All Roads

by Peter Murphy

  “I know that it seems like the whole world is drowning in denial, and that used to be my favorite reason for drinking. What was the point in trying to get better when the whole world was going to hell?”

  The old Jesuit had talked to him about that when they all finally got to sit down for his mother’s last supper. “Be a light in the darkness,” he’d said. At first, Danny wasn’t sure if he was talking to him or just muttering aloud. But then the old Jesuit had turned to him and beckoned him closer. “From the greatest sinners spring the truest saints.” No one else seemed to notice, except his mother who smiled over at them as though her last care had been taken away.

  “I don’t worry about all that stuff anymore. I know that sounds like I don’t care. I do. I care but, being the way I am, I have to practice a bit of tolerance and acceptance or I won’t make it. I have to learn to stop looking for what is wrong with the world. Now, I try to look for what is going right and there’s far more of that going on than they tell us on the news.

  “I was brought up to believe that we were getting more and more civilized and that all the terrible stuff that happened in history was behind us. So, every time I realized that we were still a bunch of savages that could be riled up to tear at each other’s throats, I’d get good and drunk to try to block it all out. Now I’ve come to realize that’s just the way of the world that you and I have to try and get sober in.

  “Keep an open mind,” he added in deference to those that might not agree with him. “I’m just sharing what I think and feel. If it offends anybody—I’m sorry. And don’t let anything I say become a reason to go back out. Go to another meeting and listen to somebody else.”

  He paused for a sip of water and to focus on his own message.

  “When you listen to the news and stuff, it seems like everybody hates everybody else, and if you try to say anything against all that you get accused of something. If you’re against war and killing, then you’re with the terrorists or something like that. I used to get drunk back then because it was the only way I had to drown it out.

  “I know many people feel like this and they don’t get drunk but they do other stuff. Drinking was the way I tried to medicate myself against all the madness.

  “Now, a normal person would cop-on after a while, but alcoholics don’t think like that. It’s like the way we go on using oil even though we’re drowning in pollution and destroying the only world we have. Alcoholics are the experts in that, even if everybody else is catching up fast.”

  Everyone laughed at that but they laughed nervously. Danny had stepped out of the ordinary and no one could guess where he was taking them all.

  “That’s one of the things that really got to me about trying to sober up. Why did I have to smarten up while the rest of the world was racing to Armageddon?

  “Anyway, after I came out of the coma, my mother took me to Rome. I think she was hoping it might cure me or something, even though she’d stopped believing in stuff like that. I went along with it all because there’s nothing like a few weeks of being almost dead to make you realize that living is not so bad after all.

  “I came to realize a great many things on that trip. My ex-wife and my kids came along and I assumed it was more for their grandmother’s sake. They had no reason to be there for me and yet they were.

  “Now I’d done a lot of damage to my kids when they were younger—collateral damage. My son despised me for the way I was with them, particularly with their mother. My daughter always tried to stick up for me even though I let her down every time. They had a bit of a blowout when we were there and, for the first time in my life, I could see how much of it was down to the way I’d been with them.

  “When I was drinking I used to try and tell myself that I wasn’t harming anybody else, but that wasn’t true. Everything we do spills over into other people’s lives—the good and the bad.

  “What made this even harder to deal with was that I didn’t have the best childhood. My own parents had lots of issues that spilled over into my life. Someone once said that ‘hurt people hurt people’ and I totally get that. Back when my son was born, I’d promised someone that I’d never let the stuff that happened to me spill over onto him. I failed—and not because I wanted to. I failed because when I drank, nothing else mattered and I became worse than anything I had to deal with growing up.

  “That always bothered me and made me feel worthless. I despised myself and that, along with all the other baggage I had, led me to my next drink.

  “I’m changing that now. Now, instead of feeling sorry for myself, I get off my arse and try to find some small way of making things better.

  “Yes, I was a very poor father, but now I get to make up for some of that. By being sober and facing up to my problems, I can regain some of their trust. It’s beginning to pay off and my kids now let me be a part of their kids’ lives and I’m very grateful for that.

  “Now I don’t stay sober for their sake—it doesn’t work that way. I stay sober for my sake, so that I can be a better person and a good grandfather. My kids might be able to forgive me but they’ll never forget all the terrible things I’ve done and I wouldn’t want that. I can’t hide from what I was and I don’t try anymore.

  “Instead, I’m just happy that my grandkids will never have to know the drunk that I was. I’ve been given the chance to start fresh with them, and after all I’ve been through that’s enough to be getting on with.

  “You see, I’ve been given another chance and it’ll only work if I can learn to love and forgive myself, and that’s a tricky thing for an alcoholic to do. We’re experts at self-justification and can find excuses for all the insane things we do.

  “You hear a lot about rigorous honesty in this program and that’s the thing that makes the difference. I have to learn to be totally honest—with myself and with others—or I won’t survive.

  “Before, I used to confuse it with all the stuff I’d heard as a kid—about the Church and Confession and all. It might have been well-intentioned but it just made me feel totally worthless—like without all that I’d always be an unworthy sinner. That’s a big part of why I became a drunk and why I couldn’t get sober—when you have people saying things like that to you, you start to believe them. I just don’t listen to stuff like that anymore. Instead, I listen to what you people say. Here I’m told that I might be very damaged but if I can avoid picking up that first drink, and go to meetings, and practice the twelve steps, and be honest and promptly admit when I’m wrong, that there’s hope for me.

  “I know it sounds like a very tall order. It is, but what choice do I have? What choice do any of us have?

  “You see, even after I came out of the coma, I still wasn’t sure if I would be able to try again. I wanted to, but I knew myself. I knew it was only a matter of time before something would come along and derail me again. But when I was in Rome I met some people from when I was a kid back in Dublin and they told me a few things in a way that I could understand.

  “They told me to forgive—myself and others. That was hard for me. I suppose it’s hard for everybody. Everywhere you go you hear nothing but accusations and condemnations. It’s a sickness that is plaguing all of us, and before that used to get to me.

  “Now, I go to a meeting and look for someone who is doing worse than me and try to help them. Sometimes it means just sitting and listening, but that works too. At least it does for me. Being kind makes me kinder and that can only be a good thing. I used to be one of those guys that sat in the dark complaining about the darkness. Not anymore. From now on I’m going to try to be the kindness I want to see in the world.”

  Fr. Reilly had reminded him of that. Even though Danny had heard it lots of times, there was something in the way the priest said it—something very kind and loving. It got to him, right in the middle of Rome, and he’d cried like a baby.

  “And now I’m going to sit down a
nd shut up. But before I finish I want to share one last thing with anyone who is new or is coming back. I want you to know that if someone like me can make it then so can you, if you’re just willing to try. Life will not be perfect, but you can learn to live in it without drinking. It’s hard but it can be done.”

  *

  Christmas Eve in Rome was a busy time. Pilgrims from all over the world flocked to hear the midnight Mass. Patrick stayed away from all that and sat on the patio, across from the Pantheon, waiting for Miriam. They hadn’t gotten together since John had died.

  At the closing of his days, John Melchor, who had spent his whole life fighting the good fight, had very little proof that any of it was worth it. It was the way of life for those priests who stayed true to their calling. It was the same for everyone, but it was more acute for old men who died alone and forgotten by the world.

  **

  “I know what’s really bothering you,” Miriam had said to John as she tried to coax him out one last time. He had looked up at her and tried to smile, or sneer, it really didn’t matter anymore. Most of what he’d been was gone, leaving only a shadow.

  “You’re worried about your legacy. You want to be remembered. Perhaps, after you’ve gone, I will see about erecting your statue, just like you asked.”

  “At the foot of Bruno’s?”

  “Why not? And when there’s no one around, the two of you can compare notes until the end.”

  He laughed at that, an almost strangled gurgle, but she knew it made him happy.

  “Thank you, my dearest, dearest friend, for this and for everything. I have become a bitter old man and for that I apologize.”

  “You’re not getting off that easy. We’re still going to go and have dinner with Patrick, just like we agreed.”

  “But I am not hungry.”

  “You can have soup then and be happy with it.” Miriam unlocked his wheels and began to push him forward. Despite everything, she was truly happy. She wasn’t serious about the statue; he already had one in her heart.

  He died in his sleep that night, peacefully, despite all the storms that had raged throughout his life. He died with a smile on his face, as if he were going off with an old friend. Or it could have been a grimace. Patrick had said the Mass. He kept it as simple as he could but Miriam thought he had rushed it a bit.

  He had. He’d never felt comfortable in the Church of the Dead.

  ***

  When she came through the crowd she was smiling. She looked so old—they both did—but when they were together they saw each other as they once had been: young, energetic and full of hope. The years had worn all of that down, but they still believed in each other and all that they’d stood for.

  “You’re such a creature of habit.” She laughed as she sat.

  “Now that’s rich coming from a nun.”

  They ordered tea as it was far too late for coffee. Giovanni’s nephew, who had taken over the café, stocked Barry’s tea especially for them.

  “Any news?” he asked.

  “I just got off the phone with Deirdre. They’re well and are getting ready for a big family Christmas. Jacinta went over—though how she manages at her age is beyond me.”

  “And why didn’t you go over?”

  “And leave you here on your own?”

  “Now, Miriam, you know we’re never really alone here.”

  She smiled at him as she sipped her tea. “Ah, the souls of the faithful departed.”

  “And the unfaithful, too. But tell me—how’s Danny doing?”

  “He’s still off the drink. Deirdre thinks he might make it this time. I hope she’s not getting her hopes up again.”

  “We must all have hope. The world would be far too bleak without it. And I hope he does make it this time. We need a few ‘good news’ stories to keep us going.”

  “Speaking of news—though I’m not sure if it’s good or bad—I got a letter from Karl.”

  “Did you, indeed? And how is he?”

  “Actually he’s dead. He died in the spring and the letter was forwarded by his attorney.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “There’s more. He wrote to me to explain a few things. It seems that when he was helping to get John out of El Salvador, he had to make deals with a few devils.”

  “He never.”

  “He did. That was the price. They helped him and he owed them, and when they went into Iraq they called in their favors.”

  “Oh, Miriam, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m not. It all makes sense now.”

  “Yes, it certainly does.”

  *

  “So?” Danny asked Joel as they pulled out of the car park. “How was your trip to Montreal?”

  Rachael had already told him about it. They’d gone to celebrate the Festival of Lights with her mother’s family and it had passed without major incident. She’d said it was a bit stilted but it was a good beginning on the road to reconciliation.

  “Don’t ask. These people can’t even say ‘good morning’ without schmearing it with hasbara.”

  “C’mon now, Joel. Don’t be getting all dark and broody on me.”

  “But you don’t know, Danny. You don’t know what these people are like.”

  “Maybe not, but I know what you’re like.”

  “You know . . .” Joel tried to sound serious but he was beginning to smile. “I think I preferred you when you were a drunk.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because, as long as you were like that, I wasn’t the most pathetic person I knew.”

  “You know what your problem is, Joel? You’re just like everybody else. We’re all born into the wrong lives. Everyone’s an expert on what everybody else should be doing.”

  “It’s a Jewish thing.”

  “That’s another problem right there—you know that? You guys think you wrote the book on everything.”

  “Didn’t we?”

  “Well . . . not everything.”

  “Do you know the difference between the Irish and the Jews?” Joel was clearly enjoying himself so Danny played along.

  “Tell me.”

  “When the Irish do wrong, they say the devil made them do it. But when the Jews do wrong, they say it’s because of their covenant with God.”

  “I hope you’re not going to be saying stuff like that when we get there.” It was the first time Danny had been invited to Martin and Rachael’s and he was determined that nothing should spoil it.

  “No, Danny. This is a private conversation—for heretic’s ears only. And don’t worry; everybody is delighted you’re coming.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Yes, even Martin. Rachael told me.”

  *

  Rachael checked everything one last time. She wanted it to be perfect and it was. She and Grainne had combined their decorations, including those that Deirdre had passed on when she downsized into her condo. Jacinta had brought a few pieces, too, and some had belonged to Danny’s grandmother. Rachael liked the sound of old Nora Boyle. She reminded her of the stories of her own grandmother who had smuggled her younger brother and sister out of Hungary and halfway across Europe when she was only eleven.

  Since Rome, and the inevitable showdown between Martin and Grainne, all was calm. Martin, with some encouragement, was able to accept his sister’s apology. He said he took it for the sake of peace but, since then, things had changed. He began to see his sister differently and they began to spend time together, alone or with the kids. So much of what lay between them was nothing more than the residue of childhood squabbles and most of that evaporated when Grainne miscarried.

  She had taken it as a condemnation of herself as a woman and poor Doug was no help at all—constantly seeking assurance that there was nothing he could have done. Marti
n had stepped up and coaxed his sister out of the funk that followed, even getting her to join a gym. In time they became jogging partners and were learning to indulge their rivalries in much healthier ways.

  Life with the Boyles was never dull but Rachael wouldn’t have it any other way. And, as the shadows of Danny’s past began to dissipate and blow away, a brighter future beckoned. Martin had been skeptical, but she knew how to get around that. She didn’t force the issue but she did share her own father’s growing admiration for Danny’s daily reform. Joel almost made it sound as though he and Danny were taking the journey together.

  Her mother’s family was still an issue—they were having difficulty accepting Martin and the secular life he and Rachael had chosen, particularly as it pertained to their child. She had explained it all to them and it was their choice. If they wanted to reject her for that—she’d reluctantly accept it. Her mother understood and had begun to advocate on Martin’s behalf. It was easy. He was doing so well at work and could provide for his family, and that was all that really mattered. Rachael and her mother were united in that, though they were careful to keep much of the matter from her father.

  She was also concealing the fact that she was pregnant again. In deference to Grainne, they would keep the news until after the holidays. Deirdre knew; Martin shared everything with her to the point that sometimes Rachael felt that his mother was as much a part of their relationship as their own children. She didn’t mind. She liked and admired Deirdre and understood that Martin would always feel protective toward her. He was the same with her mother and treated her with such respect and consideration that Adina had no difficulty seeing him as the son she never had—even to the point of siding with him whenever he and Rachael disagreed. Rachael didn’t mind; Deirdre always sided with her.

  She checked again as the doorbell rang. Everything was perfect.

  Martin opened the door and Dougie and Daniel burst past him like loosed hounds hot on the trail. “Wait,” Grainne called after them. “Take your shoes off first.”

  “But we gotta go see the presents,” they both argued.