Francis’s face lost its sullenness, and he looked at the priest in astonishment. “You and the old man in the
IRA
together, and you a priest?” The old man gave a curt nod, and returned to his dinner.
“When were you in Ireland, Francis?” Brennan asked.
“A while back.”
“Doing what?”
Terry answered the question in a stage accent: “Liftin’ a dacent pint and shaggin’ the local colleens, if it’s any of your business, you fookin’ eejits.”
But Francis merely said: “Touring around, doing a bit of studying, odd jobs.” He shrugged.
Everyone was suddenly hungry, and it looked as if peace would reign. Several conversations started up, and I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Maura had uncharacteristically stayed out of the fray. My daughter had looked on in fascinated silence. Our own family strife must have looked dull and benign in comparison.
But Francis couldn’t leave well enough alone. “So. Bridey. How’s Larry Lunch Bucket?”
“Steadily employed, is how he is,” Brigid snapped.
“Well, that’s all that counts, isn’t it? Brings home a paycheque to keep all those childer in shoes. Why’d you leave him home — again? More fun without him, right?”
“What?” Brigid stared at him. “I notice you can’t keep your eyes off this guy.” Francis pointed his fork in my direction.
“What on earth brought that on, Francis?” Patrick asked with unfeigned concern.
But Bridey was well able to speak for herself. “Monty knows I’ve been warm for his form since I first laid eyes on him. He also knows, tragically, that I’m spoken for.”
“Larry. That plodder. ‘What’s new on the construction site today dear? Nothin’, Bridey, still waitin’ for the drywall. Same ole, same ole. Is my bologna sandwich ready yet?’ If you’d held off, finished college and played your cards right, you could have had someone like this.” Now it was his knife that pointed me out.
Brennan had had enough. “Why the hell don’t you grow up, you little
garlach?
We’ve all gone out of our way to make allowances for you, Christ only knows why, and every time you show up, we have to endure your whinging and your tiresome little rants. So far today you’ve insulted our father, our guest Leo, your sister, her husband, me as usual — and for no fucking reason at all. Well, that’s over. This is the last time we’re going to put up with this shite from you.”
“Oh, a decree has gone out from Father Burke, has it? Are you the moral authority of this family now? I hope not, you fucking hypocrite.”
Leo broke in. “Francis, how can you talk to your brother in such a way? Fine man that he is, you should be seeking his guidance. Between him and Padraig here, they —”
“Fine man! Him! God’s anointed. Ask him about the time I went to see him in Rome. I worked at the airport, in the blistering sun, every day for one whole summer, to save up and go visit him at the Vatican or wherever the fuck he was supposed to be staying over there.”
“What were you doing in Rome, Brennan?” Leo asked, as if in the middle of a perfectly civilized conversation.
Brennan turned reluctantly from his brother to Father Killeen. “I did my
STL
at the Greg,
STD
at the Angelicum. When I had time I did some work at the Pontifical Institute for Sacred Music. In the seventies.”
“Well done! Did you meet the Holy Father?”
“I did. I struck up a friendship with Cardinal Muratore, and when the Pope —”
“Yeah, right,” Francis drawled. ”You and ten thousand other clerics. You can’t swing a cat over there without hitting a pair of priests. Well, in between hitting the books, singing like an angel in the choir, and licking the Pope’s ring, he was shacked up with some lady in waiting, or social secretary, or something —” all eyes turned to Brennan “— and he barely had time to see his own brother. Well? It’s true, isn’t it? Why don’t you come over here and give me a fat lip so I’ll shut up, like you did when we were kids. I know you’re dying to.”
Brennan was looking at him with fury. “If I go over there, they’ll have to dig me out of you.”
“I don’t hear you denying it.”
“Denying what?”
“That you were too busy living
la dolce vita
in Rome to spend a token amount of time with your own brother. If that was the only occasion you blew me off I might have forgotten it, but that’s what always happened with this guy. One time he even —”
“This is the first I’m hearing about the slight you claim to have suffered in Rome. I thought we spent quite a bit of time together; I was happy to see you. As for the high living you think I was doing, what can I say? You have the air of an informer about you today, Francis. Not a popular breed with certain people at this table. Of course, if you are morally superior to everyone else in the room, maybe you should take Holy Orders yourself. But until you do, I’ve got a word of advice: get over yourself and grow up, you peevish little prick!”
“Brennan, Brennan,” Leo interceded,
“quam tristis et afflicta fuit illa benedicta.”
Brennan looked at his mother, who had maintained a stunned silence throughout the meal. The pain in her face was visible for all to see. Brennan reached across the table and took her hand in his.
“Finally, someone he listens to,” Francis got in. “Maybe you can teach him —”
“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up, Francis!” Declan roared.
Nobody looked at anybody else. The silence was unearthly. Unfortunately, it was my little girl who started the next round. She slid from her chair, went over to Francis, reached up and tried to put her arms around his shoulders. His angry face did not turn in her direction. “Don’t cry,
leanbh mo chroí.
Don’t be sad. They all —”
“Leave me alone, you little four-eyed
caillichin!”
Normie looked at him, stricken, then started to wail and ran from the room. Any allusion to her glasses went straight to her heart. I started to get up but Christine went after her. “Normie!”
“How did she know that?” Teresa said with wonder. “That was the pet name I called him when he was a little boy. ‘Child of my heart.’”
“She has the sight,” I said, surprised I still had the power of speech. “I don’t know if I’d call it a gift.”
“You!” Declan bellowed at his son. “Apologize to that child. Now!”
“Fuck you!” Francis leapt up, knocking over his chair, and ran from the room. The front door slammed hard behind him.
Finally, we heard from Maura. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to rise in dignity, Teresa, and say: ‘We’ll have our coffee in the drawing room’?”
“I was thinking of something a little stronger, actually, Maura.”
“Right, then. Brandy and cigars in the living room. For the women. While the men clean up. After all it was one of their number who brought the whiff of unpleasantness into the room.”
I went downstairs to find Normie sitting on the couch, glasses clenched in her fist, tears streaming down her cheeks. Christine was at her side, and had a comforting arm around my weeping daughter.
“Normie, sweetheart,” I said, “you know he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings about your glasses. They look very pretty on you. You just touched a nerve and he thought of something to say he knew would make you leave him alone. He was upset that you knew he was sad, when he wanted everyone to think —”
“— that he’s tough and cool.”
“That’s right. Are you going to come upstairs?”
“I don’t think so.”
Christine said: “Forget about it, Normie. Uncle Fran’s a real dork. Let’s make some gargoyles now!”
“Okay!”
I left them to it and dutifully went into the kitchen, where the men were doing the dishes. “No, Leo, we’ll finish them up,” Terry was saying as I walked in. “You sit. Have your tea. We’re very efficient at this. An extra hand will throw us off.” Pat was looking as if he were about to be sick. Brennan and Declan had murder in their eyes.
Declan finally spoke. “Leo. I’m so sorry you had to witness that. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
“Declan, there’s no need to apologize. It’s the family that’s been hurt, not me. I just pray he’ll find the help he needs before he goes beyond words. Brennan, I know you’ll be praying along with me, for your poor brother. And for your own ability to minister to him with love and forbearance.”
Brennan looked about as prayerful as a Mob hit man, for whom all the joy had gone of out the job. His father went over and gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “Bren, put him out of your mind. For some reason the little prick can’t help himself.”
“Da,” Patrick said, “I tried for years to get him into therapy, but he —”
“Paddy, we know that. Now put the silver away so we can join the ladies before they swill down the last drop of brandy out there.”
When we entered the living room we heard my wife singing a tune familiar to me, coming as I do from a big Navy town: “No, Bridey, it’s ‘The cabin boy, the cabin boy, the dirty little nipper, he filled his ass with fibreglass and circumcised the skipper.’ Now, repeat after me —” She caught sight of the male contingent, and went smoothly on: “Knit one, purl one, don’t drop a stitch and you’ll have the loveliest little tea cozy. Oh, hello, boys.” I was relieved to see a smile on Teresa’s face, in anticipation of knitting a tea cozy or regaling the ladies in her bridge club with a few rousing lines of “The North Atlantic Squadron.”
Leo looked around and remarked: “All the family together, a perfect time to say the rosary.” Silence. “I’m coddin’ ye. I just want what everybody else wants: a good stiff belt of brandy.”
The party, such as it was, began to break up. Patrick had to go to
his office in Manhattan and took Maura with him. I stayed on, in the hopes that I might pick up another tidbit of information from Leo about the shooting, but I didn’t get the chance before it was time for him to go.
“I’ll run you out to
JFK
, Leo,” Terry offered.
“I want to talk to Leo,” Brennan declared in a tone that cut off all avenues of discussion. “Terry, I’ll drive you home and take Leo out. Let’s motor.”
“All right. Normie, you come and play with Christine. How about a sleepover?”
“Yay!” the girls exclaimed in unison. “We’ll bring our gargoyles and make some more at my house,” Christine said.
Leo said goodbye. I was sorry to see him go.
I got up to leave, too, but Brigid asked me to wait. “Monty, could I ask you to take me over to Terry’s house? I can’t go now because I want to talk to Mam without the whole crowd of them around. I won’t be long, though.”
“Sure. Take your time. I’ll be outside.”
I sat in the car and listened to music. Brigid emerged twenty minutes later. “I’m sorry, Monty. I didn’t know we’d gab that long. But I rarely get a chance to talk to her, and I’m going back to Philadelphia today.”
“That’s all right,” I assured her, as I pulled out from the curb. “You’ll be glad to see the tail end of us.”
“Nah. My life was boringly predictable before I embarked on this adventure. Where are your girls today?”
“They’re at Patrick’s, playing with their cousins. I hope there’s something to eat at Terry’s. I couldn’t eat at Mam’s. Lost my appetite when dingledoink showed up and ruined the lunch.”
“You’re hungry?”
“I am now.”
“Well, let’s get you something to eat. Where do you suggest?”
“We could go to Horgan’s, right there on Queens Boulevard.”
P.J. Horgan’s was a more elaborate bar than O’Malley’s, with stained glass lamps, booths along the left side and tables at the rear. We sat in a booth. Brigid exchanged pleasantries with the bartender,
who had come over from County Meath years before, and lived nearby. The waitress arrived and took our orders: beer for both of us, a club sandwich for Brigid. When we were alone, Brigid issued a command: “Ignore everything Francis said at the table.”
“Easy for me to ignore him. A little harder for the rest of you.”
“You can particularly ignore his suggestion that I was looking at you.”
“Oh. I was hoping that was the only kernel of truth in his little tirade. The long, lingering kiss you gave me at the wedding reception is the only sex I’ve had since I arrived in New York.”
“I’ll bet that puts you ahead of Francis! And speaking of that, I don’t believe a word of what he said about Bren being shacked up with a woman in Rome! Do you?”
I gave a noncommittal shrug and was saved from answering by the arrival of the waitress with two pints of lager.
“So. What were your brothers like when you were growing up?”
“Brats!”
“Well, why not? ‘Brat’ is just ‘brother’ in Russian.”
“How do you know that?”
“I studied a bit of Russian when I travelled over there.”
“When was that?”
“Years ago.”
“You were allowed to go to Russia?”
“What do you mean, allowed?”
“I don’t think we’re allowed to go there. To a Communist country.”
“You mean there are travel restrictions in the Land of the Free? Just like in Soviet Russia!” I mimed a conspiratorial look around the bar, then spoke out of the corner of my mouth: “Don’t let this get out, but I did see a few Yanks over there. Cuba’s verboten too, isn’t it? That’s how the Germans and the Canadians get all the best spots on the beach.”
“You’re taking the piss, right? Making fun of me.”
“A little.” Which was hardly fair. A girl who got married out of high school and started having children right away could hardly be expected to be a world traveller. But I couldn’t resist; I leaned towards her and whispered: “Don’t tell anyone around here. But my father-in-law’s a Commie.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“I’m not shittin’ ya. You come up to Nova Scotia some time, and I’ll introduce you. That’s the only way you’ll meet him. He’s not permitted to enter the
USA
.” Her eyes were wide. “But how did we get off on such a subversive tangent? Oh, right. Your brothers were brats. But the fact of the matter is: I heard you were the bratty one.”
“Who told you that?”
Who
had
told me that? I thought about it, then remembered: I had seen it written in a childish scrawl. “Somebody crayoned over the name on a Mass card or something. One of the collection envelopes for your church. It said Saint Brigid’s, and they wrote over it, Saint Bratty’s.”