All Roads

by Peter Murphy

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Boyle. I’ve been dying to see it and I might get the chance next year. It’ll be nice having somebody to go and see—someone from around here, that is.”

  They drove for a while in silence but the curate was the chatty type. “I hear that the Saville Inquiry will finally say that they were all wrongfully killed.”

  Jacinta turned and stared at him in silence.

  “The poor people from Bloody Sunday,” he added for clarification.

  “Since when did we need the British to tell us that,” she asked, far colder than she meant to. Her mind was wandering and she’d been thinking about how nice it would be after the Jesuit had cured Danny. “Sure didn’t we all see it on the TV?” But he wouldn’t have—he would’ve barely been alive then.

  “Please excuse me, Mrs. Boyle. I didn’t mean to be bringing up all the pain and sorrow, only I thought it would be good for the country to finally have a bit of closure. It helps with the forgiveness.”

  “Are you even Irish?”

  “I am, indeed.” The curate relaxed when he realized she was joking. “Only I’d like to think of myself as the new breed.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right.”

  How was one so young and innocent ever going to survive?

  *

  Martin’s head was still spinning as their shots were placed on the bar in front of them. Doug had insisted that they drink Irish whiskey and Martin just went along with him. Deep down he remembered that he didn’t like whiskey—not the taste and not the smell—but everything else had changed. Maybe he’d like it now. He’d just become the father of a beautiful boy—a new addition to the long line of Boyles, glorious and otherwise. He thought he was ready as he and Rachael had spent the last few months preparing, but nothing could have prepared him for the flood of emotions that surged up and loosened the tight grip he kept on himself. Joy, pride, hope and forgiveness. They all surged around inside him, unchecked.

  “You know . . .” Rachael had laughed and leaned toward him, as much as her enormous belly allowed. It was just days before she was due and they were going through the check-lists one more time. “We’re going to have to involve your father.”

  “Why?”

  “For ballast. Being around my father will turn our children into Goths.”

  “I could live with that.”

  She reached out, took his hand and placed it on their baby. “Martin, please?”

  She hadn’t swollen up the way Grainne had and was again. Rachael was still so pretty and thin but for the enormous bump that kept growing. And, as it grew bigger, she had to push it along in front of her, having to lean back and waddle the more it grew.

  She never once complained—not really—but he could see what it was taking out of her. She worked right up to the end, too, even though he disagreed. He’d kept bringing it up, more and more as the time got closer, but she was adamant. She had to see out her project. He admired that and, as a compromise, they agreed she would take at least a year off after that. His mother had almost snorted at the idea of it being a “year off,” but agreed with him. She’d told Rachael that she sometimes wished she had spent more time at home with her babies.

  “Okay. I’ll let him know when the time comes.” He withdrew his hand from Rachael’s belly but kept his smile. He would, but he’d phone him so he wouldn’t have to struggle to contain his disdain face-to-face.

  “Martin, call around and see him tomorrow.”

  “I’m so happy for you, son.” Danny had lit up when Martin shared the news with him. “And Rachael too. I’m so proud of both of you.” He tried to get up from his barstool but was too unsteady. Martin stood over him and tried not to look disgusted.

  “You’ll sit down and have a drink with your old man, won’t you?”

  “I can’t. I was late at the office and I have to get back to take Rachael somewhere.” It sounded plausible. He didn’t want to be rude but he didn’t want them to get any closer than they had to. He was doing this for Rachael—not for his father.

  “I understand, son, but you’ll tell that lovely little wife of yours that I can’t wait to see her and the little one. When you’re all settled in again,” he added, realizing that he might be imposing.

  “Don’t worry. Rachael’s going to have everybody over to celebrate.”

  “Is he going to be Jewish?”

  Martin could tell he was joking and went along with it. They could share a quick laugh before he left. “Half. Half Jewish and half Irish. The poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “He’ll be fine. He or she, it won’t matter. With you for a father, he’s going to be a winner.”

  Danny looked as though he was hoping to have a father-son moment, but Martin wasn’t ready for anything like that. Instead, he checked his watch and began to turn away.

  “I want you to know something.” His father reached toward him, as much as his balance would allow. “It’ll always be my greatest regret. One that I will carry to the grave. I’ll always wish that I could’ve been a better father to you.”

  He should have stayed with him and had a drink. Martin knew that now. Watching his own son come into the world had changed the way he looked at everything. His father would have looked at him the same way. Martin was sure of it. And now . . . He almost shuddered as he tried to imagine his own son acting the way he had.

  “Cheers.” Doug raised his glass and waited for Martin to respond. “Welcome to the club.”

  They drained their glasses, both shivering and grimacing until the barmaid returned with beer.

  “Well?” Doug tried again after Martin had stared off into the distance for too long.

  His mind was wandering, and he had been replaying the faces Rachael had worn during the birthing. First it was frustration and impatience, giving way to irritability, beading with sweat as her hair began to cling to her face. Then she had been angry and reddened as she pushed between every breath. He was supposed to coach her but he would have been better off going somewhere and boiling water. And then, when he was feeling totally helpless and useless, she began to smile as their child emerged, smiling as he had never seen her do before.

  “I told you. It changes everything. Doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Martin agreed and struggled to get his head straight. “Can it get any better than this?”

  “Wait until you have to deal with your first shitty diaper.”

  “I’m serious, Doug.” He didn’t want the day-to-day reality to rush back in just yet.

  “So am I, Bud. So am I.”

  “You’re killing my buzz.”

  “Chill, Bud. I’m just a few steps ahead of you. Another shot?”

  “What the hell, but let’s try tequila this time. Whiskey is an old man’s drink.”

  “Tequila? Are we having a fiesta?” Doug was ready for a night out. Between the baby and his pregnant wife, and taking work home with him every night, they hadn’t had a boys’ night in months.

  “Not me. I’m just going to get a good buzz on and then I’m going home to get some sleep.”

  Martin needed to unwind. They’d made it this far, keeping all the balls in the air. He’d been bringing work home, too, and dealing with it after Rachael nodded off on the couch every evening. He let her sleep even though she was always embarrassed when she awoke. Her hair was always tousled and she’d have the marks of the cushion across one side of her face, and a silver string of spit dangling from her lower lip. He never let on and kissed her anyway, but sometimes he wondered if she would ever look normal again.

  “I hope you haven’t said any of that aloud?” his mother had asked when he mentioned it to her. “It’s the last thing a woman needs to hear.”

  He had tried to look offended that his discretion was questioned but knew his mother could see straight through that.

  “
I wouldn’t worry, sweetie.” She came closer and he could almost feel her heart beat. “Rachael will be back to her beautiful self before you notice. Besides, after a few months of midnight feedings neither of you will be too concerned about things like that.”

  “Thanks, Mom. That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  He could talk to her about stuff like that—or that’s what he told himself when he was really asking her what he should do. All the other stuff—hockey, school, work—was easy to figure. Family—that was hard and he was determined to get it right.

  “Martin, you and Rachael will be fine. You’ll pay the price all parents do. You’ll have your lives hijacked for fifteen to fifty years. Things will be very different, but you and Rachael will make it a very beautiful thing.” She stood in front of him, a tall slender woman who had taken the proverbial basket of lemons and made a very good life for herself, and Grainne and him too.

  “Thanks, Mom, but I bet you said the same thing to Grainne.”

  “You know,” she said and hugged him, “you guys are becoming so competitive since you started having children. It’s cute. Disturbing, but cute.”

  He held her longer than normal and drew from her calm strength. “So what did you say to her?”

  “Grainne and I talk about other things.”

  Martin had let it go at that. Grainne was bloated again and they all trod carefully around her.

  “So what did you guys decide to call him?” Doug asked.

  “Martin. Martin Joel Boyle.” He and Rachael had discussed names and had thought about going hyphenated. She thought Brand-Boyle had a certain ring to it, but he suggested Fallon-Brand. But they couldn’t. It sounded like something from a marketing pitch.

  “We’re calling the next one Daniel.”

  “If it’s a boy.”

  “We know already. There’s more than enough to be uncertain about. At least this way we can plan some things.”

  “Do you ever get worried?” Martin asked as he sipped his beer and ordered two more shots. “You know—about bringing a kid into this world?”

  “Me, no. Just think about how fucked up my world would be if I didn’t let your sister have what she wanted.”

  “Good point.”

  “Besides, we’ll teach them how to skate and they can figure the rest out for themselves. My old man always said that. He wasn’t such a bad guy. He used to make a backyard rink every year—before he fucked off with his secretary. I used to be mad at him about that.”

  “And you’re not anymore?”

  “Not so much. I’m still pissed at what he did to my mother but I get it now. Being a father is much harder than they said.”

  “Really?” Martin sat back and smiled.

  “Yeah, newbie. But don’t worry; you can come to me for advice.”

  “Right. Maybe you could do me a PowerPoint or something.”

  “I’m serious, dude. You have no idea how much bullshit you have to go through trying to make everything perfect so you can sneak off for a few hours to watch a game every now and then.”

  “You still get to watch games? Grainne must be getting soft.”

  “Yeah. You gotta keep that part of you alive, bro, otherwise you go crazy worrying about money and all the other shit.”

  When Deirdre sold the house she gave them each enough for down-payments. Rachael’s father had matched it, and Martin and Rachael had a really nice place near Mt. Pleasant and Lawrence. Not to be outdone, Grainne had insisted on buying a place on Cameron Crescent. A place she and Doug couldn’t really afford.

  “Hey, that reminds me. I got some news that might interest you.” When Martin had found out that Rachael was expecting, he’d gotten another promotion. They liked that he was becoming a family man and wanted him to know he had a future there. “I’m putting a new team together and I might be able to get you in.”

  “More work?”

  “Of course, but the money will be better.”

  “Thanks, Martin. You’re a life saver.”

  “I didn’t say it was for sure. I said I might be able to get you in. You’re not the best candidate.”

  “Yeah, but you could teach me all the stuff I need to know.”

  “Yeah, while Rachael and I are dealing with a new baby?”

  “Welcome to my world, bro.”

  *

  “We’ll all be arrested for this,” Patrick Reilly protested meekly, but Miriam ignored him and pushed John Melchor’s wheelchair closer to the concrete prow of the Isola Tiberina. All around them the river rushed by as if it had caught the scent of the sea and could no longer be restrained.

  “It was his last request.” John looked back over his hunched shoulder and smiled as if to encourage him. Only now poor John was so old that his smiles looked more like grimaces.

  “Most of the Carabinieri are probably related to him one way or another,” Miriam joined in, nodding in agreement as she pushed John far too close to the edge. She had often joked about doing it but stopped and looked back at Patrick. “Besides, I’m sure we can plea bargain with them.”

  “Then why didn’t he get one of them to do it.”

  “Because it’s illegal, and Romans have always been very particular about which laws they break.”

  Patrick was getting nervous—he’d never done anything illegal in his life.

  “Oh, Patrick, don’t be such a worrier. If anything happens you and I can make a run for it and leave John to face the music. You won’t mind, will you John? It would be such a grand gesture—another felony for humanity.”

  “No,” the old Jesuit agreed. “But I have my price. I will want a statue. Me, sitting high in my chair, right beside my old friend Bruno.”

  “Okay, then,” Patrick agreed as both Miriam and John laughed, something they almost did as one—like the hardened felons they were. “Throw them in quick and let’s get back up before someone sees us.” He scanned the banks above but no one was watching them. The World Cup was on and everybody was busy following it, the older crowd in front of their televisions while the young checked their devices as they dashed around from place to place.

  “Our dear friend Giovanni has honored us with his last request. We will see it out with all the dignity that he deserves.” John fondled the urn as he spoke, as if deciding if he still had any time for Patrick. He was close to the end, too, and had grown very impatient with the world and everyone in it. Except Miriam, but he was totally dependent on her.

  The night before Giovanni had died in his own bed, in his own house filled with grieving relatives, cooking and eating to deflect their grief, he had asked to see them all. Patrick had brought his stole but that wasn’t what the old Roman wanted. He told them he was going to be cremated, despite the operatic chorus of objections from his family, and he wanted his ashes poured on the river. And, as there was no one else he could trust, he needed them to promise him that they would do it. He would have asked Davide Pontecorvo but he was far too old and rarely came out of the backroom of the bookstore anymore. “Like an old spider.” Giovanni laughed, his shuddering almost shaking the last of life from him. “They’ll find him there when his time comes, leaning over a book behind a curtain of spider webs.” They had laughed along with him but they knew: here at the end of his days the dying man missed his oldest and dearest friend.

  “There are no better words to remember our old friend than those of Bruno,” John decided after some contemplation: “That I shall sink in death, I know must be; but with that death of mine what life will die?

  “Fear not the lofty fall,” he continued, holding the urn like a chalice,

  Rend with might the clouds, and be content to die, if God such a glorious death for us intend.

  Patrick lowered his head so his face couldn’t be seen. Poor old John had finally lost his grip on reality and now lived among the whispering shadows
that seemed to hover around him everywhere he went. He had discussed it with Miriam but she didn’t seem too concerned. “He’s just passing between the worlds,” she had answered, strangely intent on her own words. “Soon he will pass on from us. Let him have his eccentricities until then.”

  “The Divine Light is always in man,” John emphasized in Patrick’s direction, as if to assuage his doubt,

  Presenting itself to the senses and to the comprehension, but man rejects it.

  From whom being, life, and movement are suspended,

  And which extends itself in length, breadth, and depth,

  To whatever is in Heaven, on Earth, and Hell.

  Patrick kept his head down in case anything he did might encourage more, while John fumbled with the lid of the urn.

  “Here, let me help,” Miriam fussed, but John was determined.

  “I can manage this.” His old gray face grew red as he struggled and his long white fingers grew whiter until Miriam had had enough and reached forward and grabbed the urn as John’s fingers tugged at the lid. It opened in the struggle and covered him with a fine white dust.

  “The fools of the world have been those who have established religions, ceremonies, laws, faith, rule of life,” he continued as Patrick carried his chair back up the stairs. Miriam had taken John by the arm and was coaxing him from step to step. They had gotten most of the ash off but some had settled into the pores of his skin and made his face seem stone-like.

  The greatest asses of the world are those who,

  Lacking all understanding and instruction,

  And void of all civil life and custom, rot in perpetual pedantry;

  Those who by the grace of heaven would reform obscure and corrupted faith,

  Salve the cruelties of perverted religion and remove abuse of superstitions,