All Roads

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All Roads Page 20

by Peter Murphy


  He’d hoped it was just the poor man pouring out all the regrets he’d been storing up over his lifetime, but Dermot shook his head and knelt on the floor before him. “You don’t understand, Father. I’m confessing that I killed my Annie.”

  Patrick hadn’t meant to look so shocked but couldn’t help himself. Dermot, however, wasn’t deterred. “Do you have your stole with you, Father? Only, I want to make a proper confession.”

  He didn’t, but he assured Dermot that it was optional and sat while he listened.

  “I did it for her, you know? She’d been begging me. And then, the other day, she sat down on the couch in front of me and, as clear as a bell, asked me again. She said she knew what was happening to her and she couldn’t take any more of it.”

  He seemed to expect Patrick to say something, but what could he say?

  “You don’t think it was wrong, do you, Father?”

  But before Patrick could answer, Dermot started to cry. “Forgive me, Father, I shouldn’t have said that. Of course it’s wrong. I knew it as I held her head under the water. She didn’t even struggle. She just looked up at me like a child.

  “Only now, that’s all I see. I wake up in the night and see her looking at me. I killed her, Father, and now I’m heartily sorry. Is there any way that God could forgive me that.”

  Well? The memory of the bishop intruded when Patrick took too long to answer. It had always been the voice he listened to when he was in doubt. You’re not going to deny the poor man the peace his wife sacrificed herself for?

  “No.”

  “Oh no, Father, don’t say that.”

  “No, no, I meant there is nothing to forgive. God understands these things and is always merciful.”

  “So you’ll be able to give me absolution, then?”

  Patrick nodded and muttered the dusty old words: Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges. Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. And halfway through, his uncle’s voice joined in.

  “Okay, don’t talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Miriam, I’m getting very distracted in my old age.” He was torn—and not because of any legal ramification. He was a priest and was bound to secrecy. But he was also a human being and just wished he could tell someone.

  “Don’t worry. A few days with the Magi will have you feeling young again.”

  “Do you think they were able to manage without us?” He was glad of the distraction. Miriam had always known when he needed drawing out. He wished he could tell her, but he couldn’t. Besides, why burden her with this?

  “Oh, I’m sure they did. John had my number and I haven’t heard a peep from him.”

  “Is that a good or a bad sign?” Maybe, if he could catch John on one of his lucid days . . .

  “We’ll find out soon enough when we land. You know”—she laughed and nudged him—“I feel like we’re parents coming home to our children.”

  *

  While Miriam and Patrick were flying over the Alps, the three old friends sat on the patio like gargoyles, overlooked by most of those who passed. They didn’t care; their time together had become far too precious, even if at times they still argued.

  “I don’t want to talk about all that, Padre John.” Giovanni’s passion was aging and he didn’t use his hands so much when he spoke, preferring instead to shrug at almost everything. “Yes, there are terrible things happening in the world, but today I want to sit in the sun with my friends. Have I not earned that yet?”

  “Ah, the sins of omission. The greatest crime of all.” John had been brooding since Miriam and Patrick left, sulking like a child, even at his age.

  “Signore Pontecorvo,” Giovanni implored. “Can you try to talk sense to this impulsive young man?” John was the youngest of the three by just a few years.

  “What would you have me say?” Davide Pontecorvo nodded like a sage. His old head seemed too heavy for his scrawny neck to support. “There is nothing to be said to the young and the rash.”

  “What is the matter with you, today?” John asked the old bookseller.

  “I’m old and my heart is heavy.”

  “We all get to feel like that from time to time.”

  “It is Tivia. She is still angry with me.” He had refused to see his grandson when he visited, even when the poor young man came by the café. Even when Giovanni tried to intervene.

  “Didn’t she drive you here?”

  “Yes, but we didn’t speak. We haven’t spoken in months. We just go on with life as if there is nothing between us.”

  “But she did drive you here?”

  “She is doing her duty, but she has no love for me anymore.”

  John couldn’t comment on such a familial matter so it was down to Giovanni, who looked genuinely concerned. “Signore, sometimes we get angry with the people we love, but we don’t stop loving them.”

  “She says I am a pig-headed old fool.”

  “And sometimes we say things that are not . . . so nice.”

  “So you agree with her?”

  “Well.” Giovanni shrugged again. “It’s not for me to say.”

  One of his nieces had explained it all and Giovanni had shared it with John. Tivia and her brother wanted the old man to retire and move to Israel. They wanted him to see out his days in some ease and comfort—and Tivia was planning on starting a family with a man her grandfather knew nothing about. He wasn’t Jewish and they weren’t planning on getting married. Giovanni said he wasn’t surprised. Nobody was getting married in churches anymore.

  “Do you think I should?” Davide turned to John who would have preferred to stay out of it.

  “Well, you know my thoughts on Israel, but yes, I think that you should go and spend some time with your family.”

  “And you?” Davide looked back to Giovanni.

  “Yes, for family. You have great-grandchildren. It would do you some good to be with them. They might remind you how to smile.”

  “I cannot go there. That land was given to us by God and then taken from us until the true Messiah returns. Some of us have given up waiting and broken our covenant. I cannot be a part of such godlessness. I am a wandering Jew and I will stay that way until the Messiah.”

  “Our lot say you’ve missed that boat.” John tried to lift the mood but he felt no different. His own country had broken its covenant and had become what it claimed to defend against.

  “Here.” Giovanni raised his hands, imploring the two of them. “We have seen all these things before. This is not what the people really are. This is what happens when they are frightened and herded. We have seen it here many, many times.”

  His words stayed on the warm air as the evening slipped in around the piazza, gathering in drifts around the walls of the temple to all gods, still standing when others had fallen, or had been pulled down, still offering hope to any who were looking for it.

  *

  Dressed in gowns and tasseled mortar boards, the Class of 2007 stood in tiers. Smiling and waving discreetly as the speeches promised the whole world that this would be the group that would change everything. Bright, energetic and full of promise, they were about to make their way in the world.

  You must be very proud, a soft warm voice whispered in Jacinta’s ear.

  “I am, Martin. Look at him. My own grandson up there getting his degree.”

  Yes, he’s a good lad.

  “He reminds me a lot of you. He’s very caring, you know. Not so much with his father—but that’s understandable—but he never stops thinking of his mother. Sometimes, I pretend not to be paying attention and I watch the way they are together. He’s always been the man of the house, only he’s like the way a man should be, you know; kind
and attentive. He must get that from his grandfather.”

  Not that one, the voice joked as Dermot took her photo.

  “No, not that one, God love him. He insisted on coming over for it. I didn’t mind. He’s afraid to be on his own right now.”

  They were all family now and family marked the big occasions. Even Danny came. He looked more like his father with each passing year, only now he looked like Jerry when he had his heart attack—scared and a bit guilty. She hadn’t had a chance to chat with him yet but she would. She hadn’t given up on him yet.

  He doesn’t look too good.

  “No, Martin, but between you, me, and the wall, I’m not done with him yet.”

  Get him to Rome.

  “I’ve mentioned it to him, but he has no interest in going anywhere. Couldn’t you have a word with him? It would mean more coming from you.”

  Sure, Jass. Are you crying?

  “Oh don’t mind me, I’m just being silly. I was just thinking how nice it would be if you could be in all the pictures with us. Dermot is in charge of them and has it all planned out.”

  I’ll be in them.

  “How?”

  He had no chance to answer as the Class of 2007 threw their hats into the air and rushed out to hug and kiss their families. Proud, but not so proud to forget everything that had been done for them. Jacinta liked that. People didn’t take enough time to say a bit of thanks every now and then.

  Martin kissed his mother, his girlfriend, and his sister, then came straight over to Jacinta to kiss and hug her in front of everyone. “I only wish Granddad Jerry could have been here. I was thinking about him when I was up there.”

  “Ah now, pet.” Jacinta tried not to snivel. It wouldn’t have killed him to show his face, but she wasn’t surprised. Fr. Reilly said it might be because he had already gone to the better place. Jacinta wasn’t too sure. Knowing Jerry he would have stopped for a few pints on the way. “I’m sure he’s smiling down on you. He’s probably boasting to all his old friends about you as we speak. And your uncle Martin, he’s so proud of you too.”

  Before Martin responded, Danny came through the crowd. He looked the way he did when he was little and unsure of everything around him. He was clean and well-dressed, and he was wearing his fancy shirt, even if it was a bit wrinkled. She was just glad he had the decency to show up. She knew what a struggle it would be for him.

  “Congratulations, son.” He held a shaky hand toward his son and waited.

  Jacinta watched her grandson from the corner of her eye. She could count on him to do the right thing when it came to everything else, but he was still very hard toward his father. It was understandable, but regrettable too. It was one of the things that stuck inside of Danny and, sooner or later, became an excuse for getting drunk again. She’d seen the same thing between Jerry and his father—only that was the other way around. She really wished things could be different between them. But she needn’t have worried. Martin took his father’s hand and shook it. “Thanks, Dad. And thanks for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it, son. Not for the world.”

  They both lingered, trying to find something else to say. Jacinta understood and her heart ached for them. They were still father and son, despite all that had happened. She was about to intervene when Dermot interrupted them all.

  “C’mon now. Let’s all get together for a few photographs while the light is still so good.”

  “Jazus,” Jacinta filled in the gaping pause that still lingered, “when did he become such an expert? He probably doesn’t even have the right film in the feckin’ thing.” She linked arms with her son and his son and brought them a little closer. “Let’s go then; otherwise he’ll be at us all day.”

  Deirdre joined them and stood next to Martin and Rachael, with Grainne next to Danny. And after giving numerous instructions to a kind-hearted passerby who was roped in to take the picture, Dermot joined them and stood by his daughter.

  “Cheese.”

  “Cheese,” they all replied, and repeated for a few more shots before Dermot took back the camera and started taking less formal shots as they mingled. “They’ll be more natural that way.”

  “Did you really have to bring him?” Deirdre laughed as she and Jacinta posed informally.

  “Ah now, dear, you don’t really mean that.”

  “Just one more, ladies, only try to look like you don’t notice the camera.”

  “We might,” Jacinta snapped like an impatient wife, “if you’d stop bothering us.”

  “He must be driving you mad.”

  “Oh, he’s not the worst of them. He’s good company for me.”

  “And you don’t think he should be in a home?”

  “He has his own home, pet. Let him enjoy it a while yet.”

  “Is he still capable of looking after himself?”

  “He can manage, and I drop in and do a bit of washing for him now and then. Sure it’s only over the road for me.”

  “Jacinta, are you and my father . . . you know?”

  “At our age, pet, it’s more about having a bit of company.”

  “And one with the proud mother and the happy young couple.” Dermot ushered Deirdre over to where Martin and Rachael were posing informally.

  “Hard to believe?” Danny sidled up beside Jacinta and watched the family he had lost.

  “It is. They grow up so fast, but it’s all part of life.”

  He looked a little teary eyed as he watched, but Jacinta was in two minds. It was sad, but there was no point in trying to soften it. He needed to see the harm he’d done so that he might be able to see that there was still so much to change for.

  “Your uncle would have been so proud of him.”

  “Yeah, I wish he could see this.”

  “I’m sure he can.”

  Danny looked directly at her and was about to say something when Dermot called her away. She had to stand with Grainne and Martin and Rachael, as if they were just chatting.

  “Jazus, how much bloody film does he have in that camera?”

  The kids all laughed and Dermot made them do it again.

  “Ah c’mon now, Dermot. Maybe you’ve taken enough.”

  “But we want to have a record of the day.”

  “Granddad.” Grainne waved her phone at him and smiled.

  “But they’re not real photos. Wait ’til you see. When I get these developed you’ll all be thanking me.”

  “Thank you,” they all mouthed during the next one, so Dermot made them do it again.

  “And try to look happier; only don’t make it look like you’re trying.”

  *

  “I can’t believe it,” Dermot fumed when Deirdre got the pictures back from Blacks. “Half of them didn’t come out right. They all have this white blotch in them. Are you sure those people knew what they were doing?”

  “They said it was a problem with the camera.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my camera.”

  “Here.” Jacinta leaned across him and took the photos, smiling as she looked at each one. Bright and full of color, her own flesh and blood in one of the happier days of their lives. “Sure they’re grand. What are you going on about now?”

  “Look at these. It’s like there’s a ghost standing behind Martin. Look. This one too.”

  “Oh.” Grainne came in to the kitchen, gleefully. “Did the pictures not come out? Don’t worry, Granddad. I’ll share mine.”

  “Grainne,” Deirdre chided.

  “Oh, let her alone. She’s probably right.” Dermot sighed like he was leaking.

  “C’mon,” Grainne offered magnanimously, “we can look at them on the computer.”

  “Poor Dad,” Deirdre muttered as she leaned forward and looked at the pictures again. “Well I must say, some of the shots of Martin
are beautiful. I’ve never seen him looking so handsome.”

  “He does,” Jacinta agreed. “They both do.”

  *

  Danny sipped his pint and smirked to himself. Life was still one screw up after another, but some things were working out okay. He might be a total disaster, but his son was doing all right for himself. That was the whole point of being an immigrant—you sacrificed yourself for the next generation.

  Martin’s girlfriend had been really nice to him, too, and had insisted that they take a photo with him. And when Martin was talking to someone else, she squeezed Danny’s hand and said she hoped she would see a lot more of him.

  It made him feel a bit better but, being there, watching them all together, just made him sad in the end. Of all the things that had gone wrong in his life—that was the one that got to him the most. Sometimes he wished he could go back and . . . But what was the point? He’d only fuck it up all over again.

  Still, he was doing a lot better than Saddam Hussein. It was on the TV behind the bar.

  He’d just been sentenced to hang. His whole trial was a load of bollocks. It was just for show. They had wanted him out of the way, and it wasn’t because of what he did to the Kurds—or the WMDs that weren’t. They weren’t too concerned about shite like that when they put him in power.

  Gaddafi would be next or the Iranian. They’d get them all one way or the other, sooner or later. The world was run by cruel bastards, and Danny just had to make the best of it, just like everybody else.

  He was trying. He’d just finished his grocery shopping and that was something to feel good about.

  He hadn’t bought a lot of food—there was no point. He just ended up throwing most of it out. He did buy lots of soup though. He could still manage that. And sugar, tea, and milk. And toilet paper. He’d forgotten the last few times and had to wipe his arse with junk mail. And he was having a few stomach problems.

  He was probably getting an ulcer or something, only the doctor kept on at him about his drinking—as if that was the reason for everything. He’d done his laundry, too, and was rewarding himself with a few quiet pints like a normal person would.

  That was the real problem all along. Life was so fucked up that they all had to overdo it on something just to get through. Like food, or money, or sex. They all had something they abused—even each other.

 

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