Buried Troubles

by Marian McMahon Stanley

  A high bump on the road lifted them both momentarily from their seats.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Rosaria gasped.

  “Now you sound like my ma,” Mossie laughed.

  After she had settled down, at least for the moment, Rosaria asked Mossie, “When did the Home close?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Might have been in the late seventies. Times change, you know. Girls who found themselves in that way now might go over to England to take care of things. Or, if they decided to keep the baby, their families might not be happy, but they wouldn’t abandon their daughters or those poor babies the way they did before. Ireland took some time to grow up like that. Out of the dark time with the old priests calling the shots on everything.”

  Mossie sighed heavily. “There may be a referendum soon on reproductive rights. That might bring us into the modern world on that kind of thing. We’ll see.”

  “I never heard of Saint Mary of Egypt.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have unless you were of a certain mindset like the nuns were. Saint Mary of Egypt was a prostitute who found the Lord—very old times—maybe seventh century.”

  Rosaria could just see their destination, the roof and chimneys of a large stone building, as the van continued its descent down the long, narrow road. “Well, that would certainly put a name to how the Church felt about those girls,” she commented.

  Mossie murmured his assent as they pulled to the end of the road and got out of the van. In front of them, a small harbor with a heavy, deserted granite pier, gulls wheeling overhead in a dense gray sky. If this pier was a famine relief project, Rosaria thought, where in God’s name did men, even with horses, ever get the energy to maneuver those heavy granite blocks with so little available food to fuel them? She guessed food must have been part of their compensation.

  On the other side of them stood the Saint Mary of Egypt Mother and Baby Home. A high stone wall, a good foot taller than even Mossie O’Toole, surrounded the main building. In the center of the wall, on an entrance wide enough to allow a vehicle to pass, a heavy wooden door stood with a rusted chain and lock dangling from its handle. Rosaria looked at Mossie with a question in her eyes.

  He nodded and picked up a good sized rock with a sharp edge. Two quick blows and the rusty lock surrendered.

  Mossie went first, Rosaria following close behind.

  The house was designed by someone from another place. A place where a big house was expected to have a curving driveway where a car could pull up and dislodge its visitors under a welcoming portico. A place where graceful lines softened stonework.

  They had used long, generous windows to view the sea. That must have been before someone built a tall stone wall to stop people from getting in, or perhaps from getting out. Now, the first floor windows looked only at the gray stone enclosure at the end of the driveway, maybe with a glimpse of the sea from the top floors.

  The order of nuns had not been able to keep the house up to its previous standards, and it clearly showed the damage of having been abandoned for many years. But the old owners—”the strangers who tried to teach us their ways’’—had left their mark and a vestigial grace in the old building.

  In her mind’s eye, Rosaria couldn’t help but see the faces of young women in the windows, in the overgrown gardens, on that driveway. Seeing a girl clumsy with pregnancy being dropped off under that portico with only a cardboard suitcase. Perhaps by a tasca or taxi from the train station. Perhaps by one member of the family she likely wouldn’t ever see again—maybe her heartsick older brother.

  Here to work and earn her keep until the baby came, only to have the child taken from her—if it survived—often given to Irish-Americans who pulled up that long circular driveway in big cars. Americans rich with hope and cheer and money and a future she couldn’t offer her own flesh and blood.

  Prevented from coming downstairs by the nuns, the agony of watching through these long windows as her child is taken away—leaving an open wound in a young mother’s being that would never heal.

  ◆◆◆

  Rosaria and Mossie walked to the cemetery beside the Home, where the Home’s high enclosure gave way to the loose rubble of a low stone wall. A wide gate stood open just beyond an old oak tree. They could see beside the Home itself a small lot of white gravestones within a wrought iron enclosure. A Celtic cross stood in the center. “For the nuns,” Mossie murmured.

  They climbed the road up a gentle incline until they came to a flat grove of stubby, windswept trees that led to a large burial vault.

  “This one was originally from the famine years,” Mossie said. “Before so many died that there was no one left: to bury the bodies. They’d be left by the side of the road covered by some dirt with a few stones beside them to mark the site. For a long time you could find those little piles of stone all over the back paths, the unimproved roads and lanes.”

  The door to the vault was a heavy concrete slab with its iron hinges hanging loose, long since rusted and useless. Rosaria leaned closer to the door to read the blackened Latin inscription on it. De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine: Domine, exaudi vocum meum. “Out of the depths have I cried to thee, O Lord Lord, hear my voice.”

  “Let’s go, Mossie. I think I’ve seen enough.” Rosaria turned and walked to the van, her arms folded and her head down.

  CHAPTER 31

  Solly and Marguerite sat on one of the benches on Northeastern University’s Centennial Common—just across the street from the Tremont Street police station. They ate their takeout Asian stir-fry in companionable silence and watched Archie join a student game of Ultimate Frisbee.

  “So,” he said as he delicately mixed his stir-fried vegetables, “you didn’t really have to drive all the way from Maudsley to Boston—with the dog—for an appointment in Jamaica Plain today, did you, Mother Superior?”

  “Oh, stop calling me that, Solly. It’s Marguerite. And yes, it was a nice-to-do, but not a necessity, I guess.” Marguerite smiled.

  “And you really didn’t have to bring his nibs.” Solly lifted his chin to indicate Archie, a study in canine joy, his short legs pumping wildly as he ran back and forth among the Frisbee players.

  “No, I didn’t. I just thought you might miss him and I know your schedule wouldn’t allow you to drive up to Maudsley.”

  “Yeah, I do miss the little guy.”

  “I could tell from the way he greeted you that the feeling was mutual.” Marguerite laughed. “I think you miss his mistress too.”

  “That’s the truth.” Solly leaned his elbows on his knees and concentrated on the Frisbee game. He nodded. “That’s the truth.”

  “She’s been an independent woman for a long time, Solly.” He nodded and listened as Marguerite continued. “But you’re good for each other. I hope nothing gets in the way.”

  “Yeah.” Solly looked across the campus for a long time before slapping his knee. “Buy you an ice cream, Mother Superior?”

  “Marguerite. And I’d be delighted, Detective Belkin,” Marguerite replied.

  “Let’s go, Archie,” Solly hollered. “Let’s go, big guy.”

  Archie came galloping across the grass. Solly caught him up in his arms, and turned his grinning face against a frenzy of doggy licks. Then, he looked at the little dog. “We need our Rosie back. Right, Archie?”

  CHAPTER 32

  The Marian Manor Care Home where Thomas Martin had spent his last days sat atop a hill behind Saint Joseph’s Church. A statue of the Blessed Mother, surrounded by colorful autumn plants, anchored a circular driveway in front of the red brick building. Rosaria caught a glimpse of the back garden where Thomas Martin had taken his deadly fall, just below a small granite cliff that bordered the property.

  Theresa Martin had called ahead to speak to the nursing supervisor, asking her to take Rosaria’s appointment and to feel comfortable about relaying information on her father’s death. She assured the supervisor that the family had no interest in pursuing legal action against the
care home because of her father’s death in a fall.

  Rosaria didn’t think that very American, litigious thought had ever occurred to the care home. With some hesitation, but with the certain trust that one finds in small communities, the supervisor agreed to talk with Rosaria. They met in her small office. The supervisor had a round, efficient face, wireless glasses, and frank brown eyes. The badge on her flowered smock said Sheila Early.

  “Well, you know, Mr. Martin had a number of issues cognitively and physically. Pity. He was a wonderful man. Lovely family. I went to school with his daughter Theresa.”

  “Did he have balance issues?”

  “Yes, he did. Not all the time, mind you, but he could be shaky. That’s why we were so sorry, but not entirely surprised, when he took a fall in the garden.” Sheila Early paused for a moment and, looking away, shook her head.

  “It seems odd that Mr. Martin took a fall when he had an aide with him,” Rosaria said, reading the woman’s mind.

  “Indeed. It seemed that way to us, too.” She leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “We thought Joseph Mulvaney was a fine aide too. New, but showed so much promise. He was good with the patients. And he was strong. He could lift them with no trouble from the wheelchairs and the beds. I thought he had a gift for working with the elderly and the infirm. It’s not always easy, you know.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Rosaria agreed. “Do you think I might talk to this aide?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  “I wish you could, but he left the day Mr. Martin died.” Sheila Early looked down and then raised her face to Rosaria’s. “There was a big hullabaloo when someone looked out the window and saw Mr. Martin on the ground. We rushed to tend to Mr. Martin. Then,” she paused, “then afterwards no one knew where Joseph Mulvaney had gone to.”

  “That’s curious.”

  “Yes, at first we thought that maybe he was just so upset, or...” She waved her hand. “We didn’t know what to think.”

  “Would you happen to have a picture of Joseph Mulvaney, a staff photo, Ms. Early?”

  “Call me Sheila, please. We gave the employee picture to Gerard Conneely, but I may have another one here.” She rustled through her desk drawer and handed a photo to Rosaria. The face that looked out of the picture was square-jawed and pleasant, with dark eyes and a distinctive pug nose.

  “Sergeant Conneely is investigating?”

  “Yes, he is now. We just spoke to him again this morning.” Sheila Early dropped back in her chair. “The staff has been talking. See, the rock garden arrangements out back deliberately include only smooth, round stones - smaller ones. Mr. Martin had a deep gash on the back of his head.” She moved her hand to the back of her own head. “From a sharp rock.”

  “What do you make of that?” Rosaria asked. She certainly knew what she would make of it.

  “Well, you know, there are some stray sharp rocks on that stony face in the back of the building. One of the staff had the idea to search in the bramble bushes in that area.”

  “And?”

  “And she found a sharp stone with blood and hair and tissue on it.”

  “And you called Sergeant Conneely.”

  “I did. He came right up. We told him the story and gave him the rock and the photo. The first thing the guards did was do a search for Joseph Mulvaney in all the civic databases.”

  Rosaria waited.

  “Joseph Mulvaney died up in Sligo five years ago.”

  “Stolen identity.”

  Sheila Early nodded.

  “Do Theresa and her mother know this?”

  “They should now. Gerard was going to sit down with them this afternoon.”

  ◆◆◆

  On her way out of the care home, Rosaria decided to drop in on Father Roche, pastor of Saint Josephs, who had said Patrick Keenan’s funeral Mass. She thought perhaps he might be able to shed some light on the history of the Saint Mary of Egypt Mother and Baby Home.

  Father Roche was putting up a notice in the back of the church, which was empty on this quiet weekday afternoon.

  “Why would that be of interest to you now, Ms. O’Reilly?” he asked when she told him her purpose in talking to him. “But come, come, sit down,” he invited her as he led her to one of the back pews.

  “I’m just checking out details about some activities there in the seventies for an interested party.”

  Father Roche looked perplexed. Though he apparently decided to take this vague explanation at face value, it didn’t seem to be of much use as he knew nothing about the Home.

  “Oh, I can’t tell you anything about that. I can tell you that one of my predecessors used to say Mass and hear confessions at the Home while it was open.” He looked at his hands. “A sad place, by all reports. I would have had difficulty supporting it in any way. But I suppose Father Dolan thought he was giving some comfort and hope, both to the nuns and the young women.”

  “Is Father Dolan still practicing as a priest?”

  “Oh, Father Dolan died a long time ago and the Home has been closed for years.” He shrugged. “And, as for me, I was transferred out here from County Waterford four or five years ago. So, I’m not a very good source on local history. I couldn’t even tell you what order of nuns ran the place or even, honestly, tell you where it was.”

  “I see. Well, Father, thank you for your time. I appreciate it.” Rosaria rose from the pew. “It was worth a try.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help, Ms. O’Reilly. I didn’t know the place, but apparently, it’s a dark memory around here.”

  Rosaria nodded. “Good afternoon, Father.” As she turned to leave, she heard an apparent afterthought from Father Roche. “You know, now that I think of it, when I first came here to Saint Joseph’s, I did bury the old caretaker from the Home. I think he spent the last few months of his life at the care home.”

  Rosaria resumed her seat. “Really.”

  “Yes, he was quite old. Not too many people came to the service. When they get that old, you know, that happens. Anyway, I think his son came from Boston - I hear he does wonderful work with the poor there. A big man from Boston came with him. He’s the one that bought the cemetery plot and tombstone. Seemed to have money. I think he’s in construction.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Hugh had called several times since they’d spent the night together when he’d visited Clifden. Rosaria let the calls go to voicemail and hadn’t listened to or returned them, hoping he would get the message. Rosaria was usually direct. She’d always disdained as cowards people who “ghosted” in a relationship. People who just stopped responding without explanation. And here she was doing it herself.

  The night that she and Hugh had spent together in James Burke’s cottage on the Sky Road had been beautiful. It would have been a very sweet memory if it hadn’t been so darkly shadowed by her betrayal of Solly.

  Mossie O’Toole was being a good friend—though she could have killed him at the time—in his dogged intrusion into her romantic life. She knew he was right. It had all become clear to her the day they rode along Loch Ingah to Mossie’s cabin. Hugh was the past, and she had to admit that some parts of his personality had not aged well. Perhaps he might say the same of her.

  In any case, he was not a good fit for her anymore. Solly was the right partner for her. She would explain this to Hugh, not in a letter or email, but in person or by phone. They were different people now than they were then. They had some rich memories. And they should leave it there.

  Yes, she would explain all that, but not right now. She couldn’t handle it right now. Instead, Rosaria called Marguerite at the Motherhouse in Maudlsey with a question.

  “I’m not familiar with that order, the Compassionates,” Marguerite responded. “I do remember we had some Bon Secours Sisters who did good work at home in Quebec. I know the Bon Secours ran hospitals in Ireland, too—and I believe, much to their shame now, mother and baby homes. From what I read, the philosophies of these orders back then were quite different fr
om our order. How shall I say it? More punitive with a streak of—perhaps this is too strong a word—cruelty. And I think they were under the thumb of the church hierarchy and the priests far more than our order was. You have to remember that Ireland was a theocracy for centuries.”

  Rosaria thought back to her own birth mothers experience of real compassion from Marguerites order—the Sisters of Jeanne d’Arc. If they’d been in Ireland, Rosaria’s and her mother’s story might have been quite different.

  “Do you want me to take this for you, Rosaria? To find out if any of the sisters who were at Saint Mary of Egypt back then are still alive—and would be willing to talk about those days?

  Rosaria didn’t respond.

  “Your own history might make that line of inquiry a complicated experience for you,”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  “A big girl always asking for trouble, it seems. And one who always has to do everything herself.” Marguerite paused for a few moments. “Loosen your grip, Rosaria. Let me clear the way for you first. If the order still exists, and there is a nun willing to talk about those days, it will be easier for me to initiate contact and a discussion.”

  Rosaria gazed out at the rocks and seaweed outside Mr. Burke’s cottage and the sea beyond. “Okay, okay. You win, Miss Bossy.” She could hear the nun chuckle at the other end of the call. “You know, you’re not my Mother Superior, Marguerite. Okay. Let me know,” Rosaria said.

  When Rosaria hung up from the call with Marguerite, she was surprised at her level of relief and gratitude. As she got older, she was experiencing how good it felt to share the burden sometimes. It was true—she didn’t have to do everything herself. Still learning.