All Roads

by Peter Murphy

  Yeah, you’re a real power of example to us all.

  “I’m doing my best, you know?” He shrugged to change the subject. It was probably a little insensitive of him to be going on like that—given that Anto was where he was. He’d started to include him in the list of those he thought about when they said the Lord’s Prayer—even though he was still praying to an ambiguous higher power. “What’s bugging you?”

  Nothing.

  “Nothing? I’ve never known you to have nothing to say.”

  It’s nothing, Boyle. I just think you might be getting a bit carried away with the image of recovery—and not actually doing it.

  Danny stopped to consider that. It was the feeling he’d been getting from the old-timers too. It bothered him—a lot. He’d been doing everything they’d told him—well, almost everything—and they still wouldn’t cut him a break. Sure there was all that stuff about moral inventory and defects and shortcomings. He’d get around to them. Right now he was just trying to help others. “You know what they say, Anto. Fake it ’til you make it.”

  That sounds like when we were kids and we all had to pretend to be good Catholics.

  “Don’t remind me. I’m still trying to get over all that bullshit. Do you remember all the crap they tried to teach us? Especially that fecker, Muldoon. I’d love to go back and give that gobshite a right earful.”

  Yeah. Anto sounded a little tired and frustrated.

  “Guys like him are why I’m the way I am, filling our heads with bullshit and saying everything is our fault when the whole world is in the state it’s in. Except Fr. Reilly. At least he tried to help.”

  He did, yeah, Anto agreed, almost sounding contrite. And do you remember the bishop?

  “Him? He and my granny were friends. He used to scare the shit out of me.”

  Me too, until just after my parents kicked me out. He stopped me on the street one day to ask how I was doing. I told him I was fine but he could see I wasn’t. He gave me a few quid and then he said something I have never forgotten. He said that no matter how bad things got there would always be someone who’d be willing to help.

  “What do you think he meant?”

  If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here with you.

  *

  “Where better to eulogize the dead on a Good Friday?”

  Patrick didn’t like the Church of the Dead. He appreciated what it was about but it was just far too morbid. However, he did like when John Melchor did stuff like this. Whenever they had to mark an observance he’d make it into a full ritual, complete with mystical symbolism—just like the way things used to be before Vatican II. Patrick missed some of those days, only John’s rituals were getting very dark. His doctor assumed it was because of what happened in El Salvador and increased his medications. John took them and continued to shuffle calmly through his days, but whenever he was with Patrick he’d let his inner demons out to play. Miriam said it was cute and that it was a sign of how much he trusted Patrick. “He isn’t like that with just anyone,” she had assured him. They still called each other a few times a year just to keep in touch. They were older and wiser now and had left all the awkwardness behind.

  “Okay, John, Santa De’ Morte it is then. The usual time?”

  John liked to get there after the “Celebration of the Passion of the Lord” had cleared out and the whispers of the dead eddied back into all the nooks and crannies. John would always dress perfectly for the occasion in his long black coat and his broad brimmed hat. And his gleaming white collar.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I will.” Patrick had bought black slacks and a black turtle neck, and his raincoat was a very dark blue. It would pass for black in the dark.

  John believed in showing great respect where it was deserved. “They died secure in the false hope we gave them,” he’d mutter as if to himself. “The least we can do is honor them for that.”

  Patrick never knew what to say to things like that. John could become morose and it took forever to get him out of it. Sometimes—Patrick laughed to himself—John was almost as bad as Dan Brennan, and he wasn’t far behind. He felt bad about indulging him but, as he’d learned with Dan, what else could he do but go along with it all and hope that nobody else noticed?

  “Very good, John. I’ll see you then.” It was his own fault. He was always saying that being a priest meant giving comfort and solace to the poor and the sick and the insane. That’s what the example of Jesus was for him.

  “Very well, John, but you’d better let me get off the phone so I can get ready.”

  “Anthony Flanagan?” Patrick could hardly believe it. John had just told him that the whisperers were saying he needed their help.

  “Yes, Anthony Flanagan,” John repeated impatiently. “The one who was killed over twenty years ago. And bring your umbrella. It’s starting to rain.”

  *

  As soon as they knelt in the shadows John went a bit trance-like, but Patrick didn’t mind. It gave him the chance to sort things out. John was on one of his missions for the dead and it was best to play along and make sure no harm came to him. Besides, it gave Patrick time for his own reflections.

  For most of his life he’d spent Good Fridays dwelling on all he’d been taught: that the only Son of God had allowed Himself to be stripped and beaten. He’d let them crown Him with thorns and nail Him to the cross.

  When he was younger Patrick struggled to understand what was going through the minds of the Jews and the Romans, but now he understood. Jesus had the power of God in Him but He let them do what their wicked hearts desired. Truth and Love frightened dark minds and cold, black souls; and Patrick wasn’t just thinking about the people of the time. Things were the same today.

  He didn’t like to discuss it with John but it was obvious that Christ wouldn’t have wanted anybody fighting for Him or His ideas. The whole point of His sacrifice was that those who suffered and died at the hands of the world would be rewarded with everlasting life. It was that simple, and that was probably why everyone overlooked it, preferring instead to focus on what they thought others shouldn’t do. Sometimes, when he thought about what they’d done with the Savior’s message, he almost despaired, but he preferred to focus on hope. It was a year since they had signed the Good Friday Agreement in Belfast and it was beginning to look as if it was going to hold this time. It wasn’t so much the beginning of peace but the end of the strife—or the beginning of the end. They’d be haggling for years, but that was far better than shooting and bombing each other. After a thousand years, even the Irish grew tired of the fighting.

  “He’s here,” John whispered in the darkness of the church, silent and draped until Sunday morning. Soundless but for the chanting of the dead, chanting the Improperia antiphonally.

  “Who?”

  “Anthony Flanagan.”

  “Anthony Flanagan?”

  “Yes, Patrick, Anthony Flanagan. Who were you expecting? Anyway, he says hello and apologizes for making that false confession to you.”

  “Oh, tell him not to give it a second thought.”

  “I already did.”

  “Is there something else he wants?” Patrick didn’t know what else to say. It was so absurd that it was probably really happening. He’d never told a living soul about Anthony’s confession.

  “He wants to talk with his mother.”

  *

  “Not at all, Father. Sure isn’t it lovely to hear your voice again.” Jacinta had been having a bit of a lie-in before she and Gina went to lay flowers on their parents’ graves. They did it at Easter because they had both died in April.

  “Mrs. Boyle.” Fr. Reilly cleared his throat and Jacinta could picture him, twisting himself into knots, as Nora used to say.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “I was wondering if you were thinking of visiting Rome again anytime soon.”

  “It�
��s funny you should say that, Father. I was just talking to Mrs. Flanagan the other day and she was saying the very same thing.”

  She and Mrs. Flanagan still met up in the Yellow House to break the monotony, and sometimes Jacinta even looked forward to it. Since they returned from their first trip she’d noticed Mrs. Flanagan wasn’t so morose anymore. She seemed to be waiting on the good news Fr. Melchor had alluded to. “Would you come back with me?” she’d asked.

  “I will if you want. Only I thought we might try Lourdes this time. You know, for the change.”

  “Maybe another time. It’s just that I’ve been having this strange feeling lately. It’s like my Anthony is calling out to me. It’s only when I’m sleeping, mind you, but it’s been almost every night.” She paused to sip her sherry and to gauge Jacinta’s reaction. “I hope that doesn’t sound too strange.”

  “Not a bit of it, and I’d be more than happy to go again. Didn’t we have great gas the last time?”

  It was a lie but what else could she say? Mrs. Flanagan had found so much hope the first time that Jacinta was afraid another visit might just take it all away again.

  “She was?” Fr. Reilly interjected hesitantly.

  “Yes. She’s convinced she’s going to get more good news this time.” Jacinta decided to help him along. “And even if she doesn’t—it will be nice to see yourself again. Will your friend be there?”

  “Yes he will. In fact, he’s the one who asked me to call you.”

  “Well then, it is settled. Mrs. Flanagan put great stock in what he had to say.”

  “Yes,” Fr. Reilly agreed, but sounded a little put-out.

  “But then, he is a Jesuit,” Jacinta reminded him so he wouldn’t feel so bad.

  After she hung up, she thought about it. It was all very well and they’d have a great time, but what if Mrs. Flanagan didn’t find any peace? It might break her heart. That was the thing about being a woman. For all that they suffered, their hearts were still very brittle.

  *

  Things had been rough since Christmas and, as far as Billie was concerned, it had all been Danny’s fault. He’d become a real prick about everything—chiding her about not getting out to meetings and how she was practicing the steps. She was hurt by that, but she knew what was really bugging him. He’d gone on a dry drunk over Grainne. He hadn’t actually taken a drink; he just did all the other stuff—acting like a spoiled brat and throwing little temper tantrums. And he’d kept it up for weeks, even though he was still going to his meetings.

  Still, she loved him and felt bad that she’d been sneaking drinks behind his back. She wished she didn’t have to, but there was no way she could explain it. She’d tried the program and it really wasn’t for her. She wasn’t an alcoholic—she was just a bit messed up. Everything she believed life was about—art, music, expressions from the soul—were being drowned out by the jingle-jangle of commercialism. Everyone she knew was selling out and just going along with it all.

  Besides, Danny was becoming one of those guys who stayed sober by telling others how to do it. She tried to be understanding, but he was making it so hard, and now they were barely on speaking terms. They hadn’t slept together in a while either. She’d used the excuse of working later hours and they both seemed to accept that. Really, she was afraid he might smell alcohol on her breath, especially if they started doing anything.

  That was another thing about recovery that really got to her—it was all about making life so dispassionate. She hadn’t said anything, but since Danny had gotten sober he had no time for his music or any of the things that really made life interesting. Part of it was that when he had been with his family, that side of him had been discouraged. Billie didn’t think much of Deirdre and it wasn’t just rancor. Deirdre was one of those people who were all about the straight and narrow—the type of life that Billie wanted no part of, and the type of life that had strangled Danny’s soul.

  She couldn’t say any of that to him, but she wanted to try to help him find that side of himself again. It was buried somewhere beneath the mounds of shame he’d piled on himself. He took all the blame for the way things had gone with Deirdre—and everything else in his life.

  That wasn’t how Billie saw it. Danny was one of those life had selected for special treatment—artists, poets, musicians—people who saw life as it really was and didn’t let themselves get distracted. Maybe, after he’d learned to get a handle on his drinking, Danny could be one of those that left some record of their existence.

  She decided, as she finished dressing and touching up her makeup, that she’d try again. The weekend was coming up and she had some time off. They could go down to Kensington and just walk around. With any luck they might bump into the people they used to be. She left a note on the kitchen table as she called a cab. She signed it “Billie” with a little heart over the second “i”. She hadn’t done that in years.

  *

  Danny really needed a meeting and when they got to the slogans, the “live and let live” one hit him hard. He wasn’t doing so great at that. He understood where Billie was coming from—theirs wasn’t the life she wanted. But he was too scared to even let her talk about it. He was so afraid of going back out that he was doing what he always did—masking it by becoming a self-righteous arsehole. The old-timers had terrified him when they talked about the poor devils who had gone back out. They said the last thing those people needed was some reformed drunk getting all evangelical on them. Danny hadn’t meant to. Staying sober was so hard.

  But they’d managed this far. It was time he started having a little faith again—in the program and the great ambiguity that was still his higher power. And in himself. He felt better as he thought about it and settled in to listen to the speaker. He was one of those “god-guys.” He kept referring to the “Big Book” with a touch of southern drawl. He was one of those guys who was about a year sober and had found Jesus, and he was now determined to tell everyone how to find him too. Danny never liked guys like that, but the old-timers told him to listen anyway—he just might learn something.

  Instead, he went back to thinking about Billie and how he was going to make it up to her. He’d start promptly admitting when he was wrong and he’d make amends—only not in those words.

  By the time he got home he was reformed again but Billie wasn’t there. She’d said she’d be late and he wished she wasn’t. He wished she was there waiting for him so they could just sit together and talk—as they used to. It would be like in the apartment on Jarvis—only they were older and, in his case, more foolish. They needed to get back there and just be the two of them again. That’s when life was good.

  When he found her note, he actually cried. Then he got down on his knees and gave thanks. Danny Boyle, who had screwed up everything he’d ever touched, was getting another chance to be happy. He’d been a real prick to her but he was going to make up for it now. In the morning he’d make her breakfast in bed. And that would just be the beginning. He was going to change everything. He’d been a total shit about Grainne. She was his daughter, but even he could see that she was a bit much sometimes. And Billie wasn’t really the maternal type.

  He got up as quietly as he could and cut grapefruit into slices like oranges because Billie liked it that way. They had no bread so he put little pieces of cheese on crackers and made a pot of coffee. They both drank far too much and only used freshly ground beans from Timothy’s—a new indulgence in place of the old. The sugar bowl was empty, but they had a box of brown cubes somewhere in the back of the cupboard. He had to climb on a chair and when he reached in, he saw it. A bottle of rum—or half a bottle, to be more precise. He took it down as he stepped off the chair, never taking his eyes off it. He shook his head and put it in the middle of the table.

  *

  It was the first thing Billie saw when she came out, and for a moment considered bluffing her way through. She could say t
hat she knew nothing about it—that it must be there from before, even though none of that made sense. She was busted, and even though all that she hoped for the weekend began to flutter away, she was relieved.

  “Do we need to talk?” he asked in his sponsor voice. He always spoke like that when she got a bit edgy. It didn’t help. In fact, it usually made things worse.

  “Yes, I have had a drink.” There was no point trying to deal with it any other way. She was an adult for Christ’s sake, and he could take or leave her as such.

  “When did this happen?” He looked shocked and dismayed—as if it was a surprise.

  “When you were being a total prick to me.”

  “Are you going to stop?”

  “Are you?”

  “Billie, we got to separate things here.”

  “That’s why I moved into the other room.”

  “You know I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know, but I did.” She didn’t mean to get so angry, but just having to explain herself was really getting to her. And she had just sat through three months of him being a total asshole. Screw him if he had a problem with that.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “You tell me, Danny.” But she couldn’t look him in the face. He was standing there, with his big surprise on the table in front of him, looking like a broken-hearted kid. “I’m sorry.” She shrugged and stepped a little closer to him. “It’s just that I want us to be together, Danny, just like we used to be.”

  *

  “Are you warm enough?”

  Rachael nodded but she was shivering a little. “Come here.” Deirdre extended the blanket that was draped over her shoulders and pulled her a little closer. “If you’re going to come to his games, you’re going to have to learn to dress much warmer.” Rachael nodded as she snuggled a little closer. She tried to say yes but her teeth were chattering. “You poor dear.” Deirdre began to rub her back and coaxed her even closer.