It was the first time I’d seen Vincent’s wife and son. They were perfectly cast in their roles: she, as the subservient yet strong beauty, whose hardened gaze could only be broken by the likes of Cullen; and the son, still a young boy, but with Vincent’s mettle already evident in his confidence and obvious intelligence. They both sat impassively on the couch, watching Donal’s wife bawling as quietly as she could while saying goodbye, leaning down to kiss Donal’s lips and rub the side of his face. She probably would’ve stayed there all night if Sean hadn’t walked her to the door and sent her out. Vincent’s wife and son followed her. And then it was just Vincent, Sean, and I.
Vincent gripped the side of the casket and looked down at his brother with a tenderness usually well hidden behind his veils. He moved his thumb under Donal’s chin and up the side of his face before leaning down and kissing his forehead. And then he just stayed there a minute, looking at his brother for the last time while Sean and I watched him. He turned away from the casket and made his way out the door, only stopping to briefly hold my arm.
“Thanks, Paddy,” he said in a raspy voice, and he left the room, Sean following behind him, making the Sign of the Cross. As soon as they’d gone, Christy, Eamonn, and Jack came in and screwed the lid down on the casket. I stayed back by the door, holding my head in my hands, immersed in my shame. With the lid securely on, Christy moved to open up the double doors to bring the casket out, giving me a reassuring, conspiratorial wink.
“Showtime,” he whispered.
TWENTY-FIVE
6:05 p.m.
St. Mary’s Pro-Cathedral on Marlborough Street is the episcopal seat of the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin and practically unnoticeable when compared with its Protestant counterparts, tucked away at the back of O’Connell Street. But inside, it did a little better in keeping up with its Church of Ireland sisters, having the quintessential aura of ritualistic grandeur bolstered by ancient church art, cold tiles, and the smell of lingering incense. It was customary in Dublin for the mourners to wait outside for the hearse to arrive, but this evening, because of the increasingly heavy rain, they’d gathered inside and awaited the arrival of Donal’s remains in the pews in the main body of the cathedral.
Geno had gone ahead of the cortège, having got across town in a taxi, and was waiting, along with the hundreds of others, for the coffin to be wheeled up the center aisle. Now that he could practically touch his new rank in Cullen’s crew, he felt like he’d been waiting for Donal all his life. All the missed or pissed-away opportunities were worth it when he considered what he was poised for. To be back in Dublin after years across the water was turning out to be better than he ever could have dreamed up. The country was on its knees after the economy had collapsed and the banks had ruptured and the public was well acquainted again with its old friend Austerity, but that didn’t matter. For as long as Geno was aligned with a man like Vincent, he’d take what he wanted whenever he felt like it.
At just ten past six, the priest reemerged from the porch and led the procession up the aisle. Behind him, pushing the casket in their dampened overcoats, were the four undertakers, who were followed in turn by Vincent; his wife, son, and crew; Donal’s wife; and an ongoing stream of mourners.
Geno was looking at the lead undertaker again, the one with the black and gray hair. It was annoying him that he couldn’t place him, as he prided himself on never forgetting a face. He thought maybe the undertaker reminded him of someone else, like an actor in the movies or someone on television; he knew he’d have remembered him if they’d actually met. He watched him as the cortège came level with his pew and passed him by, continuing along its way. Then, as his eyes followed the undertaker’s back, his mind traced the hidden profile to produce a triumphant bingo call from his very recent memory: the guy who ran Donal down. His killer. The thrill that surged through him was so powerful he nearly became aroused, and the expression of glee etched itself so deeply onto his face that he was forced to wrap his hand around his mouth to hide it.
Once at the top of the aisle, just in front of the ornate candlelit altar, the four undertakers genuflected in unison and made their way down the side aisles out of the cathedral. Geno stepped out of his pew and followed closely behind them. He knew it was the guy who had run down Donal, but he had to be absolutely certain.
Outside, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the railings and watched the undertakers talking to their boss under his big black umbrella. Then the lead undertaker and his bald friend moved away and got into the hearse, the lead undertaker sitting behind the wheel.
This was arch theater. The circumstances were conspiring with him: It was dark, it was raining, and, strangest of all, Donal’s killer was willingly reenacting Monday night’s events for him by driving away from exactly the same angle. To complete the contrivance, Geno stepped down onto the street and stood there in the lashings of rain and watched them drive away into the night. It was Donal’s killer all right. Geno had him made. He climbed the steps to the shelter of the portico and waited patiently for his ascension.
When the prayers had finished and the front-pew commiserating was coming to an end, the mourners drifted out of the church into the evening. Then, at twenty to seven, Vincent led his crew out of the church, past Frank Gallagher, through the open door of the front limo. Within minutes, the other cars were filled and inching away from the curb while the undertakers stood out on the street, their hands raised in an effort to pause the oncoming traffic. Before anyone was kind or old-fashioned enough to stop, Geno made his way through the rain to Vincent’s limo and rapped his knuckles hard on the side of it. Sean lowered his window.
“What?”
“I’ve to talk to Vincent,” said Geno.
“Talk to me, what is it?” said Sean.
“No, I’ve to talk to Vincent,” said Geno. Sean turned to the driver briefly.
“Hang on a minute,” he said, and got out of the car abruptly, taking Geno by the arm and marching him to the shelter of the front porch.
“Look, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt here and pretend you don’t know how it works. If you want to talk to Vincent, you go through me no matter what’s on your fucking mind. Now, he’s in no mood for conversation so this better be good, Geno. What is it?”
Geno was breathing through his mouth he was so excited.
“I know who killed Donal,” he said, as if he were holding a poker of aces.
Sean scrutinized him for a good moment before giving him a narrow-eyed nod.
“Wait here,” he said, and got back into the limo while Geno stood there with all sorts of violent fantasies flipping over in his head. Maybe Vincent would give him the honor of plunging the knife deep into the undertaker, or a turn at least. Or perhaps he’d ask him to look after it altogether. The prospect of Vincent sanctioning such rough justice had him salivating.
Sean came back over to him, his impatience vanished now that his appetite for vengeance had been whetted.
“Let’s get you a lift, Geno.”
TWENTY-SIX
7:40 p.m.
I’ve only ever been rooted to the ground by a painting two or three times in my life. Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring was one that did it. The Meeting on the Turret Stairs by Burton was another. And maybe da Vinci’s The Virgin and Child with St. Anne and St. John the Baptist. I didn’t live in the art world, or even on the fringes of it—the nearest I’d usually get to art was when I’d lift an oak coffin with the Last Supper carved on its side—so I didn’t expect to be stopped by a painting when I stepped into the Wrights’ house on Wednesday evening. It wasn’t painted by any of the Wrights, either, but by Shay Mac Giolla, the celebrated artist who defined what Irish mythology looked like through a series of seminal works in the seventies and beyond. I’d known about Mac Giolla since I was a child. My father would read me tales of Irish mythology from Mac Giolla’s illustrated books, and I use
d to get lost in his detailed pictures of heroic warriors and sultry goddesses framed by intricately woven Celtic griffins. Like most of my generation, I could spot a Mac Giolla anywhere, and I hadn’t gone five feet into the Wrights’ hallway when, leaning against the wall, the framed painting of Lucy as a goddess stopped me dead.
As is often the case after a removal, the house was open and abuzz with chatter, laughter, and tears, everyone smoking and drinking, artist types, the lot of them. There were bearded old men wearing ponytails and white suits; gray-haired women with clever, cultured eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses who were wearing sequined dresses; and a sweating black-haired violinist with a three-day beard and tufty eyebrows who seemed lost in and deeply saddened by the lament he was playing. There were groups of women laughing quietly with plenty to talk about in clusters in front of the photographs of Michael and Lucy Wright. But they were nearly invisible to me. I moved to the picture and leaned down to submerge myself in it. He’d captured her beauty and essence perfectly. He’d painted her wearing a translucent blue robe, kneeling by a stream, collecting herbs in an ethereal world. And she was so much younger than my memory of her.
Somebody hunched down to join me in studying the picture.
“You knew her,” said the man, a friendly giant dressed in a linen suit. It had to be Mac Giolla. He looked like a character from one of his paintings: part Gypsy, part Viking.
“I did,” I said. “Man, you got her.”
“It’s Airmed, Goddess of Healing. I painted it in ’74, a year or so after my fling with Lucy. I was no stranger to strong women—I was raised by them—but she turned my world inside out and left me in a heap. It was only afterwards I realized what she’d done for me.”
“What did she do?”
“She cleared whatever was blocking me. It wasn’t anything she’d said or done, it was something more latent than that, not perceptible till later. I saw the same thing with organizations or symposiums she’d joined. If they’d been floundering before she joined them, they flourished after she’d left; if they hadn’t yet found their way, there’d be a blaze in the wake of their path when she’d gone. But there were always difficulties first, usually involving her leaving the company. And in each case, after the dust had settled, it always became clear what she’d done, and Lucy, of course, remained on good terms with everyone. She became a close friend of mine and a strange sort of revered talisman to the groups she’d saved. Quite a legacy.”
He offered his hand.
“Shay.”
“Paddy,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s a beautiful tribute and a mesmerizing picture.”
“Airmed’s also associated with resurrection,” he said.
It was no surprise to learn that Lucy had broken plenty of hearts and molds in her time. Although my ending her life had put paid to any further healing she might have done, even so, she still turned my world upside down. Mac Giolla had a shrewdness about him, a kind of Gypsy magic that made me slightly uncomfortable and stopped me from telling him anything for fear he’d be able to see through my veneer of half-truths and lies.
We stood up as Brigid came into the hallway. Her face became visibly happier when she saw me.
“Paddy,” she said.
“Hey,” I said softly. It was the first time I’d seen her in a dress, a little black number she wore with stockings and high heels and her hair tied loosely back off her face.
“Brigid,” said Mac Giolla, reaching for her arm. “We’ve got to go up to the RHK for a sculpture symposium. Both your parents will be honored there tonight, you should know that.”
“Thanks, Shay,” said Brigid. “And thanks again for the painting, I adore it.”
Mac Giolla leaned in and hugged her warmly.
“Hang in there,” he whispered, and then he turned to me with a smile.
“Good luck, Paddy.”
Maybe he knew I needed it. All the other artists followed him up to Kilmainham, and within ten minutes, the house was cleared. When the last person had gone, Brigid closed the door, leaned back against it, and just looked at me, her eyes full of wanting and sorrow, tenderness and curiosity. I leaned against the wall not five feet from her, looking back at her with similar feelings and my unspeakable secrets, Lucy’s portrait by my knees. Gone were any notions of roles to be played and the pretense they necessitated. The longing and desire between us had been unmasked, and now that the crowd had vanished, the silence in the house seemed to swell along with our feelings for each other. I wanted to take her away from her sadness and grief and, for once, away from her parents’ house.
“Do you want to go out for a drink?” I said.
—
CARRYING TWO PINTS of Guinness over to Brigid in the snug in Toners Pub on Baggot Street, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been out with a woman since Eva had died. There hadn’t even been anyone I’d fancied from afar. And now here I was, moving towards someone who’d captured my attention and burgeoning affection. Everything that had brought us both to this point felt increasingly unimportant. I only had her best interests at heart. To think that something so special and sacred could enter the realm of the sullied, regardless of what had preceded it, seemed absurd.
I rested the pints down, closed the snug door against the live music and pub chatter, and sat down opposite her. We raised our drinks.
“To life,” I said, making her smile.
“To life.” We each took a good drink, as if demonstrating the vitality of the toast.
“How are you holding up?” I said.
“It comes in waves. But good, all things considered.”
“And how was the removal?”
“It was sad and touching. And surprising, too.”
“In what sense?”
“Some of the people who came, I didn’t expect to see them there . . .” She paused and looked deep into my eyes. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course,” I said, somewhat relieved that she had secrets, too.
“I want to tell you because I trust you, one, and, two, now that my parents are gone, nobody else knows about it, and I really feel like sharing it.”
“Share away,” I said. She shifted on her seat and turned the bottom of her glass while gathering her thoughts.
“One of the people there this evening was a guy I hadn’t seen in a long time. Barry is his name. We met when we were seventeen. We never really went out, we just had an ongoing thing. We fit perfectly—mentally, emotionally, physically—but there was something that kept us from actually going out together. When I was nineteen, I got pregnant. He was seeing someone else, I didn’t want to have a baby with him, and I didn’t want to become a mother at that stage of my life. But I didn’t want to get rid of it, either. I confided in my parents—they were never the kind to freak out—and for two weeks I contemplated every possible outcome. One thing I knew, and I don’t know why I was so inflexible on this, but I couldn’t tell Barry. Whatever I decided, I’d decide alone.”
“What did you do?”
“It was my father who made up my mind for me. I remember he was smoking a cigarette in his studio, and he said, ‘Abortion and adoption have just two letters in the difference, but those two letters are the difference between a death sentence and a clarion call.’ I chose to heed the call. I gave the baby up for adoption.”
Tears had started flowing down Brigid’s face, but she remained calm.
“And I never told Barry. And to see him there this evening offering his condolences took me by surprise.” She wiped the tears away with my hankie. “He lives in New York now with his wife and family. He came all the way home for this. It was sweet of him.”
“So you set him free, too.”
She smiled while I placed my hand over hers. “Do you regret giving the baby up?”
“A part of me does. He’d be fourteen now and I often wonder what he’d be lik
e.”
“I know what that feels like,” I said. “My wife died in her seventh month of pregnancy.”
Just like her mother before her, she instinctively gripped my arm. “No!” she said. “When?”
“Two years ago on the third of December.” I swirled the remains of my pint around and downed it.
“How?”
“I was in Tallaght delivering a coffin when I got a call from Frank Gallagher, telling me to go directly to St. James’s Hospital, that my wife had had an accident, that she’d collapsed. That’s all he knew. I got in the hearse and drove back faster than I’ve ever driven in my life. I didn’t have to use the horn once. It was as if the other drivers knew this was a genuine emergency and got out of my way as soon as I appeared behind them. I’d driven so fast that I got to the hospital before Frank, who’d only been down the road. As soon as I got there, I was taken into a private room to wait for the doctor. I think I knew then, being given the special treatment already, but I couldn’t let myself think like that. By the time the doctor came out in his scrubs, Frank had got there and was standing with me, waiting. I knew by the doctor’s face what he had to say, but I had to hear him say it. He told me that she’d collapsed in the supermarket, that the paramedics had done what they could when they got there as well as on the way to the hospital. And that he’d done everything that could possibly be done, but that nothing had worked. And then he tightened his lips and said the unthinkable. Eva was dead. And so was the baby. I learned later it was a brain hemorrhage.”
“Oh, no,” said Brigid, quite involuntarily through her tear-stained lips. “How old was she?”
“Thirty-five. Our daughter, had she lived, would have been nearly two now.”
“Paddy,” she said woefully, gripping my hand tight. “How long were you married?”
“Nine years.”
The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley Page 14
