by Peter Murphy
“What do you think you are doing?”
“Checking your fever, Your Grace.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” Mrs. Mawhinney handed him the two pills and a glass of water. “Take these and try to get some sleep.”
He gave in and took them and settled down beneath the covers. “You don’t think you’re going to stay here?”
“I will for a while, Your Grace. Now go to sleep and give the medicine a chance to work.”
“But you can’t. What if I was to die in my sleep and they found you in here with me?”
“Did I ever tell you how my husband died?” Mrs. Mawhinney tucked his blankets in around him. “He was returning from escorting the bombers over Germany. He came across a lone bomber being attacked by German fighters and, even though he was low on ammunition, he tried to do what he could. He saved the bomber but it cost him his life.”
“And I suppose there’s a morale in that?”
“You’d know best, Your Grace.”
He protested some more but his protests grew weaker and weaker until they were nothing more than a muffled rattle. He was asleep by the time Mrs. Power came back and the two women sat in the semi-dark, praying for the only man in their lives.
*
“Father Reilly? It’s Janet Mawhinney. I’m just calling to let you know that your uncle has come down with pneumonia.”
“It’s bad, but the doctor has been in to see him.”
“No. He refuses to go but, for now, we’ll be able to look after him here. You know how stubborn he can be.”
“Well, you’d know best yourself, Father, but I don’t think there’s any need for you to rush over. I’m sure he’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Good enough, Father. We’ll wait and see.”
“I will indeed, Father, and take care and I’ll tell him that you will be calling.”
“Don’t worry about Mrs. Power and me; we’re more than a match for him.”
“Good bye to you, too, Father.”
*
“Here is your son, Danny Boyle.” Deirdre handed him the little swaddled bundle she had been carrying around for months. Pink and wrinkled, with his little hands around his ears as if the noise of the world was too much, the baby seemed to peep up at his father.
“Oh look, Dee. He’s smiling at me. He knows his Daddy already.”
Danny huddled over him, like he did with his mandolin, and gently rocked where he sat. He looked at peace with the world for the first time since . . . Deirdre couldn’t remember a time when he looked like that.
Pregnancy was not as difficult as she had heard but there were times, particularly in the last few months, when her bump was too much. Sometimes she even wished someone would reach inside and pull the child out. But his birthing was quick. Danny had borrowed David’s car and driven her to the hospital as soon as her water broke—just another in a long line of body functions that were no longer private. He had settled her in and gone for a smoke and by the time he came back, the baby was well on his way, pushing through her and out into the world.
“He’s beautiful,” Danny said as he looked up at her. “Just like his mother.”
She knew he was just saying it. She hadn’t been beautiful for months, with her swollen body and her fat face, and her hair—it had suffered the most, always stringy around her face, no matter how often she washed it. And none of her clothes fit and those that did were shapeless and ugly. But it was nice of him to say. He had been so nice to her about everything. He had stopped sitting up drinking and had involved himself in all the preparations. They had gone to prenatal classes together and he had decorated the baby’s room. He even promised that he would get up at night, when the baby called, and bring him to their bed.
Sometimes, in bittersweet moments, he said it was like the coming of the new Martin was easing the passing of the old. He had been to see him every night and seemed reconciled. He rarely spoke about it anymore, preferring instead to talk about how great everything would be once the baby had come.
“You know,” he said and smiled over at her, “I think he looks a bit like your father.”
“Oh God, don’t say that.”
Her father was fuming about it all. Her sister and her mother had tried their best but he couldn’t be soothed.
“He’s got his hair.” Danny laughed and gently touched the little tuft on the baby’s head. “But he has your smile.”
Lying there, sweaty and disheveled, Deirdre was happy. The future would test them but for now, they were happy. She had learned to push all of her own dissenting voices to the back of her mind. Voices that clamored about all that she would have to give up. How was she ever going to be able to do anything for herself again? The baby would take all that she had and more.
But today she was happy. The baby had brought Danny back to her and between them, they would repay that kindness. Deirdre Fallon and Danny Boyle had brought a child into the world. A world that would never be the same again—at least for the two of them. “Are you happy, Danny?”
He clutched the baby close to his chest and leaned forward to kiss her sweaty brow. “I’ve never been happier in my whole life.”
For a moment he looked wistful but seemed to dismiss it. “And I promise you that I will be the best father and husband that ever was. And I promise that I will never let anything change the way I feel right now.”
“I love you, Danny boy.”
“I love you, too, Deirdre Fallon.” Danny leaned forward while the baby squirmed between them.
*
“I can’t wait for you to see him. Both of you. I know everybody thinks their baby is the cutest, but you’ve got to see him.”
Martin tried to smile but it was more like a gash on his sunken face. “I can’t wait.”
“I wanted to bring him in but Deirdre didn’t think it would be a good idea.”
“Well we’re both very touched that you named him Martin. Aren’t we, David?”
David flashed his big smile. He hadn’t used it much recently and it seemed to take more effort.
“Are you going to get him baptized?”
Since Martin got sick he seemed to have changed his attitudes on the things that people used to get them through life. He didn’t endorse any of it; he just wasn’t dismissive anymore.
“Deirdre thinks we should get him christened, but we don’t want him to be Catholic.”
“There’s a United minister that comes to see me. You could ask him.”
“Have you gone Prod?”
Martin didn’t even flinch. Not even a quiver. “Danny, from where I lay, none of that matters anymore.”
“Yeah, but.”
“Danny. The minister and I talk about life and death. We don’t discuss who’s right and wrong. None of that really matters. He listens to me and I listen to him and together, we help me find the peace that I need.”
Danny lowered his head. He couldn’t argue with that.
Since Martin had been hospitalized, he had become calmer, almost like he understood the bigger picture. Deirdre said that it was part of the process. That after feeling angry and afraid, people like Martin searched for peace.
She had been careful not to call him an AIDS patient. That still had so much stigma attached.
“There is just one thing,” Martin continued like he was really talking to himself, “that I want to know before I leave.” David kept his thoughts to himself and sat quietly, holding his dying lover’s hand. Danny wanted to as well, but he was afraid until Martin solved the problem by taking Danny’s hand in his. “I want to know that you will be all right, Danny. I want to know that you will go on from here and be a proper father to your son. I know things weren’t great for you growing up but everything is different now.”
Danny shrugged and tried to deflect him.
“Danny, I need to know that you will never allow all the shit we grew up with to ever affect your son.”
“Don’t worry,” Danny choked ba
ck his tears. “Deirdre would kill me if anything like that ever happened.”
“Danny. I need you to promise me that little Martin will never have to go through what you did.”
“C’mon, Martin. Don’t be getting so heavy.”
“Promise me.”
“Okay, okay. I, Danny-the-fuck-up-Boyle, promise that I will never let any crap happen to my son. Are you happy now?”
“And Danny, when I’m gone, I don’t want you acting the bollocks.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t want you drinking and brooding anymore.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m leaving but little Martin has just arrived. I want you to love him and to be the good in his life.”
“Like you were in mine?” Danny smiled but his tears began to fall.
Martin lay back and closed his eyes but, even though his face was sunken and his bones were sticking through his skin, he seemed happier than he had been for a while. When he seemed to have fallen asleep, Danny rose to go. He put his hand on David’s shoulder but couldn’t think of anything to say.
David didn’t speak either, but he did put his hand on Danny’s for a moment.
“Danny,” Martin called out as he got to the door, “I’ll always be there for you—if you need me.”
Danny nodded and turned to go, crying all the way to the door and down the street and all the way home.
*
The bishop didn’t survive the spring and died, as he preferred, in his own bed while Mrs. Power and Mrs. Mawhinney kept vigil, saying rosaries by candlelight. His pneumonia spread to both lungs and his last few days were spent in fitful, feverish, semi-sleep. So late one night, Pat McConnell passed from the world he had helped shepherd and his passing was marked in every parish with calls to pray for the soul of the faithful departed and a good servant of the Lord.
Patrick Reilly had come back from Rome just before the end. Mrs. Mawhinney had kept him informed with daily phone calls. “Come now,” she had told him and Patrick was there within a day.
His uncle clung to his last few breaths so he could share them with his nephew. “I have had Mrs. Mawhinney put together a box of my papers,” he had gasped, each word costing him. “I want you to have them and, when the time is right, read them.”
“Hush now, Uncle, and don’t be talking like that. You’ll be back on your feet . . .”
“Patrick! I’m near done. Don’t waste time pretending otherwise.”
His voice was failing and Patrick had to lean over him to hear.
“I will die a contented servant of God and His Church. I want you to know that. I’m at peace with all that I did there. It’s with you that I have business now.”
“You have always been a good bishop and uncle. There is no need for making peace between us. We have always had it.”
“Ah, Patrick. You were always a most loving and trusting sort and I have not been completely honest with you.”
The effort to speak was causing him to gasp and Patrick Reilly looked at the two women to see what he should do. But they sat with stone faces, like the angels in the churches, watching life come and go.
“Now, Uncle. Don’t be upsetting yourself on my account.”
“I am not upset, Patrick. In the box you will find all that you need to understand why I did the things I did. I did what I thought was right and I will meet my maker with that and let Him be the judge.”
He fell silent for a while and the priest and the two women sat and waited.
“I’ve been a most fortunate man,” the bishop spoke again, a frail rasping sound. “And I leave life in the company of those I love dearly. I have provided for you all as I think best and ask just one thing of you all.” The priest and the two women leaned forward. “Remember,” the bishop gasped and struggled for the last time, “remember me kindly.”
**
He left instructions for his funeral too. Patrick was to say the mass and lead his uncle to his last resting place in the world. It was an honor that Patrick felt unworthy of but he did his best. Mrs. Power and Mrs. Mawhinney told him he did his uncle proud.
Mrs. Mawhinney even drove him to the airport when it was time for him to return and handed over the old wooden box containing the bishop’s papers. “He made sure I had this ready for you, but insisted that you’re not to open it until you are good and ready.”
“Do you know what he meant by that?”
“I don’t,” Mrs. Mawhinney laughed, “but then again I was only privy to what His Grace wished to share with me.”
Patrick looked at her and, for the first time, could see how much she truly loved the old man.
“What will you do with yourself now?”
“Well, your uncle left money to Mrs. Power and me. Enough to keep us for the rest of our days.”
“It’s no more than you deserve.”
She seemed touched by that and smiled at the young priest. “And will you be okay, Father?”
*
“Sing us a song about Ballyporeen,” someone called up to get Frank going. Ronald Reagan had recently gone there to look for his roots and Irish votes.
“Fuck Ballyporeen,” Frank dismissed it with a smile, “and all belonging to it. We’re going to dedicate this song to Luke Kelly who died earlier this year.”
“Who the fuck was Luke Kelly?”
“He was the greatest singer ever to come out of Ireland, ya gobshite. Now shut up while we try to do a really great man some credit.”
Jimmy set the beat and Danny strummed along, gently leading in until Frank sang clear and true:
I must away now, I can no longer tarry
This morning’s tempest I have to cross
I must be guided without a stumble
Into the arms I love the most
And when he came to his true love’s dwelling
He knelt down gently upon a stone
And through her window he’s whispered lowly
Is my true love within at home?
Wake up, wake up love, it is thine own true lover
Wake up, wake up love, and let me in
For I am tired love and oh, so weary
And more than near drenched to the skin
She’s raised her off her down soft pillow
She’s raised her up and she’s let him in
And they were locked in each other’s arms
Until that long night was past and gone
And when that long night was past and over
And when the small clouds began to grow
He’s taken her hand and they’ve kissed and parted
Then he saddled and mounted and away did go
I must away now, I can no longer tarry
This morning’s tempest I have to cross
I must be guided without a stumble
Into the arms I love the most.
*
And even as the crowd clapped, Deirdre picked up the phone. It was David to tell her that Martin’s suffering was finally over. He didn’t think that she should call the bar. She should let Danny finish the gig. It’s what Martin would have wanted.
*
As she told him, Danny could feel his heart break and all that he had strived to become, fracture. He sat and put his head in his hands, trying to hold on to all that was good in life, but with Martin gone, there was a huge hole inside of him. He tried to be happy that his uncle’s suffering was over but he could never forgive the way fate had taken him.
Deirdre took the baby and left him alone—there was nothing else she could do.
By the morning he was done crying, and got himself ready to phone his parents. He wished someone else could have done it but there was no one else. Deirdre sat watching him, clutching little Martin tight.
Jerry answered and Danny was glad for that. His father took the news without too many questions but it was different with his mother. “What kind of hospitals do they have over there? Why didn’t you bring him back here where we could ha
ve looked after him properly?”
Nothing Danny could say satisfied her and he couldn’t tell her the whole truth—at least not over the phone.
“And why wouldn’t he want to be buried in Ireland?”
“I don’t know, Ma. I’m only telling you what he wanted. He made a will.”
“But he can’t have been sound in the head when he wrote that. Why else would he be thinking this?”
“He seemed fine when he wrote it.”
He had been quite clear about it. He wanted to be cremated and wanted David to take his ashes to the spot they called theirs, a small cabana by a sheltered cove where they often holidayed without David’s parents knowing. But Danny kept all of that inside him.
“And I suppose that this means that you’re not coming over again this year?”
“Ah, Ma. You know the baby is too young to be going on an airplane but don’t worry, we’ll all come over next year.”
“But you need to be here with me now, to help me through my grief.”
There was nothing he could say that would soothe her and in time his father took the phone. He agreed with Danny; they would all see the baby next year when it would be better for everybody.
*
That Christmas Eve, little Martin’s first, Danny stood alone on the deck, smoking and looking down on the sad state of the world that he and Deirdre had brought a child into. When he was inside with Deirdre and the baby he had to keep up the act, but he was getting tired.
Since Martin died, he’d get home from a gig and come in as quietly as he could. Deirdre and the baby would be sound asleep. But as soon as he got into bed, just as he was dozing off, the baby would cry out. He tried to keep his promise, rising and fetching the bawling bundle and bringing him to his mother’s breast, but some nights he was so tired that Deirdre had to nudge him. And then, an hour before he had to wake, the baby would call again. Some nights, he even dreamed it and woke to find the apartment silent, except for Deirdre’s breathing. She seemed to be able to fall asleep at will. She said she had to; otherwise she would never get any rest.