All Roads

by Peter Murphy

  He placed his glass back on the table and looked at John Melchor. He was gray and careworn but still looked like a film star. He had a strong jaw and piercing eyes. Patrick’s face was becoming rounder as the years went by and his eyes were soft.

  “This is one of my favorite places.”

  “Rome?”

  “Well, yes, but I meant right here in the rotunda. An uncle of mine used to spend his time here too. I guess that’s why I’m drawn to it.”

  “And not because it celebrates Pantheism?”

  John Melchor may have been joking, but Patrick wasn’t sure. “Well, I’m just a simple scholar. I wouldn’t understand such things.”

  “As you wish.” The Jesuit laughed and raised his glass again. “To your uncle’s memory. I’m sure he was a great man.”

  There was something in the way he spoke that made Patrick pause. John Melchor was looking at him as if he were waiting for him to put the pieces of a puzzle together.

  “He was, only I didn’t understand that when he was alive. He was my bishop, too, and it was very hard to see past that. I didn’t really get to know the man he was until after he was gone.”

  “That’s an odd way to get know someone.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m so used to being alone that sometimes I think out loud. I suppose I just wish I’d more time with him, man to man.”

  “Well, Patrick, this is the Eternal City. Who knows what might happen?”

  John Melchor looked at him again as if he could see what was going on inside him, and Patrick swallowed the rest of his drink. There was something about the old Jesuit that invited him to speak of the night in Campo De’ Fiori—the night he thought he heard his uncle’s voice. “Who knows indeed? The man who owns this café often tells me stories about the talking statues. Do you know about them?”

  Even as he said it, Patrick was sorry he’d brought it up. Miriam had warned him that John hadn’t been the same since he’d been shot. She wrote that he seemed to believe that he had some type of transcendental experience. “Though it might have had something to do with all the morphine they had to pump into him,” she added.

  “The whisperers of dissent? Patrick, I have spent my whole life listening to them.”

  *

  “Have you had a chance to go through the papers I sent over?” Deirdre asked after the waitress brought their coffees. She had chosen the diner because it was busy and far enough away from her office. She didn’t want anybody from work witnessing any aspect of her personal life, especially if things became messy. She didn’t think they would. Danny was never that type of guy—unless he was drunk—but she wasn’t taking any chances. She hadn’t talked with him face-to-face since before they separated, preferring instead to communicate through Frank, but this was different; this was the end, and they would negotiate it in person, and in relative privacy.

  “I did, yeah.”

  “And?”

  “I’m fine with everything.”

  “Danny, you’re giving up your half of the house.”

  “I know. I just think it’s fair after all that happened. I’m trying to make amends, Deirdre. I want you and the kids to be able to go on without having to move and all that. I just think it’s fairer this way.”

  “Have you talked to a lawyer?”

  “No. I don’t like lawyers.”

  “Nobody does, Danny, but this is important.”

  “Look, Deirdre, everything was my fault and I want to try to make things right. I want you and the kids to be able to go on without any more of my bullshit. I don’t need anything. I’ve got my own place and I can manage fine.”

  “I still think you should get legal advice.” She almost felt guilty—as if she were taking advantage of his reformation—but a part of her was angry at him too. He was why they had to go through all of this.

  “I don’t need it. I’m trying to do what’s right and there’s feck-all lawyers know about that.”

  He meant it as a joke, so she smiled. “Danny, you know that things are over between us?” She almost felt bad saying it but she had to put it out there.

  “I know, but I still want to have a relationship with my kids. I know Martin isn’t ready and I don’t blame him, but I want to be able to make things right between them and me someday.”

  He seemed to be expecting her to say something about that, but the time wasn’t right. He had put them through this before, pretending to get his act together and letting them get their hopes up. She wasn’t going through any more of that. This time they were well and truly over. Still, she was a little sad for him, even after everything. “Well, I still think you should have someone take a look at them.”

  “I don’t need to.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the pen she had picked out for the kids to give to him one Christmas. He signed and initialed where she had marked and handed the papers back. They didn’t make eye contact but she could tell he was almost crying. She collected the papers and placed them in her briefcase. It felt so unreal. Twenty years of their lives ended by a few signatures, calmly and quietly after all they had been through. Deirdre raised her cup and finished her coffee to give him a chance to compose himself.

  “Well then?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

  “By the way, Grainne has a sleepover planned for Saturday night. Did she tell you?”

  “Yeah, but she said she’d be free the next weekend.”

  There was something else happening that weekend but Deirdre didn’t mention it. She would shuffle a few things and let him see her. If he really was trying this time, then she wouldn’t do anything to deflect him, and issues like custody could derail anybody. No, she wouldn’t do anything petty or spiteful. He deserved that much.

  “Goodbye, Danny.”

  “Goodbye, Deirdre.”

  She walked back to the office. She would be late, but she needed the time to make the transition. Seeing Danny again awoke so many feelings she had lulled to sleep. She was still angry at him—and not just for discarding what they had together. She could handle that as long as she remembered what she had learned in Al-Anon. Danny was suffering from a disease.

  At first, she had found that hard to accept—it just seemed far too convenient—but over time it had made sense. He wasn’t just the monster he had become. There was still some of the sweet and shy young man she had once fallen in love with. But his drinking had distorted all that.

  There had been so many times she couldn’t understand why he didn’t just stop. Days and nights when she functioned robotically while questioning everything they had become together. If he really loved her . . .

  Now, she knew it was not that simple. Danny was fighting for his life, and it was a battle he was going to have to fight on his own. There was nothing more she could do for him, and she certainly wasn’t going to let it spill over into the lives of her kids. At least no more than it already had.

  Sometimes she felt she was abandoning him, but they had talked to her about that at the meetings. She had to do what was right for her and the children and, even though she was separating him from his family, it was what he needed. The people at the meetings had been very clear about that: Danny Boyle would have to choose how he was going to spend the rest of his life, and he would have to make that choice alone. It hardly seemed fair after the way things had been when he was younger, but there was nothing more she could do.

  That was what was really bothering her. All her time and energy and love counted for so little in the end. Nothing she had done, or said, had been of much value. Danny was destined to go and meet whatever life had in store for him, and the power of love was nothing more than wishful thinking. It might even have been better if they’d never met.

  Detach, detach, she reminded herself with every step, even as her emotions churned. She would still get angry from time to time but tha
t would pass. She would feel sad for him, too, and all they might have been together. And she would feel a little sorry for herself. But she had more than enough to do looking after herself and her children. Danny Boyle couldn’t be her problem anymore. Hopefully somebody else was looking out for him.

  *

  “Oh, Mrs. Boyle. I can’t get over the size of it.”

  They were sitting in the middle of St. Peter’s Square enjoying ice cream, after having seen the basilica. It was enormous, and Jacinta couldn’t help but wonder if it was all really necessary. They had to put on a big show back in the old days but things had changed. She thought they should sell off some of the stuff they had lying around. It would probably feed half of Africa for a few years.

  It had almost made her smile, standing in the middle of it all, thinking like that. Nora wouldn’t have approved, and if Jerry had been with her he would have said she was being a bit racist or something. As time went by she missed him more and more. It would have been so much better if he were with her.

  “And did it make you feel closer?”

  Mrs. Flanagan was still in awe and didn’t seem to hear a word Jacinta was saying.

  “To God, like? Did you feel closer to him?”

  When Mrs. Flanagan finally focused on her she was smiling. “Oh no, not to God directly, but I did get the impression that there was somebody there to take messages. It was probably a saint. The place must be full of them.”

  It was full of something, Jacinta agreed, but kept her thoughts to herself. Half the people there looked gobsmacked. Jerry used to say that was why they had made it so big—he was always going on about stuff like that. He used to say it was to make you feel small and insignificant. That was why he was never going to be caught dead there. She never really listened and now she regretted it. She hadn’t paid enough attention to all the little things about him when she could.

  He would have enjoyed the tourists though—the ones that weren’t gobsmacked and walked around like a bunch of heathens. There were a few pilgrims, too, scuffing around on their knees, and Mrs. Flanagan in the middle of it all, looking as though she might burst into tears at any moment. Jacinta had to look away so she didn’t laugh out loud. She didn’t of course. “From your lips to God’s ear. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Who?” Mrs. Flanagan still looked as if she were somewhere else.

  “When you were inside—you must have felt like your prayers were finally being heard.”

  “Do you really think so, Mrs. Boyle? That’s so nice of you to say.”

  She had that look again. She’d often said that if it weren’t for Jacinta she’d have gone sheer mad from all the grief. That always made Jacinta uneasy. Mrs. Flanagan seemed to take her words as gospel, even though she knew Jacinta had been in the hospital and all.

  “Well if they can’t hear your prayers from here, they mustn’t be really there.”

  Jacinta hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but seeing Rome with Mrs. Flanagan was far more than she had bargained for. She had to keep reminding herself that she was doing it for her Danny—in a roundabout way. If she could help Mrs. Flanagan find a bit of peace—well, some good had to come out of it. All she wanted now was for Danny to be cured. Only Mrs. Flanagan was far crazier than anybody she’d met in the hospital, but she was religious about it, and everyone was more accepting of that.

  “Oh don’t say that, Mrs. Boyle.” Mrs. Flanagan really looked shocked and blessed herself with her ice cream, a few drips falling on her pants. She daubed them with her fingers and licked them clean. Jacinta had never seen her look so happy, even if she was gobsmacked.

  “I was only joking, Mrs. Flanagan.”

  “Oh, but you shouldn’t. They might hear.”

  Jacinta was about to say something when she realized Mrs. Flanagan hadn’t mentioned Anthony since they came out, and she had managed to work him into every other conversation they’d had since they left home. Starting in the taxi, and then in the airport, and then on the plane, even though Jacinta put on headphones and tried to watch Jerry Maguire.

  “He’s the spitting image of my Anthony.” Mrs. Flanagan had nudged her every time Tom Cruise came on the screen.

  “So, do you want to go back to the hotel before we meet with Fr. Reilly?”

  “I hope I’m not putting you out but I’d like to sit here a little while longer. It’s very strange, Mrs. Boyle, but I know you’ll understand. You see, when I was inside I got the feeling that Anthony would know I was here.” She turned and waited for Jacinta to answer.

  “Good enough, Mrs. Flanagan, and if Anthony hasn’t shown up by the time we have to leave, we can come back tomorrow.”

  Jacinta wanted to sound as patient as she could, but she didn’t really believe in pilgrimages anymore—or any of that stuff. But she had to try everything if she was going to save Danny. Still, she couldn’t wait to dump her on Fr. Reilly for a while so she could have a few drinks in peace. He wouldn’t mind.

  So Jacinta and Mrs. Flanagan sat for over an hour in the shade of the saints, enjoying their ice cream while it lasted and watching people file in and out of the basilica. Up and down the steps where kings once had to sit in sackcloth and ashes. The nuns had told Jacinta all about that when she complained about her penance one day. She had told them she could never be sure if she had said enough. She used to get confused having to say everything ten times.

  *

  “I hope you don’t mind.” Fr. Reilly blushed a little as he sat down with them. He was about to tell another lie. “But a friend of mine called as I was coming out so I had to invite him along too.”

  He hadn’t. Patrick had phoned John and asked him to come. He needed a foil between him and what he used to be. He’d been surprised when Mrs. Boyle called and explained what she was up to, as though Patrick would understand and approve. He’d managed to put off seeing them for a few nights but he’d run out of excuses. Besides, Mrs. Boyle made a point of reminding him of the time he’d brought the two of them together to talk about their sons and all that happened that night in the mountains. She almost made him feel that she’d been the one doing him a favor.

  “The more the merrier.” Mrs. Boyle laughed and seemed genuinely relieved.

  “He’s a Jesuit.” He’d been seeing a lot of the older priest and was learning to enjoy his company, even if the things they talked about were often disquieting. Sometimes John could get a bit strange.

  “Lord bless us and save us.” Mrs. Flanagan looked concerned.

  “But he’s a fine man, only he can seem a little different at first. At least until you get used to him.” He wanted them to be ready in case John Melchor got into one of his moods. “So, did you have a nice day?”

  “Oh we did, Father. We even got to say a few prayers in St. Peter’s. It was such a blessing.”

  Patrick glanced at Jacinta before he answered and caught her making a face.

  “It’s a grand place to pray all right.” He usually avoided it. It was a bit too ostentatious for his tastes. “And did you enjoy it, Mrs. Boyle?”

  “I did indeed, only I’m glad I’m not the one who has to keep it clean.”

  Mrs. Flanagan looked a bit perturbed by that but Patrick laughed a little. He’d never thought about that before. He and John had often discussed the more obvious point: It was hard to champion the plight of the poor while clinging to all the trappings of wealth and power. Patrick was certain that Jesus wouldn’t have liked it. He probably would have gotten angry as he did in the temple long ago. “And have you seen much of Rome?”

  “Not yet.” Jacinta rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Flanagan is very fond of praying. We’ve spent the last three days in the Irish churches: St. Agata’s, St. Clemente’s, St. Isidoro’s and, of course, St. Patrick’s. Mrs. Flanagan had wanted to work her way up to St. Peter’s, like a pilgrimage, you see.” Jacinta nodded to him so he would understand. />
  “For the sake of my Anthony’s soul, Father,” Mrs. Flanagan added. “We felt that God would hear us better here.”

  Patrick had almost forgotten all the crazy stuff people revealed to their priests. It was no wonder that poor old Fr. Brennan had ended up the way he did. Patrick had promised to go back and see him, only he’d left it too late.

  “Ah.” Patrick rose, delighted by the diversion as John Melchor approached. “Here’s my friend. Father Melchor. And these two ladies are Mrs. Boyle and Mrs. Flanagan.”

  As John joined them Patrick took a moment to gather all he’d have to be again. He’d nearly forgotten how to be around them and almost felt impatient with all the superstition he’d once been part of.

  “Ladies.” John raised his hat and smiled. “I’m delighted to meet you.” He offered his hand but Jacinta was sipping her wine and Mrs. Flanagan looked nervous.

  *

  “I see.” John Melchor nodded when Mrs. Flanagan had finished sharing the story of Anthony, murdered in the mountains with no one to tell her why.

  “I have been praying every day since . . .” Mrs. Flanagan started to shudder a little. They were on the second bottle of wine and it seemed to be taking a toll on her.

  “Of course you have.” Patrick tried to soothe her from across the table.

  “But, God forgive me,”—Mrs. Flanagan made the sign of the cross—“I never felt that my prayers were properly heard before. But God couldn’t be that cruel, could he, Fathers?”

  The two men hesitated, so Jacinta jumped in. She’d had more wine than the rest of them. “Maybe it’s because he’s a man. Men always say they love you and then put you through the fires of hell.”

  The two priests smiled at that, but Mrs. Flanagan didn’t.

  “But don’t worry,” Jacinta continued. “If this doesn’t work we can go to Lourdes and talk to his mother. She’ll put the skids under him. Mothers always stick together.” It might be better for Danny, too, she considered. Lourdes was where everybody went to get cured.