by Peter Murphy
“I usually avoid thinking about him.”
He didn’t mean to but he felt himself growing stiff and cold. Any mention of his father still brought out that reaction. Rachael said it was something he had to deal with someday, but Martin wasn’t ready. He said he could never forgive what his father had done, but it was more than that.
“I’m sorry,” Billie answered as she watched his face. “I shouldn’t have mentioned him. It’s just that I knew a very different man.”
“Well, I guess you were a lot luckier than me.”
She lit another cigarette and blew her smoke up in the air. “It wasn’t all his fault. He never should have become a father.”
His eyes hardened as he checked to see if she was taking a shot at his mother.
“That didn’t come out the way it should.” She looked embarrassed and a little vulnerable, the way his mom used to. “I just meant he was never going to be much good at it.”
“No arguments here.” It was one of the things that always got to him. His father seemed to have the ability to really get into the heads of the women he had been involved with. It didn’t make any sense.
Billie was looking directly into his eyes, trying to tell if he really meant it. “I get what you’re saying, but you never knew the other sides of him. He could have been a great musician. He really was an artist.”
Piss-artist. Martin smiled but didn’t say anything. He could tell she was still very much in love with him.
“I’m sorry.” She blinked back the little tears that were forming in the corner of her eye. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you. Tell me, how have you been?”
And he did. He told her all about school and all about Rachael. She seemed interested and even smiled a few times, except when he mentioned his sister.
“I’m so sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”
And when it was time for her to leave she kissed him on the cheek, leaving the bright red prints of her lips for Doug to see.
“Wow, that could have been your stepmother.”
“Yeah. Cruel, isn’t it?”
“You better wipe that off before Rachael sees it.”
“Dude,” Doug almost burped during the cab ride home. “We got to make this a regular thing. You and me, Martin. Boy’s night out. Eh?”
*
As the summer ended, as Martin and Rachael prepared to be separated again, Deirdre decided to have a fiesta. It was the best way she could think of blowing all shadows from her mind. She could see how much they loved each other and she was happy for them, only she wished it hadn’t happened before they had a chance to go out and see who they really were in the world.
And not make the mistakes you made? Miriam’s voice echoed. She missed her visits. They were like reality checks. Still, it wasn’t all bad. Jacinta had come over to spend a few weeks with them all and to meet Eduardo. And she kept Grainne busy, indulging her in every store they walked into. Deirdre didn’t mind. Grainne had been so well behaved that Deirdre had to believe that, even though she would never admit it, Grainne missed her brother when he was away at school.
Eduardo and Jacinta were getting along too. She’d even started to use his name when she talked about him. And he referred to her as Dona and treated her like his own mother—and far better than her own son ever had.
“And I”—he had puffed himself up when she mentioned the fiesta—“will cook tipo de peixe for Senhora Boyle.”
“Is that Mexican?”
“Dee-dree. Sardinhas.”
“Ah, I’ll make sure we have the fire brigade on standby. You do know in this house fiesta night means Mexican?”
“Dee-dree, we’re in Canada. Let’s try to be more multicultural.”
“Okay, but you’re messing with tradition and I won’t be held responsible.”
“For what? For bringing those you love together?”
“Please don’t mention love. We have a bit too much of that going on.”
“You’re still worrying over Martin and Rachael?”
“They’re too young to know who they want to spend the rest of their lives with.”
“They’ve already found each other. Why should they look for anything else?”
She had no answer, so she laughed and kissed him. “You’re the last of the great romantics, you know that?” And so was Martin. He would love Rachael the way his father should have loved her. It made her proud, but it made her sad, too, and a little guilty. All that had happened between her and Danny had made Martin far too serious for someone his age. And he was in such a hurry—wasting time was abhorrent to him.
“And there’s one other little thing. Martin’s been bugging me to invite Rachael’s parents over.”
“Good. It will be good for us to meet them. We’ll all be one big happy family one of these days.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Martin tells me they don’t get on very well.”
“Good. Maybe our love can inspire them.” He took her into his arms and nuzzled behind her ear while his hands traced down her spine and gently pressed her against him.
“I can’t leave you two alone for a minute,” Martin chided as he came through the patio door with Rachael in tow. “Sorry.” He smiled over his shoulder. “They’re at it again.”
“What?” Eduardo puffed up his chest and stood between Martin and his mother. “I’m not afraid to show the whole world that I’m in love with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He raised Deirdre’s hand and kissed it.
“Shucks,” was all Deirdre could manage.
“Ew.”
“Martin!” Rachael pushed him away, “You’re beginning to sound like Grainne. Besides, I think it’s cute. I wish my parents were more like yours.”
Eduardo loved when they included him as family, but sometimes got carried away. “And, as the senior man in the house, may I extend an invitation to your parents to join us for a Portuguese-Irish fiesta.”
“Fiesta?” Grainne bundled in with her shopping bags. “Are we having a fiesta? Oh, Granny, you’re going to love it.”
“I hope so.” Jacinta fussed her way through them all and sat on a stool by the counter. “Only it sounds awfully foreign to me. No offense,” she added in Eduardo’s direction.
*
And afterwards, after everyone had gone home or gone to bed, Deirdre sat by her night stand brushing out her hair. Her skin was still dark from their trip to the Algarve. She wore her long satiny, pearl nightgown and waited for Eduardo to come up. He had put the bones of the sardinhas in the recycling bin and the racoons had got to them. She had told him they would, so she didn’t feel bad that he had to go back down. Besides, it gave her time to get ready. Watching him all night, being the man-of-the-house, made her realize how much she loved him. And when he came to bed she would show him how much.
Afterwards, as they lay entwined, she was still quivering in his arms. Despite a few awkward moments their multi-cultural fiesta had been a great success. Eduardo had been at his charming best and paid a lot of attention to Rachael’s mother, topping up her wine glass and showing her the correct way to eat sardinhas, from head to tail. It was too much for Adina who, after a margarita and a few glasses of Portuguese wine, was almost flirting back. She seemed like a nice person, shy and reserved at first, but she warmed as the evening went on.
For the most part her husband, Joel, ignored her and attached himself to Jacinta, who was sitting by the trolley Eduardo had designated the portable bar. After telling her that she was far too young looking to be Martin’s grandmother he went on to tell her how much he admired the Irish. “A race of noble poets and dreamers who set the world afire with their passion for justice and equality for all.”
Jacinta had glanced at Deirdre to see if he was taking the piss before replying. “Ah, now, Mr. Brand, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Please, call me Joel, and please let me get you another drink.” He was hitting it a bit hard but Jacinta could keep up—no bother.
“I will then, but you must call me Jacinta.”
“Jacinta. Isn’t that a Spanish name?”
“I suppose it is, but my mother said she loved the sound of it. And I like your name. It’s very . . . fancy.”
“It’s Jewish.”
“Is that a fact? Wonderful people, the Jewish. We have Jewish neighbors back in Dublin. They’re the nicest people you could hope to meet.”
“Yes.” Joel nodded like he had heard it far too often. “We can be when we’re not making a cult out of all we have suffered.”
“Sure the Irish are like that too.”
“Maybe, but did the Irish condemn seven hundred thousand of their own people to death?”
And before Jacinta could answer, Adina scolded him for talking politics. “Can we not have one evening that is free from the past,” she hissed at him while everyone pretended they didn’t notice. Poor Rachael looked as if she wanted the ground to swallow her.
“I realize that people get offended by the things I say and I’m sorry about that,” Joel explained to Jacinta. “But I can’t look the other way and pretend I don’t know what really happened.”
“Ah sure, don’t worry about it. We have the same thing back in Ireland. Deirdre’s father . . .”
Doug, of all people, saved the day by showing up uninvited and disturbing everything before settling between Grainne and Rachael. “So, dudes, what’s happening?”
“I don’t remember inviting you.” Deirdre jumped at the chance to change the subject.
“Grainne did.”
“Oh?”
“Beer?” Martin had asked, but Eduardo beat him to it and refreshed all their drinks.
“Well, all in all it was a success.” Deirdre stroked Eduardo’s skin as she lay with her head on his chest. “Though it was touch and go there for a while. Poor Rachael.”
“What was it that Dona Jacinta was about to say about your father?”
“Never mind. You’ll find out.” They had agreed to visit Ireland at Christmas. Her parents were getting old and there might not be too many more chances.
“Do you think he’ll like me?”
“Well, he used to hate Danny but then he got to like him.”
“So he’ll like me?”
*
“Ah, Danny, pet, they’re just getting on with their own lives. You can’t spite them for that.”
“I don’t, Ma. I just find it hard to believe they can forget about me so easily after all I did for them.”
They had met for lunch at the Rose and Crown. Jacinta had been putting it off. She wasn’t in the mood for him and all his darkness—not after spending such a great time with Deirdre and the kids. But she had to. “Ah, Danny, you don’t really mean that. They’re still your own flesh and blood.”
“Yeah? Well maybe you should remind them of that the next time you all get together for a barbecue with him. My own feckin’ family—behaving like he was their father.”
“Well, son, I’m sorry that you feel that way but I’m happy for them and, if you want to point fingers, you might want to have a look at your own behavior.”
“Yeah, like you were a saint.”
“Ah, now son, I’ve made my fair share of mistakes. And your father, too, God love him, but you have to take a long hard look at yourself too. You’re the one that did this to yourself and it’s time you stopped trying to blame everybody else for it.”
“Jazus. Now even my own mother is turning against me.”
“No, Danny, I’m not. I’m still on your side, only you’re not. You’re the one who has turned against you.”
“Ah, the cult of motherhood. You all stick together, even against your own.”
“They’re my family, too, Danny, and I hope one day you’ll remember what that means.”
That night, as she fell asleep in the beautiful bedroom that Deirdre had decorated so perfectly, Jacinta cried quietly so that nobody else could hear. She cried for her son, Daniel Bartholomew Boyle, who was slipping down into a hell of his own making while his children slept like angels. And when she was done crying she looked to the ceiling. She had done what she had promised and brought peace to Mrs. Flanagan. Was there still to be no peace for her own son?
*
It was a peaceful afternoon in Rome. The summer had passed and the cool fall was thinning out the crowds. Life went on, and it was Signore Pontecorvo’s turn to look after John Melchor. Miriam had taken a teaching position so he and Giovanni, along with an assortment of nieces and nephews, kept the old Jesuit occupied. It wasn’t hard. Davide Pontecorvo just let him loose in the back room of the store. It was where they stored the boxes of books that had come in and not yet been shelved.
His granddaughter drove John over and, when she wasn’t busy, stayed to help. She said the old priest had sad eyes, just like her grandfather. She said the only time they brightened up was when he was reading. Tivia was an old soul that was still wandering in a changing world.
She made coffees for them, too, and served them with biscotti. “For the studioso.” She always laughed as the old men looked up. Then she would sit between them and make them tell her what they had been reading. She reminded Davide of his sister who was stolen and, while that sometimes made him sad, it also made him smile.
“And what are you reading today, Padre?” she asked after she had settled the tray between them.
“I found a copy of Giordano Bruno’s De Magia, the Toccu edition from 1891.”
“Where did you find that?” she asked her grandfather.
“I have my sources but”—he winked and touched the side of his nose—“a Pontecorvo never tells.”
“Nonno, you have so many mysteries.”
“It was hard to find, and I got a copy of Cabala del Cavallo Pegaseo. They are a special order for a friend.”
“Who still reads these things?”
“Patricio.”
“Patricio Irlandese?”
“Yes, he has developed an interest in the old heretic.”
“I wonder why?”
“Because of his uncle,” John commented without looking up, not even when he sipped his coffee. “Patrick and Bruno are destined to become very close friends.”
Tivia and Davide exchanged glances but didn’t say anything, like they had seen it all before.
*
Christmas in Dublin was a total disaster. It hadn’t stopped raining and Eduardo wanted to go sightseeing.
“Take one of the kids,” Deirdre suggested distractedly. It had been non-stop since she got off the plane. She had forgotten her parents had become old and her children were being difficult, so she was trying to compensate. Martin was love sick and had to be by the phone all day, and Grainne only wanted to go shopping. They hadn’t brought Rachael, and Deirdre was regretting it now. “Or ask my father. I’m sure he’d love to show you around. And it would give you guys some time together.”
Her father had received him very well, calling him a “cut above.” But couldn’t get his name right and had taken to calling him “Eddie.”
“He’s forgetting everything.”
Her mother had taken her aside when she first arrived, to kiss and hug her in private in case they didn’t get another chance.
“Your father?”
“Sure. Dad!” Deirdre called into the living room. “Eduardo wants to go sightseeing and who knows Dublin better than you?”
“In this weather?”
“No, Mr. Fallon, I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“Do you not think I’m up for it? Us Irish are made of stern stuff. I will if we can stop in at the Yellow House on the way home. I want to introduce you to all the lads. We don’t
get many Port-a-geeses over here. You’ll be the talk of the parish.”
Eduardo looked like he was being arrested as her father put his arms around his shoulder and puffed himself up. “I’d be honored to show you the finest city in all Europe. You don’t mind me sayin’ that? Only it’s true. I’m sure your place is fine, too, but wait until you see me ‘Jewel and Darlin’ Dublin.’”
“Sorry,” Deirdre mouthed as he left, but she had no choice. Her mother couldn’t get things ready on her own. Her father had taken her aside to ask her to keep an eye on her. “She’s not herself these days. She’s getting very forgetful.”
Her mother was standing by the kitchen table as if she was trying to remember something.
“Are the kids enjoying their holidays?” she asked as soon as she noticed Deirdre. “I wouldn’t know them anymore; they’ve both gotten so grown-up.”
“They’re fine, Mammie. Everyone is fine. We’re just a little jet-lagged. We’ll get over it in a day or two.”
“And are you fine? Are you happy with him?”
“Yes, Mammie, I’m very happy with him. Where’s the turkey?”
“I had your father put it out in the scullery to keep cool.”
“Why didn’t you put it in the fridge?”
“Because your father had to buy the biggest one he could find and half a pig. He wanted to show Eduardo that we have good food in this country too.”
“Wow.” Deirdre struggled back with the large, featherless turkey in her arms, its neck dangling along before her. “A real turkey? I’m used to the ones that come in bags.” And even as she said it she realized how much life had changed her.
“And how is Danny? Is there any hope for him, at all?”
“It’s over between us, Mammie. I’m with Eduardo now.”
“I know that, dear. It’s just that I wish he had somebody to help him get back on the right track.”
“Well it certainly isn’t going to be me.”
“Ah don’t say that. We won’t know until it’s all over. What about that nice uncle of his?”
“He’s dead, Mammie.”
“Lord bless us and save us. When did that happen?” She was so shocked she had to sit down.