by Peter Murphy
“So. You have finally agreed to that.”
“I had to; it was part of the deal with your father.”
It was. When he said it, her father had sat back as though he had been slapped. “You’re a good man, Martin Boyle.” He finally looked over and smiled. “And I will be proud to call you son.”
“You made a deal with a Jew?” Rachael smiled and nudged him with her hip. “You’ll lose your shirt.”
“That’s a little bit anti-Semitic, don’t you think.”
“You can’t be anti-Semitic when you’re Jewish.”
“What’s with that, anyway? Like you’re ‘ish,’ but not really?”
“I was put on probation when they found out I ate pork with your family.”
They both laughed at that and drew a little closer to each other.
“Are you sure we can pull this off?”
“Yes, Martin. We can be as happy as anybody else; raise two perfectly normal, well-adjusted, non-judgmental, uninhibited children and be fabulous together, until you make enough money to make divorcing you worthwhile.”
“You’ve been talking to my mother, haven’t you?”
“Every step of the way.”
“Every step?”
“Well, not every step.”
He kissed her again at her father’s front door and was about to turn away.
“Come in,” she whispered as she fumbled with the lock. “Only be quiet. My father sleeps with his Uzi.”
*
Fortunately, he didn’t bring it to the reception, as he got a little drunk and began to argue with his in-laws. Most of the guests didn’t notice but Jacinta did. She never really relaxed at weddings anymore—not since Gina’s, when they took Danny to the mountains to shoot him.
Not that he seemed too concerned with that anymore as he danced with Grainne and looked rather well, all things considered. He had put on weight and was a bit pasty and flabby. He said he wasn’t drinking that much anymore but Jacinta knew better. He did, however, stay away from the bar where Mr. Brand was getting heated.
Jacinta saw Rachael and Mrs. Brand exchange glances and decided to step in before Martin noticed. It had been a perfect day so far and she wasn’t going to allow anything ruin it.
Joel looked cornered and was ready to lash out at those around him. He was also getting a bit fat and pasty. Jacinta had said hello to him, of course, when they first arrived. She had been to enough weddings to know that establishing entente between in-laws was the best gift a young couple could get. And she promised him one dance—as long as it wasn’t one of those modern things the kids were all doing, like they were all wearing itchy underwear.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” She edged in between him and his in-laws, who seemed relieved. Deirdre had told her that most of those invited had declined, most of them politely.
Deirdre had also said that Rachael had cried her eyes out about it but didn’t want Martin to know. She came to Deirdre about it, too, instead of her own mother. She was far too busy coordinating travel plans and checking for reasonably priced accommodation that wouldn’t be too far away. Jacinta just listened without saying a word. It wasn’t her place to comment.
“We’ll need to keep an eye on the father,” Deirdre had confided as they stood for more photographs in the hot hazy sun, right outside City Hall, with the big spaceship thing behind them, but at least it wasn’t Dermot taking them.
He hadn’t been able to make the trip. He’d just had a hip put in and wasn’t allowed to travel, but he’d be over as soon as he could, and maybe they could organize something with a bit of church in it. Martin and Rachael had decided on a civic service. It didn’t bother Jacinta. She’d seen enough young couples in her life to know: her grandson was madly in love with a beautiful young woman who was just as much in love with him. It mightn’t last forever, but it did the whole world a bit of good to see it now and then.
“Which father?” she had asked as the photographer herded them all together: Martin and Rachael in the center, with Joel and Adina on either side. Jacinta stood with Deirdre on their left while Danny and Grainne stood on the other side.
“We don’t have to worry about Danny. He won’t let Martin down—he’s just so happy to be invited.”
“Did Martin invite him?”
“Yes, with Rachael. They took him out for dinner and they shared a bottle of wine.”
“Just the one?”
“I didn’t ask. Martin seemed okay with it all—must be Rachael’s influence.”
“She means a lot to you too?”
“Like the daughter I never had.”
“Oh, don’t say that. You don’t really mean it.”
“No, I don’t. Grainne has been a doll with all this going on.”
“What does she want now?”
“Now, now, Granny. That sounds like cynicism.”
“Well, it’s better than sarcasm.”
“Mr. Brand, you promised the grandmother of the groom a dance,” she interrupted.
His in-laws took the opportunity to introduce themselves, complimented her on Martin and, one by one, slipped away, leaving a flustered Joel seething on his own, swaying slightly.
“Mr. Brand, am I going to have to stand here much longer? My shoes are starting to get to me.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Boyle. Please forgive me. I have let myself get a little upset. My in-laws . . .” He shook his head, took her by the arm and led her closer to the band.
“Sure we all have those.” She waited while he found a tempo she could move to. “It’s all a part of being family.”
“You don’t know what it’s like, Mrs. Boyle.”
“Maybe not, Mr. Brand.” Jacinta talked as calmly as she could. The dancing seemed to be relaxing him a bit. “But even in Ireland we have to put things aside for the sake of the day that’s in it.”
“I can’t do that. I have tried but just seeing their smug, self-righteous faces . . .”
“Sure we all have relatives like that. You should have seen my mother-in-law. She turned out to be a good old soul in the end, but at my wedding—even the priest had to watch what he said. My poor father was afraid to even have a drink.”
“You do not know these people like I do. They hide behind the Holocaust while our own people are over there burning olive trees and acting like the SS.”
He was getting flustered again and Jacinta smiled as sweetly as she could. “You know, Mr. Brand, you’ll drive yourself insane thinking about things like that, and I know. I was in an asylum.”
“Mrs. Boyle, I’m a Jew that has been cast out by my own tribe. I carry my asylum around with me.”
“And that’s what I’m trying to tell you. No good ever comes from dwelling on the past. We used to be like that in Ireland. Everybody was always up for having a go at the English, you know, because of all the things they did.”
“I am no fan of the English, either. They went along with it all.”
“Well, after all the fighting was done and we had our own place in the world, all we had done was to teach our children that it was all right to go around shooting each other. My own poor Danny nearly got murdered in it all.”
“My people do not like to learn from the mistakes of others, Mrs. Boyle. We have been raised to believe that we and we alone were chosen by God. We won’t admit that we are raising a generation of soulless young people who will go out and kill all before them without thought. And when we have killed all the Arabs we will turn on ourselves and kill all who disagree. We are becoming the fourth Reich.”
“You know, Mr. Brand,” Jacinta said softly as the song came to an end, “the world has to go through all its twists and turns and we can’t let ourselves get caught up in it all. What we can do is to make sure that my grandson and your daughter are given every chance to have their bit of joy without all the sh
adows of the past.”
She waited while he absorbed what she was trying to tell him. She felt for him. He had seen through the veil of lies that the world told itself. He’d never find peace again. In a way, he reminded her of Danny. “Besides, you’re part of a new family now.”
“You’re a very wise woman, Mrs. Boyle.”
“I’m not really. I’ve just learned what is really important. And now, if you want my opinion, you should go over and dance with your beautiful daughter.”
She left him and walked toward Danny, who was inching his way toward the bar.
“C’mon now and dance with your mother,” she coaxed until he smiled. “C’mon quick, while they’re still playing something I can dance to.”
Danny obliged and swept her off, almost waltzing while everyone else did some type of jitterbug.
“You must be very proud of your son.”
“I am, Ma. I just wish I’d been a better father to him.”
“It’s never too late, son.”
“It might be for me, Ma.”
“Not a bit of it. All you need is a bit of a holiday. Why don’t you come to Rome with me? I want to go over and see Fr. Reilly again.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Promise?”
*
After the bride and groom had danced one last time, and taken the time to talk with each of their guests in turn, and the band had played a few slow songs as the catering staff cleaned up, Jacinta and Deirdre finally got home and sat at the kitchen island.
“Well that went well,” Jacinta decided as she took off her shoes and settled over the cup of tea before her.
“It did,” Deirdre agreed. “And didn’t they both look beautiful?”
“They’re a real credit to you.” Jacinta nodded as she raised her cup. Canadians had all kinds of fancy ways of living but they still couldn’t make a proper cup of tea. “Both of them.”
Grainne joined them after she had said her goodnights to Doug. They had seemed a little deflated throughout, and when he made his best man’s speech he’d seemed distracted.
“I want to say a special thanks, sweetie. You’ve been a real angel through all this.”
Deirdre reached out to touch her daughter’s face but she pulled away.
“Mom. I need to tell you something.”
“Oh,” Jacinta joined in. “Are you getting a touch of wedding fever too?”
Grainne seemed a bit unsure so Deirdre coaxed her. “What is it?”
“I’m pregnant.”
They froze for a moment, teacups half raised.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mom. I’ve known for a few weeks, but I didn’t want to tell you before.”
Deirdre took a few breaths and touched the back of her daughter’s hand before she spoke again. “Sweetie, have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“What do you mean ‘do?’” Jacinta blurted. “You’re not thinking of murdering it?”
“Of course not,” Deirdre assured her, but Grainne didn’t look so sure.
Chapter 13 – 2009
As the winter dragged on and on, Danny spent his evenings at the corner of the bar in McMurphy’s, the only warm, happy place he could find along the frozen desolation that was Eglinton Avenue East. He’d walk over in the cold, brittle sunshine of the afternoon and stay for three or four hours. Then he’d get a cab home and have a few more in privacy. He didn’t want people knowing how bad things were again.
Even he had to admit that he was hitting it hard, but who could blame him? The whole world was going to shite around him and nobody knew what the fuck was going to happen next. Everyone on the TV was saying the same thing—the sky was falling—and this time they were right.
The Great Recession threatened to engulf the whole world. He’d even started watching the business channel and couldn’t help but feel totally vindicated. He’d been saying all along that it was going to happen—only nobody ever listened to him. It was the obvious conclusion to the fuck-everything-for-profit shite they’d all bought into. And they were properly fucked now. Especially when all those lying, cheating bastards who had preached against socialism in all its forms were now more than happy to dump their gambling debts on the backs of tax-payers; and everyone went along with it like they had their heads up their arses.
He didn’t really blame them though. If people really stopped and thought about it there would be a revolution in the morning; and who had time for that anymore? That was the type of thing their grandfathers had done and nobody was like that anymore. They were more like frightened sheep who kept their heads down and hoped that any shit that fell would land on someone else. It was enough to drive a thinking man to drink.
“Gimmie another while I go out for a smoke.” He smiled at the young woman behind the bar. Her name was Siobhan and she was great in that really Irish way—hard when she had to be but soft when sympathy was needed. She always knew when he wanted to talk and when he didn’t.
He shivered and coughed a few times as he tried to finish his cigarette as quickly as he could. It was too cold to be outside. “I hope the fuckin’ social engineers are happy.” He flicked his half-smoked cigarette out onto Eglinton Avenue where buses and cars crawled along, their exhaust fumes like ghosts in the frozen air.
“Tá sé fuar go leor inniu,” he announced when he settled back on his bar stool.
“Why don’t you quit, then? They say they’re bad for you.”
He was about to tell her why, but he couldn’t. She had a touch of innocence about her and he didn’t want to be the one that shattered it. She’d stand like an angel, even when the TV behind the bar was spewing out all kinds of lies in sound-bites and talking-points, like none of it got to her.
It got to him, though. He could see what was really going on no matter what all the spin-merchants tried to sell them. It was a mad race to see who could destroy the world first: the banks, the oil companies, and the righteous whackos, Christian, Islamist or Zionist. All emboldened by their distorted interpretations of what their gods wanted, and all so hell-bent on making Armageddon a reality. It wouldn’t matter in the end. Whoever survived was only going to get to sit around gnawing on bones, up to their necks in pollution and garbage. Nobody had the balls to admit that they were all fucked, and no amount of social engineering was ever going to change that. None of them, not even that bitch Miriam—the mother superior of the hand-wringing, shocked and appalled liberals who picked their causes by gender, color, or creed, but stuck their heads in the sand when it suited them.
No, the human race was totally fucked now, and they had the nerve to say he was the one with a problem.
If he did die from drink, then at least there’d be some point to it. Only something else was probably going to get to him first—like getting stabbed by some crack-head terrorist with the swine flu. The four fuckin’ horsemen were on the loose and everybody was going around like it was no big deal. They were all scared shitless about losing their jobs, or their houses, or their savings. That almost made him laugh. The warning signs had been there for years and nobody paid them a damn bit of attention.
It’s like they’re all alcoholics. The face in the mirror smirked back at him.
Danny was beginning to dread his uncle’s visits. He always came by when Danny was really down—as if he was rubbing it in. Only Martin wasn’t like that—or at least, he wasn’t when he was alive.
“What’s the point in even trying to get well anymore?” Danny mouthed at his reflection. “The end isn’t far off now. And the meek? They’re going to be fucked over more than anybody.”
“Gimmie another.” He nodded at Siobhan. There was no point getting bitter about it. What was done was done, and now it was just a matter of sitting back and letting the chips fall where they may. “We reap what we sow,” he added, much more fatally than he had int
ended.
Siobhan just smiled as she placed the fresh pint in front of him and turned to add another tick on the pad she kept behind the bar. She called it his score card as she totaled it up when he was leaving.
He was carefully raising the full glass to his lips when Doug came in and sat beside him. “Mr. Boyle.” He nodded and ordered himself a drink like he was a regular. He wasn’t. Danny had never seen him in there before.
“Doug, what brings you in here? Put that on mine,” he added to Siobhan.
“Thanks. I was just passing and I felt like having a pint.” He tried to sound casual but Danny didn’t buy it.
“Well, you’re in the right place.”
“Yeah.”
They’d never been alone before. Danny had been out with him and Grainne a few times, but other than when she went to the washroom they never really had to talk to each other. “How’s the hockey going?”
“I didn’t make it.” Doug looked surprised that Danny had asked. Grainne had said something about that, only Danny had probably forgotten or just wasn’t really listening. It was hard to keep track of everything these days.
“Ah, shite. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. Bummer, eh?”
“Well like I always say: When life gives you lemons, cut them up and put them in gin.”
“Yeah.” Doug nodded but didn’t really laugh. Something else was bothering him.
“So, what are you going to do with yourself now?”
“Become a working stiff.”
“Good luck with that. Haven’t you heard? The fuckers have taken the economy away too.”
“I already got a job. Martin got me in where he works.”
“He did? Well good for him. At least he hasn’t become one of those heartless bastards yet.”
“There’s something else, Mr. Boyle. Grainne and I are going to have a kid.”
“When?”
“In a few months.”