by Peter Murphy
“And what about hockey?”
“I’ll keep playing, but I think it’s time I grew up and got a real life.”
He looked like his mother when he said that and it made Eduardo smile. “Yeah, you and me both.” Eduardo had started a new job with an investment company: “Vulture Capital Inc.,” he often joked when he complained about having to prove himself all over again. “And what do you want to be afterwards?”
Martin wanted to be more like Eduardo than his father. He wanted to make enough to marry Rachael and buy a nice house around Lawrence Ave. and raise kids. She would be the perfect mother and he would be nothing like his father. They would have two kids and two cars, a cottage in Halliburton and a spotted dog. And a white picket fence. He had no idea how he was going to do it all but he wasn’t concerned about that. He could deal with each step as it happened. What was bothering him was that in a few months he and Rachael would be separated. “Maybe I’ll start the next Dot-Com bubble.”
“Well, let me know. I’m sure my firm will want to get in on the ground floor. But what about Rachael? A man has to do what is required to make it in the world, but it means nothing if he’s not with the woman he loves.”
Martin liked that about Eduardo. He could never remember his father talking about stuff like that. He was still thinking about it when the girls emerged. Deirdre had bought them each something. The pink angora for Rachael and a spangly top and striped pants for Grainne; something that she could relive Boogie Nights in.
*
“School’s out . . . forever,” Grainne sang as she passed in her disco outfit, a beer clutched in her hand. It was just the summer break, but everyone was ready to party like there was no tomorrow. Doug’s parents had gone away for the weekend, leaving strict instructions: he could have a few friends over but there were to be no wild parties. Doug had agreed and only invited his friends; but they invited their friends and the house was already full.
“Who invited the guys from Northern?” she asked as she stopped by the kitchen again. She had put on makeup too.
“I dunno. I just asked a couple of girls from N.T.” Doug put his arm around her but Martin didn’t mind. Doug was like family.
“You should tell them to leave. They’re all like . . .” Grainne grabbed her crotch and sucked on her beer again.
“They’re okay. They’re the football team. After a few beers they’ll pass out anyway.”
“You hope.” She sashayed away, looking much older than sixteen.
“Take it easy on the beer,” Martin called after her.
“Give her a break.”
“I haven’t killed her yet. What more do you want from me?”
“Martin!” Rachael laughed and took another swig of his beer. “Don’t be such a big brother.”
“Yeah, bro’,” Doug joined in. “Take the night off. It’s the last summer of high school.”
“Not for her it isn’t.”
“Chill, bro’, chill.”
“Leave him alone, Doug, he’s just being protective.” Rachael leaned against Martin and nudged him with her hip.
After everybody got wasted, or high from toking in the back garden, or popping their parents’ pills, and the gang from East York Collegiate left, they all settled down. The hockey crowd had taken over the basement and were playing beer pong. The Emos were on the stairs discussing elaborate suicides, while the Goths were on the upstairs landing looking bored. Somebody was vomiting in the washroom and somebody had pissed on the rose bushes. Martin and Rachael decided it was time to leave and Doug tried to dissuade them, half-heartedly. He had gotten wasted too.
*
“It’s the end of the world as we know it,” Martin sang as he climbed on the back of one of Mel’s moose at the corner of Bayview and Moore, one of many that had sprouted up all over the city. Rachael had gone quiet and he knew what was on her mind. The world was about to change on them. “And I feel fine.”
“Come down,” Rachael said, but at least she was smiling again. “Someone might see.”
“Let them.” He slid down and took her in his arms. “What’s bothering you? You’ve been very quiet since the party.”
“I’m just thinking about what will happen when we go away in the fall.”
“And the children go to summer camp,” Martin sang whimsically. It was one of the songs his father used to sing to him when he was little.
And then to the university
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.
“Seriously, Martin, aren’t you concerned?”
“No, why would I be? It’s just another four or five years of school.”
“I meant about us. I’ll be in Montreal and you’ll be in London.”
“I trust you.”
“And I trust you, but I don’t trust all the other girls that will be fawning all over you.”
“Have I told you lately that I love you,” he sang in his best Van Morrison voice; something else his father sometimes sang to cheer his mother up. Rachael cheered up, too, but he could see she was worried. He hated when she was like that. “Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his high-school ring and knelt before her. “Rachael Brand, will you do me the honor of accepting this pre-engagement ring?”
She looked as though he had given her the whole world and, as he kissed her, he made a promise to himself: one day, he would.
On his way home, he heard them before he saw them, swaying and staggering along.
“Oh. Hi Martin.”
Doug was embarrassed but Grainne didn’t care. She just stuck her tongue out as she hung on to him. “I was just seeing Grainne home.”
“And he told me that he loves me,” Grainne laughed and hiccupped. “Dougie loves me, only don’t tell Mom.”
“C’mon.” Martin laughed as he took his sister by the arm. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“Ew, I’m not going to bed with you. I want to go to bed with Dougie.”
“C’mon.” Martin laughed again and gave Doug a playful punch on the shoulder.
“See you around?” Doug asked as if he was unsure.
“Always, bro, always.”
*
“Was Grainne drinking last night?” Deirdre asked from behind the business section of The Toronto Star.
“She might have had a few beers.” Martin tried to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Don’t you think she’s a bit young for that?”
“Mom, she’s sixteen. Besides, when has she ever listened to me?”
“Well I don’t think it’s right. She’s foolish enough.”
“She was okay—Doug was looking out for her.”
“Doug? That’s a bit like the wolf minding the sheep.”
“Doug’s okay.”
“I meant the other way around. There are enough problems in the world as it is.”
*
John Melchor was getting worse. He was seventy-nine years old and his doctor was worried about possible delusional disorders, but John wouldn’t hear of it and insisted it was the world around him that was really mad. It was hard to argue with him, especially when he quoted Bernard of Clairvaux verbatim:
O ye who listen to me! Hasten to appease the anger of heaven, but no longer implore its goodness by vain complaints. Clothe yourselves in sackcloth, but also cover yourselves with your impenetrable bucklers. The din of arms, the danger, the labors, the fatigues of war, are the penances that God now imposes upon you. Hasten then to expiate your sins by victories over the Infidels, and let the deliverance of the holy places be the reward of your repentance. Cursed be he who does not stain his sword with blood.
A friend had phoned Giovanni who had phoned Patrick to tell him that John was having another one of his episodes in the Campo De’ Fiori. He was standing in front of Bruno�
�s statue in the middle of the piazza, quoting the dead to the passing crowds.
“Hence,” John passed on the words of Pope Urban II when he roused the swordsmen of Europe to his Crusade,
it is that you murder one another, that you wage war, and that frequently you perish by mutual wounds. Let therefore hatred depart from among you, let your quarrels end, let wars cease, and let all dissensions and controversies slumber. Enter upon the road to the Holy Sepulchre; wrest that land from the wicked race, and subject it to yourselves ... God has conferred upon you above all nations great glory in arms. Accordingly undertake this journey for the remission of your sins, with the assurance of the imperishable glory of the Kingdom of Heaven.
“Is not so bad,” Giovanni explained after Patrick got there. “Is Rome. Nobody listen to anybody here.” He could tell Giovanni was embarrassed for him; he became so much more Italian when he was.
“Should we not try to take him home?”
“I try, but he say no.”
“Well we have to do something.”
“We will. We’ll listen to him and when he’s finished—we take him home.”
“But what if the police come by?”
“We’ll tell them that he is a talking statue.”
“All who die by the way,” John continued as they approached him casually,
whether by land or by sea, or in battle against the pagans, shall have immediate remission of sins. This I grant them through the power of God with which I am invested. O what a disgrace if such a despised and base race, which worships demons, should conquer a people which has the faith of omnipotent God and is made glorious with the name of Christ! With what reproaches will the Lord overwhelm us if you do not aid those who, with us, profess the Christian religion. Let those who for a long time, have been robbers, now become knights.
And as Giovanni and Patrick stood and waited for him to finish, and the words of the long dead pope drifted off toward the Vatican, a small crowd gathered around them.
“Patrick.” John nodded as they stepped forward to lead him away. “Your uncle wants to talk with you. It’s about Danny Boyle.”
*
Danny ordered a second beer but he wouldn’t have any more. He was learning to enjoy them without getting shit-faced. Now that he had sorted out so many of the things that were wrong with him, he could manage that. Provided he didn’t overdo it.
He’d even started having a few glasses of wine with dinner, too, but he was careful. He knew Billie was keeping an eye on how much he drank. He could tell she was a bit conflicted—relieved that he wasn’t on edge all the time, but a little guilty too, as if somehow she was responsible.
She wasn’t. Danny had been sober long enough to learn that he was just a heavy drinker with other problems; and while many of these problems came to the surface when he was drinking, he could avoid them if he could teach himself to drink normally.
He was cautious about it, though, and only drank in bars where he wouldn’t run into anybody he knew. He was still just getting the hang of it.
Sometimes, he felt guilty, but as Billie had convinced him, he was full of guilt and shame and that was something else he had to learn to outgrow. He was just having a few beers, for Christ’s sake, like any normal man. No one could begrudge him that.
This time, he assured his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, was going to be different from all the other times he had started again. Danny Boyle, by the grace of his nebulous higher power had recovered. He smiled at himself and couldn’t help noticing that he was beginning to look a bit like his uncle Martin.
Chapter 7 – 2003
Where’s my dad?”
Billie sat up immediately, almost dropping the phone. Grainne was coming by to spend the day with her father. They’d forgotten and had sat up late, drinking, and were still in bed. She nudged Danny hard but he just muttered and rolled over.
“Oh, Grainne, we weren’t expecting you ’til . . .” She had to lean over to see the radio clock. Shit! It was almost midday. “I’ll be right there.”
“Ew.” Grainne wrinkled her nose as she walked through the living room. Billie had managed to hide the empty bottles and her underwear but she had left the wine glasses and ashtray on the coffee table.
“Mornin’, sweetie,” Danny said shyly when he emerged from the bedroom and propped himself up by the coffee machine. He was hung over, and it was better that he stay there until they got some coffee into him.
“Afternoon. It’s afternoon. I can’t believe you forgot I was coming. That’s like . . . so . . .”
“Oh, Grainne, take a pill.” Billie shouldn’t have said it but the kid was too much sometimes.
“Excuse me?”
“Grainne, just cool it until we get some coffee. Please?”
“Daddy?”
“C’mon, Gra, we had a bit of a late night. Let me just get a coffee into me and then we’ll be all set. Okay, sweetie?”
“Oh, I see.”
“You see what exactly?”
“Billie, don’t start.”
“No, Danny, I’m not starting anything.” She pulled two cups from the shelf and almost slammed them down. Her hands were shaking and she dribbled some as she poured. “Here.” She handed Danny his and moved past him.
“Hello-a?”
“You’re too young.”
“Daddy, can I have one?”
Danny handed over his and poured himself another.
“Ew.” Grainne put her cup down. “This is gross. Can I get a mocha latte instead?”
“I can’t make those. What if I put in sugar and lots of milk?”
Grainne looked around the messy kitchen with disdain and smiled. “Never mind. Eduardo is always making us different types of coffees.”
“Then you should’ve had one before you came over.” Billie should have let it go. She just wanted to get in the shower—and stay there until the little bitch left.
Grainne didn’t say “Ew.” She didn’t have to; her face said it all. But before Billie could react, Danny turned to plead with her. “You know how to make that, don’t ya? You could show me.”
“Sure, just let me jump in the shower first.”
“I don’t suppose you’d show me before?”
“Oh, Danny, let me shower. I won’t be long. You don’t mind waiting, do you Grainne? I won’t be more than five minutes.”
“Whatever.” Grainne shrugged and turned so her father couldn’t see her face. “Bitch,” she added under her breath.
Billie should have let it go.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Danny, you heard?”
He didn’t even look up at her and Grainne smirked and mouthed “bitch,” again.
“I saw that.”
“Dad?”
“Billie?”
“She called me a bitch, twice.”
“C’mon.” Danny took her in his arms and steered her toward the shower. “Go and have a nice shower and everything will be grand when you come out.”
She almost did, but Grainne did it again and Billie didn’t even stop to think. She marched over and slapped her smirking young face.
“Daddy?” Grainne shrieked and lowered her face into her hands to squeeze out her tears. And when she raised it, the mark of Billie’s hand was becoming clear.
She stayed in the shower until she heard them leave, and when she came out she saw the note he had left on the counter. “It might be better if you weren’t here when I get back.”
She decided to stay with a friend until it all blew over, but Danny refused to take her calls for a week.
“I can’t have you around my daughter anymore,” he explained coldly when he finally did.
“I am so, so sorry, Danny. I just snapped.”
“I kn
ow and I can’t let it happen again. You can come by and take your stuff—and anything else you want. Only not when I’m here. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”
*
“Well now, between you and me, Father, things are not great for Danny right now. He’s gone back on it.”
Jacinta was having lunch with Patrick in a little place on the Via Sistina. The man who owned it was the spitting image of Pavarotti. Jacinta had heard about him and just had to eat there. She was staying up the street, in the Hotel King, and the restaurant was just a few doors down. It wasn’t bad and Patrick was happy to see her. He was beginning to enjoy her odd visits and the snippets of news of her family.
“Only I’m keeping my fingers crossed. He broke up with that Canadian one so there’s still hope.”
“And is Deirdre still seeing someone?”
Miriam had kept him up to date on all that had happened between Danny and Deirdre. He was very sad about it but what could he do? He had thought about Danny often since the day John had mentioned him—only none of it made any sense to him. Besides, he had proven himself to be totally incompetent when it came to dealing with other people’s problems.
“Isn’t he living with her and my grandchildren? I hope he isn’t making them all foreign on me. It’s bad enough that they’re Canadian.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that, Mrs. Boyle. I’m sure you’d love them if they were purple and had six heads each on the pair of them.”
“You don’t have children, do you, Father?”
“No, Mrs. Boyle, the good Lord saw fit to spare me that.”
“Well let me tell you, you’re probably better off. There’s no end to it. Even when they’re half a world away. And I wouldn’t mind so much only things are so good at home these days. It’s a pity they ever left. They’d probably still be together and the children wouldn’t have to be getting used to a new father. Or at least if they did, he’d be one of us.”
“So things have never been better back home?” Patrick decided to steer them back to common ground. He still read The Irish Times and The Independent. The college had them delivered every day and he had lots of time for reading. As he approached retirement, he was teaching less and less.