Obit

by Anne Emery

  He picked up the phone to call his brother. But Terry’s memories were even more foggy than Bridey’s. Brennan filled me in as the conversation went on. Terry barely remembered the jokes about the secret admirer or the one attempt to follow him. The fight didn’t register: “He’s supposed to remember every time he took a punch from one of his siblings? It’s all a punch-drunk blur!”

  Then Brennan said: “Grand. I’ll tell him.” To me: “You’re invited for dinner.”

  “Thank him.” He did and hung up.

  “I wish we could hear more about those two young operatives,” I remarked, “when they put the tail on Cathal. Let’s hope Bridey gives it some thought and brings forth some more details.”

  “We’ll get Patrick to put her on the couch and hypnotize her; bring back all her repressed memories.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No.”

  “Does he really do hypnosis?”

  “It’s not an everyday occurrence, from what he’s told me. Are you serious?”

  “I’m not going to sit here and tell you to have your brother put your sister under a hypnotic spell. But if you suggest it, I’ll be happy to go along. We need all the help we can get.”

  “We’ll have him put Terry under too. Though I’m not sure I’d want to listen to whatever he’d say in a trance.”

  †

  Easter dinner was sumptuous. Nobody mentioned the crisis, nobody mentioned Francis.

  I awoke the next day with a longing to be back in Halifax. It looked as though I would not have the satisfaction of solving the riddles surrounding Declan Burke before I left New York, and I found that vexing. I had one more lead: the name of a cop, Seamus O’Brien. Would he still be around, nearly forty years after the investigation? I wouldn’t get anywhere calling the police department and asking for the home number of one of their retired officers, so I went down to the hotel lobby and asked for copies of all the New York borough telephone directories to be delivered to my room. I had breakfast and went up to start working through the O’Briens. The responses to my calls varied wildly, but I finally got through to a Seamus in Brooklyn, who parried my questions for about two minutes, then admitted he was Lieutenant Seamus O’Brien’s son. The “Loo” was still living in New York. The son would call him and, if the Loo was interested, I’d hear from him. If not, fuggedaboudit. So I gave my cover story, and hoped for the best.

  A bit of touring was in order so I headed up to the Bronx, where I had a look around the campus of Fordham University, then checked out Yankee Stadium. I had an early supper at a place called Dominick’s, where I shared a table with friends of the family that had been running the place for a quarter of a century. I could hardly move by the time I got up to leave.

  I placed a call to my own family in Halifax that evening. Tommy Douglas and I discussed music, specifically, whether I thought he’d look like a “hot dog” in front of his friends if he played a sax solo he had written. I said he wouldn’t, especially if he just eased into the number without announcing it. He put Maura on the phone and we chatted about the day’s activities until I asked for Normie.

  “She’s not here. She’s staying at Kim’s for the night.”

  “So, what’s the occasion that Normie gets a sleepover on a school night?”

  “Does there have to be an occasion?”

  “Well, she usually doesn’t stay out on a school night, considering how tired she gets.”

  “I’m going out.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you mean, ‘I see’? You make it sound as if I opened a hoor house as soon as I bundled the child out the door.”

  “I didn’t make it sound any way. I just wonder what came first, Kim’s invitation, or —”

  “Or the big shipment of oysters and opium at the container pier.”

  “All right, all right. Just make sure she catches up on her sleep and settles down to her schoolwork.”

  “Oh, I won’t have to. I imagine Children’s Aid will have stepped in before sunrise tomorrow.”

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  “I hate to break this up but I have to go rouge my lips before my Moroccan gigolo gets here.”

  “So much for the pretence that he’s a Roman consul.”

  “Piss off.” Click.

  I slammed the phone down and it immediately shrilled back at me. Could she do that? I picked it up and shouted into it: “What!”

  “Exhibiting a little hostility this evening, are we? If you’d like to come and see me, I could help you work through it.” Patrick Burke sounded highly amused.

  “Oh hi, Pat. I wouldn’t have been so rude if I’d known it wasn’t my wife!”

  “I won’t offer any further professional comment. I spoke to Bridey and she loves the idea of being put under a spell. Says she wants me to ask her about everyone who attended that notorious family luncheon, so she can say what she really thinks and not be blamed for it.” I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “She’s arriving late tomorrow, so if you’d like to come up to the office around five or so we’ll see what she remembers about our mother’s mysterious suitor.”

  “Thanks, Patrick. I’ll see you there.”

  I hung up gently that time, but my thoughts returned to my wife. I had been hoping the New York holiday would bring us back together, and there were times when the mood had been relaxed and non-combative. I had even started to plan the opening lines of a conciliatory speech. But the vacation had a perilous start — the call to Giacomo, the misunderstanding about the evening with Rosemary. Now this. Perhaps it was time to draw the papers up and admit defeat. Some marriages should be taken out and shot; maybe this was one of them. I threw myself on the bed and tried to decide what to do that evening. One thing I knew: I was determined to have as good a time as Maura MacNeil was having, or better. After all, I was in Manhattan.

  But I didn’t call a lady of the night. I called my priest instead.

  †

  I travelled to Queens by subway this time because I knew my blood alcohol level would soon exceed the legal limit. I met Brennan at O’Malley’s and we sat side by side at the bar. Neither of us had shaved and both of us were in jeans and T-shirts. Mine was plain grey; Brennan’s was black with white lettering: “da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo.” A plea to God from Saint Augustine: make me chaste and celibate, but not yet! Burke seemed to have taken the same approach to drinking. That made two of us. But, typically, he had more to say on the subject. When he remarked on the condition we were in after two hours in the pub, I made the mistake of offering a theological opinion: “Well, it’s hardly a mortal sin.”

  He twisted around on the bar stool to face me. “Are you not aware, Montague, that drink is immoderate and intoxicating?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Would you rather be drunk than abstain from drinking?”

  “Tonight, you mean?”

  “Are you aware that morals take their species not from things that occur accidentally and beside the intention, but from that which is directly intended?” He paused for a mouthful of whiskey, and continued: “A man willingly and knowingly deprives himself of the use of reason, whereby he performs virtuous deeds and avoids sin, and thus he sins mortally by running the risk of falling into sin.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Saint Thomas Aquinas in the Secunda-Secundae of the Summa Theologica.”

  “Oh.” We turned back to our drinks.

  Sandra’s name came up during the course of our musings; to be more accurate, I brought it up. “You can’t just leave things the way you did with Sandra.”

  “Why not?”

  “Get together with her. Clear things up.”

  “They’re clear now. The woman walked out on me. Wouldn’t you be able to take a hint if someone . . . em, well . . .”

  “Aha,” I pounced, “you don’t want to pursue that line of reasoning, do you? You just about gave it away: the truth that old Monty, who’s been walked out on more
times than he can count, by the mother of his children, should finally admit defeat and bring the curtain down on his own charade of a marriage. While you —”

  “I think no such thing about Collins and MacNeil. There is, on the contrary, no Father Burke and Miss Worthington. The left side of my brain has known that all along, even if other parts of me were temporarily confused.”

  “If you never intend to see her again, tell her.”

  “She doesn’t care. How thick are you, Monty?”

  “Go see her. Maybe you’ll be surprised.” Probably not, given Sandra’s admission to me and Maura that she would never take the risk of falling in love with him again. But maybe there was hope if they were face to face. I never give up.

  “There’s no future in it,” Brennan declared.

  “Then tell her.”

  “She can tell me, if she thinks I’m stupid enough to have missed it the first time.”

  That is how we ended up in a cab, heading to the East Seventies in Manhattan. Burke had grabbed one for the road, a pint of Guinness. We heard a siren screaming and saw an ambulance bearing down on us from the cross street on our left. The cab driver cursed and swerved, and Brennan’s pint spilled all over his shirt and pants. The normally fastidious priest did not seem to notice. In fact, he nodded off just as we approached the Upper East Side. I nudged him and he jerked awake when we pulled up in front of Sandra’s townhouse. He fumbled in his wallet for the fare and we stumbled out.

  I rang the intercom and was buzzed in without having to identify myself. Was she expecting company? She was indeed. The door was ajar when we arrived. There were half a dozen people in the room, dressed for an evening out. I smelled coffee brewing, so I concluded they had been out to dinner and had come back for a cup and a chat. But it was more than that; it was soon evident that we had blundered into a meeting of sorts. Seated in an armchair, Sandra looked effortlessly elegant in a pair of cream linen pants and a silk sweater in pale aqua. She didn’t notice our entrance because she was writing in a notebook. Without looking up, she said: “Pamela, that’s when you’ll introduce Reggie to the rest of the board.”

  A tall woman with expensively styled silver hair picked up a clipboard and consulted it. “I have here: ‘The gallery is pleased to welcome Reginald Bagley Baines. Reg and his family have been serving their country since his mother’s ancestors came over on the Mayflower and disembarked at Plymouth Rock.’ That won’t embarrass you, I hope, Reggie!” Reggie Baines was standing by the marble fireplace, looking anything but embarrassed.

  “My family came over on the Piss-a-bed and disembarked at Hell’s Kitchen!”

  Shocked faces and elaborately coiffed heads swivelled in the direction of the boozy Irish voice. Only then did the board of directors realize their meeting had been crashed by two disheveled drunks. Sandra stared. “Brennan! Good evening, Monty. What a surprise.”

  “Brendan?” Reggie demanded. “Sandra, is this the individual who caused you so much grief and mortification in the past? If so, it appears he hasn’t improved with time. Should I call security?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Reg. Coffee, Brennan?”

  “Would ya have a wee drop of anything to put in it, darlin’?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, Brennan or whoever you are,” Baines said then, “but it’s guys like you who give a bad name to an entire race of people.”

  “Ah, now, Reg, don’t be makin’ all the Puritans look intolerant. It’s not as if it’s a mortal sin to have drink taken.”

  “This man is hopeless.”

  “How’s your dad, Brennan?”

  “The gunshot wound is healing nicely, thank you, Sandra. But it’s the scars inside that never heal, isn’t it? Mild, sensitive soul that he is, my oul da can’t understand why anyone would have a grudge against him.”

  Sandra smiled in spite of herself. “Why indeed?”

  “Your father. This is the man who was shot at a family wedding, am I right?” Reg asked.

  “He’s ‘a man’ who was shot at a family wedding. I’m sure it happens all the time.”

  Not among our sort, Reg refrained from saying. But his expression said it clearly.

  Brennan plopped down heavily on the pale yellow chesterfield, causing the clipboard woman to jolt upwards, then fall over against his shoulder. She jerked away and clung to the arm of the couch. He gave her a loopy smile.

  “Let us carry on, shall we?” Sandra said. “Excuse me for a moment while I pour the coffee.”

  The clipboard woman consulted her notes. “I have our letter to the gallery in Florence. And I had a friend translate it into Italian; I thought that might be a nice touch, posing the request in the curator’s mother tongue. Now apparently the curator, Signor Falda, is reluctant to lend us the artist’s entire oeuvre from that period, but I think we should insist. That was our starting position, and I felt we had the agreement of the government person I spoke to.”

  “Is this the Uffizi you’re talking about?” Brennan inquired.

  She favoured him with a condescending smile. “The Uffizi is the most famous gallery in Florence but it’s not the only one. We are dealing with the National Museum.”

  “Right. The Museo Nazionale in the old Bargello. You’re looking for sculpture, is it? Ceramics, that sort of thing? I don’t know the curator but you may want to call Luca Carracci.”

  “Really.”

  “Really.”

  “His name again . . .”

  “Give me your pen and I’ll write it out for you.” He leaned over, she drew back, but she shoved the pen and the clipboard into his hands.

  He scribbled at the top of the page. “This is his name, this is where he works.” He peered at the letter. “What’s this now? No, no, you can’t say that. It means ‘what we want is.’ That would sound rude and pushy to an Italian. You need the conditional tense there. We’ll change it to ‘vorremmo avere,’ which is ‘we would like to have.’ And here, where you say you’re going to give the ministry an assurance of this or that. It would be less awkward if you changed the indirect pronoun gli to glie and combine it with the direct-object pronoun lo to get glielo. Then you should stick it on the end of the verb, so you have darglielo. That’s better. And, oh no, here’s something that’s not spelled right . . .”

  He went through the entire letter, rewriting it from top to bottom. Was the man drunk at all? Reg stared at him, baffled. Unseen by Brennan, Sandra peered in from the dining room. Reg caught her eye and, with a terse nod, she gave him the news: whatever the sozzled Paddy writes will be correct. She then called out that the coffee was ready. “I hope you’ll be having some, Brennan.”

  “No, don’t trouble yourself, Mavourneen. Young Collins here hasn’t yet enjoyed a pint over at P.J. Clarke’s; we’ll be headin’ in that direction now.”

  Sandra saw us to the door. She took Brennan’s left hand in her right; he didn’t move. “Be sure to look me up next time you’re in the city, Brennan.”

  “I will.”

  Each gave the other a long, long look before he turned and walked away.

  He lit up a smoke when we got out to the street. “Well, there’s an end to a pathetic twenty-five year delusion on my part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll be putting her out of my mind for good. And she’ll be happy to be rid of a drunken Irish priest. No loss for her there.”

  She knew damn well he wasn’t as drunk as he appeared to be; she’d seen him with the letter. So I persisted: “She said she wants to see you next time you’re in New York.”

  “She was lying.”

  “Well, you told her you’d look her up.”

  “I was lying.”

  “But . . .”

  He gave me a pitying look. “You have a lot to learn about the world, my lad.”

  Chapter 11

  Confiteor Deo omnipotenti . . . et tibi Pater,

  quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, et opere, />
  mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

  I confess to Almighty God . . . and to you, Father,

  that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word and deed,

  through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

  — Confiteor, the Mass

  April 2, 1991

  I got a call the next afternoon from a rough-voiced man who said he was Lieutenant O’Brien and he was in McQuaid’s bar on Eleventh Avenue if I wanted to meet him for a drink. I left the hotel and walked west and down. A wind had come up and it blew sheets of rain into my face. I was soaked by the time I got there. McQuaid’s Public House was a small corner brick building with an awning over the door and shamrocks painted on the outside wall.

  Seamus “Shammy” O’Brien was in his late sixties, long retired. He was several inches over six feet and must have weighed in at two-fifty. He sported an iron-grey crewcut, and had the face of a fighter who had taken a good many hits in the ring. Delivered a good many too, I suspected. There wasn’t a drop of rain on him; he’d been here awhile.

  “Lieutenant O’Brien, thanks for seeing me. I thought you lived in Brooklyn.”

  “Spent all my working life over there, but I grew up here in Hell’s Kitchen. Place like this, it calls you back.” He gave a snort of laughter, then signalled for the bartender. “What are you drinking?”

  “A Guinness would be good.”

  “Two pints, Denny. So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m interested in some of the gun-running that was going on in the 1950s. Over on the other side of the river.”

  “Oh yeah? What got you interested in that?”

  The hapless Desmonds were my cover story. I had no intention of linking Declan’s name with the waterfront heist. “I’m a friend of the Desmond family. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “A lot of Desmonds around.”

  “These people are trying to find out what happened to their father. Big boozer. Drifted off and the family lost touch. The daughter told me something happened on the waterfront when he was a port watchman.”