can cure what ails ya.”

  You should be putting yourself under Patrick’s care, I thought. I said: “Plus Brennan was studying music, working in a parish, performing some sort of function at the Vatican, and —”

  “And attending the opera, scurrying back and forth between the Teatro dell’Opera — don’t ever get him started on that — and La Scala in Milan. He took me to meet Graziella Rossi at her posh domain in the Parioli district of Rome. You know who I mean? The soprano.”

  “Yes.”

  “Great voice. Brennan says when she gets out of control she has a vibrato you could build a roller coaster on, and I have to agree with him for once. Usually, though, she’s top notch. But what a shrew!”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. She made a big show of greeting Brennan: ‘Caaarrrrro Padre Burke!’ He spoke to her in Italian for a bit, then switched to English and introduced me. She looked at me as if I had just come off trotting the bogs, and was tramping the stuff all through the house. Then she turned to the subject of her social secretary, this woman Annunziata; she’s the one Brennan was shagging when he was there. Typical.”

  “Not typical at all,” I countered. “The occasions when he breaks those vows are few and far between.”

  “If you say so. Later I heard that La Rossi fancies herself quite the femme fatale, and she had set her sights on my brother. He blew her off. Not because he is righteous and holy the way he’s supposed to be —”

  “Who can be righteous and holy every minute of his life? If he has to let loose once in a while, who’s the poorer for it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, right. So he blew off the songbird because he liked the look of her assistant. This Annunziata had five kids and her husband had left her, but when Brennan started eyeing her the diva fired her in a jealous snit. The night we were there, she tore a strip off Brennan, going on and on and on in Italian. It just rolled off his back. ‘Don’t be histrionic, Grazi, save it for your performance.’

  “Bren and I made our escape and polished off the night at an Irish bar. I have to say, we had a few laughs together. That’s the kindest thing I can say about my brother, at least while he’s still alive.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Francis! I hope you’re not wishing him dead. To say that, after the shooting!”

  He leaned towards me. “Maybe somebody just meant to scare them.”

  I stared at him. “Scare them?”

  “You’re right, ‘Our Fathers’ don’t scare easy, do they? But a bullet beside the old man’s heart — came a little closer than planned perhaps. Brennan emerged unscathed as usual.”

  “Francis, are you saying —”

  “Frankie! Hi, honey!” The voice came from the street outside his window.

  Francis rocketed out of his chair, whipped around and stared out at the sidewalk. He gave a half-hearted wave and muttered: “Jesus.”

  “You have women calling to you from the streets?”

  “It’s my girlfriend.”

  I got up and joined him at the window. She was a bit on the chunky side but if I were in love I would call her curvy. Not classically pretty, but a sweet, open face. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was held back with a headband.

  “Frankie, I brought you lunch! I thought we could go to the park with it. Chicken and ribs. Grandma’s recipe.”

  “And that’s another thing —”

  “What?”

  He called out to her: “Bring it in.”

  “Okay!”

  He turned to me and said: “I think she’s shittin’ me about her background.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The story she tells is, well, improbable. You’ll see. I’ll get her going on it.”

  The knock came a minute later and he let her in. “Hi, Frankie! I missed you last night.” She placed a basket on the floor.

  “Ay, Shirl.”

  “Mmmm,” she murmured, as she hugged him around the waist. The way she smiled at him I knew there were no “difficulties” between them. And his hazel eyes absolutely sparkled as he looked at her.

  “Uh, we have company.”

  “Oh!” She started and turned in my direction.

  “Monty, this is Shirley.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Monty.”

  “Hi, Shirley.”

  “Whatever you have in there smells tempting,” Francis said, ogling the basket.

  “I told you, hon, ribs and chicken. With potato salad. And buns. A picnic.”

  “Squirrels,” Francis muttered. “Pardon?”

  “That’s what my brother calls people who eat outdoors. Squirrels.”

  “Oh, is that the brother who’s a preacher?”

  “He is not a preacher, he is not a parson. He is a Doctor of Sacred Theology. An ordained priest of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. Just put the meat and salad in the fridge for now, so it won’t go off.”

  “You make it sound like it’s going to blow up!”

  “Here, sit down, Shirl.” He gave her his armchair and sat down on an empty red plastic milk crate. “Monty’s a lawyer, from Halifax.”

  “Where?”

  “East coast of Canada.”

  “Oh. A lawyer, isn’t that interesting. So, did you patch things up with your boss, hon?”

  “No.”

  “Well, in that case, have you thought any more about coming out to meet my folks?”

  Francis looked at me and mouthed the word “folks.” His expression said: Here it comes. You be the judge.

  He asked her: “What would I do out there, if I went to visit?” He settled back against the wall with his arms folded. Like a cop about to hear the same lies he’s been hearing for twenty years from an old lag in the interrogation room.

  “There’s lots to do out home. My heavens! We could go for long walks in the fields —”

  “Fields? I get hives if I go to a baseball stadium with anything but Astroturf.”

  “Really, Frankie? Do you suffer from hives? I was just reading an article —”

  “Of course I don’t have hives! I don’t even know what they are. What else would we do?”

  “We could go to the dance.”

  “The dance. Okay. Tell Monty about your family, Shirl.”

  She smiled. “They’d just love Frankie! My dad’s retired now, just putters around the house getting underfoot, my mom says. She keeps trying to talk him into taking up golf, except for there’s no golf course. My sister Jolene is married and has three children already, all boys! They’re trying for a girl. I help her with them whenever I’m out there. My brother Fred runs the feed store.”

  Francis raised an eyebrow as if to say: How likely is that?

  To Shirley he said: “Let me get this straight. The feed store, your brother runs that. The general store, somebody else runs that. Somebody else has the diner. Then there’s the bank, the barbershop, the insurance, the pharmacy and I imagine Old Doc Perkins is still making house calls. I’m sure there’s a bar on the outskirts of town where I’d get my head kicked in. Someone runs that. They all have a couple of employees. What the hell does everybody else do?”

  “Who do you mean by everybody else, Frankie?”

  “The rest of the population.”

  “We
ll, aside from the merchants on Main Street and the farmers, and their families, there isn’t really anybody else there.”

  He looked at her and then at me, as if to say: I rest my case.

  “Theme park,” he said. She appeared puzzled. “You’re really from Jersey, aren’t you Shirl, and you’ve come up with this —”

  I interrupted: “What brought you to New York, Shirley?”

  “I came to study geriatrics, Monty, because I just love old people.”

  “I’ve got an old person who could cure you of that in a jiffy,” Francis announced.

  “How’s the geriatrics course?” I asked.

  “Hard! You wouldn’t believe the subjects we have to study. I wasn’t very good at science in high school.” Francis rolled his eyes. “But I’m plugging away at it. I’ve passed all my courses so far.”

  “Well, there you go.” I gave Francis a pointed look.

  “Of course, what I really want,” she said in a wistful tone, “is a family of my own. Raise my babies, then go back to work when they’re in school. But, try as I might, I can’t really see Frankie coming out home, marrying me and settling down there. Can you, Monty?”

  I tried to form a mental image of Francis in overalls and a straw hat or, perhaps closer to Main Street, in slacks and a golf shirt. The Burkes visiting, Declan scowling from a rocker on the front porch, Brennan perched in a little white wooden church listening to a fire-and-brimstone sermon from a corn-pone preacher, Terry chatting up the locals in the bar on the outskirts of town. Shirley was smart enough to know that wasn’t in the cards.

  “So maybe I’ll stay here instead. Lots of old people in New York, too.”

  “Millions,” Francis agreed.

  She turned to me. “Frankie teases me about my family. Sometimes I get the impression he thinks we’re a bunch of hicks!”

  “Dang! What’s the point of all my Jesuitical subtlety if she sees right through it?”

  “But he won’t even talk about his own family. Let alone invite me over to meet them. And most of them are right here in New York.”

  “Forget about it. You wouldn’t like them.”

  “I like everybody!”

  This brought a stunned look to her boyfriend’s face. He managed to recover, then said: “You haven’t encountered my old man. I don’t want to disillusion you.”