by Glen Carter
Jack lowered his arms, his beer bottle swinging from the tips of his fingers like a metronome keeping both time and score. “You’re drunk,” he said. “Go home.”
Argus widened his feet, pulled his arms tight to his massive chest. “Go home. Not likely. Besides, why would I want to go home? What’s there for me at home now? Memories of my dead Kaitlin and my lost brother?” Argus looked falsely like he was having a sober moment. “Aiden was a good man. He’d be fifty-two today had he been the one to come back – instead of Caleb.”
“I’m not in the mood for this, Argus.”
“No mood for remembering?” Argus tugged the bottle to his mouth, licked his lips as the amber liquid slammed into his gut. “I remember. Me and those widows remember.”
“You’re drunk. Go home,” Jack repeated, tightening the straps on his temper.
Argus paused, as if to regroup. “Like father like son, eh? Caleb and Jack. Though, Jack, you’ve got more adventure in you. Traveling to all those places. Getting your face on television. Some kind of star that Jack Doyle. The only place Caleb saw his face was his reflection in a bottle.”
Jack stiffened at that. His father was a drunk. It was difficult for him to admit it, less so for others who found it convenient to paint him that way in order to fortify their image of his villainy. It had happened a lifetime ago, but Argus still came off righteous as communion from last Sunday’s mass. Jack didn’t care that Kaitlin’s old man was desperate to deaden his pain with the booze and the blame. He had no right to dredge up the past as an indictment in the present. And on the day of his daughter’s funeral, no less.
Argus sagged. “You know what the goddamn priest said to me? ‘Your girl’s gone, Argus.’ Just like that – gone. And you. What you promised that day down on your boat.”
Jack turned his back on him, stared out at a sheet of gunmetal grey. Yes, he remembered. It seemed a foolish thing for Argus to say at the time, but Jack had humoured him. “Of course I’ll watch out for her,” Jack had told him. “She’s in more danger riding in that pickup of yours.”
Huge raindrops struck the kitchen window and flattened into tiny silver cascading rivers. He turned around and saw that Argus was having trouble standing. Kaitlin’s father shuffled a couple of steps and fell against the wall, a prize fighter trying to regain strength before his opponent moved in with the next flurry of hooks and jabs.
Jack stepped towards him, wanting to take the bottle from his hands, sit him down somewhere and put on a pot of coffee. He felt a deep sadness for the man, and wanted a chance to close the chasm that had torn open between them. Kaitlin would have wanted that, he was sure. No words, just a tentative step signaling an armistice. “Argus,” Jack said, reaching out, “give me the bottle. You’ve had enough.”
O’Rourke swung the bottle, sliced the air inches from Jack’s face.
“Take it easy!” Jack shouted, raising his hands to protect himself.
Argus pulled himself straight; veins suddenly appeared at his temples. “And you were warned about going to that hellhole,” he slurred. “I’m hearing that and more.”
Argus was right. Jack looked down, unable to find words. The networks had pulled back. No insurance company wanted to issue the coverage that the newsrooms needed to send their crews into Colombia. “We knew there were risks,” he said, inwardly cringing.
“Damn you,” Argus boomed. “No story’s worth my daughter’s life! Her boss in New York said you weren’t even supposed to be there.”
Jack looked him straight in the eye. “I’m sorry, Argus. She was my friend. There’s nothing more I can say.”
“Sorry?” Argus laughed at that. “Like that means anything at all coming from a Doyle.”
“Argus,” Jack replied. “That’s old news. If you want to talk about ancient history, let’s talk about Kaitlin’s mother.”
“That’s none of your goddamn concern.”
“It was Kaitlin’s concern,” Jack shot back, turning to face him. “She had a right, Argus, and you know it. Her whole life, wondering about her.”
Argus took another swig, swallowed, his eyes distant, making Jack believe a truce was somehow still possible.
“Her mother,” Argus said quietly, wiping wet hair from his forehead. “I couldn’t tell Kaitlin about her mother. Better for her not to know.” Argus seemed to be considering how much more to say and after a moment, as if finding temporary purchase on a rocky ledge, he continued, “I had more than Aiden. There was our sister too. Was the prettiest girl… even prettier than Jimmy O’Connor’s girl, Meghan. Dolly was her name. She grew up fast and the last we saw of her she was on a street corner in Dublin. She didn’t recognize either of us.”
Jack had had no idea.
Trance-like, Argus then shifted to a time after Ireland and Dolly, past the years he’d spent at sea and after Aiden was drawn to Bark Island by Duey Whelan’s daughter, who taught school, and committed herself to lifelong grief when Aiden died at age twenty-four. These things were well known to Jack – and the fact that Argus abandoned the sea lanes and joined his brother and his new wife and baby at Bark Island. Six months later Aiden was lost aboard Caleb’s schooner.
Argus was reaching back to that time. “When Aiden was gone I left again. Signed on aboard Caledonia. We brought salt fish to Jamaica and Colombia. Came the other way with coffee and rum.” Argus hoisted his bottle. “Not this stuff.”
Jack snatched a quick breath, suspecting the storm’s eye had just settled over his kitchen.
For the moment, Argus seemed content to tell his story – his own audience. “The captain and me went for a hundred pounds of mangos. The old bastard – Bergsten – a Dane, got the scurvy once when he was a boy and couldn’t get enough of ’em. We found a market. Kaitlin’s mother was on the truck with the fruit. Beautiful. Much more than a lad from Dublin could hope to have.” The hint of a smile appeared on O’Rourke’s lips. “We saw each other three more times when my ship was in and then nothing. She just wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t even know she was pregnant until she wrote me the letter telling me I was a father. Argus gazed down at the floor, remembering. He looked up and then said, “I took Kaitlin from her mother’s arms at a bus station after we docked in Cartagena four weeks after that letter. Brought her back to Boston aboard the Caledonia.”
Kaitlin was the reason a ship named Caledonia was the last entry in the old seamen’s book that Argus kept in the office of his marina. It was a soiled and worn relic that reminded him of his years, his ships, his travels around the world.
Jack was confused. He’d heard a much different story. It was none of his business, but as far as he knew, Kaitlin’s mother was the daughter of a successful Colombian businessman. Jack surmised that an illegitimate child didn’t fit into his world and, as a consequence, the infant Kaitlin was given to the care of her Irish-American father.
Argus looked past Jack to a point outside the window. “The youngster made her mother into some kind of Aztec princess. She drew pictures of castles and crowns. When she turned eight she searched my desk for her address so she could send an invite to her birthday party.” It obviously pained Argus to say what he said next. “Truth was, she was a housemaid. Just a peasant who couldn’t feed her anymore. That’s why she gave her to me.” Argus raised his head, revealing moist eyes. “I couldn’t tell her. How could I tell her that? Besides, I was all she needed. Not some woman I bedded when I was at sea.” Argus fumbled with his pocket, tried to retrieve a cigarette, then gave up. He swung the bottle again, more to remind himself that he was there for a fight, eyes like dark poisonous berries. The storm was back. “My daughter. My brother. Goddamn it. You and that drunk of a father.”
Jack had taken enough. He moved quickly forward and was about to show him the door.
Argus flung the bottle against the wall, where it exploded, splattering amber liquid onto Jack’s face. “Goddamn you!” the Irishman screeched, twisting around and stomping unsteadily from the kitchen.
&nb
sp; Jack wiped his stinging eyes and went after him, heart pounding as he grabbed the door jam and swung himself into the hallway.
He shouted something after him, too late for Argus to hear.
THIRTY
The fog that rolled over Jack’s house on the day of Kaitlin O’Rourke’s funeral swallowed everything in its path, leaving nothing for the eye to see except silvery wraiths that faded in and out like the illusory bug-a-boos in a child’s fertile and restless mind.
Jack slept off O’Rourke’s rage, like a bad drunk. Tossing like the fifty-year storms that tore up the island. When his eyes snapped open, Jack realized the fog had lifted. Moonlight bathed his bedroom, giving smooth outline to chunky pine furniture and his wet clothes, which he’d tossed onto a chair before putting on sweats and collapsing into his unmade bed.
Someone was in the house.
He smelled food cooking. Pots clanged and someone was rustling through the silverware drawer. There were muffled voices. Jack swung his legs to the floor, and padded from the bedroom. When he got into the hallway the voices grew louder. They were arguing. No surprise, he thought. Shanks and Mulligan never agreed on anything. It didn’t matter what the subject, there was absolutely no chance of consensus, no likelihood of harmony, no possibility of concurrence or accord. The two were opposite ends of a magnet forever repelling. Black was white, white was black, and up was down, and vice versa. When Jack walked into the kitchen, the two of them were toe-to-toe in a pool of blood.
“Nothin’ wrong with fat. “ It was Shanks who had a slab of dripping meat poised over a cast-iron frying pan.
“I said trim it first.” Mulligan had a hold of his wrist, a murderous butcher knife in her other hand.
“What for? Missy no-fat latte got something against a good piece of marbled meat?”
“Your heart’s gonna explode before you’re fifty. You’ll see.”
The knife came up and Shanks surrendered. “Have it your way,” he said. “Go on. Ruin it.”
Jack leaned against the door jam and rubbed his eyes while trying to beat back a yawn. “The onions are burning.”
“What?” they said in unison, looking at him now, not a trace of humiliation in their faces.
“The onions.” The yawn won. Jack stretched, looked at the mess on his granite island. Vegetable peelings everywhere, copper pots boiling over on the gas stove, and a huge electric frying pan full of smoking onions.
Shanks was in charge of the steaks. Mulligan must have had control of the veggies. The burning onions were her fault. Shanks sneered at her. “You derelicted your duty. If I’d done that in the Gulf War we’d have never won.”
Mulligan lowered the knife and grabbed the dial on the electric pan. “You were a shaggin’ cook.”
“Got a Purple Heart, didn’t I?”
“The deep fryer exploded in the mess tent.”
“Whatever. Besides an army fights on its belly.”
“Moves on its belly, Tommy,” Jack corrected.
“Gotcha, Jack.”
Mulligan walked up to Jack and embraced him. “You looked like you needed the sleep,” she said, “so we thought we’d surprise you with dinner.”
“Glad you did,” Jack said. “Smells great.” He caught movement over the cast-iron skillet. “That’s enough salt, Tommy.”
“Sorry. Slipped,” Tommy said and tossed in the fatty steaks.
Frannie Mulligan stepped back, surveyed Jack’s disheveled appearance with a look of concern. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Jack responded. Truth was Mulligan didn’t look much better. Jack could see the beginnings of another good cry in her tired face. He drew her to him. “I know, I know,” was all he said, rubbing her back as she shuddered in his arms. Her tears soaked Jack’s shoulder for the second time that day.
Shanks pretended to be busy, but Jack could see a trembling hand as it stirred a pot of boiling potatoes – Tommy never taking his eyes off the bubbling mass. Somewhere there was his own grief to be dealt with in private.
Minutes passed. Frannie whispered her grief against his shoulder in short urgent gasps. When she stopped the silence became too heavy for the three of them.
“Gravy or no gravy?” Shanks finally said.
Jack was surprised at how good it tasted and how hungry he was. So were Shanks and Mulligan. They watched as he demolished his own rib-eye, laid thick with onions, and took what Mulligan had left on her plate. He shovelled down potatoes and carrots, and Shanks brought seconds of both. He washed it all down with Chardonnay, and the bottle sat nearly empty on the cluttered table. B.B. King belted out tunes on the CD player.
When the conversation began to slow, Shanks excused himself, gathered their plates and walked from the dining nook into the kitchen where he began the clean-up. He lost the coin toss, fair and square. No argument about that.
Jack and Mulligan watched quietly as he filled the sink with hot soapy water, loaded it up with pots first.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Mulligan said, turning her red eyes to Jack.
“Neither can I,” Jack replied.
“I talked to her after that little wrestling match of yours in New Orleans.” Mulligan frowned. “She was furious about that.”
“She didn’t say so at the time.”
“She wouldn’t have,” Mulligan said. “She was getting used to your shenanigans.”
Jack’s six-foot frame seemed to shrink. His shenanigans had gotten her killed.
“You wanna tell me what happened?”
Jack fixed his eyes on the checkered tablecloth. “Bad things happen when you make bad decisions. I made a really bad decision.”
“We all make bad decisions, Jack.”
“Yeah, we do,” Jack replied, lifting his head. “But usually we can walk away.”
A moment passed before he spoke again. Quietly he told her about the explosion, the days he spent in hospital hoping that somehow it had all been a big mistake, and that Kaitlin had turned up alive in another hospital. They checked patient lists when he demanded it, more to satisfy him than anything else. Of course, they came back with only bad news. No sign of any Kaitlin O’Rourke among the injured. The embassy did its own work, with the same result. Kaitlin O’Rourke was listed among the dead, but her body and at least a dozen others were obliterated by the explosive.
“Disaster seems to follow us Doyles,” Jack said, dejectedly.
“Don’t even go there, Jack.”
“You grew up without a father, Frannie. Don’t tell me it wasn’t tough.”
“Sure it was tough,” Frannie said. “Jesus, it was hard. But what’s that got to do with you?”
Jack shook his head. “You saw the looks I was getting at the cemetery.”
“Whadda they know?”
“What they think they know is that my father got drunk and drove that boat onto the rocks. That’s what they think they know. Colombia was my call. They know that too. They blame me for Kaitlin.”
Mulligan bit her top lip and waited, her black Irish features and round caring face a comfort to Jack. “It wasn’t your fault,” was all she said.
“It wouldn’t matter anyhow.” Jack looked at her and rubbed the scar on his hand. “It was my story, my career.”
Mulligan looked at him. “It was her job, Jack, and she loved it.”
He didn’t tell Mulligan about the advice he’d received from his friend at State before he and Kaitlin left New Orleans. “Bad time. Even the DEA is closing up shop there. Stay out of Colombia, Jack. No story’s that good.”
“Got our marching orders,” Jack had replied at the time. “Besides, we’re media.”
“Media,” his friend had laughed. “This is a country where judges and cops don’t go out at night. You think you’re immune because you’re bloody media?”
In a national television address the Colombian president had promised war on the cartels. Their reign was over. The cartels responded in bloody fashion. Assassinations and car bombings had tur
ned the country into a killing zone, especially for Americans who were either being kidnapped or murdered, depending on whether a ransom could be paid or a political point scored. There was even talk the United States might be asked to intervene. In the meantime the State Department had placed Colombia “off limits” to anyone who had even the slightest inclination to set foot there.
Jack looked straight ahead, past Frannie who was staring at him with deep sympathy in her black Irish face. “I saw their justice minister in the restaurant,” he said quietly. “He was the biggest target in Colombia, especially because of his initiative on the extradition treaty.” Jack gripped his glass so tightly Frannie feared it was going to shatter in his hand.
Shanks looked over at them and stopped what he was doing. Mulligan shot him a look that said, “Get back to the dishes.” Shanks shrugged his well-muscled shoulders, thrust thick arms covered in fine red hair into steaming water and returned pale eyes to the pile of dirty dishes.
“Stop beating yourself up. Kaitlin understood the risks.” Mulligan fixed her eyes on him. “She was quietly planning a trip down there. To find her mother.” Frannie shook her head, reached for her glass. “Soon as Argus stopped being such an asshole. The man irks me to no end.”
Jack hadn’t known. He shook his head, sat back, took a gulp of wine and thought again about that day. The mysterious phone call Kaitlin had lied about. “I think it was possible she was already talking to someone about that.” Jack went on, dropped his voice, “I’m sure she lied about a phone call.”
“Go on,” Frannie said.
“There’s not much else to tell. She seemed really preoccupied afterwards at dinner.” Jack watched Tommy wiping down the countertops.
After Jack’s mother died, when it was just two of them, his father often sat at this table, half-drunk and staring out the window. Singing. Something about a pirate, Jack remembered, hunting for American ships full of gold and ruined by his foolhardy adventure at just twenty-three. It was on one of those nights that Caleb Doyle told his son what had really happened in that storm when they’d smashed up on Sable Island and three men were lost, including Aiden O’Rourke and Arthur Mulligan, Frannie’s father. The third man was nineteen. Dunphy, a deck hand from Nova Scotia. Jack never fully understood why his father refused to tell the truth about what actually happened. Even when they called him a drunk like Charlie Bidgood who froze to death not twenty feet from his back door.
