Irish Linen

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “Yes, naturally. We are eager to learn, especially from the Irish. The Irish priest next door at St. Odelia has been very helpful. Unlike our Polish neighbors he approves of our dark skin. Indeed he says our people are probably the ancestors of those from the West of Ireland. He is very good. So is Cardinal Cronin, of whose sympathy and support I cannot speak high enough praise. Yet our young people are dying every day in Iraq. We are fighting against our own little holocaust.”

  Nuala had suppressed a giggle at his comparison with the West of Ireland Yet the farmers and fishermen wandering her Connemara peninsula were often as dark-skinned as the Assyrians.

  “So, finally,” Father Ibrahim Ibrahim charged on, “I gave him the name of the Bishop of Mosul, who might be able to help, promised him my prayers, and blessed him. He surely needed the blessing and prayers. He was such a delightful young man. Mad of course, but delightful.”

  “Fits the picture.” I said to me wife as we entered my ancient Benz.

  “It does indeed, Dermot Michael. We know where he went and why he went.”

  “But not how he got there or whether he’s still alive.”

  “Oh, he’s still alive, Dermot love. ’Tis obvious, isn’t it now?”

  “Is it?”

  “Tis!”

  “I suppose you’re going to write down on a piece of paper the solution, seal it in an envelope, and give it to me to hold until it becomes obvious to everyone else?”

  “How much will you bet?”

  “I know better than that!”

  So as soon as we got home, we went to my room, she sat down at my desk and on my stationery wrote several lines. Then she grabbed one of my envelopes, folded the stationery, slipped it inside and sealed it. Then she demanded some of my Scotch tape to seal it a second time.

  All of this ritual was performed with great solemnity, as if it was ritual for a papal conclave. Then with an enormous grin she gave it to me.

  “Sign it, Dermot love, and put the date and time on it.”

  “Why do I always fall for this trick?” I said as I signed the envelope.

  “Because you never believe me, no matter how many times I’m right.”

  “You’re not sending me to Iraq?”

  “Dermot love, wherever in all the world would I find a better husband?”

  “How are you going to find him then?”

  “I have a couple of ideas, but I’m not ready to try them yet … Och, Dermot love, won’t this be my most brilliant solution altogether!”

  The doorbell rang. The implicit rule of the house is that Nuala never answers the doorbell when I’m in the house. She violates the rule sometimes, which is all right I guess because isn’t the lawgiver above the law. However, after her last encounter with the man in black, didn’t she refuse to open the door ever again.

  I went down to answer it. Tom and Grace Doolin. They both looked aggrieved.

  “We would like to talk with you, Mr. Coyne,” Tom Doolin said.

  “And your wife,” his wife snapped.

  Nuala in a light brown sweater and a dark brown skirt, looking like nothing if not a professional woman, appeared in the parlor. She had already banished the curious doggies to their room downstairs.

  “Won’t you sit down?” I said.

  Despite the spring warmth outside, the temperature in our parlor had seemed to decline to well below freezing.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Grace said curtly.

  “We have come to ask you for your bill for expenses and services and to request you to end your search for Desmond,” Tom said, awkwardly. “We feel it’s time for closure.”

  “You’ve been talking to people,” Grace said angrily. “We want that to stop. We want you to stop.”

  “All our work is pro bono,” me wife said calmly, “and the only way we can find someone, which you asked us to do, is to talk to people.”

  “We would prefer that you stopped,” Tom said, hating the situation into which we had been forced by his angry wife. “I have made out a check for $5,000 to cover your expenses. If any more is required, please tell me.”

  Nuala took the check. An Atlantic storm was rising and about to assault the coasts of Galway.

  “You have made our grief even more intense with your foolish questions. Father Gerard, our parish priest, says it’s presumptions to hold out any more hope. Desmond is dead. We should never have trusted the Jesuits. I was not told you were a Marquette graduate.”

  “I didn’t actually graduate,” I said.

  “We planned a nice quiet memorial mass with Father Gerard as the celebrant and we ask only that you leave us alone.”

  “I sympathize with your grief,” my wife said softly. “Have your memorial mass with your Father Gerard and find your closure. We will not aggravate your pain.”

  “We appreciate your understanding,” Tom Doolin said, his embarrassment now both obvious and painful. “We are grateful for your efforts.”

  “Well, I’m not!” Grace insisted.

  “However,” Nuala continued to speak softly, “we did nothing more than you asked. As for expenses, five thousand dollars covers much less than a half minute of my time.”

  She tore the check in half and permitted it to fall from her hands on the floor.

  “And,” she continued, almost in a whisper, “we never give up on a case until we solve it. Now please leave my house before I sink to your level of nastiness.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tom Doolin tried to smooth the conflict over …

  “Better leave before the dogs come up the stairs,” I suggested.

  They left.

  “That focking bastard,” my Nuala exploded. “That pissant gobshite, that focking nine-fingered shite hawk, that focking shite-faced lying son of a bitch!”

  I usually edit Nuala’s words, but I present these so that you have some slight hint of what she’s like when the dignity of a Celtic warrior countess is offended.

  The two white wolves appeared in the parlor and paced around nervously. Nuala was upset. Therefore, they were upset.

  “I’ll report him to Cardinal Sean, that’s what I’ll do. He’s unfit to work with young people, he’s a lying, focking pervert, that’s what he is!”

  Her target was patently the chaplain of the Newman Club.

  “Tell Blackie. He’ll do it more discreetly.”

  “’Tis true, Dermot love, you have the right of it altogether, and yourself always having the right of it. I’m sorry I sounded like a fishwife at the edge of Galway Bay.”

  She sat down on the most comfortable couch in the room and began to sob.

  The pooches climbed up on the couch to console her.

  “Poor dear doggies, wasn’t I terrible altogether and meself saying awful things about the Galway fishwives, poor dear women.”

  Then more sobbing.

  “If a husband’s vote means anything, I thought you were wonderful.”

  “You’re only saying that, Dermot Michael, because you love me.”

  “Love you I do … Fiona, do you mind if I sit next to my wife … Thank you … However, I said it because it was true.”

  “Dermot Michael Coyne, have I ever pushed you around like that woman pushed around her poor husband?”

  “Woman, you have not and you’d better not try.”

  A lot of folk were being labeled “poor,” not, however, Grace Doolin or Father O’Halloran.

  He was, I might mention in passing, subsequently translated to a parish so far north in Lake County halfway to Milwaukee.

  “I feel terrible sorry for them and I understand that they are terrible sad, but why take it out on us, and ourselves knowing where Des is and bringing him home, safe and sound, one of these days.”

  The next day was Holy Thursday and the McGrail family, as I like to call it because that makes my wife furious, moves its base to Old St. Patrick’s Church, where Nuala sings in the choir, much to the delight of the rest of the choir, the local clergy, the childer, my family, and the
congregation.

  “And for free too,” I complain to my brothers and sisters.

  Nelliecoyne is permitted to join her in the choir if only for the handclapping in one of the Easter hymns.

  Then we go to my parents’ house for the Easter dinner, a festival taken over by our childer’s cousins. I think our brood, save perhaps the irrepressible Socra Marie, are the best mannered of the lot. But I’m prejudiced.

  Monday afternoon, all of us, recovering from the Easter exertions, settle down.

  “I’m not angry at poor Grace Doolin anymore,” Nuala informed me in the shower, “and meself acting like a banshee.”

  “The poor woman has created most of her own troubles,” I suggested.

  “’Tis too bad that something in her own past made her unable to enjoy poor Dizzy Des.”

  As we were dressing, Joseph from the camera store called and asked if he and Mary might come over to report on the results of his distribution of the faxes to his colleagues. Might they also bring their child who was too young to be left in charge of the store.

  “I bet he’s a little boy named Yeshua,” I suggested.

  “Don’t be blasphemous, Dermot Michael, they’re not Mexicans and themselves speaking the same language Jesus spoke.”

  “It’s not blasphemous for the Mexicans!”

  “’Tis not but these people must be his relatives.”

  The child’s name was Therese and she was as beautiful as her mother and the same age as our Socra Marie, who was called from the play yard with her unindicted coconspirator, Katiesue Murphy. The three little girls took one look at one another and, as such entities do, bonded for life.

  “Now be nice with Therese,” Nuala warned.

  Socra Marie glared at her mother with her “you-gotta-be-out-of-your mind” expression, which she had acquired from her two older siblings.

  “Your daughters are very sweet,” Mary marveled.

  “Only the tiny one is ours. Katiesue is from down the street. Her father teaches at Loyola and her mother is an officer in the United States Coast Guard. Don’t worry, they’ll be nice to your daughter.”

  Joseph removed five pictures out of a file.

  “The first one, my colleague James, as you would call him, owns a shop on Wabash. He says your young friend came into his shop often to purchase various electronic material. He found him charming and sympathetic and very interested in the Assyrian experience in America. He did not mention Iraq.”

  “Very interesting,” Nuala said.

  YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO VISIT ALL OF THEM, SPEAR-CARRIER. AND STOP OGLING THAT OTHER WOMAN’S TITS. NUALA MAY LOOK UP AND CATCH YOU.

  “The next one, Michael, owns a shop on Taylor Street where many students from the university shop. He likes them all, especially this young man, though Mike was evasive about religion. He still fears the Shiites, unnecessarily it seems to the rest of us.”

  “We won’t have to see him then,” I said.

  Nuala frowned at me. She didn’t grasp that the Irish are not the only long-oppressed people who keep the best till the end.

  “Ephrem’s store is over on Southport, near the Music Box Theatre, he is my nearest rival and my closest friend.”

  “He witnessed our wedding, back in Iraq before we escaped,” Mary added.

  “He recognized your man, but he was more relaxed than his usual yuppie customers, so he didn’t trust him. He feared he was from the police because he was so different. I did not argue with him, but I thought he was being silly. Yet Ephrem has had much trouble with the police. Mrs. Hurley has him as a client.”

  “Then he has nothing to fear,” Nuala said firmly.

  “Fourth is Marco, who works on Chicago Avenue just west of Clark Street. He is very successful and very suspicious. He did not want to say anything about the Assyrians, though he admitted at first he was a member of St. Ibrahim’s Church.”

  “I can understand why they all might be suspicious. I’m an immigrant too and I’ve had my trouble with the Feds. Fortunately your Mrs. Hurley routed them each time.”

  “She is a woman of great power and great beauty,” Mary said with feeling.

  “Finally, we come to the most interesting of all. This is Tariq, my cousin. He has much to do with bringing refugees to America. He works with Father Ibrahim in these matters. He admits he gave the young man directions about how to get into Mosul but he refused to describe them to me, though we came out through the same way. He will talk to you, but that is all.”

  “You flew from Kars to Ankara,” Nuala said.

  Both Mary and Joseph gasped and looked very frightened.

  “My wife,” I said, “is very sensitive to these matters. Do not worry, she and my sister are great friends and Nuala is a woman of absolute integrity.”

  “Isn’t that the route we traced from the airplane records? Presumably friends of Tariq escorted him through the mountains and across the border, that’s all we need to know. Assure him that he has nothing to fear from us when we talk with him. Where did you say his store was?”

  “Way out west on Pulaski Road.”

  We West Side Irish bigots always called it Crawford Avenue because our parents and grandparents refused to accept a Polish name, regardless of what Pulaski did for George Washington’s army. In the northern suburbs it’s Crawford too.

  “Do you know where that is, Dermot?”

  “Woman, I do.”

  WHAT KIND OF FOREIGNER IS THIS THAT YOU MARRIED? SHE DOESN’T KNOW ANYTHING BETWEEN SOUTHPORT AND HARLEM AVENUE.

  Neither do most yuppies.

  “Joseph, will you call your cousin Tariq and see if you can make an appointment to see him. Assure him of our discretion. Tell him we already know the general path that Desmond followed and we need no more information about his journey. We want merely to know where he might be and if there is any way we can get in touch with him.”

  “I will speak to him,” said Joseph. “You must understand I can make no promises.”

  “Of course.”

  “May we meet your other children?”

  “Certainly, they always love to show off.”

  She turned on the monitor system.

  “Are all you wretched rascals being good down there?”

  “Yes, Ma!”

  And then, confirming what they said, Nelliecoyne spoke, “They really are, Ma.”

  “Is the baby awake?”

  “Yes, Ma, and I changed his diaper.”

  She put her hand over the speaker.

  “Do you people like dogs?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Peaceful but large dogs.”

  “The larger the better.”

  She removed her hand.

  “Would youse like to meet Therese’s ma and da!”

  “Yes!”

  “Bring the doggies, but keep them under control.”

  “Yes, Ma!”

  The thundering herd streamed up the stairs, Nelliecoyne and the doggies trailing behind.

  “Ruffians, this is Therese’s ma and da. Reading from left to right, they are Nelliecoyne and in her arms, Poraig Josefa, Micheal is the one with the hounds, and Socra Marie whom you have already met. The one next to her is Katiesue Murphy whose ma works for the United States Coast Guard and her da teaches at Loyola University.

  “Doggies, introduce yourselves to the guests.”

  Fiona and Maeve walked over politely and offered their paws for shaking, they curled up in front of me wife, the alpha female in the house. Unbidden, Nelliecoyne—the vest pocket witch that she is, handed Patjo over to Mary. The child, show-off that he is, smiled happily.

  “I will have one of these in about seven months. I hope he is as cute as your little brother.”

  “I’m sure he will be,” Nelliecoyne assured her.

  The other kids, laying on their training for all it was worth, came up and shyly shook hands.

  “OK, you ragamuffins can go back downstairs.”

  “Therese, dear, it’s time to go
home.”

  “Can she come again?” Socra Marie begged.

  “If your ma and da want her to.”

  Nuala Anne nodded approval.

  “We’d be delighted that you want her to come back. I’m sure we’ll see you all again.”

  The kids went back to the playroom. The doggies stayed with us. Mary and Joseph, we still did not know their last names, and little Therese, already sleepy-eyed, left quietly. Nuala promised that we would see them again, in her tone that goes beyond courtesy and becomes commitment.

  NOTE, DERMOT COYNE, THAT YOU SAID NOTHING.

  Why should I when she handles the formalities with so much grace.

  YOU’RE USELESS.

  She doesn’t think so.

  The Adversary, as I call the “voice” is my “bad” self, whose control of my actions ceased long ago.

  I’M REALLY NOT THAT BAD, NEVER WAS.

  “Dermot!” my wife said, embracing me. “We’ve almost solved the mystery. Now all we have to do is to find out where he is and get him back here if he wants to come.”

  “Will it really be a boy child?”

  “Certainly!”

  “Nelliecoyne knows too?”

  “She’s her ma’s daughter, isn’t she?”

  “On the subject of Des, finding out where he is and asking him if he wants to come back are major issues.”

  “We’ll find him and I know he wants to come home … Now I must go down to the kitchen and help Danuta prepare tea for those starving childer before they organize a protest against us.”

  18

  I called my Old Fella from Lisbon.

  The Galway woman answered, under her principle that you don’t impose on a servant to deal with the telephone.

  “’Tis meself,” I announced, as though I had talked to her only yesterday.

  The conversation continued in a code designed to avoid tears on both sides of the conversation.

  “Did they throw you out of Germany?”

  “Woman, they did not.”

  “You’re in trouble with your Ministry?”

  “Not as far as I know. I asked to come home and report.”

  “You won’t have any time to come up here?”

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “Weekend.”

  “I’ll have to see what himself is doing. You know what he’s like.”