Wandering in Exile

Wandering in Exile Copyright © 2014

“The author did a splendid job in portraying many diverse relationships, city life, church life, family life, corruption and crime, which makes it an engaging read.”
 – Hotchpotch

“As the first book in a series, Murphy has created a lasting story with great potential in future installments.”
 – Savvy Verse and Wit

“
Born & Bred
is part historical fiction, part political thriller and part social commentary. With a bit of magical realism thrown into the mix it makes for a commanding read and a compulsive page-turner.” – Brendan Landers

“The best books are not forgotten because you can never stop thinking beyond the story. This is true of
Lagan Love
. Murphy is a natural storyteller. I look forward to reading more.” – Examiner.com

“
Lagan Love
is more than your ordinary novel and Mr. Murphy is a skilled writer with the ability to tell a story that teaches a life lesson everyone can benefit from.” – Simply Stacie

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

The Story Plant
Studio Digital CT, LLC
P.O. Box 4331
Stamford, CT 06907

Copyright © 2014 by Peter Damien Murphy
Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck

Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-182-0
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61188-183-7

Visit our website at
www.TheStoryPlant.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

First Story Plant Printing: January 2015

Printed in the United States of America

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The boundaries which divide Life and Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

– Edgar Allan Poe

For Jim G.

The immigration official was polite as he checked Danny’s passport and stamped his papers. He had a strong accent and told Danny he was originally from Sherbrooke, in Quebec. He seemed a little disappointed that Danny couldn’t speak French but smiled when he told him that his girlfriend did.

“She can speak all sorts of languages,” Danny enthused in case his lack of bilingualism might be held against him. “She’s going to come over, too, after she’s finished university.”

“
C’est bon
, Monsieur Boyle,
et bienvenue au Canada
.”

“Merci,” Danny acknowledged in his best French accent that would have made Br. Arnold proud. He wished he could have remembered more but it didn’t matter now. He was officially “landed” and walked out to where Martin was waiting for him.

“No problems?”

“He says you have to speak French to me or they’ll throw us both out.”

“He can feck-off. This is Ontario. We only have to speak English here.”

“And I thought I was comin’ to some multicultural paradise.”

“Save it for when you go for citizenship and you’d better do up your jacket before we go outside. Didn’t you bring a coat?”

“I got my anorak in my suitcase.”

“It’ll be nice and warm there.”

When they stepped through the sliding doors, Danny gasped. The inside of his nose grew stiff and when he inhaled it felt like needles. “Sweet Jesus.”

“This is nothing. Wait until the winter comes.”

“You’re kidding, right? How feckin’ cold do you think it is?”

Martin hailed a cab with his gloved hand. “Minus ten . . . or fifteen.”

It took a few minutes before a large salt-stained Pontiac pulled to the curb. Martin slung their baggage into the trunk while Danny huddled in the back seat, blowing on his bare hands. “Jesus Christ, I’m totally fuckin’ frozen.”

The driver checked him in his rearview mirror. “Are you Irish?”

“Yeah,” Martin answered as he finally sat in, blocking the wind and closing the door.

“From the north or the south?”

“From Dublin.”

“Is that in the north or the south?”

“It’s in the east, actually,” Danny piped in but the driver didn’t seem to get the point as he edged the huge car into traffic and accelerated away.

“Where to?” The car wobbled as he turned to look over his shoulder.

“Balliol Street, just south of Yonge and Eglinton.”

“Young and eligible?” The driver turned again but Martin just nodded.

They careened along wide streets and into a curving ramp that led to the 401 before the driver spoke again. “My aunt is married to an Irish guy and, boy, does he love to drink!”

“Yeah,” Martin answered like he had heard that far too often.

“Yeah, man.” The driver carried on regardless with just one hand on the wheel, weaving through traffic and tailgating anyone who wasn’t moving fast enough. “You gotta see this guy. He does a forty-pounder and a two-four every night.”

“Well, we do practice.”

“And shit, does this guy like to fight.” He cut across two lanes and back again to overtake someone who blocked his way. “Just last week, we were having a few beers in a bar on the Danforth—the Newfie place. Know it?” He turned again and the car veered far too close to the wheels of a huge truck. Martin nodded but Danny didn’t and just stared out the window, across lanes and lanes of enormous cars, some the size of boats. And everywhere he looked he saw rust spots on the passing cars and on the metal rails that kept traffic separated.

“Well a bunch of Newfies were watching the Leafs, so my uncle starts cheering for the Habs. The Newfies didn’t like that and before long two of them went for him.”

Beyond the furthest lanes, Toronto rose in towers between darkened snow-lined streets, compressed layers and layers of people’s lives, lit up for Christmas.

“And before we could do anything, he’d decked the pair of them. And then, do you know what he did? I swear to God, he picked the two of them up and bought them a tray of draught. Can you believe it?

“And then he says: ‘You always buy them a drink afterwards so they’ll know there was no malice in it.’ Can you believe it? They sure make you guys tough over there.” The car wobbled again in its lane as he checked over his shoulder for their reactions. “Isn’t that the coolest thing you ever heard?”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed languidly and looked past the driver, willing him to watch the road ahead. “Only we come from a rich part of Dublin where we hire people to do our fighting for us.”

“There is a rich part?” Danny muttered, joining in.

“You guys are shitting me. Right?”

“Course we are. If there was a rich part of Dublin, do you think we’d be over here in the colonies freezin’ our balls off?” Danny meant it as a joke but it didn’t go over well with the cabbie.

“Listen,” he said, about to turn around again when Martin sat forward pulling Danny with him, into the driver’s peripheral view. “I like you guys so I’m gonna let you off with a warning: Don’t ever, ever,” he slapped his hand on the dash for emphasis, “ever complain about the winter in this country. That’s the only rule. That and never miss the hockey game, eh?”

He swung the wheel as he finished and swerved across three lanes and into an exit ramp, fast enough for the tires to squeal, until Yonge Street stretched out before them. He gunned the car again, all the way down into Hoggs Hollow, and then back up the hill. Then on again toward the lake, blowing through yellow lights like they were only there for decoration.

After Martin retrieved their bags and tipped the driver, Danny stood for a moment looking up. The apartment building was square and reached up toward the orangey-blue clouds. “Thank Christ!”

“What are you thanking him for? I was the one who smuggled your ass over here before you got yourself killed.”

“No, I meant for gettin’ me through that taxi ride. Are they all like that?”

“That was one of the better ones.” Martin also looked up at the night as a few flurries drifted down and settled on their heads. He wished that when they finally got home and put their cases down for good David would be waiting for him.

“So which floor do you live on?”

“The fourteenth but don’t worry, we’ll take the elevator.”

“Good, because I’m not carryin’ my bags up there. So, how long is your roommate away for?”

“His name is David and he’s not my roommate; he’ll be back in a few weeks.”

“Does he go home every Christmas? Must be nice. How come you didn’t go with him?”

“Because I had to go back to the bogs of Ireland to get you.”

They crossed the shining floor of the bright, posh-looking foyer with pictured walls and columns of what looked like light-brown marble. “You’re doing all right for yourself.” Danny whistled softly as he looked around. “This is very nice.”

“It’s all right,” Martin shrugged. He had always liked fancy stuff and he always looked after himself. They squeezed between the doors of the elevator and struggled to turn around. “Push fourteen.”

Danny tried but couldn’t reach.

“Put that bag down and you can get it with your left.”

Danny tried again but stumbled, lighting up floors eight through sixteen. “At least there’s no thirteen.” He looked at the glowing buttons again. “You live on thirteen?”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you nervous?”

“I’m getting there.”

While Danny settled into his room and began to unpack, Martin ordered a pizza. David had decorated for Christmas before he left, with lots of little white lights and a little pink love note on the fridge to welcome him back. Martin was home again with their huge color TV and the great stereo with speakers in all four corners. Their living room was like a big ‘L’ with a smaller room as a kitchen, full of jars of spices and bottles of sauces that David had brought from home, that he couldn’t live without. There were a few bottles of rum, too, and the door of the fridge was lined with beer. But there were only two bedrooms. Danny would be sleeping right next door.

When he came out, Martin was sitting on the couch with his legs on the coffee table, something he wouldn’t have done if David was there. “Look. I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but I need to know that you’re going to be okay with David and me.”

“I told you, it’s no sweat off my nose. And besides, I’ll get my own place as soon as I can.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re under any pressure. David is cool with it. It was his idea you come out here.”

And it was Martin’s idea that David should not be around when Danny got here. David rarely went home. It was part of the deal. He stayed out of his parents’ lives and they paid his way—school, apartment and a generous allowance. David always claimed he got the better of the deal, something he brought up every time he got drunk and homesick.

“C’mon, Martin. You know I’d only be crampin’ your style. Besides, after I get a job, I’ll need to have my own place. I wouldn’t want anyone thinkin’ that I was like you.”

“You should be so lucky, but be careful what you tell your mother. I don’t want anyone from home knowing.”

“My Ma and Da know.”

“They do not. They only think they know and I don’t want anyone else knowing.”

“They’re goin’ to find out some time.”

“I know. I’m just hoping that it’s after I die.”

“Fair enough then. I’ll mention it in your eulogy.”

“You’re not going to outlive me, you daft bollocks. You’ll probably get yourself killed long before I croak.”

“How can you even be thinking of celebrating with our only son off in some heartless place in the middle of winter?”

Danny’s mother was in no mood for Christmas and pestered his father every time he even mentioned it. She was finding it hard to adjust to life on their own again even though she agreed when everybody said he’d be better off over there. It had been a terrible few months with Danny getting mixed up in the Scully murder, and then his own kidnapping, and being taken up the mountains to be shot like a dog. He had been saved, of course, and brought back to her, only to have to leave the country and she wasn’t ready to go on like nothing had happened.

“Ah, Jaze, Jass. He only went to Toronto, and he has Martin there to look after him.”

“But Martin is not his mother.”

“Maybe not,” Jerry agreed. “But he’s the next best thing.”

Jacinta had decided to let it go at that; Jerry was trying to be so nice to her. He’d even invited her whole family over for Christmas dinner so she wouldn’t feel alone. Only it never occurred to him to ask her first and she’d had to run out at the last minute to buy a bigger turkey and more of everything. But it didn’t go as badly as she feared. Her mother did most of the cooking while Jacinta and her sisters sat around the kitchen table drinking sherry. Jerry and her father sat in the living room with Donal, smoking and drinking whiskey. All in all it was grand, but afterwards, when everybody got on with their lives, she was alone again to feel her loss. It was like a hole inside of her that was getting bigger. Her pills didn’t help except to make the edges less jagged but it was still there. And everywhere she went, to the shops or to get her hair done, it followed. Except when she sat in the church. Nora was gone but Jacinta was okay with that. She knew Nora’s job was done. She had been there for Danny and her and Jerry too. Now she could do no more and had gone off with Bart. Jacinta couldn’t explain how she knew. It was just a feeling that came over her whenever she knelt in the shadows before the Virgin Mary. Jacinta could face her now, woman-to-woman, now that they had both lost their sons. Just like Mrs. Flanagan who always sat a few rows over and a bit to the back, where she could cry in the shadows. Jacinta always wanted to say something but could never think of the right thing to say. She even prayed for guidance on it but, like every other time, Mary just smiled back. She reminded Jacinta of the Mona Lisa.

On the way out, Fr. Reilly was waiting. He wasn’t wearing a hat and his coat was open to the winds.

“Father, what are you doing out in the cold dressed like that?”

He looked a little surprised and, for a moment, Jacinta thought he might piddle himself.

“Ah Mrs. Boyle. I was wondering if we could have a little chat? We can go over to the house and have a nice hot cup of tea.”

“Grand so,” Jacinta agreed, but he hesitated.

“Would you mind if we just waited for Mrs. Flanagan. She should be out shortly.”

Fr. Reilly had been hoping to run into the two of them. It was time to get back to some parish work. The bishop had sent him home for Christmas and had a few ex-missionaries fill in. It was well meant but, if anything, it just confused things more. His mother was dead, God rest her soul, and his father lingered like a wraith without her. He still lived in the old place even though he had sold up the last of the land. He had his pension, too, and had more than enough put aside. Patrick wanted him to move into a home where he could be looked after.

“I can look after myself well enough.” His father had looked craggy—the way he got when he was digging his heels in.

“I’m not saying that, Daddy. I just think it would be better to have someone mind you. What would you think if we asked someone from social services to drop by and check up on you again?” He had driven the last one away but the bishop had smoothed that over by now.

“Patrick,” his father sighed and sat down beside the fire and pulled his chair forward. He stopped looking craggy and looked the way he did the night before Patrick went away. “You’ve always carried the cares of the world on your back. Don’t put me up there too. I can be getting along fine for a bit yet.”

“But you’d tell me when you can’t anymore?”

His father didn’t answer and just stared at the fire. He looked older than so many Patrick had been with at their ends. His skin was wrinkled and crinkled around his neck. “Like an old tom-turkey,” his mother used to say before she died. It was a blood clot in the brain and she died out in the fields. His father insisted that it was the way he wanted to go too. “The fields have had the blood, sweat and tears of this family for years. They may as well have what’s left of me, too, for fertilizer.”