Spotting two recently vacated seats by the window at Starbucks, Rosaria quickly claimed them by placing a few index cards and a pen from her bag in front of one chair and her scarf on the back of the other. Then, she headed for the coffee line, checking out the chocolate covered biscotti as she did so.
“Skim latte grande. Name’s Rosaria,” she said to the young woman when she got to the counter, scooping up the biscotti and paying with her phone. The young woman had just written her name on the paper cup when Rosaria felt a hand on her arm.
“You beat me here. The Red Line was flat out crawling. And I had to make a stop at the post office to mail something home first. Got a seat?”
Patrick’s cheeks were flushed. He’d probably run the last few blocks. Rosaria could also see that he had a bad case of bed-head, as if he’d slept on his hair all wrong and hadn’t had time to take a shower. But, with the grace of his years, this young man could carry off his dark brown hair sticking out at odd, almost lateral directions. Yes, it was his youth, she decided. If Patrick had been her age, the effect would have been that of an unappealing, disheveled waster. Instead, and although she was annoyed with him, Rosaria could barely resist a motherly inclination to ruffle that untidy hair.
“Right over there, by the window.” She pointed. “I’ve already ordered. See you over there after you order.”
Rosaria had taken her seat and was leisurely starting to unwrap her biscotti when she was jolted by a booming, operatic male voice calling her name. “Rosaria, tu delicioso café con leche desnatada esta listo!” with a special emphasis on the delicioso.
Rosaria smiled as she went back to the counter. “Si, yo soy Rosaria, muchas gracias” she said to the stocky, blond barista—looking beyond her for what he obviously assumed was his Latina customer. “Rosaria. I think you have my skim latte.”
The young man turned a startled gaze to the tall, fair Irishwoman in front of him. “Sorry. The name, you know—Rosaria—just practicing my Spanish a little,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“Not a problem. Happens all the time. It can be an Irish name too. Your Spanish is lovely. Made me feel more interesting.”
They both laughed.
Patrick joined Rosaria in a few minutes at the window-side table, throwing his blue knapsack beside his chair and chuckling. “You know, at home we often use the Irish Padraig, instead of Patrick. But I decided that it’s such a complication when you travel—Irish language names seem to befuddle people, even in Boston. I’m christened Padraig, but even my parents call me the English Patrick. Anyway, so, I told the barista my name was Pat. I can’t imagine what that one would do with writing Padraig on my coffee cup.”
Rosaria laughed, “Good move.” Damn. It is hard to stay angry at this young man.
“Good to see you, Rosaria,” Patrick said. Then, he looked around and commented, “Great city, this. Tons of energy and things going on. Young people.” He smiled and looked-up. “Nicely left-wing politically. Reminds me of Galway City a little.”
He moved his chair and settled in. “But not so old as Galway, you know.” Patrick laughed. “Boston thinks it’s old, but it’s young. Galway City’s been around for a while. Since the 13th or 14th century.”
“Well, that’s older,” Rosaria replied. “But Boston’s old for us in the States. You know, I’m familiar with Galway. I did a program there as a student and I’ve spent a number of holidays there. Great city.”
“That’s right. Bridie told me that. So, you know what I mean.” He smiled.
“I do indeed,” Rosaria replied before switching subjects. She leaned forward on her elbows and looked at him curiously. “Hey, I crossed paths with Jim O’Sullivan the other day. I was surprised to hear that you’d cancelled your appointment with him about his work with the Boston for Ireland group.”
“Oh, right,” the young man replied—not quite as embarrassed as she thought he should be. She hoped he wasn’t one of those clueless young people who casually blew off commitments and appointments, after asking you to help them.
“Well, you know, I got involved researching another angle. One thing led to another and, you know...” He shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile.
“And you cancelled at the last minute. Jim is a very busy man, Patrick. That meeting was a favor to me. I was very upset to find out you cancelled.”
“Oh, I am sorry, Rosaria. It won’t happen again.”
“I hope not,” she replied curtly. “What about the meeting with Sean Fleming at Derry Aid? That one was tough to get too. I certainly hope you’re not going to stand Mr. Fleming up.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I think that’s on the book for the beginning of next week. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
Why does he seem so disinterested? Rosaria thought. These appointments were all right on target for what he’d said he was researching.
“But this one with Joyce is the best. Thanks loads for setting it up for me. Brilliant,” he said. Rosaria noted a new energy in Patrick’s voice.
“Glad to do it, Patrick,” Rosaria replied, following with what she knew was a school-marmish comment. “So glad you aren’t too busy to keep the appointment and be on time.”
She was peeved again with herself for being charmed at Patrick’s wry, boyish smile and his whispered reply, “Sorry, Rosaria. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“Okay,” she said shortly, but had to smile. Taking a sip of her latte, she asked, “Tell me, why is Liam Joyce of such high interest to your project, Patrick? Other than the fact that he’s Irish—comes from Galway too, right?”
“Yes, outside Clifden, near where my family lives. He has a common last name there.”
“Do you know his family?”
“My parents know of his people. Not him personally, except a glimpse when he came home for a visit or maybe they’d read about him now and again in the papers.”
“Read about him for what? His work with the homeless?”
“Right. They call him Saint Liam. Do they call him that here?”
“Well, in some circles. He’s very well respected—completely devoted to his work. Not married, no outside life, lives in a tiny room at Saint Martin’s.”
“I like the name of the shelter,” Patrick said. “Martin de Porres, a South American saint, I think. Right?”
“Right” Rosaria replied. “Seventeenth century mixed-race Peruvian—a Dominican, if I recall. He’s the patron saint of social justice. A good choice.”
Patrick nodded.
Rosaria picked up the thread of the conversation again. “But, can we get back to Liam Joyce? How is he a terrific contact other than the fact that he’s also a saint for social justice in Boston? I mean, he’s not even on the list of donors you researched.”
Patrick looked uncomfortable and moved back in his chair. “Right. But I think he may have some important information, even if he wasn’t directly involved at the time.”
“In Galway? Pretty far from operations in Northern Ireland.”
“True, true. But it was an odd situation.” He pulled back further from the table. “Not something I can talk about yet, but...” He looked at her with a plea in his eyes not to press him further. “I will. I will when I can. I promise.”
Rosaria frowned and shook her head. “Okay. I don’t get it, but okay. Let’s go.” She reached for her coat.
Patrick touched Rosaria’s arm and met her eyes. “Ro, just to be clear, I’m going to take this meeting with Liam Joyce alone.” Patrick’s tone was firm and polite, if somewhat awkward. “I don’t need you to be there. I can handle this one on my own.” He gave her that damned charming smile.
Of course, Rosaria hadn’t fully expected to be included in the meeting, but now she was surprised with how hurt and disappointed she was at being excluded. Patrick was being so mysterious about his project, her curiosity was being piqued. She was becoming increasingly interested in what exactly Patrick was looking to find. In addition, she was helping him set up these meetings with acq
uaintances from her business days, and she wanted some sense of what they were about. That was reasonable, wasn’t it?
Maintaining her dignity at being put in her place by this very young man, Rosaria gave a careful, equally polite reply. “Right, Patrick. If that’s the way you want to do it. It’s your project.”
He nodded, avoiding her eyes.
Their exchange came to an abrupt end as other customers pushed their way through the door to get their morning coffee. Her face set, Rosaria took a moment before tilting her chin upward, a signal for Patrick to move on.
Patrick could barely contain his excitement as they walked toward Saint Martin House. Though she was a tall woman with a long stride, Rosaria had to work to keep up with him. At the intersection of Boylston and Tremont, she’d held his arm back as he started to walk against the light in heavy traffic.
“Are you sure you’re not from Boston?” she commented. “You act like a Boston pedestrian—worse than Boston drivers.”
“Hey, we could have made it across easy, Ro.”
“You can, I can’t,” The light turned and they started across the street with a clutch of other pedestrians. “I have this peripheral vision problem on my right side. I’m told that it’s temporary, but right now I can’t really see so clearly if there is an oncoming car.”
Patrick stopped and turned to her. “Oh, sorry. The accident Aunt Bridie referred to?”
“Sort of,” she replied with a smile, glad that Bridie had not given Patrick more details. How easily she’d said sort of, how smoothly it rolled off her tongue. An accident? Sort of. A murderous assault more like it. On the Gloucester coast, her head smashed against a granite boulder by a psychopathic brute.
The “insult to the brain,” as the doctor called it, had impacted her vision. The loss of the peripheral vision on her right side, again temporary if she was lucky, and the occasional shimmering or flashing light just outside her field of sight. That too should go away in time, with work. And maybe it wouldn’t. She’d just have to accommodate all that could be repaired—like her broken nose still waiting for more surgery—and be grateful she was alive.
Rosaria brought herself back from that time to this day—filled with a rush of gratitude to be alive and walking on a busy Boston street. A bright sun over the bustle of the sidewalks, its light cut in and out by the shadows of city buildings. She felt a random surge of pleasure just to be walking in a crowd of other able-bodied pedestrians, jostling against each other on the sidewalk.
The streets were still a mess of demolition and reconstruction. Did it ever end? Those infernal orange barrels with reflective tape strung between them. And the cones—meant to help guide pedestrians—cones that she often couldn’t see until too late and frequently tripped over.
But still. Present and upright, with almost everything in her body working properly. Making her way in a crowd, accompanied by a slightly annoying but buoyant young Irishman on a mission.
Patrick continued to walk, far ahead of Rosaria, almost as if he’d wanted to lose her in the crowd. When he reached Saint Martin’s, working his way through the milling street people lined up for a free breakfast near the entrance, he turned to her with a quick wave, really more a dismissal than a goodbye. He was obviously eager to enter the shelter and leave her behind.
Before he disappeared, Rosaria called to him over the crowd. “Meet you up at the corner of Tremont and Boylston after.” She’d pointed toward the end of the street.
Reluctantly—had she seen a slight scowl on his face?—Patrick nodded.
What’s this? She resolved to confront him about this whole business after he got out of this meeting. Frustrated, Rosaria turned from the shelter entrance toward the corner of Tremont and Boylston Street. As she did so, she bumped into a stocky man in a black Bruins tee shirt.
“Sorry,” the man said. He continued to walk toward the Common without turning or looking at her.
◆◆◆
Even though she’d just had a cup of coffee, Rosaria stopped to pick up an herbal tea at a corner shop near the Common, deciding she could use something to hold and settle her down a little. Maybe she just hadn’t spent much time with young people these days. He wasn’t a bad kid. She was becoming a curmudgeoness.
Rosaria was pleased to find an empty bench available. She balanced her cup of Lemon Lift on her knee after she sat down, enjoying the scent as she lifted the cover. She took a deep breath, beginning to regain her equilibrium, and she counted her good fortune to find a whole empty bench—until she noticed a thick ball of yellow spit at the base of the bench—just inches from her shoe. No wonder the damned bench had been available.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she muttered shaking her head and picking up her bag to move to another bench. No way could she enjoy her cup of tea seeing that phlegmy thing staring up at her.
Rosaria settled into a nearby bench next to an older woman with a shopping cart of what looked like her life’s belongings beside her. Please, please don’t be an angry, disturbed and talkative person, thought Rosaria as she gave the woman a hopeful smile. The woman smiled back with dark intelligent eyes and looked away. Thank God for that.
Not for the first time, Rosaria wondered about what had brought people like this woman with the dark, lively eyes to living rough. The old children’s board game Chutes and Ladders crossed Rosaria’s mind—the chutes and ladders of life.
As she took a sip of the tea—so welcome and comforting—she looked around and saw again the man in the Bruins tee shirt she’d bumped into outside Saint Martin’s. He was leaning against the wall by the subway entrance, not looking at her. Yet, she could somehow tell—in spite of all the other people around—that he was aware of, focused on her. What’s this? When she was younger, she would have been on the alert for a strange man hanging about, perhaps following her, perhaps about to make an unwelcome advance. But she wasn’t younger. She was older. Stop it, she said to herself, probably just waiting for someone, as I am. All the same, she pulled her bag closer. She thought she might have seen him give a crooked smile at that. How aggravating.
Rosaria’s train of thought was broken sometime later when she saw Patrick crossing Tremont Street against the light. A broad grin on his face, he wove through the heavy traffic with high energy, deftly navigating between cars, trucks and taxis.
Patrick’s breath was short and his cheeks flushed when he got to her park bench. The homeless woman got up and walked away through the crowd with her shopping cart to make room for him on the bench. He didn’t sit down, but stood before Rosaria, smiling and looking everywhere but at her. He was shrugging his shoulders nervously. They almost jumped.
“Good meeting?” she asked after staring at him for a moment.
He looked at her directly for the first time, snapping and unsnapping the fasteners on the strap of his knapsack and laughed. “Oh, Jesus, yes, a really good meeting. It’s done, I tell you, it’s done.”
“What’s done? Rosaria asked, raising her hand palm outward to him. “And, please, Patrick, just stop the jumping around and fidgeting. Honestly.”
“Sorry.” He settled, but a triumphant smile remained on his face.
“What’s done, Patrick?” Rosaria pressed, curious and impatient.
He shifted his stance again. “The meeting’s done.” He looked at her now with that fetching smile. “A good meeting done.”
She cocked her head to give him a skeptical look. There was something more there and the irritating young charmer was not going to tell her.
“Really, I can’t tell you more now, Rosaria. I’m sorry. Not now. You’ll know soon enough.” He looked past her toward the ballpark on the Common.
Rosaria absorbed that reply for a beat or two and stood up. Almost as tall as Patrick, she faced him with a frown, her head cocked to one side. “Listen, Patrick. I deserve to know what you’re up to. I’ve been giving you a big assist. For crying out loud, I even set up this meeting with Joyce. These are my contacts I’m using to help y
ou with your project. I can understand your wanting to take the meeting alone, but you can’t even tell me what it’s about? What is this?”
He closed his eyes against her in a childlike defense, suddenly serious, before opening them again and saying, “Look, it’s better all-around for you not to know. For your own sake. Okay?”
“Better for me not to know? No, it’s not okay. And for my sake? What’s that supposed to mean?” Rosaria could feel her face reddening. She let out an exasperated sigh and looked around for a few moments to collect her thoughts. She was unsettled to see the man in the black tee shirt still leaning against the subway entrance wall and now watching them both closely. Shaking off that image, Rosaria took a deep breath and said, “Hey, Patrick. You’re making me uncomfortable. I don’t know what you’re up to, but this is beginning to feel like something complicated. Something I may not want my name attached to.”
She was surprised to hear him respond with a stubborn little nod, “Just as well, just as well.”
“What the hell? You need to tell me just what that’s supposed to mean.”
Around them, people were milling and pushing in different directions as some rushed for the subway one way and students from Emerson College, headed to classes, pushed the other way. Patrick was jostled but the stubborn stare stayed on his face.
Her words rushed out, “And you’d damned well better not be getting your Aunt Bridie into anything messy, Patrick—or me, for Chrissakes, who’s been helping you all along.”
“I’m sorry, Ro.”
She didn’t think he looked sorry.
“This is big. Better you not know now. You’ll hear about it soon enough.”
She could feel herself starting to lose it. “Jesus Christ.” She turned angrily to see the man in the Bruins shirt still watching them. Furious, she shouted to him over the crowd. “What are you looking at?”
Buried Troubles Page 4