All Roads

by Peter Murphy

  “Can we go now?” Grainne asked again after she emptied her bags and stuffed her things into drawers.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  Deirdre was still carefully folding and hanging the selected pieces she had brought. She hadn’t brought a lot and hoped to get some shopping in—as well as helping out with her mother, of course. The others had gone out for the afternoon but had left a message that they would all meet up for dinner. Her father had dragged them out on a tour of churches, Jacinta had added in her childlike handwriting.

  “I want to have my first Roman pizza.”

  “And check your Myspace?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Checking to see if anyone is missing you?”

  “Mom! Besides, maybe I’m hoping to find a boyfriend here.”

  “Me, too, kiddo. Me too.”

  And even though they were separated from all they loved they were happy together as they walked down the hill toward the Piazza Barberini, pretending to ignore all the passing glances.

  *

  “The Piazza Navona?” Patrick asked after Miriam had explained the plan over the phone. “It’ll be full of tourists this time of year.”

  “I know,” Miriam agreed, “but Mrs. Boyle is the tour manager and you don’t want to cross her, do you?”

  “Certainly not. Is John going to be there too?”

  “He better be—he’s part of the tour. Deirdre said that Mrs. Boyle asked me to make sure he was coming. I’m just going to pick him up.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s so much better these days.” She didn’t say it, but it was implied: Patrick hadn’t been as available as he once was. He had become overly introspective lately. “See you then?”

  “Of course, Miriam. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “It won’t be as bad as you’re expecting—Deirdre and her daughter will be there.”

  “No Danny, I suppose?”

  “No, but I’m sure there’ll be news of him.”

  “I’m sure there will.”

  *

  As the evening began to cool and crowds eddied back in from the shade, Jacinta and the rest of them took their seats on a patio just across from another Bernini’s tribute to the pagan river gods. The waiters, sensing windfall, converged from all sides, making a fuss and recommending only the best.

  Pastas: alla Carbonara for Jacinta and all’Amatricana for Miriam; Gnocchi alla Romana for Anne, who couldn’t decide for herself but had always liked potatoes. John chose the pasta ai Cariocfi while Patrick picked the Fiori di Zucca and Deirdre and Grainne opted for the fettuccine Alfredo as it sounded more familiar. Only Dermot remained and wanted something with meat.

  “Carne.” The waiter nodded and recommended the saltimbocca alla Romana.

  “I hope I like it. Does anybody know what it is?”

  “It’s veal,” Miriam reassured him, “with ham. I’m sure it will be very good.”

  “So, Mr. Fallon, are you enjoying Rome?” Patrick asked after the bruschetta arrived and they all dove in.

  “I am indeed, Father, and I give thanks to God that I was spared long enough to have the chance to see it for myself.”

  Patrick had seen it all before. A few days in the basilicas could make even the most lapsed a believer again. His uncle used to laugh at that. “They only have to see and touch a bit of the spectacle of God’s grandeur—then they’ll be the best of believers again for a while.”

  “You can’t help but be affected,” Dermot added with a faraway look in his eyes.

  “But do you not think that it might be better if they used all they had to make life better for the sick and the poor like they used to?” Jacinta sipped her wine and tried to appear earnest.

  “Ah, now, Mrs. Boyle, don’t you think the good Lord deserves a bit of honor in His holy name?”

  “I don’t think he’d care one way or the other. I think he’d be happier if we did what he asked us to do. Don’t you, Father?”

  “Well,” Patrick hesitated and sought the middle ground. Miriam was deep in conversation with Deirdre but smiled over at him. “I suppose we all have different ways of showing our love.”

  *

  “Either way,” Deirdre said softly so only Miriam could hear, “we will do whatever is right, whether or not it is right for us.”

  “That’s very noble of you.”

  “Not really. We both agreed that our children would always come first.”

  “Are you sure that ending your happiness will do anything for his son. You know what addicts can be like.”

  “I do, but I also know that I don’t want our relationship to be blamed in any way.”

  “No reasonable person would ever think of doing that.”

  “And that’s the problem, Miriam. His wife is not a reasonable person.”

  “A woman scorned?”

  “Like a scalded cat.”

  *

  “I am so happy,” Anne Fallon confided in Grainne as they shared a large dish of gelato. “I always wanted to bring you and your sister here.”

  “You mean my brother.” Grainne wasn’t really listening. Her head was on a swivel, watching all that passed in the piazza.

  “No, dear, I mean you and your sister—Deirdre. I’ve been after your father for years but the time was never right before.” She raised another spoonful to her lips and shivered in anticipation. “But at least we’re all here now.”

  When Grainne realized what her grandmother had said she looked around, but everybody else was busy in their own conversations; except John Melchor, who had been sitting silently, watching and listening to Anne Fallon.

  *

  “What we must arrange,” Miriam decided as they all stood around waiting to take their leave, “is a shopping day.”

  “My two girls will love that,” Anne agreed, causing a little ripple.

  “But,” Dermot asked before she could say anything else, “didn’t you want to come to the Vatican with me?”

  “Maybe,” Jacinta jumped in, “she’s seen enough churches for a while?”

  “But we’re in Rome.”

  “And we’ll do as the Romans do,” Miriam decided. “I’ll call our friend Tivia and see if she has time to show us all the best places. You’d like that wouldn’t you, Grainne?”

  “I guess so.” Grainne smiled. She looked doubtful about shopping with a bunch of old women but agreed.

  “You and I can go to the Vatican,” John offered when Dermot looked like he might sulk. “And we can bring Patrick too.”

  “Grand so,” Jacinta announced. “It’s all decided.”

  *

  Tivia met them at Babington’s, at the bottom of the Spanish Steps. Jacinta couldn’t start her day without a proper cup and the tea at the hotel was “nothing but hot, colored water.” Only she didn’t complain too much as Deirdre, Grainne and Anne all enjoyed having breakfast there, sitting outside on the terrace, stuffing themselves with sticky pastries as if they’d never seen them before. Even Dermot, too, helping himself to the scrambled eggs as if there was going to be a shortage.

  “We will begin on Via Condotti,” Tivia began as she moved her dark glasses up like a hair band. “It is where we have the haute couture. But we will just look,” she added when Deirdre looked a little worried. “And then we go along Via del Corso where all the young shops are. But there, we no shop either. For that we go to Porta Portese and Via Sannio. That’s where the smart Romans shop—in the market for fleas?”

  “Flea markets?”

  “Si.” She laughed at herself and headed toward the door. “Signora? We go windows shopping now?”

  “Si,” they all agreed and gaggled along behind her, Jacinta taking Anne by the arm as they went across the Piazza Di Spagna and into the warren of narrow stre
ets beyond. “There won’t be anything like Dunnes,” she explained. “It’s all very hoity-toity around here, but I’m sure we’ll find something further down.” Anne didn’t seem to mind and just smiled to herself as the sun peeped down between the rooftops.

  “Now that”—Deirdre paused in front of a boutique window—“is just made for me.” It was a long, dark blue gown, strapped around the shoulders and gathered around the waist. It would be perfect for a night out with . . . anybody.

  “It’s fifteen thousand euros.” Miriam had looked inside as Deirdre positioned her reflection so she could see what it might look like on. “That’s like a gazillion dollars.”

  “Not to worry. I’m sure I can get a deal on it at the market for fleas.”

  They giggled like young girls until Tivia looked back at them.

  “Soon we come to the young people’s shops.” She sympathized as Grainne lingered by another street corner while the others dawdled along.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “No,” Tivia agreed and smiled. “Not when you have all the men in Rome watching you?”

  “Really?”

  “Prego. So do you have a boy back home?”

  “Yes, only my mother doesn’t know.”

  “She will not like him?”

  “Oh, see knows him. She just doesn’t know about us.”

  “How romantic. What is his name?”

  “Doug, but don’t tell anybody.”

  “Don’t tell anybody what?” Deirdre caught up with them.

  “She said we must look for a gown like that at the flea market.” Tivia smiled sweetly and gave Grainne’s hand a little squeeze.

  *

  While Dermot Fallon bowed at every craven image and blessed himself as though he was swatting flies, John Melchor walked serenely among the whisperings. The Society of Jesus had been gracious once more, but they had made it clear too: he was to see his days out quietly. Even Miriam and Patrick warned him that he couldn’t be running around like a mad man. It made him smile, even as he watched the pilgrims file in and out. Madness had to be observed with silent reverence. That was the way of the world he had helped to shape, for good and bad.

  “Father.” Dermot Fallon approached, whispering penitently. “Will you say a prayer with me—for my Anne’s sake?”

  John hesitated. He hadn’t been asked to act as a priest in so long. “I would be delighted.”

  They knelt together for a while until John rose and helped the other man to his feet. “We have prayed for your wife, my friend, and I have prayed for you. You don’t need to worry about your wife anymore. She is not mad. Most of her mind is already with God.”

  Dermot Fallon kneeled before him again in a darker corner and kissed his hand. “Thank you, Father, and may God bless you.”

  John withdrew his hand slowly so as not to give offense and walked toward Patrick.

  “Do you really think you should be telling him things like that?” Patrick whispered, while Dermot distributed his loose change evenly among the collection boxes strategically placed for the grateful.

  “Patrick, there is no harm in giving some comfort.”

  “Even if it’s false?”

  “Hope is nothing without Faith.”

  *

  Those words stayed with him, right through another dinner with them all, and while he walked John home, Patrick knew he had to go back. It wasn’t far and it was late enough that most of the tourists would be gone.

  When he got there, he stood and looked up into Bruno’s face. “And what do you think I should do?”

  What harm can it do?

  “That was Johann Tetzel’s argument too.”

  Oh, Patrick, you were always such a serious young man. Tetzel was just trading on futures. I hear that’s all the rage these days. Even our own bank is up to it.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  I usually am—when I’m not wrong.

  “You’re getting very humorous in your . . .”

  Old age? I’m done with all that.

  “Why are you still here?” He’d been meaning to ask for so long.

  Well now, Patrick, there’re two reasons. The first is that I’m getting to enjoy some well-deserved time with Benedetta. We’re getting the chance to be together now. And, while I’m on the subject, spend more time with that friend of yours. You’re both old enough now not to create too much scandal.

  “And what was the other reason?” Patrick asked after his uncle had been silent for a while.

  Actually there’re two, Bart and Nora Boyle.

  “About Danny?”

  Yes, about Daniel Bartholomew Boyle. I can’t face them until he is right. I promised them both I’d keep an eye on him.

  Patrick stood for a while and considered it all. That was a part of life too. It was a web of interconnectivity, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. It was about lives that were woven together. Not all the time, but they were all part of each other’s story.

  Still, he was reticent and who could blame him. He had tried with Danny Boyle. He might even have done some good. But problems like Danny’s were beyond him. Other than offering the same old platitudes, what could he do? He knew so little about the demons that haunted Danny. Still, he was a priest and he was duty bound to help in whatever way he could.

  “And what is it that you would have me do?”

  Chapter 10 – 2006

  Danny wasn’t too impressed when the news of the trip filtered back to him, but what really bothered him was when he vomited all over the new shirt Grainne had brought back and given him for Christmas.

  It was more like something that Eduardo would wear, but he liked it. He had worn it every time he went out and for the last few months he hadn’t felt so shabby. Only now he’d gone and puked all over it. He had stopped for a burger on the way back from McMurphy’s and it hadn’t sat well. He’d had a bit of a bug lately and couldn’t keep things down—that and the seven pints he had knocked back while the lads, Ryan and McInerney, came and went about their lives.

  It was another miserable February and he couldn’t take much more of the cold and the mounds of dirty snow. But at least he didn’t have to shovel it anymore. And, if fate would ever finish shittin’ on him, he might even win the lottery one of these days and go south until Paddy’s Day.

  After he showered, and left his shirt soaking in the sink, he sat in bed with the TV on and watched a rerun of Amadeus. He saw a bit of himself in Mozart. Not the music part—the part that was all messed up. And he could drink as much as him. Or he used to be able. These days it was taking such a toll on him, but there was nothing he could do anymore.

  McInerney and Ryan had been at him about it too. They said that he’d done a great job being off it for so long, and now he was in danger of sliding all the way back down. He didn’t mind. He knew they were only trying to look out for him. They were good friends—the only ones he still had.

  Frank had packed up and moved to Africa to teach kids carpentry with some churchy agency. He said he wanted to spend the rest of his life just giving back. That made Danny feel guilty—along with the shame of having gone back on the drink.

  He had to admit it; he was getting as bad as ever. Some nights when dehydration woke him—not that he slept much anymore, tossing and turning while being tormented by the horrible things that lurked in the dark—he’d make resolutions. He’d go back to meetings one of these days. It mightn’t have been the answer, but it was better than being like this.

  He’d stop smoking, too, and he’d get himself in some kind of shape again. There hadn’t been anybody since Billie. She still called him every once in a while, but he always acted cool as if he were still pissed at her over Grainne. Only that wasn’t the reason. He was a mess and he didn’t want her to see him like that. Although he did think about her on those nights when h
e wasn’t so drunk and jerked off remembering all the things they used to do together.

  Drinking, drinking, and masturbation. He often laughed sardonically as he enjoyed an “afters” smoke. His life never really changed that much no matter what he did. And if anybody tried to help him—they just got screwed over too. They all had: his uncle, Deirdre, Billie, his mother—he couldn’t even think of her without getting teary eyed. And seeing the bit about Don Giovanni didn’t help. His father had asked him to keep an eye on her the last time they spoke.

  He would, he resolved as he wiped away his tears. He’d get organized and have his mother move over with him. She was getting far too old to be looking after herself, and she could get him to look after himself a bit better too.

  He’d have to get Deirdre to give him his share of the house, but she wouldn’t mind. Not if he stopped drinking again. Even his son would have to start cutting him a break now and then.

  He saw him briefly at Christmas. They met for lunch, but Danny could tell he clearly didn’t want to be there. His girlfriend did and was friendly, but it was all very stiff and painful. He got drunk after they left, but who could blame him? Drinking was the only way guys like him and Wolfgang could cope. The rest of the world just didn’t understand them. And, as he lay in his bed watching Mozart dictate his requiem, Danny began to cry again.

  Mozart was one of the lucky ones. He could put all his pain and suffering into something that would live forever. Danny’s legacy wouldn’t be so grand. He couldn’t watch anymore and switched the channel, but it wasn’t any better. He loved Bill Murray but Groundhog Day was far too close to the bone.

  In the morning, when the alarm finally woke him, he knew what would happen. He’d reach into the fridge for a beer and forget about the resolutions he’d made the night before. He had no choice. He couldn’t face the day without something to settle him down and calm the trembling in his hands. And tomorrow was going to be tough. He was up before HR again, and this time they were going to stick it to him. The union rep told him he’d be better off going on long-term disability for a while. At least until the heat was off. He had no choice really; they’d been out to get him for years. The man-haters were getting even and there was nothing he could do about it except fume and rant at the darkness.