by Peter Murphy
“I’ve never been to a rink before,” Rachael finally managed as Deirdre’s warmth began to spread through her.
“Never? Didn’t you go skating when you were little?”
“No. My parents were very protective.” She smiled shyly and Deirdre gave her another little squeeze. She really liked the kid. When she came over for Christmas she made the whole thing seem magical again, asking about every little decoration that Deirdre had put out without thinking. For the first time in years she saw Christmas for what it really was—a time for family, whatever family meant.
Deirdre and Martin had gone all out decorating inside and out and had made a point of making sure there were a few things for Rachael under the tree. The poor girl broke down and cried when she found them. It was just a bawneen scarf and mittens, but Rachael clutched them against her for the whole evening, with Martin in attendance like a perfect gentleman. Rachael was having quite an effect on him.
She had a very positive impact on Grainne too. She’d been in a funk since they had to cancel their plans but lit up the moment Rachael arrived. It was that thing she did, being someone else with someone else. Later she told Deirdre that Rachael’s parent were weird. Her father was all nervous and twitchy and her mother was worse, “like she was already having a breakdown waiting for him to have his.” They had moved from Montreal and had no family in Toronto.
“So, how’s school?” It was trite but it was all Deirdre could think of. She approved of Rachael and didn’t want to scare her away too. She and Eduardo were taking a time-out. After seeing his family he was conflicted. He admitted it when they were in bed one evening. They stole time when the kids were out but he never stayed over—she wasn’t ready for that. They’d just finished and she was lying on his chest listening to his heart.
She sat up a little drawing the sheets with her as she rose, slowly exposing more and more of him. “Excuse me?”
“What’s the matter?”
“You wait until after to tell me?”
“Yes, because we’re like one now and I want to share everything. That’s what love really means.”
She grabbed her robe and slowly walked into her bathroom, taking the sheet as she went. When she came back out she was clutching her robe against her as if she didn’t want to brush up against anything he might have touched. “And I always thought that love implied being in love with just one person at a time.”
He was still smiling, lying totally naked on her bed like an opened gift. “You love your children and you still love me. I love my kids but I still love you. I’m not choosing between you and her. I just cannot risk losing them.”
She wasn’t angry; she was just pissed off. She tried to hide it but he sensed it. He sensed all her moods, even the ones she wished he didn’t. Sometimes she missed that part of Danny that gave her so much space. Eduardo could become very needy and had to have constant reassurance. She just couldn’t do that this time, and a few days later she phoned him and told him to stay away until he had sorted it out.
“Dee-dree. No. Don’t say things like that.”
“Eduardo, you need time to think about this. If you decide on me, I will take you back. And, if you decide not to . . . well then this is still the right decision.” He argued but she didn’t change her mind. She felt very cold but it was the right thing to do. Relationships were still difficult. She wished she’d dated more before she got married. She wouldn’t want either of her kids to . . .
“It’s good, thank you, Mrs. Boyle.”
“It’s ‘Fallon’ actually. Ms. Fallon. I don’t think women should take their husband’s name. It gets far too awkward when you change husbands.” She meant it as an ice-breaker, but Rachael just looked a little shocked. “I’m sorry,” Deirdre added. “I’m just a little cynical right now.”
Rachael smiled again but now she looked a little confused.
“So, you’re actually enjoying school. I think Martin does, too, but Grainne—she’s an entirely different story.” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it. She hadn’t wanted to sound like a typical mother. “Do you understand hockey?”
“Well, not really.”
“Then let me explain.” She moved her arm to point at the ice but Rachael stayed close to her. “The three good looking guys are the forwards.” She pointed to Martin and his wingers. “They’re the guys that shower regularly. And the more jock looking guys”—she pointed to the two guys near the blue line—“are the defenders. They’re the type that sits at the back of the class making strange noises.” Rachael was laughing but still holding on tight. “And the guy in the net, he’s one of those kids that fall in love with Goth poets.”
Rachael was still laughing and tried to smother it by putting her hand to her face. She was going to become a very beautiful woman, dark haired and with eyes that could smolder. “And those guys . . .” Deirdre pointed to the other team. “They make our guys look good.”
As the game went on Deirdre was learning everything she needed to know about Rachael. She was taking school seriously because she had plans to go on to university. “And what do you think you’d like to become?” She felt as if she were interviewing an intern.
“My father wants me to become a lawyer.”
“Do you like the law?”
“I guess so.”
Deirdre couldn’t help herself—her maternal side took over. “Would your parents mind if you came to our house for dinner? We’re going to have a Mexican night.”
Rachael smiled and nodded. “My parents won’t mind but I will have to phone them.”
“There’s a phone outside beside the snack bar, and we can get hot chocolate while we wait for Martin.”
His team had won the game but the coach would still keep them for a while. Martin said that he loved the sound of his own voice. So Deirdre rose and rolled her blanket and cushion, one under each arm, and ushered Rachael along.
*
“I really like your mom.”
Martin was walking Rachael home and they always cut through the cemetery. She said she wasn’t frightened, but she let him put his arm around her waist and hold her close. She had said that she really enjoyed Mexican night. His mom had even made them teeny-margaritas. She put in a little tequila but added more to her own. Grainne had two and started talking like she was in Sex and the City.
“Yeah, my mom’s pretty cool. I just wish my sister wasn’t such a pain.”
“She’s not so bad. I like her. I don’t have any sisters.”
“What are your parents like?”
“Well . . .” Rachael responded as if she had rehearsed it. “We’re secular, anti-Zionist Jews, but you probably don’t know what any of that means.”
“Not really. We never went to church either.”
“Never?”
“No, my parents were against all that. My father had a tough time growing up.”
“Well my father is against everything. His family was from Hungary and Joel Brand was his uncle. Do you know who he was?”
“Sure, he played in goal for the Leafs back in the Stone Age.”
“Not according to my father. He says he was the greatest man that ever lived. He tried to save Jews from the Holocaust.”
“Wow. What happened to him?”
“He’s dead now, but my father says that Zionists wouldn’t let him, and the Hungarian Jews were sent to the concentration camps. Most of my father’s relatives never survived.”
“Wow. I didn’t know that.”
“About the Holocaust?”
“No, everybody has heard of that.”
“Yeah, well, since then my father doesn’t like anything Jewish. My mother says he’s like a troll in a cave.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t meet him then.”
“Oh, he’ll like you. He hates the English too. He says they went along with the Zionist
s; but he was happy when I told him you were Irish.”
“Did you tell him that my parents were secular, anti-Catholic Irish?”
“Really?”
“No. My father is just an asshole.”
“Don’t talk like that, Martin. It’s disrespectful.”
“You don’t know my father.”
“No, but there must have been something good about him. Your mother married him.”
Before Martin answered they heard a groan from behind one of the head stones. He stepped in front of her and waited.“Martin,” a voice called, “I’ve come for your soul.” Doug jumped out but Martin and Rachael didn’t react.
“Martin, it’s me.”
“Go away, Doug. You’ve been drinking again.”
“C’mon, old buddy.” He joined them and put his arm around Martin’s free shoulder. “Where’re we going?”
“Go away, Doug.”
“I can’t. I’m scared of being here alone. Just let me come with you guys.”
“Go away, Doug.”
They couldn’t get rid of him until they reached the fence. He was too drunk to climb it and went back to his friends, who were finishing a case of beer.
“Sorry about that. Doug can be a bit of an asshole.”
“Yeah, what a defenseman.”
“Yeah. I see my mother’s been talking with you.”
“She was just explaining hockey to me.”
“Wow, she must really like you.”
“She just wants what’s best for her son. What mother wouldn’t?”
*
Jacinta and Mrs. Flanagan waited for the lights to change and for the other pedestrians to go first. They kept forgetting which side the cars were on, and twice Jacinta had nearly walked into a passing moped. “I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”
She was a little concerned. Mrs. Flanagan had been as giddy as a goat since they arrived. They were on their way to meet the two priests at the Piazza Navona and they’d all walk over from there. Fr. Melchor was going to take them to a church where Mrs. Flanagan might finally find some peace. Fr. Reilly seemed reticent about it, but Mrs. Flanagan and the old Jesuit were adamant. Jacinta wasn’t too sure, but they were almost there now.
“I can’t help it, Mrs. Boyle. It’s just a feeling I have.”
“Are you sure it’s not jet lag? When Jerry and I used to fly to Canada, we used to get it really bad. He always got it worse, though, but that might have been because he always drank too much on the plane. He was a very nervous flyer. Not like me. As long as I have a cup of tea and a good book, I’d be happy on the Titanic.”
“Ah, no, Mrs. Boyle. It’s nothing like that. I think it’s because of the holy Jesuit. They’re all great friends with God you know.”
Sweet Jesus, Jacinta prayed silently. Please let Mrs. Flanagan find her son this time before she drives me straight back to the hospital. “You have great faith, Mrs. Flanagan.”
“Sure you have to. Anything else would be an insult to God. I never gave up on Him, you know. I knew my Anthony would have to spend his time in purgatory, but I always knew that things would be grand in the end. Do you not worry about things like that?” Mrs. Flanagan looked unsure of what she was about to say. “You know, about your Jerry?”
“I don’t,” Jacinta decided after she thought about it. “I’m sure that wherever he is, he is content. He was always a great one for making friends and there was never much badness in him. Not really, you know.”
She did wonder about him sometimes. He’d never come back to her the way Nora had, but then again there was never any reason to. She hoped he was happy and that he’d made up with his father by now. There were times, though, when she wanted him to come back and scare a bit of sense into Danny. He’d stopped drinking but there was still a lot of badness in him. And she didn’t think too much of the one he was with now. She called herself Billie and dressed like a hussy, and never looked Jacinta in the eye. That was always a sign.
“Well, here we are now.” The evening was still warm and the crowds came and went. The restaurants were full and the whole piazza was buzzing. “I hope they’ll be able to see us in this crowd. You know,” Jacinta added to lighten the mood, “this is like waiting for fellas.”
As they walked to the church with all the skulls, the holy Jesuit looked more like the priest in The Exorcist, only he didn’t have a bag. It was just as well. Jacinta didn’t think she’d be able to handle it if Mrs. Flanagan’s head started spinning around. She stayed close to Fr. Reilly as they made their way through the dark, narrow streets. Jacinta was more comfortable with Rome during the day, but at night she always felt as if things were moving and muttering in the shadows. It made perfect sense to her—after all that had gone on there.
The church was dark but for a few fluttering candles and a few of those lights that looked like candles. “In Rome, too!” Jacinta muttered. “You’d think with all the money they have they’d be able to keep real candles going and not have the place looking so cheap. And it could do with a good cleaning—and an airing out. It’s awful musty. You’d think with all the nuns in Rome that they might be able to . . .”
“Shush,” Fr. Melchor interrupted her sharply and turned toward Mrs. Flanagan. “He’s almost here,” he whispered and smiled encouragingly.
“Oh, sweet Mary and Joseph, thank the Sacred Heart.” Mrs. Flanagan clasped her hands and looked up toward the dark ceiling.
“Amen,” Jacinta quietly added, with as much deference as she could manage, not wanting to disturb them anymore as they knelt in the silence and waited for Fr. Melchor to speak again. His head was in his hands as if he’d forgotten about them, and was deep in prayer.
“He wants you to know your prayers saved him,” he said so suddenly that it startled them all.
“Ah, God bless him,” Mrs. Flanagan whispered when she recovered. “And I want him to know that he’s still my little boy.”
Jacinta peered around but couldn’t see anything. She wasn’t surprised. When Nora came to talk to her it was just her voice; only now she couldn’t hear anything either. “Did he get to hear her?” she finally whispered to Fr. Reilly, after the old Jesuit had sat for a while staring off into the dark. She was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t nodded off.
“Maybe.” Fr. Reilly tapped her elbow as he rose. “You and I should go over and light a few candles by the side altar. We could light a candle for Nora? I’m sure she’d be very happy with that.”
He seemed to be trying to mollify her and she might have reacted, but before she could, Mrs. Flanagan stood up and started hugging the shadow around her. She began to cry, letting out all the tears she’d been storing since that night in Cruagh Wood. It almost got Jacinta going, too, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself. Fr. Reilly was ready to catch Mrs. Flanagan if she fainted. The old Jesuit was still kneeling but looked up at Mrs. Flanagan.
*
“And now, Patrick, she is happy.”
The two priests were walking back from the ladies’ hotel and Patrick was having doubts. He’d been indulging John—not wanting to upset him—but the whole thing was spiraling out of control and was probably going to end badly. Mrs. Flanagan didn’t seem to care. She’d practically floated home, she was so happy. Patrick wasn’t ready to talk about it, but John ignored his reticence.
“I haven’t done anything that our Church hasn’t done before.”
“Well now, I’m just not sure that we should be giving her false hope. She thinks she was actually talking to her dead son. I’m not sure about things like that. It could confuse her.”
“Patrick, she needs to believe that her son is finally safe. This is the comfort and solace you talk about. You wouldn’t deny her that?”
“No.” Patrick could never win against John; he was far too much of a Jesuit. “Only I prefer giving it on
the basis of something more . . . tangible.”
“Like blind faith?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I hope so, Patrick.” John turned and faced him. “By the way, your uncle wants to talk with you.”
“My uncle?”
“Yes, your uncle. Who were you expecting?”
Chapter 4 – 2000
The world didn’t go spinning out of control. Computers didn’t crash and planes didn’t tumble from the skies. The lights still worked and there was water in the taps, and for the most part people didn’t die in their sleep and just woke up to another day.
“Just the beginning of another new year and a new decade.” John had almost made it sound prophetic. “And the beginning of the third millennium since Christ walked the Earth, for those who still believe in such things.”
Patrick had let that one go. After the night with Mrs. Flanagan he decided to let sleeping dogs lie. John seemed to understand that and hadn’t mentioned Patrick’s uncle again either. He could probably sense that Patrick wasn’t ready. He wasn’t. He’d been reading his uncle’s writings again and they were still so unsettling. It was heresy against all that Patrick had been taught to hold sacred. And coming from his uncle and his bishop, it was impossible to dismiss.
Still, Patrick reminded himself after looking for something to cheer himself up, it was the International Year for the Culture of Peace and that had to mean something, even if it was just holding fancy dinners to raise money for the cause.
God help him, but he was getting a bit cynical, too, and quickly corrected himself. It was, he decided with all the hope he could muster, another chance for the whole world to step toward the bright shining future that was still well within its grasp. They were heading into a new world order that promised jobs and prosperity for all. He opened his curtains to take it all in. Rome, that had seen and done it all so many times before, was peaceful. Most of its citizens were sleeping off the revelries of the night before. In the Eternal City, Giovanni had often assured him, millennia came and went like the seasons.