Golden Years

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “Alas, I’m not God.”

  Vince brought a comfortable chair for the Good April to relax on.

  “Thank you, Vincent dear, I am just a little tired.”

  The new cliché among the mourners was, “Isn’t it a great turnout?”

  To which I would reply, “The people from the rest of the country will be here tomorrow.”

  Jane persisted in her act. I wondered if she had fortified herself for the ordeal with some of the drink taken. Her perfume was too strong for me to be sure. That accusation would certainly be made by Peg and Rosemarie. Fortunately for me, I was a Christian (intermittently) and I would not indulge in rash suspicions.

  John Raven arrived, quiet and diffident as he always was, a gentleness which did not quite hide his intense integrity and compassion.

  “I gather that there was a priest here before,” he said, with his typical little smile. “I promise I won’t keep you for more than a few moments.”

  The crowd became silent as they fell under the spell of John’s charm and holiness.

  “I think tonight of the passage in St. Paul, ‘O death, where is thy victory, O grave, where is thy sting.’ At first it seems that the sting of death is everywhere in this room. A good and wonderful man is no longer with us. A life in which he did many good works for so many people, in which he raised with his lovely wife this fine-looking brood of children, is now ended at least for the moment and the wife and children must struggle on without him. That looks like a lot of sting, doesn’t it, a lot of victory for death? Yet all we have to do is to look at this handsome, confident group up here and know that they simply deny death any sting, any victory. They see with the keen eyes of faith that John O’Malley’s life has just begun and that we will all someday laugh at death together with him. There are good days ahead.”

  The mourners were mesmerized by his simple words. For a moment after he had finished, there was total silence, then the buzz began again, slowly and carefully, as if people did not want to violate the magical moment that Father Raven had created for us.

  It was a nice touch to point at the principal mourners as a sign, a metaphor for the defeat of death. I’d have to use that metaphor sometime.

  He moved along the line of the O’Malleys saying something personal to each of them. Everyone of us, save for Jane, laughed when he talked to us.

  “Well, Chuck,” he said to me, “I suppose everyone is telling you that you’re the head of the family now.”

  “I’ve heard that once or twice.”

  “And you don’t respond that you’ve been in charge since 1941 at the latest.”

  “More like 1939.”

  “You’ve done a good job.”

  “I try.”

  “Still married to that beautiful woman?”

  “She hasn’t thrown me out yet.”

  “A good sign.”

  I managed to catch his conversation with my wife.

  “It’s been a long time, Rosemarie, hasn’t it? And yourself more beautiful than ever. Apparently that redhead galoot shaped up pretty well?”

  “He’s making progress, Father Raven.”

  “He’s not at all like his father, yet just like him, isn’t he?”

  “You got it!”

  “Well, he’ll continue to progress, I suspect. Take good care of him Rosemarie.”

  “I will.”

  For the first time at the wake, tears poured down my face. Father Raven knew that the original design was that the galoot was supposed to take care of Rosemarie. So did she.

  At nine people were pouring in. My womenfolk, despite their rage toward Jane, were still gracious, charming, elegant. I was slumped, weary, about to collapse. My smile was frozen on my face, perhaps so it would never go away. I was sweating, my hands were moist, my head ached, my eyes hurt, my legs were sore, and my memory was failing me. I belonged in a comfortable hospital bed.

  Jane prevented Joe Raftery from shaking hands with me.

  He returned to me after he had spoken to Mom.

  “Of course, Joseph. You didn’t catch the pass Vincent threw, but Chucky did. He’s never quite got over it. Did you see Edward Murray? He was the Mount Carmel player Chucky knocked out. They live right across the street now.”

  “Would you please move on, sir?” Jane said to him. “There are other people waiting.”

  I almost warned her never to say that again to anyone. I resolved that if it did happen again, I would.

  Fortunately for me, she ran out of steam.

  “Teddy, it’s almost ten and they’re still coming. I’m ready to drop. This wake hasn’t been well organized. Take me home please. It’s a long ride back to Kenilworth.”

  Poor Ted did not argue. Rather he took her arm. She slobbered over the Good April and left. Peg now was on the other side. I could see the optical daggers following Jane out of the funeral home. Things might get very difficult when the wake ended. If it ever did end.

  At a quarter to eleven, I found myself in the office of the funeral parlor, surrounded by my wife and sister. Outside the office, Delia Murray was taking care of Mom, and Mary Margaret held a sleeping Siobhan in her arms.

  “Chuck,” Peg began, ominously I thought, “you really ought to have stopped her.”

  “Am I God!”

  “She’s a coarse, vulgar woman,” Rosemarie, with whom I was still falling in love, joined the fight. “You must not permit her to come back tomorrow night.”

  “The last time I checked things she’s Dad’s daughter, indeed his firstborn child.”

  I thought of the joy with which young April and Vangie must have welcomed her coming.

  “Did you see that dress?” Peg demanded. “It might have fit her ten years ago. And twenty pounds of jewelry? Is that stylish on the North Shore?”

  “I’m sure people up there think she’s coarse and vulgar too. They tolerate her because she’s Ted’s wife.”

  A woman he had dreamed about when he was chasing Japanese Zeros in the Philippines.

  “She stole the show!” Rosemarie shouted. “Did you see the way she slobbered over poor April? Why didn’t you tell her to get her drunken fat ass out of the funeral parlor?”

  My good wife rarely shouted at me in anger.

  “No one could steal the show with you two up there in front of the casket.”

  “You’re full of shit, Charles Cronin O’Malley!”

  My wife was truly angry, though I was not the proper target for her rage.

  “She spoiled everything!” Peg argued. “For everyone!”

  “No, she didn’t,” I replied.

  “Yes, she did,” Rosemarie shot back. “She’s a crude bitch!”

  “Will both of you please shut up,” I said.

  “What?” Peg shouted.

  “How dare you talk to us like that?” my wife’s beautiful face contorted in icy rage.

  “She ruined everything for poor April and you didn’t stop her.”

  “I said shut up and give me a chance to talk.”

  I must have sounded pretty fierce because the two jungle felines backed up.

  “You have every reason to be angry …” I began, then collapsed into an easy chair. I wanted merely to go to sleep. “Jane was indeed a disgrace. However, she did not spoil anything but her own image and reputation. Everyone thought how sad it was she should come to her father’s wake and act like a vulgar drunk …”

  “And you let her do it! You’re a coward when it comes to fighting with women, Chucky Ducky!”

  “I cite the present confrontation as evidence to the contrary. Now dear wife, if you could manage your mouth for a moment or two, I’ll make my important point.”

  “Which is?”

  “The important person in our discussion is the Good April …”

  They opened their mouths.

  “Let me finish, damn it all.”

  I became aware of Mary Margaret standing in the doorway, listening to the fight.

  “Jane didn’t fool April
. She saw her becoming what she is long before we did. Yet it would truly break her heart if we tried to ban Jane from the wake, or, even worse, if there was a huge family fight up there in front of Dad’s casket. Jane can’t ruin anything for Mom, but you two could if you lose your tempers.”

  Silence.

  “Chuck’s right,” Mary Margaret announced.

  “Who asked your opinion, young woman!”

  “Chill out, Rosie. Both of you are being unfair to poor Chucky.”

  Thereupon she put her charge in my arms

  “I have to take Grandma home to her house.”

  She departed the room with all the serenity of a seraph who had made her case.

  The five-year-old curled up on my lap. She was, I noted, getting heavier.

  “What we have to do, all of us,” I continued, “is keep our anger under control. For Dad’s sake, for April’s sake, and even for our own sakes. I hope that’s clear to both of you. I won’t tolerate any fighting in front of Dad’s dead body.”

  No argument from either of them.

  “We’d better take poor little Shovie home … Do you want to. drive, Chuck?”

  “You better drive. I’ll hold the kid in my arms.”

  I had carried the day, just barely perhaps, but I had won. I didn’t feel very good about it. None of us were ourselves. Rosemarie and I were on jet lag. Peg was doubtless remembering the sibling rivalries between herself and Jane which I had been too insensitive to notice. Didn’t little girls always fight with one another?

  “Did you take your medicine?” Rosemarie asked as she started the old Mercedes which was “her car.”

  “No more till three.”

  That was our only exchange.

  “Mommy,” Shovie said as she stirred in my arms.

  “Mommy is driving the car because Daddy is too sleepy. We’re almost home.”

  Daddy is also too sleepy to make love with Mommy though we should really defy death tonight. This is not the time to suggest it anyway because Mommy is angry.

  “I’ll put her to bed. You’d better turn in before you collapse.”

  I struggled up the stairs, took off my clothes, hung them up because even if I were dead, which I might have been, I would still hang up my clothes, and fell into bed.

  Sometime later, a woman crawled into bed and kissed my forehead.

  “Mary Margaret was right, Chuck. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “It wouldn’t be an Irish funeral if there weren’t a few fights.” I whispered.

  A gracious loser, my wife. No wonder I was falling in love with her again.

  Later in the night I woke up with a start. It was late morning in Moscow. I should be awake.

  On the bed table at my side of the bed, I felt a glass of water and my two allergy pills. I swallowed the pills, spilling only half the glass of water. I plunged back into sleep. My dreams, I think, were about Jane and Dad.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rosemarie

  We were sitting silently at the breakfast table after Mass. Shovie, over her strong protests, was at school. Mary Margaret had brought the Good April home from Mass. April was in a good mood. Everyone had been so nice last night. Not a word about Jane, not even as “poor dear Jane.”

  I had consumed my orange juice and fruit salad. He was list— lessly stirring his raisin bran and bananas. He would also polish off some of the remaining sweet rolls from yesterday. The soand-so never put on weight.

  “Chucky,” I began uncertainly, “I owe you an apology …”

  “You apologized last night,” he said glumly. “There is a general amnesty for all fights in the present situation.”

  “I can’t believe how terrible I was.”

  “You and Peg, but it’s okay, I understand.”

  “I can’t remember when I have been worse.”

  “Even at your worst, Rosemarie Helen, you’re not very bad.”

  His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, poor dear man.

  “I thought I’d say that it’s not easy being the head of the family, but you were the head of this family when you were ten.”

  He grinned, his old Chucky Ducky leprechaun grin.

  “You noticed that?”

  “The last time you were so angry at me was when I got drunk in Stuttgart.”

  He pondered that, not enjoying the discussion.

  “No way,” he said, slurping up the remnants of his cereal. “Last night I knew I was just a substitute target for Jane. It was all right. You had something to be angry about. If I’m a useful target, be my guest.”

  “Poor Chucky Ducky, an inkblot for all the Crazy O’Malleys. Except Mary Margaret.”

  “She was right, of course … I hope you apologized to her.”

  “Certainly!”

  “Jane,” he went on, “is in a bad way. Tough to be a first child when the next three were what they were.”

  “I never understood that till last night … Ted has to do something about her.”

  “I wonder if he can.”

  “You’re not angry at me anymore?”

  “No way.”

  “Wonderful! Now finish your sweet roll. We have work to do.”

  “Sweet rolls,” he said. “I need my energy.”

  In the afternoon we went through the Ave Maria again and “When the Saints.” Neither effort had the professional polish that I would have liked, but given the circumstances they would be fine. Chuck and I had a cool vocalization around “Go marching in.”

  After the practice, he summoned Peg and Ed and me to a conference.

  “We are dealing, gentle souls,” he said, “with two challenges and two imponderables. The challenges are the musical pieces we just practiced. They are unorthodox. There’ll be a lot of priests at St. Ursula’s. They may be shocked at our Ave, we must be prepared for their disapproval.”

  “Many of them will love it,” Ed interjected, “We are the Crazy O’Malleys after all. There are separate rules for us. Everyone knows that.”

  “Precisely.” Chuck nodded sagely. “What we propose to do at the cemetery will be discussed far and wide … I don’t know who the kook was who thought it up. I don’t care what anyone says. It’s for Mom and Dad, both of whom will love it, each in their own reality.”

  “We Crazy O’Malleys have a reputation to live up to,” Peg said.

  She had called me earlier.

  “Did you apologize?”

  “Over breakfast.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Sweet.”

  “I’d better call before he changes his mood.”

  “Fine,” Chuck continued. “I always like unanimous consent in this family. The imponderables are Jane and Father McNally. We cannot anticipate what either will do, especially when we sing the Ave during Communion at St. U’s. I would not imagine that either will be at the cemetery, but again we must be aware of the potential for mayhem. I think we must all concentrate on keeping cool at all times.”

  “Chill out,” I said.

  “Precisely. Jimmy has been instructed to head Father McNally off at the pass if he tries to disrupt our prayer at Mary’s altar. I think, by the way, that we should do our best to make it a prayer and not just a performance.”

  We all laughed, because we knew it was true.

  On the way over to the wake, he whispered in my ear.

  “A funny thing is happening to me, Rosemarie.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think I’m falling in love with you again.”

  I felt my face flush.

  “I am forewarned. I’ll have to remember to lock the doors.”

  “It won’t do any good.”

  A reversion to teenage is not an unusual phenomenon for men. It is not merely that they want more sex, they also want to lavish more attention, more affection, more admiration on their spouses. A lot more of what we called in the old days petting and necking. Chucky seems to be unique in that he solemnly announces that it is happening, which is good strategy I suppose. Some w
omen find these reversions disgusting, others think it is silly; yet others, like me, find it amusing and even delightful. I adore being adored. Yet Chuck had certainly picked an odd time and place for this reversion to adolescence.

  “You want to be a teenager again?” I asked him skeptically.

  “Why not?”

  “And I’m supposed to regress too?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Why now?”

  “What better time?”

  “I was a terrible bitch last night.”

  “Only for a few moments.”

  I pulled the car into the parking lot on North Avenue for the second night of the wake. Before I could slide out, he kissed me, a very provocative and lingering kiss, and rested his hand on one of my breasts.

  “Teenage behavior,” I commented as I got out of car, my face flushed and my body warm.

  “What else? … You’re beautiful!”

  “Blarney!”

  I was in for a lot of touching and caressing. What better time than when we are denouncing death. I was not beautiful anymore. Presentable, yes. Attractive, yes. But beautiful, no, not for a long time. Yet the look in Chuck’s eyes said that he saw me as beautiful. So maybe I was.

  Vince and Peg were waiting for us at the wake. Peg and Chuck embraced, celebrating their reconciliation on the phone in the morning.

  “How did your talk with Joe Raftery go yesterday?”

  “Yeah … He was a little strange.”

  “How so?”

  “He lost his wife a couple of years ago, second wife, young, married her in church.”

  “Poor guy,” I said.

  “What’s strange about that?” Vince asked. “Tragic maybe, but it happens.”

  “He’s not sure she’s dead.”

  “Oh … Did he seem to be crazy?”

  “Not at all. Same old Joe.”

  Then April and Mary Margaret arrived. I was so proud of my daughter and my mother. They both looked smashing in their black dresses. The Good April seemed quite perky.

  “Well, I think we’re all doing just fine! I’ll be glad when this is over, but it’s all going nicely, isn’t it, dears?”

  Chuck sometimes calls his mother Dr. Panglossa, the sort of thing a University of Chicago graduate would say.

  “Except for poor Janie,” she went on. “Dad’s death has really hit her hard. You’ve all been very nice to her, even Father Ed. I’m sure that up in heaven, Dad is proud of you.”