Splintered Silence

by Susan Furlong

  “All this time, they’d told you that—”

  “She’d committed suicide. They made it up. All of it. They thought it was best that I believed she was dead, rather than have me know she was a prostitute. They were trying to protect me.” I was surprised by how quickly I jumped in to defend their actions to Pusser. And how their actions, their years of lies, made some perverted sense to me now. There had been a kindness, at least to their intentions.

  He picked the photograph out of the file. I watched while he studied it.

  “Your mother?” he asked, eyeing me over the rims of his glasses.

  “Yes.”

  Silence fell over the room. I leaned over and petted my dog. Pusser watched, his expression pensive.

  Finally, he spoke. “I don’t see how it fits for Sheila Costello. She’s not even from this area. What possible connection would she have to any of this?”

  “I don’t know. The only connection between Sheila’s case and my mother’s is the gun caliber and the fact that they’re Pavees.” Was Sheila also a prostitute? That could be another connection. Although I’d seen that photo of her at the Sleep Easy, that didn’t prove what she was doing there—or if money was passing hands. And I didn’t want Pusser to nail Doogan for theft by telling him about that photo. I paused, then asked, “Can you look in your files and see what caliber of gun was used to kill Billy Drake?”

  “I don’t need to look it up. I remember the caliber. It was a. 380. That’s how we tied Billy Drake’s murder to the drugstore owner’s. Striations on the bullets were a match.”

  “And you never recovered the weapon?”

  “No. The weapon was never recovered.” He snatched up his phone. “Sally. I need you to pull a cold case file . . . Billy Drake . . . Bring it to my office, will ya? And then see if you can get someone on the line from Forensic Services.”

  He hung up and looked my way. “I’ll check into it.”

  CHAPTER 13

  A two-story white clapboard house next to the church served as both the parish office and the priest’s rectory. The church secretary, a pleasant woman with short-cropped silver hair and thick-soled shoes, met me inside the door and, after pausing to fawn over Wilco, showed me to Colm’s office, located in what would have been the original parlor of the house. We’d passed a wide oak staircase on the way, which I assumed led to the priests’ private living quarters on the second floor. She announced my arrival and slid the heavy paneled pocket door shut as she exited.

  Colm stood from his desk. “Your grandmother’s not with you?”

  Those dark eyes of his shot to the now-closed door before landing on me. Was it me, or did he seem uncomfortable that I had come alone to see him? Or maybe I was the one uncomfortable about that. My mouth went dry. I swallowed hard and took a seat in a chair across from him. Wilco curled at my feet. A certain tenseness buzzed in the air around us. I wondered if he could sense the way I felt, the way my body involuntarily reacted to him, even after all these years and even though he wore a collar now. “She didn’t feel well this morning. She asked me to come and finalize the details.”

  He looked concerned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No. Just a little roughed up from yesterday. She’s sore, a bit bruised.”

  “Then I’m glad she stayed home to rest.” His gaze fixed on me for just a beat too long, before he cleared his throat and searched through a pile of papers on his desk. “There are just a couple more details she needed to decide on. I’ve got it all written down somewhere.”

  Our traditional wake called for the deceased’s body to be laid out in the front room of their home—in this case, Gran and Gramps’ home, so friends and family could gather to pay their respects. But that tradition didn’t allow for a bullet hole in the brain and insect- and rodent-ravaged flesh. So instead Gran had opted for a simple Mass and burial.

  “Here it is.” He held up a piece of paper. “Your grandmother already chose the music, but if you could let me know which readings you prefer.” He came around to my side of the desk and handed me a Bible. “I’ve got a few suggestions.”

  He pulled up a chair and leaned toward me to show me what he’d marked. I felt the heat from him sitting so close. Then I wondered, again, if it wasn’t my reaction only and not his at all. I glanced at him as he opened the Bible to point out each marked passage. His gaze followed his fingers as he gently, almost lovingly, traced the lines he’d chosen. Clearly the tingles of warmth he felt emanated from these printed pages; it was not flowing toward me but being offered to me through the words he so fondly read. I’d never pegged the old Colm as much of a churchgoer, but as he guided me through the decisions, his enthusiasm and knowledge of faith was evident. I struggled to reconcile this new Colm with the man I remembered from before, the wild, uninhibited Colm who liked to party and have a good time. My mind drifted from the page, and my eyes slid sideways and lingered on his profile. Ten years had changed him: a softer jawline, deeper creases, but his eyes were the same, as was his mouth—full lips curved with a hint of a grin—and I wondered if the old Colm was still there, lurking underneath the collar.

  “I think your grandmother will be happy with these choices,” he was saying.

  I snapped back into focus and agreed. He jotted down a few notes while we discussed a couple more things. After we’d finished, I brought up the letter from my mother. “Gran said that you delivered the letter from my mother.”

  He gave me his full attention. “Yes. It came to me from a priest in Memphis.”

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “No. Never met him. The letter came in the mail. It was in a plain, sealed envelope inside another envelope addressed from his parish.”

  “Which parish?”

  “St. Louis Church on the east side. A separate note was also included, instructing me to deliver it in secret to your grandmother.”

  “Did you talk to anyone about it?”

  He looked down. “Not exactly. But Father Donavan got to the package first and opened the note. Not that he meant to pry, he just got . . . confused.”

  “So he read the note?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Colm looked at his palms. “And it seemed to upset him.”

  “It did? Why?”

  “Father Don isn’t doing well. He’s having memory lapses. He gets agitated easily. The beginning throes of dementia or Alzheimer’s probably. That’s why I was appointed here. He’s having difficulty tending to his duties.”

  Difficult. Easily agitated. Sounded like my own grandfather. I quickly dismissed the idea. He’d always been quick-tempered and easily agitated. Nothing new there.

  Colm was still talking. “The note triggered something in his memory. He keeps insisting that there’s something important that he’s supposed to do, but he can’t remember what. Every time I mention it, he gets upset again.”

  “Do you think he’s told someone else about the note?”

  “I doubt it. He doesn’t get out much these days.” His eyes drifted to the floor and skimmed the oak boards, as if tracing the past string of events. “I regret that I helped bring your mother here . . . to her death.”

  I swallowed back my grief. “No. You didn’t cause this. You only did what you were asked to do. You had no way of knowing.”

  Pain crimped the corners of his eyes. “Still, I brought a lot of sadness into your life. This and . . .” His eyes settled on my scarf. I bristled. “When I left McCreary all those years ago, I made you a promise.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to go here. Not now. There were too many other things I needed to work through; this was something better off left undiscussed. “It’s okay. We were just kids.”

  “No, it’s not okay. I want to explain. I need to explain.”

  I opened my eyes and pleaded with him. “Please don’t, Colm.” I didn’t want to rehash it all now. My grandfather’s betrayal, the way he acted after Dublin . . . I clutched my stomach. No, no, no . . .

 
But Colm continued anyway. “When I left for college, I told you I’d be back on break. I promised to come back for you, but something changed in me. I can’t explain it, but I felt drawn to the priesthood. A strong draw, but then there was this little doubt.” He looked to the floor again. “You were that doubt, Brynn. And I was advised to cut off all contact with you. That’s why I ignored your phone calls. I realized later how wrong that was. You see, it was easier to turn away from you than to go back and tell you that I’d changed. Especially after what we’d shared together . . . I was a coward.”

  My mind screamed for him to stop. I’d spent the last ten years running from all this, avoiding the pain. What right did he have to force open the dam and flood me with vile memories that I’d worked so hard to escape?

  My mind plunged back to that time . . . I’d been promised to Dub, in a deal made long ago, back when I still played with dolls and wore my hair in pigtails. It was a good deal for my family by clan standards. Dub Costello came from one of the clan’s founding families, a pure bloodline, good stock and well respected. Yet he’d chosen me, a half-breed, a nobody. Other Pavee girls envied me. But I’d already met Colm. I’d loved him. Always had. Still did.

  “I eventually came back, you know, and looked for you,” Colm was saying. “But you’d already left. Enlisted and out of the country. I can’t blame you. Not after the way . . .”

  “Dub raped me.” The words were out before I could stop them.

  Colm’s hand shot to mine, his grip tight and protective. “What?”

  I released a long, jagged breath and told him the whole story. How when I’d gone to Dublin to ask for my freedom, to be released from my obligation to marry him, he’d become enraged. Things got out of hand . . . I couldn’t stop him . . . then afterward, I ran home, bloody and bruised, my body torn and brutally invaded. Gran was gone at the time, helping her newly widowed sister, but I ran to my grandfather and I told him everything that Dub had done. Every single, horrible thing. But instead of comforting me, instead of coming to my defense, he grew angry. He told me it was my fault. That I’d deserved it. That I was no better than my mother. My mother: single, knocked-up by a settled boy . . . the gypsy whore.

  Colm moved closer and took both my hands. His face filled with sorrow. “I . . . I didn’t know. If I had only—”

  “No.” I couldn’t leave Colm with yet another guilt. Leaving me without a word was one thing—unforgiveable in my eyes for years, yet we were young and confused. But even if Colm had been around, Dub would have had his way, forced his “promised due” on me—I knew that. I blinked hard to push the memories back and focus on the present. Colm’s hands, they felt good. Warm. Comforting.

  “Have you forgiven him?” he asked.

  “Forgiven?” My jaw tightened. Hate cursed through my blood and echoed in my voice. “I’ll never forgive Dublin for what he did to me. Never.”

  “Not Dublin,” he whispered. “Your grandfather. Have you forgiven your grandfather?”

  I looked away. No. No, I had not forgiven the only father figure I’d ever had, the one man I’d thought would protect me. The very idea that Colm believed he deserved my forgiveness rankled me.

  “He’s dying, Brynn. You need to make peace with him before it’s too late.” He looked down, his eyes softened. “If I’d known . . .”

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything. We had already chosen different paths, both of us,” I lied. He’d chosen his path. The priesthood. I didn’t really choose the Marines. I didn’t have a choice. I was eighteen, no longer welcomed at home. I had no work skills, very little education, and no money of my own. The only man I really loved had abandoned me. The military was my ticket out. My only choice, really.

  “And your path almost led to your death.” He was looking at my scarf again. “Is it bad, Brynn?”

  I glanced away. He’d seen me before the scars, all of me, what would he think now? The explosion had seared the skin on over half my body. I kept myself well-covered these days. Skin grafts could only do so much. But still, my scars served as a constant and public reminder, an unwanted souvenir, of the war I preferred to leave behind. The whole left side of my torso was a reddish-purple mess of puckered, shriveled skin, pieced back together like a patchwork quilt.

  His eyes were still on my scarf. Show him. Show him how ugly you are. It would certainly repulse him. It would serve him right. Because, yes, he did abandon me, with no word, no hope, no recourse. And it would serve me right to let him see the ugly creature I’d become, let me see the disgust in his eyes. Then maybe I could banish the feelings I still held for him.

  I pulled my hand back and reached up to loosen the fabric, removing it from my neck. Air hit my bare skin, and a shiver ran through me. I stretched my neck downward and pulled back the edge of my sweatshirt. “It’s here and on my shoulder, and my back, and . . .” My eyes fell over the front of my body. And my left breast. What was left of it after the explosion, was so damaged, it had to be surgically removed. It’d taken three reconstructive surgeries to give me even the semblance of a normal shape.

  He’d fallen silent. I dared look at his face, expecting disgust, but instead found pain and sadness and something else. Something I’d seen before, out on those rocks all those years ago. Desire. And I felt it too. And before I could think better of it, I leaned inward, reached out, and touched his face. Our eyes locked. I drew him to me, his lips to mine. Heat spread throughout me, melting away years of resentment. He pressed closer; his hands found my face, then my neck. His fingers traced a line along my damaged skin. It felt right, safe, like it always had before. A moan escaped my lips, low and primal, then something shifted. I felt him tense. He stopped and pulled back. He pushed my hands from his face and stood. He looked surprised, shocked, angry . . . I stood too. Guilt washed over me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  CHAPTER 14

  I swiped the back of my sleeve over my cheeks and looked around the diner’s half-empty parking lot. After leaving the rectory, I’d driven around aimlessly, eventually parking down by the town branch of the Nolichucky River, where I sat for an hour or so, letting Wilco sniff his way along the water’s edge while I sat in my car, rehashing the whole scene with Colm. What had I done? Hot embarrassment crawled over me as I thought back to our kiss. Was it all me? Or was it him too? Not that it mattered. There would never be anything between Colm and me. Never again. He’d made his choice.

  It felt as if someone had pounded a thousand nails into my heart.

  Why am I even here at the diner? Earlier that morning, I’d left the house intent on seeing Meg at some point during the day. I did need to talk to her about Eamon and Sheila. Still, maybe now wasn’t a good time. She was at work, and I should really be home helping Gran prepare for tomorrow’s funeral and spending time with family. But there was Pusser and his eagerness to pin this on a Pavee, and the way he’d focused his sites partially on Meg. “She has motive,” he’d said. Did she? Assuming that Dub’s accusation was true, did Meg know about Eamon and Sheila? Even if she hadn’t before, she probably did now. I thought of all those people gathered around yesterday when Dub spewed his hateful accusations. Poor Meg. I reached for the door handle. I’ll just see how she’s doing.

  Inside, the tang of spicy beef kicked my stomach into action. It rolled with hunger. The place was pretty much empty, so I headed straight for the corner booth, noticing Doc Styles sitting alone at one of the tables. I stopped to say hello.

  “How’s my patient today?” he asked, scrutinizing Wilco’s front legs.

  “Much better. Thanks for getting the medicine to me.”

  “No problem. I was in your area anyway.” He gave Wilco a pat. “He’s looking good. I don’t think I saw any limping as you walked in here.”

  “No. And we were out in the woods all day yesterday.”

  His expression turned somber. “I heard. Terrible thing about that girl.”

  Meg approached with a couple of hot plates in her hands.
“Hey, Brynn. I didn’t expect you in here today.” She glanced over at Doc’s empty plates. “I’ll get your bill right out,” she told him.

  “Then do you have time for a break?” I asked. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  She dipped her chin toward the plates. “Sure. Let me get these out and take care of Doctor Styles, then I’ll be right back.” She lowered her voice, her eyes gleaming. “I have something I want to tell you about too.”

  I watched her shuffle off, thinking she seemed awfully chipper. Maybe she hadn’t heard about Eamon and Sheila. I said good-bye to the doctor and settled into the booth. A couple minutes later, Meg came back carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, a bowl of chili, and a plain hot dog for Wilco. “Chili’s on the house. The cook overestimated the lunch crowd. There’s a ton left over back there.” She set the tray aside and slid into the vinyl bench across from me. I slipped Wilco the hot dog, wiped the slobber off my hands, and dug into my chili. Meg jabbered about this and that, the conversation moving along pleasantly while I struggled for a way to bring up Eamon.

  As it turned out, she brought him up first. “Look what Eamon gave me.” She shoved her hand in front of my face. There was a ring on her finger.

  “What the hell’s that?”

  She shriveled. “A ring. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Eamon and I are engaged.” She pulled her hand back and scowled. “You don’t like him.” She glared at me. “I knew you didn’t. I picked up on it the other day.”

  “I hardly know him.”

  “Then what?”

  “Haven’t you heard what Dub Costello said?”

  She cringed. “I don’t believe none of that.”

  “Come on, Meg. He accused Eamon of sleeping with his wife.”

  “Eamon says it’s a lie.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Of course I do! He told me there was nothing between them. They were acquaintances, that’s all.”

  “Dub made it sound like much more.” There was that picture too. The one Doogan found at Dub’s place. It showed Sheila at the Sleep Easy with some man. Eamon? Or was Sheila one of Al’s girls, turning tricks on the side. Maybe trying to earn enough money to leave and get away from Dub?