“And the family, up there in heaven, do they like him?”
“Up isn’t exactly the right word, chiara, but what wouldn’t they like? Now I must be going . . . We love you . . . Always.”
“Just like Timmy?”
“Like but different . . .”
And she was no longer outlined against the stars. Sir Charles barked furiously in protest.
“That was exciting, wasn’t it?” Rosina asked. “What if there were moonlight?”
“Maybe we’ll find out next year.”
Timothy would kiss her again, not on the vacation but at such events as graduations and birthdays. Angela tried to dismiss such contacts as a family exchange of affection. But her lips still tasted his long after he touched them.
The song nights continued with their classmates and other St. Ignatius boys after Tim enrolled at Rush. They were not quite as much fun with Tim up in his room studying anatomy. Now Rosina’s young man, Seamus McGourty, was at Rush too, so they were, as they told each other, temporary widows.
Tim, however, was her partner at the St. Mary’s dinner at the Palmer House.
“I was afraid I might not be asked,” he said ruefully.
“How could I not ask you, even if I wanted not to ask you,” she replied. “I wouldn’t have been able to live in the same house as you.”
It was the kind of remark that made Tim dizzy. She couldn’t keep him in his present position—close enough, but not too close—for much longer. He would graduate from Rush at the age of twenty-one, old enough to marry. She and Rosina planned to attend a “normal” school the nuns had established for their students who showed an interest in schoolteaching, a program that Bishop Muldoon had established. For Rosina it was a career decision, for Angela, a postponed decision. She needed more education before forcing her way into Rush—and before she made up her mind about becoming a doctor. In the latter decision there would be no room for Tim, whom she now loved dearly and in whose closeness to her when they danced quite paralyzed her thoughts.
She often thought about it at night. In three years she had become a happy, adored member of a generous and loving family, graduated from the Academy, led her class academically, learned to read notes, and made many friends—all accomplishments that would have seemed impossible dreams on that cold December evening at the Central Depot. The earlier years of her life had disappeared to the outer fringes of her memory. Soon they would be forgotten altogether, nightmares that had never happened, not really. Ma, Pa, the little kids, the canon, her teacher, Eileen—who were they? She was not better than they were, only more lucky. In two years she would graduate from “normal” school, ready to teach. She would be a good teacher, like her mentor back in Carraroe. Would that not be generous enough? She loved and was loved by a big, handsome, brilliant man with a wonderful smile and innocent blue eyes. They had never spoken of love, much less marriage. Yet, though she still kept him at a respectful distance, they were in fact very close.
Did she have any obligation to give back? She had asked Father Muldoon, who told her that everyone had to choose their own vocation or combination of vocations.
She still slept under her Irish tweed blanket which had become an icon, a reminder, a prayer rug. Timmy had brought it to her after he had it cleaned.
“I thought you might want this,” he had said shyly.
“Thank you very much, Timothy,” she had said, unable to hide her tears. “It reminds me of what I don’t want never to forget.”
“I thought it might.”
That and the rosary which she carried with her everywhere, even to dances.
She patted the loyal Sir Charles.
“We have a lot to decide, don’t we, Charlie?”
9
“THEY TRIED to drown me poor Finnbar!” Julie wailed as she burst into our bedroom.
Exhausted from the various strains and tensions in our lives, we had elected for sleep instead of play and were fortunately fully dressed when she appeared.
Me wife, always the first one to rise to a crisis, was the first to respond.
“What happened?” She enveloped Julie in a maternal hug.
“He was coming out of school downtown and a bunch of gangbangers beat him up and threw him into the Chicago River and the police had to come and fish him out and he’s in the emergency room at Northwestern in critical condition.”
“OK, dear, we’ll take you down there right away. Get dressed.
“Dermot,” she instructed me, “please call Mr. Casey and make arrangements. I’ll call the Cardinal.”
I woke Mike Casey and his wife in their love nest at the John Hancock Center.
“I’ll get Monica and Shareen over to your house. The redhead will let them in?”
“And offer to play poker with them.”
“I’ll have one of the armored SUVs over to pick you folks up and get someone down to the ER to guard the young man. I’ll be back to you on the phone in his car . . . He’s your nanny’s fella, what else is he?”
I gave him the full background including my golf match with himself as I dressed. Me wife handed me the clothes because she knew how disoriented I was when awakened in the middle of the night.
“Rich, bright, hardworking Irish kid,” I said. “Nice guy. It might just be random violence.”
“Maybe, but we don’t assume such things. They must have known what time his class was over. Our car is outside.”
“Let’s go,” I said to me wife, who was waiting for me. She handed me my raincoat. Was it raining? Of course it was.
Julie was there too, a slicker drawn around her body, terrified but now in control. Also our basketball star in her St. Ignatius College Prep sleep shirt, bleary-eyed like her father.
“Monica and Shareen are on their way. Let them in. And no one else. We’ll say in touch by cell phone. You do too. Don’t disturb the little kids or the Mick unless it’s necessary.”
“That one,” she said, meaning her brother, “would sleep through an earthquake.”
While we were cautiously easing our way down the slippery wooden stairs, myself supporting Julie and me wife supporting me, a second car pulled up—our two off-duty cops turned instant babysitters.
“Sorry to wake you kids up,” Nuala apologized.
“It’s OK, Nuala. It’s our business.”
“Besides, we love the little guys.”
Still, they would get an excessive Christmas bonus.
Mike Casey was waiting for us and himself as bleary-eyed as meself and Mary Anne.
“Subject left the Gleacher Center shortly after the end of his class at nine thirty. Walked over to the River Walk to return to his hotel on the other side of the Mag Mile. Said good night to his classmates. They heard a commotion, his scream, and a splash. They ran after him just as three young men wearing ski masks ran away. They saw the subject flailing in the water and calling for help. Two of them, young women with lifeguard training experience, ran down the steps to the river’s edge. One of them jumped in, and the other held on to both of them from the riverbank. The subject was in pain from an injury to his leg. The lifeguard reported that the water was very cold for this time of year. The young men called 911.
“A helicopter scrambled from the old Coast Guard station and a fireboat came up the river. Police squads, fire trucks, and ambulances arrived from their respective stations. It must have been a spectacular scene.
“The chopper had a hard time in the rain and the fog. It made several passes along the river between the Gleacher Center and the Sheraton. A Fire Department unit deployed from in front of the Center down to the riverside, introduced a ladder into the water, relieved the stalwart lifeguards, stabilized the subject, freed him from the restraints, and removed him to Northwestern Memorial Hospital’s ER, where he received treatment for shock, hypothermia, a possible broken leg, abrasions from the restraints, and possible internal injuries. His condition was described as guarded but not life threatening. The police boat docked at the riverside and the chopper
landed in front of the Gleacher Center. NBC News, needless to say, was all over the place. The elapsed time of the rescue operation was forty-five minutes.”
“He’ll be all right?”
“Yes, Julie, he’ll be just fine.”
“Thanks be to God.”
She buried her face in me wife’s rain jacket.
“Forty-five minutes?” I asked.
“It was not”—Mike Casey leaned back in his seat in the front of the car and sighed—“a classic operation that didn’t quite follow the plan, mostly because of the fog and the rain and the wind and the absence of coordination of the various agencies involved.”
“One of those.”
“The police boat had the wrong location,” he whispered. “It passed the drowning man three times at a high rate of speed and went up the river to the North Branch, thus endangering the lives of the subject and the young women who were keeping his head above water. The police helicopter got lost in the fog. Barely missed the Gleacher Center, according to complaints from the University and the NBC tower. According to pictures that appeared on TV earlier this evening they probably shouldn’t have scrambled in such bad weather. But they’re a can-do bunch over there. The whole 911 transcript will be considered by the police brass. There’ll be some reprimands. We don’t need this kind of mess just now.”
We in this instance did not mean Reliable Security, it meant the Chicago Police Department, trying its best to make an impression on the International Olympic Committee.
Despite the rain and the fog, we arrived at the ER of Northwestern Memorial Hospital in less than fifteen minutes. We ducked into the place, nothing like the ones in the movies. A young woman, a nurse or nurse’s aide perhaps, greeted us.
“Ms. McGrail? I’m Dr. Somerville. Cardinal Blackie said you’d be along. You must be Julie? The patient keeps talking about your hair. He’s doing fine now. When he sees you, he’ll be even better. He tells me that your hair is like fresh wheat in an early sunrise. He’s right. Come this way please.”
Julie, who at first glance was not disposed to smile at this young woman who had charge of her fella, smiled warmly and squeezed her arm.
“Thank you, Doctor, for taking such good care of him. He loves to talk.”
“My mother is Irish, so I understand.”
We turned the corner and saw the long line of emergency rooms, lights coming from only a couple of them. Quiet night at the ER. The doctor who appeared to be no older than our Mary Anne conducted us into one of the lighted rooms.
Young Finnbar Burke was trussed up in a leg apparatus with a large cast on his left thigh.
“I’ve brought some guests, Mr. Burke,” she said brightly, as though she herself had produced the guests on demand.
Finnbar Burke’s eyes focused. The look of confusion on his face was replaced by a huge Irish smile.
“Julie,” he said reverently, “I’m so happy to see you. I thought I’d lost my mind completely. Why would anyone want to throw me in the Chicago River? I don’t get it! I was just coming out of class when these guys jumped me, and put handcuffs on me”—he held up his bandaged wrists—“and threw me over the side of the railing into the river. I think. I bounced on the way down.”
Julie sat on the side of his bed and caressed his face.
“You remember me boss, Nuala Anne McGrail, and her husband Dermot . . .”
“Nice man. Never play golf with him for money.”
“And Mr. Casey, who is the Superintendent of Police.”
“Retired, but President of Reliable Security. We’re here to protect you from any further attacks.”
Finnbar Burke frowned, still unable to figure it all out.
“You think they’ll try again?”
“We have to find out who they were.”
“You sure have clout, Ms. McGrail. The Cardinal has already been here to visit me and give me the sacraments.”
“Cardinals sometimes do good things.”
“I’m laying here wondering if I’m gonna die and dreaming of me Julie’s golden hair, and this man comes in wearing an old Chicago Cubs poncho. I figure that he’s a derelict who is escaping the rain.”
“ ‘Finnbar Micheal,’—he calls me that, which is me real name in Irish—‘I’m Blackie. Nuala Anne sent me.’ Sure enough it’s the Cardinal, because he’s wearing the ring and the silver cross around his neck. So he tells me I’m not going to die and that I’ll be playing golf again in a couple of months and gives me the last sacraments, and Dr. Somerville and the nurse come in and receive Holy Communion with me, and I know I’m going to be all right just so long as me Julie with the golden hair shows up.”
Julie with the golden hair rested her head on his chest.
A gorgeously accoutered cop pushed his way into the room. World War II brown leather jacket, B-17 flight cap (without the frame, of course), CPD Air patch on his shoulder, .45-caliber gun in a holster next to a mobile phone next to a BlackBerry. He was only a tad overweight.
“All right, all right,” he said in the preferred tones of a cop giving orders, “I’m in charge of this case. Everyone out of the room.”
“I’m Michael Casey, Lieutenant . . .”
“I don’t give a good fuck who you are. You’re out of here. You too.”
He shoved me, an unwise move. I didn’t budge.
“This subject was the victim of a felonious attack. I assume you’ve been giving interviews to the people from NBC News explaining why there was no danger of you crashing the CPD’s expensive helicopter into their tower while leaving the rescue of this subject to the CFD. You have neglected to establish security to protect the subject from a repeat attack. Officer McNamara and I represent Reliable Security. The subject’s family has asked that we guard him.”
The cop was still pushing me and I wasn’t moving.
Mike Casey was on his cell phone.
“I don’t give a fuck. I want all you motherfuckers out of here. I intend to interview the subject and continue my investigation.”
“No one is going to interview my patient, Officer,” Dr. Somerville insisted.
“No fucking nurse is giving me orders.”
Me wife, unnaturally silent through all of this discussion, intervened.
“I think we have heard enough of your language, Lieutenant, to accept that you are one tough cop. I would advise you that if you want to continue wearing that silver bar you should moderate your language, follow Dr. Somerville’s instructions, and remove your hands from my husband’s person, lest you want to end up on the floor and face a visit from the professional practices board first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Who are you, bitch?”
“The subject’s prospective mother-in-law.”
Julie and Finnbar Burke giggled.
The lieutenant’s mobile phone rang.
“Quinn,” he shouted into it, “what the fuck . . . It’s my case . . . Yes sir, right away, sir. Yes sir. I was only trying to do my duty, sir . . . Yes sir . . . Yes sir. I’m out of here.”
“Someday I’ll get you, wise guy,” he said, giving me a shove.
“My wife does the fighting for us,” I said mildly. “When she’d be finished with you, the department would have to feed you to the fishes in the river.”
Nuala Anne smothered a laugh.
I slipped out into the corridor while Finnbar Burke explained to everyone why I was a desperate golfer altogether. I dialed home base.
“Dermot Coyne’s house, this is Mary Anne Coyne.”
“Is it now?”
“Oh, hi, Da, the kids are all sleeping. I’m just chatting with Monica and Shareen.”
“You don’t have school tomorrow?”
“Oh, Da, you’re so nineteen eighty . . . All right, I’ll go to bed.”
“Don’t wake up Socra Marie.”
“I never do, Da,” she sighed with infinite patience.
“The kids?” Nuala asked.
“Your daughter said that I was so nineteen eighty
when I told her to go to bed.”
“I would have said nineteen seventy.”
So it was arranged that Julie would stay with Finnbar Burke, as would one of Mike Casey’s off-duty cops, and the rest of us would leave.
“How much money do you have in your purse?” I asked her before we left.
“About four dollars,” she said, embarrassed.
I gave her five twenties. “You might need this . . .”
“I can’t, Dermot.”
“We can’t have you walking home in the rain.”
“I could take the bus.”
“No way.”
“Thank you, Dermot. It’s nice to have a da like you.”
“Tell that to me elder daughter.”
“Oh, she knows it.”
The next morning Nuala Anne and I were having our morning planning session in my office. I had demonstrated how my television apparatus up in the cupola scanned the St. Joe’s school yard. It caught one big boy terrorizing a little kid for his lunch money, and an overweight girl gratuitously pushing a frightened first-grader. “Dr.” Fletcher and Mr. Flynn were watching with approval.
“Call His Riverence and tell him?”
“George?”
“Dermot? What good news from the Archdiocese do you bring?”
“You sound bitter.”
“All the crazies out there are testing the boss to see how far they can go.”
“And he is . . .”
“Keeping a little list.”
“I’m doing the same thing here. I have a monitor on the school yard which records the beginning and the end of the day, recess and lunch time. Picked up two nasty extortions this morning.”
“And you save them?”
“Automatically go on disks.”
“I suspect that there are not a lot of bullies, just that it’s more open.”
“What will you do when you move in?”
“Turn them over to the cops.”
“Music to my ears. We’ve got pictures of ‘Dr.’ Fletcher watching such extortion.”
“She’s crazy, Dermot.”
“And dangerous.”
“His Riverence is not very happy, is he, Dermot love?”
“He’s not. I don’t think they can move till there is actual violence in the school yard or massive rebellion.”
Irish Tweed Page 11
