by Peter Murphy
Patrick had woken late too. Almost an hour after his usual time, even though he had spent his evening alone. Giovanni had invited him to spend it with his family, but he was getting old and went to bed early, leaving Patrick to referee any sibling squabbles that might arise.
And it is the World Mathematical Year, his academic side chimed in to banish any wistfulness. This year would mark his thirty-fifth as a priest. He looked over at the Holy See and wondered if anybody else would remember that. It wouldn’t matter; a life of service was its own reward.
*
Frank kept reminding himself of that as he listened stoically. Danny was reciting his litany of all that was wrong with the world. Frank had been like that himself a few times.
All things considered, Danny was doing okay. He was just sick and tired of his job and feeling a bit sorry for himself. “You can’t even just go ahead and say the obvious anymore because someone might get offended. You can’t even say hello to some of them without being all politically correct and all. It’s getting as bad as Quebec.”
“How many meetings have you been getting out to?”
“I just told you, I spend my whole day in meetings, listening while total morons have their say—and taking forever to say nothing in the end. They don’t even know which meeting they’re in but they still have to add their two-cents, usually about stuff they know nothing about.”
“That many?” There was a time when Frank might have become exasperated, but listening to Danny whine reminded him to be grateful.
“And most of them only come so everybody thinks they’re busy. It’d be better for everybody if we paid them to stay at home instead, so those of us who actually do a bit of work can get on with it.”
“God, grant me the serenity . . .” Frank muttered, but Danny ignored him. He was too pumped up on indignation. He’d better be careful on that stuff; it was one of the things alcoholics couldn’t afford. Frank had seen too many guys go back out because of that.
“I mean it. I’ve been working there for twenty years and now I have to take orders from someone who was in diapers when I started.”
“The courage to change the things I can? You could always quit and do something else.” Frank smirked but he really wanted to laugh. They were all the same. A few months off the drink and they began to think their shite smelled like roses. It was understandable, though. For far too long they had felt like their hearts and souls were drowning in it.
“Yeah, they’d love for me to leave and I will when it suits me. A couple more years and I’m gonna take one of those early retirement deals they’re always offering. Then they can all kiss my arse.”
“Ah, the wisdom.”
“Ah, Jaze, Frank, do you never give it a rest?”
“No. And I won’t until you start trying to be grateful, you bollocks. You’re sober now. Isn’t that enough?”
“I know, but it’s been almost three years. I would’ve thought things would be better by now.”
“They are. You’re just not seeing it because you’re still whining about all that’s wrong.”
“Glass half full?”
“The glass is all full and just make sure it stays that way.” Frank tried to look stern but he couldn’t. They all went through rough patches from time to time. Getting sober wasn’t something that just happened to you. It was more like climbing out of the grave. And you had to do most of the digging yourself. And it didn’t help when you went to a meeting looking for someone to feel sorry for you and you bumped into the old-timers. “You dug yourself in to it. What did you expect?” they’d say. “Just keep digging and don’t pick up a drink. And keep coming back.”
And then they’d wander off and leave him alone as if he had a cold or something. That used to really piss him off but over time Frank learned to love those guys. They said it like it was—like Buddha or one of those guys that sit up on mountains. They cut through all the shite that everybody else was just inhaling and exhaling.
He wanted to be one of those guys with Danny, only Danny was still thinking like a Catholic—that if he just kept his head down, pretending to be doing the things he was supposed to, everything would be all right.
It was a bit like that, only instead of just doing the right thing you had to become the right thing too. Frank was still having trouble with that, but talking to Danny helped. It helped him see how impatient he could still become—not as bad as Danny, but then he’d been sober longer.
He also knew what was really going on. He hadn’t seen Billie at a meeting in a while. Danny had said they were just giving each other space to practice their own programs and not trying to do it together. The old-timers were always going on about that, too, but Frank didn’t believe him. There was more going on, but it wasn’t his business until Danny told him.
Getting sober in a world that was going mad wasn’t easy for any of them. Everyone around them could get away with being assholes—being all righteous and all, without having to worry. Recovering alcoholics couldn’t. It wasn’t as if they had to become saints or anything, but they had to learn to live by principles distilled down to the basics, so even the most damaged and frightened could grasp them. “And that hope,” the old-timers assured them when they faltered, “will grow like an acorn if you don’t choke it off.”
“I’m not worried about picking up a drink, you know.” Danny insisted, and waited for Frank’s response.
“Maybe not, but you will if you keep going around bitching about everything. The world is still all messed up—only you’ve changed. You know what the old-timers say about getting hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Other people might be able to handle it but we can’t.”
Love was a dangerous thing, too, only he couldn’t say anything about that. Not until Danny brought it up. Two recovering alcoholics in one relationship was at least one too many—probably two. “It’s very simple, Danny. We can stay sober or we can go back out. I’ve made my choice. I’m going to stay sober because if I get my shit together there’ll be one less asshole making problems in the world.”
*
Frank was right and Danny always felt better after they had one of their little chats, even if it did remind him of when he was a kid and had just been to Confession. Sometimes he missed those days, but he could never get back there again. Too much had happened for him to ever be that naïve again.
That was something else that was really bothering him, but he couldn’t talk about it with Frank—he would have gotten all bent out of shape about Danny not being grateful and all. Sometimes it felt like that was what the program was trying to do to him.
Maybe Billie was right. Maybe he was just a restless soul that was becoming stagnant. Maybe the real problem was that he was trying to live the wrong life. He’d tried being a normal person when he was with Deirdre and look how that turned out. He wasn’t cut out to be one of those guys who just kept their heads down and put up with all the shit for a paycheck. He’d seen what happened to the old guys from work who had done that. Most of them died within a few years of retiring.
Billie kept telling him that he could be so much more than that. She kept telling him that he had a voice and something to say. He liked hearing that but he found it very hard to believe. She’d said that was because he was still carrying around all the guilt and shame that the priests and the nuns had heaped on him. That was the real problem; he’d been raised to feel unworthy, and when shit went wrong—he always blamed himself, deep down inside. She said that was why he used to get angry and lash out at everyone around him. He’d been hurt and, instead of coming to terms with that, tried to pretend he wasn’t bothered. Until it became too much for him and all his repressed anger would erupt over everything.
That was beginning to make more and more sense to him. He had to find a way to vent before too much pressure built up. The problem was that you weren’t supposed to do stuff like that in case it off
ended or upset someone.
Billie said that music was the perfect outlet—that he could take all that was bothering him and write about it. But even just thinking about what he’d write made everything boil up inside him and, at the meetings, they warned him against that.
But all they had to offer was some vague idea of a higher power, and he had seen enough god-pushers to know what they were really like. They made Anto and the other heads back in the scene look like angels.
Besides, if he did get back into music he’d be around alcohol again and he wasn’t willing to risk it—even if he was trapped in a miserable existence. That was it: he was trapped in limbo and there was nothing else he could do. He’d still go to meetings and all of that stuff, but he wasn’t really getting that much from it anymore. The program was being taken over by the Jesus crowd—even the old-timers were remarking on it. It wasn’t what he’d signed up for, but he wasn’t ready to risk it on his own just yet. Not until he had proved everybody was wrong about him.
*
“Of course I was in the right,” Deirdre continued as she ducked her head into the fridge. She’d been updating Miriam on her recent run-in with Grainne. She had asked to go to Doug’s basement party but she was only fourteen—still far too young. It wasn’t because Deirdre disliked Doug—he was practically family—but he and his friends were getting far too fond of beer.
“And?” Miriam was visiting on her own. She’d told Deirdre that Karl was busy with something and had been traveling so much she was beginning to feel like a nun again. Deirdre insisted that Miriam come and spend Easter with her. She was still on her own since Eduardo had gone back to his family.
“And she has made my life a misery since.” Deirdre returned with her arms full and placed everything on the counter. Grainne hadn’t really. In fact Deirdre had been glad of the distraction. “I’ll peel and you can chop.” They were having Mexican again. It was everyone’s favorite.
“And you let her?” Miriam selected a knife from the block and began chopping; onions, peppers and avocados, all sliced or diced into separate bowls. She often volunteered at local missions—to help feed the hungry—and had developed expertise.
“Yeah, I suppose I do. It’s just that things with her father have been a bit rough lately. He still sees her but he never has her stay over anymore. I think there might be trouble in paradise.”
“Oh?” Miriam invited her to say more, but Deirdre shrugged and refreshed their margaritas.
“Does Grainne get along with his girlfriend?”
“When it suits her.”
“Well I think you should crack down on her once and for all.”
“You would, once a nun . . .”
“Didn’t you hear? The pope recently apologized for the wrongdoings of the Roman Catholic Church throughout the ages. Mind you, he was on his way to Israel and probably wanted to get a head start on guilt.”
“Oh, Miriam, that’s a little anti-Semitic of you.”
“Don’t get me started. I’m so tired of the Holocaust being used as a rationale for what’s going on in Lebanon and Palestine. You’d think they’d know better by now.”
“Well, please don’t say things like that when Martin’s girlfriend is here. She’s Jewish.”
“Too bad. I’m sick and tired of being muzzled by Jewish sensibilities. What they should be offended by is what is being done in their name.”
“Well, please don’t bring it up later. Rachael is a very sweet girl but her home life is not great. Apparently her father wants nothing to do with anything Jewish—even family. It’s all over something that happened during the war.”
“Okay, I’ll behave myself. Is Martin serious about her?”
“Very.”
“And how do you feel about it?”
“I really like her, only . . .”
“Only what?”
“Only I wish they had met when they were older—after they had been in a few other relationships.”
“And not make the mistakes you made?”
“Precisely.”
“What’s the ketchup for?”
“You’ll see.”
“Your princess? You know you’re not doing her any favors?”
“You’re beginning to sound like Martin.”
“Well he’s right. She needs you to show her some proper direction. All this tit and ass wiggling has them confused. It’s not girl power unless you want to empower bimboism.”
“Oh, Miriam, you’re still such a nun. What about Madonna? Don’t you think she’s smart?”
“She might be, but that’s not what she’s selling, and we’re all selling some part of ourselves.”
*
Miriam was totally different when they sat down to eat. For all that she had to say beforehand, she was charming with the kids. Even with Grainne, asking about every detail of her life and listening patiently as Grainne answered in her best Valley Girl impressions.
The kids always called her “Auntie Miriam” and Deirdre could see how much that meant to her. She sat with her elbows on the counter, between Grainne and Rachael. Her face was bright and warm as she giggled and laughed as much as they did. She’d had a few margaritas but the girls hadn’t. They were just heady from being around her. Even Martin was affected and stood on the other side of Rachael, leaning across her so they were touching.
Deirdre was content. They were warm and happy together, and she could sit back and enjoy it while it lasted. Eduardo had phoned to wish her a happy Easter. It was a bit unfair of him but he wouldn’t have considered that. He was being needy but she could hear the sad loneliness in his voice, almost sounding like one of the Fado singers he used to make her listen to when they lay together and he’d open up and pour his heart out. He could be such a little boy, and she had more than enough mothering still to do.
He said he regretted it now. He told her he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, but he said that about a lot of things. Still, it caused a flutter deep down. Little bubbles of hope tangoing with a little selfish delight. She should let him cool his jets for a while but she missed him too. Only she couldn’t tell him that. Instead, she told him she couldn’t talk—that she had company and was far too busy. He pleaded a little but she was resolute, even if she wasn’t being totally honest. She wasn’t ready to let him back into her life. Not until she was sure he was going to stay. And she wanted to punish him a little for discarding her so easily.
“Well,” Miriam said, loud enough to get her to look over. “When I met your mother, Ms. Fallon,” she added to make sure Rachael felt included, “she used to like to spend her nights in churches . . .”
“Don’t you dare.” Deirdre rushed forward.
“Tell us,” the girls almost squealed.
“Yeah, Mom. Let’s hear what you were like.”
“Martin Jeremiah Boyle, you’re supposed to be on my side.” And before Miriam could continue, Deirdre brushed past them and put on Ricky Nelson. Sometimes—she smiled to herself and began to sway and gyrate—the past belongs in the past. And before long they all danced the rest of the evening away.
*
On the anniversary of the day he was ordained, Patrick stepped out of his apartment into one of the hottest days of the summer. Tourists sweltered and scurried from shade to shade. The smell of their sweat, and all the things they used to mask it, mingled in the manky musk that drifted up from the debris of the dark years. He was going to spend the day reflecting on his life before meeting John for dinner. He had called to congratulate him, and Patrick was surprised that he remembered.
It had all been so different that day thirty-five years ago in Maynooth, when a gentle rain freshened everything around them. His mother had tried to contain herself but couldn’t and cried warm, happy tears along with the rain. His father, who always kept one eye on the weather, was prepared and raised his big
black umbrella over the three of them as they shared a rare moment of public affection. His uncle was there, too, prouder than punch but careful not to encroach.
They’d all gone now but they were still warm in his memory, and he’d celebrate the day in their honor. He decided to drop by Pontecorvo’s book store first. They’d left a message: Signore Davide had found the book Patrick was looking for and he could drop by and pick it up. It was like getting a present.
The book store was an old, musty place in the heart of the Ghetto di Roma, a place Patrick often walked through when his heart was heavy. It was just across the river, near the Theatrum Marcelli, but the words of Pope Paul IV still hung over the place like a pall and had since 1555.
Since it is completely senseless and inappropriate to be in a situation where Christian piety allows the Jews (whose guilt—all of their own doing—has condemned them to eternal slavery) access to our society and even to live among us; indeed, they are without gratitude to Christians, as, instead of thanks for gracious treatment, they return invective, and among themselves, instead of the slavery, which they deserve, they manage to claim superiority: we, who recently learned that these very Jews have insolently invaded Rome from a number of the Papal States, territories and domains, to the extent that not only have they mingled with Christians (even when close to their churches) and wearing no identifying garments, but to dwell in homes, indeed, even in the more noble dwellings of the states, territories and domains in which they lingered, conducting business from their houses and in the streets and dealing in real estate; they even have nurses and housemaids and other Christians as hired servants. And they would dare to perpetrate a wide variety of other dishonorable things, contemptuous of the very name Christian. Considering that the Church of Rome tolerates these very Jews (evidence of the true Christian faith) and to this end we declare: that they, won over by the piety and kindness of the See, should at long last recognize their erroneous ways, and should lose no time in seeing the true light of the catholic faith, and thus to agree that while they persist in their errors, realizing that they are slaves because of their deeds, whereas Christians have been freed through our Lord God Jesus Christ, and that it is unwarranted for it to appear that the sons of free women serve the sons of maids.