“Huff! I donna see it directly that way.”
“Let me finish me words, please. Sean; ya have a good girl there. I know ye treat her better than her brother does.”
Sean didn’t respond.
“Ye see?” Mrs. Connell said. “Ye scarin’ the poor boyo out of his mind.”
“It’s alright, Mrs. Connell,” Sean said. “He’s right. It’s the truth of the matter. Patrick is not himself.”
“What’s the matter?”
“He drinks hard tack most of the time when he’s not at work, and even then, he sometimes does anyways and hides it inside of his lunch pail. I’m tryin’ to stop it meself, but it is very difficult.”
“I see,” Mr. Connell observed. “How has this been goin’ on?”
“Shortly after their parents passed away.”
“Ye mean murdered!” Murphy said.
“Enough!”
“Slaughtered! Butchered! Massacred!”
“I will not allow such obscene words in me home,” Mrs. Connell stated. “And ye will obey me.”
“We are sorry ma. We no disrespect, but ‘tis the truth.”
“Aye, well, I see no reason to make it so cruel soundin’ and nawful.”
“‘Cause if we donna do it, then no one will see the wrong in it.”
“Exactly!” Conan said. “And I wonder what his grandda would have to say about it!”
Sean spoke, and when he did the entire room fell silent.
“I know what he would of said, ‘cause he said it to me many a times. He said that no matter how evil or horrible others may become, we canna turn into them. It is just as bad to return the favor. We can be saddened by what happens, we can feel remorse for our loss, we can mourn when we experience bad times, but we cannot grow angry and repay wrongdoings. I remember what he once told me about what he had done. He said, ‘I would rather suffer from a thousand whip lashings and never fight back, than to turned on them and bring them to the ground in vengeance, only to find myself in the same status with God for that one lashing I gave them.’”
“Ye canna possibly think that a man fightin’ to protect himself is wrong in his actions,” Conan said.
“Right or wrong, I was taught to never resist an evil man. Have ye not read the Sermon on the Mount? If a man strikes ye on the cheek, turn the other cheek.”
“That’s a little bloody different than a man pullin’ a knife on ye and tryin’ to gut ye!” Murphy said. “Where did Christ say that when ye is shot in the chest, to turn the other side and let it be shot as well? When did Christ say that when a man stabs ya wife, to give him ya daughter as well?”
“The same place where Christ said for us to fight back when attacked.”
“Aye, like when he had the Israelites wipe out the bloody Amalekites when they murdered innocent Hebrews as they were goin’ through the miserable desert. Did He not have them do the same with the Moabites when they sent thousands of Jews to their deaths in treachery?”
“When God comes down in the form of a cloud over us, I will join ye.”
“Sean, ye canna believe this nonsense. It may work if ye live in bloody Lancaster, Pennsylvania, but in Beverly, if ya donna stand up ye life, ye will lose it.”
“He who loses his life will gain it.”
“Saint Paul wasna talkin’ about it that way! We donna give our lives up so that evil can go on! If that was the case, then every good Christian should kill himself in a bloody massed sacrifice.”
“Oh, stop bein’ so dramatic,” Mrs. Connell said as she gestured at her son. “Now stop ye with ye bickerin’ and eat up. I spent weeks perfectin’ that spiced beef, so ye better eat it all. I’ve plenty more for tomorrow so donna worry about saving any of it.”
“Will ye be join’ us tomorrow?” Mr. Connell asked Sean.
“I canna come. Sorry. I promised Patrick and Evelyn that I’d join them later tonight and tomorrow.”
“I donna understand how ye can stand to be near that drunkard oaf,” Murphy said. “I’ve seen him out and about before, and I can tell ye now that he is gonna end up in no good amount of trouble, whether it’s with the coppers or the bloody mobsters. Donna make a difference. And when that happens, it is only a matter of time before Evelyn pays for it as well.”
“He’s me best friend. He’s a brother to me. We’ve known each other for nearly our entire lives. That canna be thrown away just ‘cause one of ye gets put into a rut.”
“He’s in more than a bloody rut. He’s gone off the bloody rocker!”
“What makes ye say that?”
“He’s a violent one. He’s a liability to everyone around him.”
“I don’t wish to disagree with ye, Murphy, but that is not the case.”
“Oh really?” Murphy said. “Ye tellin’ me that he does not take out his anger on ye, not once?”
Sean kept a hand over the part of his face Patrick had struck the night before. The room became quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Connell glared at Murphy, who swirled the remaining ale in his glass before he drank it. He wiped his mouth, sighing.
“I’m sorry, Sean,” he said. “I didna mean no insult to ye.”
“Quite alright.”
“Ye have the rest of the day off?”
“Aye.”
“Good.”
“Are ye gonna just head over to the Malone’s house?” Mr. Connell asked. “I can give ye a ride if ye wish.”
“Thank ye,” Sean said, “but I have some other business to take care of before I go, but I very much appreciate it.”
“Ye welcome. Anytime ya need anything, just ask.”
“Thank ye for dinner.”
“You’re welcome as well. We are honored to have ye as another son in our house, since our two boyos seemed to always be gunnin’ for no good.”
“And who would ye be callin’ for when ye need be fixin’ up this place?” Murphy said.
“Someone who actually knows what in the name of the Holy Mother they are doin’.”
“Exactly. That only leaves meself and Conan, and I don’t expect ye to be callin’ for another to replace us.”
“Nobody can replace ye.”
“I must go,” Sean said, getting up from his seat and empty plate. “Can I help ye with the dishes?”
“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Connell said. “Ye be our guest. Guests donna do work here; not in me house. That’ll be left for the two young brigands that I have for sons.”
“What ye be talkin’ about?” Murphy asked. “I’ve never been trouble for ye in me life.”
“Not even when ye stole half the things in our store and hid them in ya bedroom?”
“There be a big difference between a man of thirty years and a boyo of five years.”
“Not in ya case, there isn’t.”
Sean laughed as he walked to their front door, after having giving them all a handshake and Mrs. Connell a hug. Smiling, he opened the door and walked out.
The snowfall from the previous night had added more snow to the roads and sidewalk. Sean stepped out onto the sidewalk, wrapping a scarf around his neck. After gazing about for a while, he walked back to his house. Although many of the lampposts were dark, he seemed to have no trouble finding his way back.
In-between the two street blocks separating his house and the Malone’s, he stopped when he noticed the preformed footsteps side by side with his. Studying them, he proceeded to slap himself on the side of the head when he realized, or so he concluded, they had been his. He retraced his movements, going all the way back to his home without stopping.
He ignored the sight of darkened figures that lurked near the side of a house, holding their hands in their pockets. He gave no indication that if attacked, he would defend himself.
Arriving at his house, Sean shook his boots off right on the porch after he had trekked through the snow line. Inside his house, the fireplace glowed from the embers that still radiated heat from an earlier fire.
As he took his overcoat off, placing it on the clothes hang
ing by the door, he looked down, shaking his head, seeing a box of things left over from his former job. He took his scarf off, slipping it on top of his overcoat. He then bent down to grab the box and took into his bedroom and threw it on top of his dresser. The various pieces of costumes and outfits hung over the side of the box. He looked down at it with a smile.
The box of costumes and outfits were leftover supplies from a costume shop he had worked at, before being hired washing dishes. When it had closed, the owner had given him a box of the inventory as a way of getting rid of unwanted clutter. Sean had taken it, albeit he hadn’t been quite sure what he to do with it. He had placed them off to the side and left them in a vacant spot in the house, where they had been forgotten until now.
Sean wandered into the living room, where a bookshelf was placed against the wall. The books on it were the combination of his parents’ and his grandfather’s collection of literature.
The clock that stood next to the bookshelf tolled six times. Sean stared at it, stirring. It was not yet time for him to go.
He ran his hand down the shelves until he found one in particular he wished to read. He pulled it off the shelf, taking it over to one of the chairs in the room, next to the fireplace. He then sat down, opening it up.
It was his grandfather’s journal, his diary that he had kept since he was a boy. His grandfather’s journal was like reading into parts of his life; his days as a child in Cork; writing poetry and singing rhymes; then shortly after manhood a dark descent into violence that would define his existence for decades.
Sean always found himself studying the same passages, as if to discover what his grandfather had said as a way of understanding him. He studied a certain page with greasy marks around the edges.
At the top of the page, the entry was dated March 16, 1923, the day Sean’s grandfather had left for America.
“It’s been like this for days. Every night I dream the same dream. The three men are there in front of a courtroom judge; Liam, Shea, and Damian. Their wounds on their chests seem as fresh as the day I killed them after we all got into a drunken feud. Staring at me, they name me as their murderer. As I stand there, I am unable to deny the charge because I can’t remember who instigated the fight. And then the gavel smashes and I am sentenced to an eternity of damnation. I want to feel pity for myself, but pity I do not have. And I constantly hear this voice inside of me. It sounds as though they stand next to me, whispering in my ear all the terrible things I’ve done, telling me how my violent ways have brought me nothing but misery, sorrow, and loneliness. I’ve tried to silence it, but it has become obvious to me that it is the voice of the conscience I discounted and ignored in order to do those terrible things of which it now condemns me for. The guilt I feel will never depart from me. Such is the fate of violent men. Never again for me.”
When the clock struck its bell seven times, Sean got up and placed the journal back into its place. He grabbed his coat and flat cap, heading for the door.
***
Sean stood next to Alistair Sturges, his pastor, as they loomed over two gravestones inside of a cemetery. The cemetery was located at a crossroads between four buildings, hidden by a grove of trees that surrounded it.
Sean had his eyes closed, his head bowed. Alistair had a fedora tucked underneath his arm. He held a Bible in his hands as he read from various passages, concluding with an “amen,” to which Sean repeated as he opened his eyes, gazing at the gravestones belonging to his parents. Beside them also was the gravestone of their friend, Michael Fitzgerald, who had come with them from Ireland and had been killed the same night, eighteen years ago.
Alistair had had to delay the ceremony until Sean had been able to locate the gravestones and dig them out enough so that they could be seen. His hands were red as he rubbed them together. Each year, it took more time for him to find them, no matter how many times he visited in the months between.
Alistair looked over at Sean as he closed his Bible, placing it inside his overcoat. Sean seemed notice his gaze, but didn't return it.
“What’s come over you, my boy?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Call me Alistair.”
“Thank you for coming here tonight.”
“Enough of your thanks. I appreciate it as much as I can, but I feel it is done more out of something pestering you inside than gratitude, not to be rude in my judgment.”
“I am not offended. I just am at a confusing place right now.”
“Indeed? What is it?”
“I can’t put it into words exactly.”
“Very well. What does it concern?”
“My life and the way I am supposed to be directing it.”
The preacher observed the black rosary hanging from Sean's neck.
“I see. How is your relationship with God?”
Sean deliberated. Alistair often asked him about his faith, usually after the service had concluded and the congregation had dispersed. By then Sean was alone in his pew, praying silently. He attended two services every Sunday. In the morning, he attended the community Catholic church with Evelyn and Patrick. In the afternoon, however, he attended Alistair's Free Methodist church. When he was at the Catholic church, or in front of people from his neighborhood, he reverted to his natural Irish drawl. Around Alistair, he spoke as though he had been born in Beverly. He had done this since he was a child. While his grandfather had been alive, he had snuck out of the house and attended Alistair’s church in secret.
The one thing that remained at either church was the black rosary. It had belonged to his grandfather. He wore it wherever he went after his grandfather had made Sean promise to do so on his deathbed.
Sean touched the rosary as he looked at Alistair.
“My faith is the same,” he replied. “I pray as often as I can. I read Scripture every night when I am finished with work. Still, even the Devil knows every word in the Bible.”
“That is true. What confuses you? Do you feel torn?”
“It does not pertain to my religious convictions. You are aware of my friends, the Malone family?”
“Yes, I believe so. Their parents were murdered, weren’t they?”
Sean gestured at their gravestones, situated two rows behind that of his parents’.
“It’s the first Christmas they will have without their parents,” he said. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”
“Does it make you question God's justice?”
“No. I do not question his justice. I am worried about Patrick and Evelyn. They have not recovered at all.”
“I wouldn't expect them to. They suffered at the hands of heinous men. Give them patience. Treat them with every courtesy you can.”
“I do. Believe me, I do. I visit them every night to see how they are getting along. But there is something else that is making it complicated.”
“What is that?”
“Patrick is turning to whiskey to solve his problems. He stopped going to church for a while, and so I had to take Evelyn. Even then, the congregation is constantly disquieted by her behavior, because she can act so strangely. Patrick only agreed to come back after I mentioned this. Anything we can do we have tried. Patrick takes her to the doctor, but they either say there is nothing to be done, or they need to pay a steep price for the costs, and they don’t have the money. Also, the church is too poor to provide them with anything, and it is obvious by the looks on their faces that many of them believe Evelyn is beyond help and therefore not worth what little money they have.”
Alistair narrowed his eyes as he mulled over the matter.
“He’s not going to be able to last much longer that way,” Sean said. “He is going to lose his job, and then he will be thrown out of his home, along with Evelyn. They will have to come live with me, and I can't possibly afford to support them. I barely manage to support myself as it is.”
“You don’t drink, do you, Sean?”
“No.”
“For that reason?”
<
br /> “You would know. You taught me.”
“Very good. I see you have inherited your grandfather’s cautiousness. He was wary about the bottle as well.”
“Alistair,” Sean said.
“Yes, Sean?”
“You know my grandfather was a pacifist, and he taught me to be a pacifist as well.”
“Yes, you told me about this. He took part in the civil war. His superiors told him to attack men who had been his friends. He did what he was ordered, and then left the country.”
Alistair looked at Sean as he leaned towards him. “What troubles you, lad?”
“Was he wrong?”
Alistair's eyes widened, but didn't answer.
“Was he?” Sean said.
“About what?”
“About nonviolence.”
Putting a hand on Sean's shoulder, Alistair took him over to the corner of the fence outlining the cemetery.
“Sean, understand something,” he said. “From what you told me, your grandfather killed friends of his out of his loyalty to a political cause. He did it because he felt the situation justified his actions. I don't know if you can imagine what it would be like to have someone tell you that in order to free yourself, to free your people, that you have to kill your friends. He had blood on his hands, the blood of men closest to him. Such blood does not wash off easily, if ever. Had he had the chance, I have no doubt that he would have rather never picked up a weapon than choose to do what he actually did.”
“According to my grandfather’s beliefs, if you kill or act in violence, you are just as wicked as anyone who acts in violence or kills, regardless of whom or why. But you have always taught that we are to stand up and defend those who are being wronged, and to do otherwise is aiding evil men. Which one is correct?”
Alistair sighed, placing his hand on his forehead. He looked back at the gravestone behind those of Sean’s parents. His grandfather’s marker stood alone, slanted at an angle.
“Your grandfather’s beliefs were for his own benefit,” he said. “Just as one man eats and drinks and another abstains, each does so to satisfy his own conscience. But I’m sure he would have never expected others to apply his philosophy to their own lives outside of their own volition, especially not me.”
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