“Liar. There’s no Saint Brigid’s around here. We always went to Saint Kieran’s. The church, the school, and the high school. So there. And picture this: I had Brennan as a teacher in high school! Just after he got out of the seminary.”
“Brennan used to teach at —” I almost said the crime scene “— Saint Kieran’s?”
“Yeah, when Terry and I were there. That fearsome creature stalking the halls in his soutane — the other kids couldn’t believe he was our brother. Terry used to tell his pals about Brennan: ‘Burke’s my brother — don’t even think of fucking with him.’ God, that man knew how to instill fear! But we sure as hell learned our religion.”
“What did he do to keep the students in a suitable state of terror?”
“Well, those were the days of corporal punishment in schools, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. But he didn’t do much of that. Mainly, you’d have to face his withering remarks if you didn’t know your stuff. Or stay after and do your work with him scowling at you. I was hanging around one afternoon and I heard him blasting some big dolt: ‘I’m working overtime here to teach you the peace and love of Christ, so get it done, for God’s sake!’”
“Did he ever keep
you
in after school?”
“Once.”
“What did you do to bring that on yourself?”
“Oh, God, it was embarrassing. I sat beside this girl named Claudia Fiore. She passed me a note one day; I answered it and passed it back, and so on. He caught us.
“‘Brigid Burke and Claudia Fiore, stand up! What are you doing back there?’
“‘Nothing, Father.’
“‘What’s that you have in your hand, Claudia?’ “‘It’s a note, Father.’ “‘Read it.’ “‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. I — ’ She was on the verge of tears. “‘Read it!’ “So she had to. The note said: ‘Brigid, we should get
HIM
to teach the
HEALTH
class. We’d pay more attention to him than to Sister Herman-Joseph.’
“I wrote back: ‘Yeah, he could teach Sister a few things. He used to
HAVE
a
GIRLFRIEND
, if you know what I mean.’
“‘Really???
NO
!!!’
“‘
YES
!!!’
“Poor Claudia. I myself was paralysed.
“‘Both of you! After school!’
“So we had to stay after. Claudia was shaking. The two of us stood there till all the other kids had left; they all stared at us on their way out. When they were gone, he said: ‘Claudia, you may go.’ She bolted for the door. He glared at me and said: ‘Smarten up.’
“‘I will.’
“‘Answer this question!’
“Oh, God, what was he going to ask me?
“‘What’s our mam cooking for dinner tonight?’”
I laughed, then said: “Hard to imagine the same man inspiring such love in you and such, well, whatever it is Francis feels for him.”
“Too many males under one roof! Horns inevitably get locked.”
“Which airport did Francis work at in the summer?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would he have been doing?”
“Leaning on a shovel with his butt crack showing, and whining about how hard the job was.”
“Does he have a girlfriend, a circle of pals?”
“Fran?” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t even remember the guys he used to go around with. Jerks, I imagine. He went with a girl named Marta for years. She was okay; I don’t know what she saw in him.”
“Who do you think tried to kill your father?”
She shook her head. “I have no earthly idea. It came right out of the blue as far as I was concerned.”
Bridey’s sandwich arrived and she glommed onto it, taking an enormous bite. Then, with her mouth full, she made a sound that must have meant “Want some?” and pointed to her plate. I shook my head. I smiled at her, remembering what a character she had been at the wedding reception before gunfire shattered the family’s joy. I recalled dancing with Mrs. Burke, and Bridey had come waltzing by. Her mother told her to get lost because — “What did you mean at the reception, when you said your mother had a secret admirer?”
“Oh,” she said, swallowing her food, “that was an old joke. We saw this man a couple of times in the neighbourhood, watching. We nicknamed him Mack. Terry and I used to tease my mother, saying Mack worshipped her from afar. But it was decades ago. I mean, there was a guy following me around all through high school. I’m sure they were both harmless.”
I resisted the urge to question her further. She had come to New York to enjoy her family, and had seen her father shot and her brother compound the family’s pain with his obnoxious behaviour. Why upset her any more? And what would she know about her father’s history that her older siblings didn’t know?
We finished up at Horgan’s and drove to Terry’s house, which was a mile or so from that of his parents. It was one of the few wood-cladded detached houses on the block, and either he or Sheila had turned the small front yard into an eye-catching rock garden. Brigid tried the door but it was locked. She dug a set of keys out of her bag, opened the door and called out: “Terry! Sheila? Nobody home. Must have taken Christine and Normie out somewhere.” We went inside.
“Well, I’ll be on my way.”
“How much longer are you in New York, Monty?”
“Not much longer. I have a lot of criminal clients who count on me to keep them free to roam the streets.”
“What kind of criminals do you defend?”
“All kinds. Most of them are just no-hopers. Occasionally there’s one who gives me the willies. You may want to rethink that invitation to Nova Scotia, Bridey. Between my clients and my Bolshevik
relatives, I’m a dangerous guy to be around. I’m no good for you, baby.”
“You’re fecking right you’re no good for her!” Shit! Brennan, with Terry on his heels. I hadn’t heard them come in the door. I didn’t even want to think what spin they would put on my remark.
Bridey rolled her eyes, mouthed the word “brats,” then sprinted up the stairs. She came down again a minute later, banging a small suitcase behind her.
“Brigid!” She started at the sound of Brennan’s voice. “You’re jumpy today. Terry’s taking you over to get the girls, and then to the station. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Father!” she said, and winked at me.
“Respect, at last!” Brennan replied. “Have a good trip, darlin’.” He gave her a hug and said goodbye.
She gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek and departed with Terry. Brennan did not allude to my goofy remark, and I did not allude to the fact that I was having dinner that evening with Sandra. Maura and I were, that is. Sandra had called with the invitation the day before. So, following a pint at O’Malley’s, over which Burke and I relived the events of the day, I headed back to Manhattan and he went to his parents’ place. He was planning to attend Compline at Saint Kieran’s. Perhaps the chanting of the ancient prayers in Latin would restore some of the peace and contentment he had achieved after Mass earlier that day.
†
“No children?” Maura and I had arrived at Sandra’s townhouse.
“No, Tommy’s back in Halifax and Normie is over in Queens with one of the Burke kids. Terry’s daughter.”
“Terry. He was a real character. What’s he doing now?”
“Airline pilot.”
“Yes, I can see that. Good for him. And Patrick grew up to be a psychiatrist. A highly regarded one too, from what I’ve heard. What about the little girl, Brigid?”
“Mother of seven children in Philadelphia.”
“And Molly’s still overseas? I don’t think she ever took to life in
North America. And there was another boy. What was his name?”
“Francis.”
“I never really knew him, for some reason. Well, let’s have a drink and make ourselves comfortable. What would you like?”
I asked for a beer, and the women decided on gin and tonic. When we had our drinks, Sandra asked: “How’s Declan?”
“Full of piss and vinegar,” Maura replied.
Sandra smiled and raised her glass: “Here’s to Declan.”
“To Declan,” we chimed in.
We sat and yakked about New York and listened to amusing tales about Sandra’s neighbours on the Upper East Side. It was not until we had nearly finished our baked stuffed lobster, and were on our second bottle of Chardonnay, that Maura gave voice to the question on both our minds: “Well? Are you going to see him or not?”
“I rather doubt it.”
“Why?”
“The simple answer, Maura, is that I’m not a stupid woman.”
“We’re all agreed on that! But —”
“I can see the writing on the wall — I saw it clearly that night at the restaurant. He made his decision twenty-five years ago. When I saw him last year in Halifax I toyed with the idea that maybe he’d done his time, given half his life to the church, and now it was time to return to the secular world. I was tempted to call him but, of course, I didn’t. I was afraid I was deluding myself. I’m not cut out for the role of jilted lover, or delusional hanger-on! When he called me, he said he was coming to New York ‘for a brief visit.’ I thought that was rather a pointed remark, but I may have over-analysed it. He had tickets for
Norma
. Was I interested? Sure. He phoned when his flight got in; would I like to have dinner? I made an excuse, he saw through it, and coolly said he’d see me at the Met. When I got there I couldn’t think of any common ground where we could begin a conversation. I know he was disappointed, but all my training in the social graces failed me! It was excruciating.”
Maura nodded sympathetically and said: “I know it was difficult for you.”
“Then, the dinner. Just when things started looking up, that man arrived, and Brennan got into a long song and dance about
Gregorian chant. The fact that he immediately introduced himself as a priest spoke volumes to me. If he had been out to lull me into thinking he was the same old Brennan, he could easily have glossed over that. But what put the kibosh on the whole thing was him sitting down and hearing that woman’s confession. If his primary objective was a night with me, the Brennan I knew would have quietly told the woman he’d meet her the next morning, then rededicated himself to the goal of getting laid. But no. He is first and foremost a priest. A man who believes — hundreds of millions of people believe it, I know — that he has the power through God to absolve people of their sins, and to lift the veil between heaven and earth at communion time. That kind of sacramental mysticism, or whatever it is, is way beyond me. It’s as if he lives part of his life in another dimension. I grew up as an Episcopalian, and I don’t mean a high church type. We made polite obeisance to God just in case he really was pulling the strings, and the whole economy might come crashing down if we got too self-satisfied. But the Roman Catholic Church: that was way out there, according to what I had been taught. And of course it makes inhuman demands of its ministers. Bren’s a very, um, physical sort of man. If he’s given that up — which I find difficult to imagine —”
Sandra must have caught something in my expression because she stopped and waited, with her eyes on me, as if she expected me to make a remark. But I wasn’t about to comment on this, of all subjects.
She resumed speaking: “If in fact he has given it up, then whatever he has found in its place is not something he’s going to abandon. Almost an argument for the existence of God, you might say! So. He can’t have me, or any other woman, and stay in the priesthood. And I would not even consider accepting anything less than marriage or a close equivalent. If he thinks he’s going to whip his cassock off and unite his flesh with mine once a month or something, he’s been inhaling too much incense!”
“I don’t imagine he’s thinking that,” I offered in his defence. But in truth I had no idea what he was thinking. When it came to Sandra, I suspected he was unable to project beyond the moment. Seeing her in Halifax had no doubt thrown him into turmoil, and he hadn’t managed to sort any of it out by the time he called her about the opera.
“You two know him, or you’re getting to know him,” she said. “He’s not a man you take lightly. You don’t love him lightly; you don’t hate him lightly. It would be devastating to me to fall in love with him and lose him again. I have no intention of doing either. More wine?”
Chapter 9
The youth has knelt to tell his sins.
“Nomine Dei,” the youth begins.
At “mea culpa” he beats his breast,
And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest.
— Carroll Malone (William B. McBurney), “The Croppy Boy”
March 25, 1991
The telephone rang the next morning in the hotel suite. Normie made a grab for it. “Hello? Yes, it is!” Maura reached for phone. “It’s for me, Mum, not you!” Normie spoke into the receiver. “Oh. Okay, I won’t.” She looked at me and then her eyes immediately slid away. She turned her back on us and lowered her voice. “Uh-huh. Oh, that’s all right. I’m not supposed to be so sensitive about my glasses. Really? Do you think so?” Her hand went up to pat her hair, preening in response to whatever compliment was being offered. “Thank you! Yes. I understand. I’m sorry too. I have to learn not to say those things out loud. What’s a call-a-heen? You don’t mean a wicked little witch! Oh, good.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “How did you figure out my phone number? Your mum, right. Well, thank you for calling. Bye.” Click. She tried to look nonchalant as she sashayed back to her bed.
“Who was that, sweetheart?”
“I can’t say.” But she couldn’t maintain a complete silence. “I can
tell you this, though. I’m trying to find evidence that Father Burke is an angel, and the person on the phone is not someone I would even think of asking.”
Normie was jolted two feet in the air at the sound of the phone jangling again. She made a move in its direction, but I got to it first. It was Brennan. “I just got a terse call from Leo in Dublin.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Drop it.’ That’s what he said. When I asked what he meant he said: ‘Leave it alone.’ Then he rang off.”
“Didn’t take him long to make contact with someone. He just got back there last night.”
“Right.”
“That pretty well confirms the Irish connection, I’d say. Must have come as a shock to the poor man. Leo was so sure it could not have been the Irish.”