by Peter Murphy
“Yes, Danny. It has.” She kissed his cheek gently and turned toward their bedroom, hoping he would follow.
She stayed awake as long as she could, but Danny didn’t get up, except to go to the fridge a few times. She had left the door open.
*
She woke again when he was in the washroom and it sounded like he was talking to somebody.
“Of course I’m drunk. It’s the only fuckin’ way I know of getting through life.
“It’s the only way I can handle all the shite the spite of God showers down on me.
“What’s the point, anyway? What’s the point of destroyin’ everyone I come into contact with? What kind of a fuckin’ malicious God would kill all these people just to teach me somethin’?
“And it wouldn’t be so bad if He just killed them. No, the great and merciful God has to kill them slowly, suckin’ life out of them before me so I can sit and watch them wither. What kind of a sick pervert can do stuff like that?
“I used to try to believe in Him, you know, and that he was good and kind. I even used to go to Confession and tell Him I was so fuckin’ sorry for all the little things they told me were wrong with me. And what did I get for that? Absolution? No, I just got even more shite thrown at me.
“I used to go to mass, too, and pray. And not for myself. I prayed for my mother when He let my granny lock her up in the fuckin’ nuthouse.
“And I prayed for my granny when sickness stole life from her, one day at a time. When we got to bury her, there was nothin’ left but skin stretched over bones.
“And now Martin. What did he ever do to anyone? He was always the good guy.
“Well fuck God and this being good shite. What’s it goin’ to get you in the end? God is nothin’ more than a malicious fucker that preys on the weak—and the kind—while rewardin’ all those fuckers that use His name to do all kinds of evil.
“I’m done with God and all His twisted schemes. He doesn’t work in mysterious ways. It’s so fuckin’ obvious—God goes around pickin’ off anybody that is not just like Him, vicious and malignant.
“And we shouldn’t be surprised. He killed His own son too.
“He gave him over to some fuckin’ righteous mob to nail the poor fucker up on a cross. Fuck God, that’s what I say. Fuck God and all the shite that clings to Him. Fuck them all. Fuck the bishops and the priests and the bloody pope in Rome.
“And another thing. Where was God when they were burnin’ people at the stake—when the Inquisition was huntin’ down and killin’ people? Where was God then?
“I’ll fuckin’ tell ya where He was. He was sittin’ on His fucking throne laughin’ at us all.
“That’s all we are, ya know, court fuckin’ jesters. This whole fuckin’ circus of life is nothin’ more than God’s coliseum. We’re like the poor fuckin’ gladiators fightin’ over which one of us has the true God while all the time He sits up there waitin’ to give us the ‘thumbs-down.’
“He doesn’t love us; we’re just playthings to Him. He makes us to keep Himself amused.
“And when He tires of us—He kills us.”
*
The weather was fine as May drew to a close. Jacinta was sitting in the garden, in the last of the sunshine, sipping a glass of wine.
“You’re like a Duchess, sitting out here. The Duchess of Dublin.” Jerry sidled up behind her and leaned over with the flowers he had picked up on the way home.
“What’s that for?”
“It’s because I love you.”
“I know that, but why flowers—today?”
“Because I love you more today than I did yesterday.”
“Did you stop for a few on the way home?”
“I had to. They had to get the flowers special for you and I would have had to wait anyway. I only had two pints.”
She sniffed his breath as he leaned in to kiss her. “Well, thanks so much. And I love you, too.”
“More than you did yesterday?”
“No. Just the same, but don’t be disappointed. I’ve loved you the most for years now. Anyway. What’s the occasion?”
“Can a man not buy his wife flowers without it being an occasion?”
“Of course they can, but they don’t, so out with it.”
“Okay then. Donal phoned and said we have a buyer lined up. They are willing to meet the asking price and just want to have it inspected first.”
“Will it pass?”
“Of course it will, but we might have to cut the inspector in too.”
“Is that right?”
“It’s the way everybody is doing it and don’t worry. The work was done by good qualified tradesmen. They’ll find nothing wrong.”
“And how much will we get out of it.”
“Donal thinks we should take ten grand each and put the rest back in for the next one.”
“And what are we going to do with it?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“You know I don’t like surprises, Jerry.”
“Okay then, but promise you won’t tell Gina until Donal has a chance to talk with her.”
“I promise.”
“We’re going to go to the Costa del Sol.”
He expected her to be more delighted. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be over the moon.”
“I am, Jerry, only I got a call from Danny today with a bit of bad news.”
“What’s he done now?”
“He’s done nothing. It’s Martin. He’s been taken into hospital.”
“Ah Jeeze, I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing too serious, I hope?”
“Well, Danny wasn’t too sure. He said it was some kind of virus or other and that he might be there for a while.”
“Well, he’s in the right place. I’m sure they’ll have him right in no time.”
“I hope so. Danny seemed to think it might it might be one of those new viruses or something he brought back with him from Jamaica? What was he doing down there all these times? Do you think he has a girl down there?”
“Probably,” Jerry agreed while avoiding her eyes.
“I wonder why he had to go all the way down there to find a girl. Aren’t there any nice Irish girls in Toronto? You don’t think she’s one of them, do you?”
“And sure what harm if she is? It’s a different world now, Jass, and you and I don’t need to be worrying about any of it. Why don’t you give Gina a call and we can all go out for a meal to celebrate.”
“I will, so. Do you think I should tell her about Martin?”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. Not yet anyway. There’s no point in worrying anybody when he’ll probably be fine in a few days.”
She seemed happy with that and went off to call her sister while Jerry sat smoking and staring off into the distance.
*
“It’s like he’s the one who is . . .”
“It’s okay, Deirdre.” Martin assured her but his voice was dull and tired. He was propped against his pillows in a honeycomb of wires and tubes. “I’m dying. You can say the word. It’s not so frightening anymore.”
She gazed at him with total adoration. As the end approached, he grew braver and braver, while Danny’s world was melting away. He had quit the band, even though they called every day to try to persuade him to come back. They had cancelled all their gigs too. They weren’t prepared to go on without him. But even with Deirdre’s secret involvement, they couldn’t budge him.
He just went to work every morning, stopping in the liquor store, as well as the beer store, every evening. After dinner, when he would barely say a word, he’d sit on the couch, watching hockey and pounding down beer and whiskey too. She tried talking to him, even told him to snap out of it.
Danny would just smile at her and shake his head. “I can’t, Deirdre. This is my life. This is what I’ve had to deal with since. . . Just leave me alone to deal with it. I’m not hurting anybody. I’m just sitting here, easing the pain. I’ll be all right soon. Just leave me alone f
or a while yet.”
As the fall gave way to winter and everybody else was getting ready for Christmas, Danny withered. More and more each day until he started missing work too. They were able to cover that up for a while. Danny’s supervisor was a friend of Martin’s, only nobody at work knew.
Danny had been to see Martin on his own too. Standing, looking at his own reflection in the dark windows, except for the lights from the street below. “It might be better if he didn’t,” David had told Deirdre the last time they had lunch together. But Martin wouldn’t hear of it and insisted Danny come, whenever he could.
“You know, Deirdre,” Martin rasped from his bed, “I don’t worry about myself anymore. I’ve found peace, but I worry for Danny. I was the only family he ever really had.”
Deirdre and David exchanged glances but said nothing.
“He needs to feel that he belongs to something—something that will last.”
*
His words followed her all the way home. She loved Danny Boyle. More so now that he was so lost and helpless. He was losing the only friend who had always been there for him, even when she wasn’t.
She had been thinking a lot about it lately anyway.
Only she usually thought against it, even though it kept coming back. Her friends said it was ‘the clock.’ Every woman had to deal with it. She argued that she was too young—that she was just past her mid-twenties.
“Happens,” her friends laughed, “when you least expect it.”
She had never felt the time was right before, but now it was all clear to her. She might not be ready to become a mother but Danny had to become a father. It was the only way he’d find his way back from the edge. That’s what Martin must have meant.
8
1984
After the doctor had confirmed it, Deirdre felt even more divided, part Madonna and part whore. She had been giving her body, night after night, to save Danny from the depths he wallowed in, making love to him when he came home, reeking of beer and hardly able to manage. And after, when he was soundly sleeping, she would lay awake and stare at the ceiling.
What was she thinking? Everything in Danny’s life would always be shrouded with heartbreak. It was like he was cursed and damned from the beginning. And voices from the shadows were quick to remind her that she had played her part, sending him spinning off the path before he even began. Sometimes she wondered if she was only with him to appease her guilt.
Miriam had once asked her about that but Deirdre knew; Miriam wasn’t impartial. Despite her best efforts, she often allowed their friendship to shade her judgment. She always said that she only wanted what was best for Deirdre, but sometimes it felt like she was living vicariously.
They still kept in touch, writing letters every other week, but Deirdre hadn’t mentioned any of this. It was a matter of the heart, something that Miriam often said she knew little about. And she certainly couldn’t do it now. She couldn’t mention Martin, wasting away while becoming more and more spirit-like every time she went to see him. He was adamant that no one at home should know. No one! The little energy he had left was directed through her, toward Danny, to guide him back on track once again.
Besides, she knew that Miriam wouldn’t understand. Deirdre was in love with Danny and people who were in love didn’t turn their backs when things were going badly.
It almost made sense when she looked at it that way. She just wasn’t sure that she loved him enough to spend the rest of her life with him. A life with a child and all the things children brought with them. She wasn’t sure that he loved her enough either.
She had called him at work and asked him to be home in time for supper, that she had something important to tell him. He showed up an hour late, but he brought her flowers and a bottle of wine.
“No. Thank you,” she declined when he offered her a glass.
“Is there something wrong?”
He hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t had a drink since his birthday, just after Christmas. “I’m fine, Danny, and I have some big news.”
“I hope its good news. I could use some of that.” He poured himself a glass and sat down opposite her. He looked so tired. The band had gotten back together before Christmas and they were working three nights a week again, on top of his day job. And those nights when he was home, he’d sit up drinking and staring into space if she let him. Frank said he was like that at the gigs, too, playing away like he was robotic, just going through the motions.
“I hope so, too.”
“Well?”
“Well.” She took a deep breath and dived right in. “Danny. You’re going to be a father.”
He lit up immediately. So many times she had tried to imagine how it would go but she never once imagined he would be so happy. He stood up and took her in his arms, squeezing her and twirling her around until he realized.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be doing that.” He put her down again, ever so gently. “I didn’t hurt it, did I?” He touched her cheek so tenderly that she couldn’t help it and began to cry.
“I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? ’Cos I want to be the best father of all time. I’ll never let anything happen to the baby—and you. Ya know that?”
“No, you didn’t hurt us, Danny. And I agree, I think we’re going to make the world’s best father out of you.”
“I hope you’ll know how because I don’t know anything about it.”
“Well,” Deirdre looked for the right thing to say, “you’ll know all the things not to do.”
“Yeah, I’m an expert in that.”
“You are happy about it, aren’t you?”
He almost had tears in his eyes. “I’m so happy I could . . . shit balloons.”
She pushed him away from her but they were both laughing.
“Can I tell everybody?”
“Let’s wait a bit; I just got the news today.”
“But I can tell Martin, right?”
“Yes, you can tell Martin, but nobody else for a while.”
He hugged her, much more carefully this time, and rested his head on hers. “What would you think if I told him that we were going to call the baby Martin?”
“I think that would be beautiful, but what if it’s not a boy?”
“No problem. We’ll call her Martina.” He swayed them around like a slow dance until she pushed him away.
“Go on and see Martin. I’m sure he’ll be delighted for you.”
Danny agreed and got ready to go. “You’ll be all right—here on your own?”
“Go on.”
He kissed her again and was gone.
She sat on the couch and pulled her legs up under her. She was happy he was happy. So happy that she could almost forget that she had also made alternative plans. She wasn’t really considering abortion; she just wanted to know she had options. She had even made an appointment but she didn’t keep it. She couldn’t do it, to the baby, to Danny, or to herself.
*
The doctor finished his examination and stood over the bishop.
The bishop hated that; a doctor had no business looking down on a bishop. He tried to sit up but he couldn’t. He was far too sick for that.
“It’s pneumonia, all right.”
Mrs. Power had been telling him that for a few days before she and Mrs. Mawhinney tricked him into bed and called the doctor to come. The bishop would have gotten around to seeing him on his own. They had no right . . . but they did.
He had been a damn fool and a proud fool. He refused to admit, even to himself, that he didn’t have the strength to carry on. He’d been so busy down at the diocese. There had been a most un-immaculate birth in the grotto up in Granard and the papers were full of accusations. Then Brendan Behan’s mother had died and he really wanted to get down to the funeral. Kathleen was the last of her stock.
”And it might be better if we get you into hospital for a few days.” The doctor looked at him over his glasses and waited.
�
�Tell me, Doctor. Would I really do any better there? If it makes no difference, I’d rather stay in my own bed.”
“You’ll need antibiotics, and you’ll need round-the-clock treatment for a few days.”
“I can be given those here. Bishops are a bit like Sea Captains, Doctor. We prefer to die in our own beds.”
“Your Grace, without wanting to cause alarm, I must stress that your condition is serious.”
“Of course it is. Do you think I’d be lying in my bed if it wasn’t?”
“Well then, you’ll know why I think you should go in.”
“I’ll take my chances here and that will be the end of it.”
“Your Grace, as your doctor I would think that my opinion would hold more sway here.”
“Not in my palace.”
The bishop had raised his voice so loud that Mrs. Power and Mrs. Mawhinney, who were listening through the door, came rushing in.
“And what do you two want?” But his voice was lower as he sank back into his pillows. “I suppose you are here to agree with him.”
“Well,” Mrs. Mawhinney ventured while Mrs. Power urged her on. “I’ve had nursing training—during the war—but I can still remember the basics.”
“I think that would be for the best,” Mrs. Power joined in. “After all, where would he get better care than here?”
The doctor opened his bag like he was weighing his options. “Very well.” He drew out a small bottle of pills. “See that he takes these and I’ll come back tomorrow and see where we go from there. And make sure he gets lots of liquids into him. We’ll see what the morning brings and make sure he takes two of those, every four hours.”
“We will indeed,” Mrs. Power assured him and saw him to the door.
“I’ll not take them,” the bishop protested meekly.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Mawhinney said, tidying the bed around him, “with all due respect, you’ll do as you’re told until you are well enough again. Then, when the doctor says it’s okay, you can go back to ordering us all around.” She sat in the chair beside his bed and reached for his forehead.