All Roads

by Peter Murphy

  “There are two days in every week about which we should not worry, two days which should be kept free from fear and apprehension,” they used to say at meetings.

  When he first heard it he always thought they were referring to Saturdays and Sundays.

  “One of these days is Yesterday, with all its mistakes and cares, its faults and blunders, its aches and pains. Yesterday has passed forever beyond our control.”

  “That’s all very well,” he argued with the darkness. “But try telling that to all the people who have the knives out for me.” But it was his own fault; he should’ve known better. That was another reason he needed a drink every morning. “Each new beginning is the start of the next failure,” his father used to remind him when he was young. He missed him now and sometimes wished things could have been different between them.

  All the money in the world cannot bring back yesterday. We cannot undo a single act we performed; we cannot erase a single word we said. Yesterday is gone forever.

  “Feck it,” he decided. He’d never get to sleep like this. He fetched a few beers and placed them on his nightstand. He’d be wrecked for the meeting and they’d all be delighted to see him like that—like he was proving their point for them.

  The other day we should not worry about is Tomorrow, with all its possible adversities, its burdens, its large promise and its poor performance; tomorrow is also beyond our immediate control.

  This time the voice was outside his head, something that hadn’t happened since Anto.

  Tomorrow’s sun will rise, either in splendor or behind a mask of clouds, but it will rise. Until it does, we have no stake in tomorrow, for it is yet to be born.

  “Look. I don’t know who the hell you are, or what you want, but would you ever go and haunt some other poor fecker and leave me in peace. Haven’t you heard—haunting doesn’t work on me?”

  This leaves only one day, Danny. Today. Any person can fight the battle of just one day. It is when you and I add the burdens of those two awful eternities, Yesterday and Tomorrow, that we break down. It is not the experience of today that drives a person mad. It is the remorse or bitterness of something which happened yesterday and the dread of what tomorrow may bring.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let us, therefore, live but one day at a time. I know all that. Only it’s one thing to be going on about it; it’s another when everybody is out to get you.”

  Nobody ever said it was going to be easy, Danny.

  His uncle’s voice became clear and, for a moment, almost made him think about hope, but he deflected it. He wasn’t getting back on that roller-coaster.

  “I thought you’d given up on me.”

  Never, Danny, never.

  “So why are you back then? Did ya miss me?”

  People are talking about you.

  “Don’t ya think I know that?”

  Not the people you’re thinking about.

  “Oh, great. Who else has it out for me?”

  Patrick Reilly.

  “Jazus, is he not dead?”

  Not yet, Danny, not yet.

  There’s no point getting all excited. He calmed himself as the room went quiet again except for Bill Murray’s alarm. He wasn’t getting another chance. It was just his mind messing with him—getting his hopes up before it smashed him down again. He opened a beer and changed the channel. In the morning he’d take sick leave and feck the begrudgers. There was no point anymore—life was just one big shit heap. It always was and it always would be, and anybody who said otherwise was in denial.

  *

  When Patrick arrived, John was sitting outside the old bookstore in the early summer sunshine, flicking through the pages of an old copy of the Talmud. Miriam had dropped him off earlier and Patrick would pick him up and keep him occupied for the afternoon.

  “I wouldn’t go in,” he advised as Tivia’s voice reached them. She was always a bit excitable, but today she sounded really angry about something.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Her brother is coming for a visit and Davide won’t agree to see him.”

  “I didn’t even know she had a brother. He never mentions him.”

  “He shunned him a few years ago.”

  “That’s a shame. Did he join the Holy Ghosts?”

  “Worse, he moved to a settlement in Palestine—occupied Palestine, according to his grandfather.”

  “Is he against all that?”

  “He’s a Torah Jew. He calls Israel the new ‘Golden Idol.’”

  John went back to his reading but Patrick knew he was waiting for his reaction. He never wanted to comment on what was going on in the Middle East. It was all too tribal and nobody could discuss it rationally.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything we can do? It’s a shame to hear them like this.”

  “I’m trying.” John raised the Talmud between them. “But everything in here seems to support the old man.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Perhaps we should just sit back and let them sort it out themselves.”

  “That’s pretty much what the world has decided too.”

  John might have calmed on the outside but Patrick could see the fire of passion still smoldering inside, smoldering old coals of heresy and truth. And whatever was happening inside the bookstore had come to a head, with Signore Pontecorvo using his most authoritative voice to issue what sounded like a stern command, while his granddaughter made the strangled sounds of total frustration.

  “And you two,” she snapped at them as she emerged in a tizzy. “I suppose you agree with him?” She put her hands on her hips and Patrick was afraid to look up. She had that fieriness that all the women of Rome had—an intensity they seemed to be able to call upon at will.

  “Ah, Tivia, are you well?”

  She looked like she was about to boil over but thought better of it and stormed off.

  “Wait,” John advised when Patrick rose to go inside. “Let our old friend regain his composure.”

  Patrick sat down beside the old Jesuit in the warm sun as the city rushed to get through the day. The World Cup was on and everyone had to have everything done in time to sit and watch the games undisturbed. The whole city was united in cheering for the Azzurri.

  “Did you ever wonder,” Patrick asked after Tivia had roared away in her angry red Fiat, “what it would be like to have a family of your own?”

  “Hell no, life’s hard enough. You and I only have ourselves to contend with and as we both know by now, that’s more than enough.”

  “Oh to be an idle priest on a sunny day in Rome.” Signore Pontecorvo greeted them as he came out. He had regained most of his composure and settled into the chair between them.

  “And what would you have us do?” John asked. “Convert you?”

  “It might yet come to that.” The old bookseller tried to laugh but Patrick could see his heart wasn’t in it.

  *

  Deirdre wanted to run upstairs and stop him from packing but she didn’t. She just sat in her kitchen sipping a small glass of wine. She didn’t really feel like drinking but she wanted something to hold in front her face in case her resolve wrinkled.

  They had discussed it in a calm and considerate fashion and the only resolution they had been able to come up with was that he really had no choice but to move back to his family. He had cried, but she just held him against her and began the struggle back toward detachment.

  He’d been spending more and more time with his children, and they were worried that their mother was going to kill herself—or at least that’s what she kept telling them, wailing and moaning as she did.

  She had also made it clear to anyone and everyone that the blame for their son’s drug problems lay entirely on his infidelity—accusations that were echoing through the Portuguese part of town that was, even after fifty years, in
many ways still a village unto itself.

  Eduardo used to take her to College and Clinton for dinner on Saturday evenings, to “the Dip” or some new place he’d read about. There they would meet his friends—an eclectic bunch of Continentals and a few Brazilians to add spice. They were all darker than her and had flashing passions in their eyes. They were suave, educated and assured, and privileged enough to be able to speak about the world with a casual indifference while flaunting all things D&G.

  She loved it. She loved sitting in her finest across from him so he could look at her all night. He would watch her lips while she was eating something exotic. And no matter who was talking, he only had eyes for her, even when his friends told her that the dish had once been the staple of slaves.

  Or when they took turns trying get her name right. They were friendly enough, though it might have been the wine. They used to go through several bottles and various liqueurs, but that was with coffee after she and Eduardo had shared dessert.

  “Do you really think they like me?” she sometimes asked in the cab back to Leaside.

  “They love you.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t think your cousin and his wife do.”

  “They’re just jealous that we’re happy. Miguel just spent their savings on a pool table and Maria wanted a new car.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, he grew up in a pool hall on St. Clair hustling Italians.”

  “No, I meant are they ever going to be okay with me being with you?”

  “If they’re my true friends, they will.”

  “I hope so. I can’t go back to hanging out at Originals.”

  “What’s wrong with Originals? I like it.”

  “You would. They’re not your daughter’s friends dressed like beer-slinging little sluts. Would you let your daughter do it?”

  “No, but it’s just young girls showing off their bodies.”

  “For tips?”

  “Okay, we won’t be going back to Originals.”

  His friends were true, and when everyone else stopped talking when he approached—and started again when he had passed—they said it straight to his face: he had to go back to his family.

  Only not in so many words. More like in novellas that stretched out over weeks of lunches and hours of phone calls. “Everybody is telling me different things,” he’d complained as he lay across her on the couch one night. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  She resented that and was about to say so, but what was the point? They would talk and talk, slowly drifting into argument, until he’d just shrug and ask her what she wanted him to do.

  “Just look in your heart,” she said as calmly and as bravely as she could, hoping against hope.

  “But she’s the mother of my children.”

  Deirdre couldn’t compete with that. No matter where they went for dinner, or who they met, if his ex-wife actually did anything, she’d become the whore that had turned him away from his family.

  She really wanted him to stand up to everybody and tell them all the things he’d told her; about how his heart wouldn’t beat without her, how he couldn’t bear a single day when he couldn’t hear her voice. And about her kisses; how they were like manna to his very existence. But that wasn’t fair; she knew he couldn’t risk it.

  Besides, she’d done the same thing when she let Danny back into her children’s lives. No, she would have to be fair minded and noble about it all and let the scheming bitch have him back. If he really loved her he wouldn’t . . .

  That wasn’t fair, either. He did love her. She was sure of that. But he loved his kids too. That was why she wouldn’t make it any harder on him, or her.

  When he came down the stairs he paused by the door, unsure if they’d said all that had to be said. He looked like such a lost little boy so she rose with her wine glass between them and walked closer to him. “Okay, then.” She blinked as bravely as she could.

  He couldn’t face her and looked at his feet. “I wish,” he mumbled, “there were some other way.”

  She wanted to take him in her arms and tell him that she didn’t blame him, but she also wanted to kick out at him. Here, on the parting edge of everything they had been together, he was leaving her for someone he didn’t even love anymore.

  “Do you have everything?” She couldn’t think of anything better to fill the awful silence.

  “I think so.” He tried to reach out to her but there was no point anymore.

  “I’ll drop by and pick up the rest later.”

  She just nodded. He would come by while she was at work and spare them any more goodbyes.

  After she had leaned against the door and listened to him drive off she poured a larger glass, lit some candles, put on some Nora Jones and settled on the couch. And, sadly singing along with “What Am I To You?” she let herself cry for a while.

  Later, when Grainne came home, she’d pick up the pieces again and get on with life. And after that, she’d get up each morning and go to the office where her dispassion and composure would be rewarded. But for now, in the privacy of her large, empty home, she would indulge her broken heart. And by the end of the song, when she had no more tears left, she would begin to glue the pieces back together again.

  Love was such a transient thing anyway. It came and turned everything upside down and, just when you finally let down your guard and settled into it all, it left, leaving you alone and feeling broken. Only it had never broken her before. Not even Danny Boyle had managed that.

  *

  “Mom?”

  “In here, sweetie.”

  “Is everything okay?” Grainne hesitated. The room was dark and the candles were spluttering.

  “Come over here, sweetie,” Deirdre made space for her on the couch. “I need one of your special hugs.”

  “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about me, sweetie.”

  She held her daughter against her, rocking slowly back and forth. “I’ll be fine. I just needed to feel a little sorry for myself but I’m okay now.” She drained the last of her wine, a dark, moody, Portuguese red, and roused the two of them. “We have corn chips.”

  “Fiesta.” Grainne jumped up and changed the music. Ricky Martin could always get them dancing again.

  “So?” Deirdre asked as they sipped from their salty glasses—their reward for doing all the chopping, dicing and grating, like best friends.

  Grainne had been dealing with her own changes for a while but, between her mother’s illness, and all the drama around Eduardo, Deirdre hadn’t had a chance to have a real chat with her since Rome.

  She’d seen a different side of her there, dashing around with her sunglasses on top of her head, just like Tivia. Even Miriam noticed. Grainne was becoming more confident and seemed far less concerned about what her friends thought.

  Deirdre was happy about that. Life wasn’t easy for young women, and all the changes she and Miriam had once endorsed hadn’t proved to be too helpful. But sitting there over a platter of nachos, one half covered in ketchup, sipping margaritas, she couldn’t help but feel that somehow everything was going to be all right, after the healing. She really wanted them to be able to talk like women but she wasn’t ready for that. Not with her daughter.

  “How’s school?”

  “Mom, I’m almost eighteen. Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Yes, you’re getting very grown up, but I’m still your mother and I want to make sure you are going to take advantage of all your potential.”

  “Mom, you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

  “Perhaps, but it is a very hard habit to break, so tell me.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Mom, it’s just high school. You just show up and pretend you’re interested.”

&nbs
p; “That’s a bit cynical.”

  “Not really. Most of the other kids are on meds. Teachers are just happy if you seem like you’re paying attention.”

  “It won’t be like that when you go to university. Have you decided where you’re going?”

  Grainne wasn’t sure but Deirdre was insistent. She had to get a degree. It didn’t really matter which one.

  “I’m thinking about OCA.”

  Deirdre would have preferred U of T. Grainne was smart enough to do anything she put her mind to. “Art?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I see.” It was a conversation they would have to have, but now wasn’t the time. “Hey, how come I don’t hear you talk about boys anymore?”

  “Mom!”

  “Well?” Deirdre knew she shouldn’t but she couldn’t help herself. It was so nice to be sitting chatting like friends.

  “Okay, okay. I’ve gone out with Doug a few times.”

  “Our Doug? How long has this being going on?”

  “Since Martin left for school.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Who cares? It’s nothing to do with him.”

  “He is your brother, sweetie, and Doug is his best friend. I don’t think you should keep it from him.”

  “God! When are you going to stop interfering in my life?”

  “Maybe after I’m dead, but I’m not making any promises.”

  Deirdre wasn’t upset. She liked Doug and, right now, she liked being Grainne’s mother. “I still think one of you has to tell him and”—she refilled their glasses—“I think it should be Doug.”

  “He’s going to see him in a few weeks and can tell him then.”

  “Now, was that so hard? Sharing things with me is not as painful as you always make out. I used to be a young woman too.” She managed to stop herself from saying: and then I met your father. But it wasn’t really like that. She’d had a crush on Danny since the day they were Confirmed. And then, that day in the park, when they were stoned—it was like magic.