Irish Tiger

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “What will you do, Jack?” She pushed aside her salad.

  “Eat your lunch, Maria Angelica. It’s expensive.”

  She laughed and did what she was told.

  “They killed my first wife. I won’t let them kill you.”

  “I’m different.” Her chin went up in defiance.

  “They can’t disown me, because I will disown them.”

  “Take away their trust funds. . .? You wouldn’t do that. It would be vindictive.”

  “They inherit their mother’s fund. They can live off that.”

  “They’ll hate you forever.”

  “They already do.”

  “Can I meet them? Persuade them that I’m not a whore or a hooker?. . . See, I’ve eaten my salad!”

  “You shouldn’t have to go into the lion’s den.”

  “Lionesses. . . Are they really serious?”

  “They get carried away by their rhetoric and can’t admit that they’ve changed their mind.”

  “Do they believe that they can intimidate you?”

  I thought about it.

  “They know how much I love them. . . . Yes, they probably think they can. They’re wrong.”

  “I know that. . . . They can make the rest of your life miserable. . . .”

  “And yours too, if I let them.”

  “I still want my shot at them. Get it over and done with.”

  “You may have to adopt me into your family, Maria Angelica.”

  “Oh, we already have done that. . . . I even got a unanimous vote.”

  I had spent Labor Day weekend in Oakdale, not a little taken aback by the fact that it was a lovely little place and the people seemed very much like Americans. Her bright and handsome kids seemed to like me at once, even Clara who, her mother had warned me, was very suspicious of Chicagoans. Maria told me later that after dinner, Clara had demanded to know if her mother was sleeping with me. Maria denied the charge, which wasn’t true then.

  “Well,” she said, “you’re crazy if you don’t. He’s totally cute and a total keeper.”

  “A young woman of excellent judgment.”

  Conversation around the table was a tournament in which five very quick people fought desperately for the last word. They didn’t know they were doing it, much less that they were imitating their mother, though Clara and Marissa knew that I was amused and competed vigorously with each other.

  I explained to them all that I was not really an investor nor even a speculator. I was a gambler. . . . A riverboat gambler who bet with other people’s money as well as my own that I could earn them more money every year than the Dow Jones index could.

  “Ever fail?” Pete asked.

  “Sometimes, but only in the years when the index went even lower.”

  “Vegas?” Marissa, fresh home from her first year in ACE, Notre Dame’s peace corps, and a radiant clone of her mother, asked.

  “I’ve never been near the place. People are reckless down there. I am not a reckless gambler. I win some and I lose some, but I win a lot more than I lose.”

  “Timing is very important in gambling, isn’t it?” Clara asked, pushing what I suspected had become her new agenda.

  “It’s the whole show.”

  She smiled in satisfaction. I had heard her message, clever little witch.

  I laughed all the way home as I recalled the day in all its rich sending and receiving of messages. I promised them all a ride on the Mary Fran first time out in spring.

  “He’s a very stern captain,” my love said. “Very authoritarian.”

  “A good captain has to be that way,” Clara said, now completely on my side.

  Now poor Maria would have to face a much more hostile bunch. We sat at the table in a private dining room in the Four Seasons Hotel, sipping from a glass of Barolo, waiting for my daughters who were already half an hour late.

  “A couple of sips for eloquence,” Maria commented.

  “This is not a good idea,” I said.

  “No, but it is necessary.”

  There was a tentative knock on the door; a guest but a hesitant guest. I opened the door and my youngest, Mary Fran, came in.

  “Hi, Dad, the others are downstairs, drinking and plotting against you. I couldn’t take it anymore. . . .”

  “Maria, this is my youngest daughter, Mary Fran. . . . Mary Fran, this is Maria Connors.”

  “I knew, Mary Fran, that a young woman who lent her name to such a lovely boat must be very beautiful. I know now my expectation was not wrong.”

  “Thanks, Maria.” Tears cascaded down my daughter’s face, as the two women embraced. “I wanted to tell you that I was on your side, but I’m afraid I’ll have to desert the battleground.”

  “A wise decision, Mary Fran. We’ll get to know each other at other times and other places.”

  The two hugged each other and Mary Fran hugged me.

  “I guess you will have to make some choices, Mary Fran,” I said.

  “It’s about time. I’ve already done it in my head. The choice is easy. The action won’t be.”

  “In your own good time, hon. There’s no rush,” Maria said soothingly. So far she had made all the right moves. What, however, could she do against angry drunks?

  “Who’s down there?”

  “Great-Grams, Grandma and Grandpa, the aunts, Evie, and her weasel of a husband, poor Irene and her irrelevant boyfriend—they all hate you and want to get even with you for different reasons, mostly that you’re a success and that you and Mom had a happy marriage, regardless. I know I should stay and fight them, but I don’t have the stomach for a drunken Irish wake.”

  “I walk out on Italian fights too,” Maria assured her. “Your father can take care of himself and I can take care of the two of us.”

  “Irene follows Evie, as always, but what is Evie so angry about?”

  “Dad shouldn’t marry a woman so much younger than he is.”

  My lover laughed.

  “Hon, I’m two months older than he is.”

  “Yeah, but you are much more beautiful than Irene and presumably stuck up. . . . I better run before the Huns storm the gates.”

  “I wish we could ask her to be in the wedding party,” I murmured, as Mary Fran, still weeping, left the private dining room.

  We sat again at our empty table and watched men and women in their Sunday garb entering the gothic Presbyterian Church across the street.

  “I’ll call her at the hospital during the week and invite her to join Clara and Marissa as bridesmaids. She won’t be able to do it, but after the wedding she’ll come over to our side. . . . Is she right? Could your oldest daughter be jealous of me?”

  “She’s always been possessive. And Irene has followed her around like a little puppy.”

  “Hard cases, Jack. It will take a long time, but I’ll win them over.”

  “I’d never bet against you.”

  No one knocked, but the door burst open and my family entered bearing with them the thick aroma, not of a cheap bar, but of an elegant lounge—a sure sign that they had signed my name to the tab. They staggered into the room, their obesity taking over all the free space.

  “Maria Angelica,” I began calmly, “let me introduce you to my late wife’s family and my own. . . . Faith’s grandmother Evangeline Clifford Fahey.”

  Grandma had collapsed into a chair and was busy pouring Barolo in a water tumbler.

  “Why don’t you leave our family alone?” Grandma Fahey demanded as she put two ice cubes into the wine. “We don’t need anyone like you.”

  “I’m not sure that I need anyone like you either, Grandma. In any case I’m not marrying your family. I’m marrying John Donlan.”

  “Faith’s father, Guy O’Meara. . .”

  “You’re all Republicans out there aren’t you, Mrs. Connors?”

  “In fact, Mr. O’Meara, Kishwaukee has gone Democratic in the last two elections because of the influence of NIU and Rockford. Our town has historically been Democ
ratic and as chair of the Oakdale Democrats I intend to keep that tradition alive.”

  Guy was protected partially from the family nuttiness by his political obsessions.

  “Not far enough away for us,” Lallie snorted. “You’d better be careful of this fellow, young woman. He killed my daughter when he got tired of her and he’ll do the same to you.”

  “My mother-in-law, Eulalia Carmody O’Meara, commonly known as Lallie.”

  “My sympathy, Ms. O’Meara. And I don’t believe you. I have read the records of her accident. She should not have been permitted to leave your house alone in the condition she was in, especially since her husband was in Washington and could not be expected to drive her home.”

  So I wasn’t the only one who did preliminary investigations.

  “Faith’s sisters, Ms. Hope O’Meara and Ms. Charity O’Meara.”

  The two aunts had both aged since the burial scene at All Saints Cemetery—and put on more weight. Moreover they were both on the fringe of the fall-down state of Irish intoxication.

  “Fucking bastard,” Charity said, her voice slurred, not a response that was in keeping with her name.

  Nor was her sister’s barely audible “cocksucker,” an appropriate word from someone called Hope.

  “It is not worth answering them, Maria. They won’t remember tomorrow what you said. . . . Finally my daughters, Evelyn and her husband, Anthony Cuneen, who is an attorney at law, and Irene and her ‘boyfriend’ Christopher Riordan, who is an aspiring filmmaker.”

  And, I did not add, is alleged to be heterosexual, even though he does his best to exhibit a gay persona.

  “I was hoping,” my beloved said, in a dangerously meek voice, “that you young women would be part of our wedding party.”

  “Where did you get your boob job?” Irene asked, on a signal from her sister. I had a strong urge to strangle them both.

  Maria dismissed her with an amused laugh.

  “I’m afraid I have to blame my Tuscan genes for my figure. There’s not much one can do about them. I’ve never had any cosmetic surgery. Only pretty good makeup. I could recommend it to you if you’re interested, though it tends to be expensive.”

  Chris Riordan, who may not have had a shower for the last week, yawned. He did not realize that he should memorize the scene, which might have been drawn from one of Eugene O’Neill’s plays about Irish drunks. The scene was now set for the end-of-the-act performance by my firstborn daughter, the light of my life, my pride and joy.

  “We will not, Ms. Connors, accept positions in your wedding party. Nor will we appear at the ceremony itself, which is probably sacrilegious. To be candid, we don’t like you. We don’t want you. We will not accept you as, God forbid the word, our stepmother. You are a strumpet, a whore, a hooker, a cunt, a punch card. I would not let you near my kiddies for fear they would pick up some hideous disease from you. . . . Dad, you have shown incredibly bad taste in your choice of a woman. You disgrace and humiliate us and our mother. If you go ahead with this hideous marriage, we have no choice but to disinherit you. Permanently. From the day of your marriage you will simply not exist for us. You can try to take our trust funds away from us. My Tony says that you will not be able to do that. But fuck the trust funds and fuck you too.”

  “You might also have called me a drab, a blowen, or even flattered me a bit and used the word courtesan. . . . Heinous would have been a better adjective in the context, more Catholic.” My bride would have the last word, would she not?

  “Do you have anything to say, Dad? We are all prepared for fervent denials. We reject them out of hand.”

  “No response at all,” I said. “I will not play Lear to your Goneril, now or ever.”

  “What your father means”—Maria stole the final word again—“is that you can’t excommunicate him because he has already excommunicated you. I assume you have sent up the ticket for your bar amusements, a charge which excommunication does not cancel. This time.”

  They all exited silently.

  “I suggest,” she continued, “that we have our dinner sent in, and another bottle of wine and then return to your house for whatever amusements are available to us on a lonely autumn night.”

  Maria Angelica

  WE DID just that. It was a memorable night of love for me. Sex with Jack was better than I imagined it could be, but the ultimate pleasure had still escaped me. However, that evening with the full moon bathing both of us with its inviting glow I plunged over the edge into abandon and the depths of pleasure. . . . So this is what it is supposed to be like. . . . Sometimes . . . I must remember the way down, so I can come back. . . .

  Then Jack was speaking to me, the sound of fear in his voice.

  “Are you all right Maria! Wake up, please!”

  “I’m all right,” I sighed, “but if it’s just the same to you, I’d rather not wake up. . . .”

  “What happened?”

  “Abandon, I think. Sometimes women lose consciousness for a few minutes. . . . It is not serious. . . . But, oh, Jackie dear . . . It was so wonderful. . . . Thank you . . .”

  “Can I get anything for you . . .?”

  Poor dear man, he was so worried about me. . . . He really does love me. . . . Like most men he is afraid of the depths of womanly orgasm.

  “I just want to lay here with you, naked in the moonlight and bask in all the warmth. . . . It beats the Cayman Islands. . . .”

  He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against himself, as though he were afraid he’d lose me again. Poor dear man.

  “You could bring me a large glass of iced tea, spiced kind please, heavy on the ice, a touch of lime.”

  When he returned I had pulled myself into a chaise and tossed a towel around me, not so much out of shame as pride. His naked body was very beautiful in the moonlight. Mine . . . all mine.

  He reclined next to me and gave me the iced tea.

  “Hmmm . . . Good.”

  “Sweet and tart . . . Just like you . . .”

  I caressed him gently. “You want more?” he asked, astonished.

  “Not right away.” I touched his lips gently with my own, tasting his strength and goodness against the tea.

  “Those poor people,” I said.

  “You feel sorry for them, after the terrible things they said?”

  “They are so lonely, no joy in their lives at all.”

  “That’s certainly true. The O’Mearas are filled with pride and bitterness and drink. They’ll never escape. . . . It’s my daughters I worry about.”

  “Don’t worry, Jackie Pat, I’ll get them back for you.”

  I must have fallen asleep then. The next thing I knew it was morning and I was in bed, curled up in my lover’s arms as the sun peered above the horizon to warn me that there was more to life than fun and games, though they were fine too.

  You know the rest of the story. After the nonwedding banquet we walked over to the cathedral to protest to the cardinal. The sweet teen at the door whose name was Megan told me that the cardinal was not in but Archbishop Ryan would see us. A funny little man with pale blue eyes behind thick glasses, he was wearing black jeans, a clerical shirt, and a Chicago Bears Windbreaker.

  “Ah,” he said, “you have fallen into the hands of idiots, clerical idiots. I will make a phone call that should clarify matters. Forgive me while I don my clerical persona and call the cathedral rectory in our suffragan see to the West, Northwest in point of fact, though it is politically ‘downstate.’ ”

  The darling little man assumed an expression of mock pomposity.

  “Yes, this is Archbishop Ryan calling for Cardinal Cronin. May I talk to the monsignor . . .? Ah, good afternoon, Monsignor . . . The cardinal has directed me to call you to seek information. We have a situation here which he wishes to resolve promptly. . . .”

  He grimaced at his role of the ponderous ecclesiastic.

  “Yes, Monsignor, I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. . . . My first question is whether th
ere has ever been a parish in honor of St. Lawrence in Oakdale or anywhere in the adjoining communities. . . . Yes, I see . . . My second and last question is whether in the last half century or so there has ever been one Father Thomas Hartnett in your diocese. . . . Yes, I will wait till you check the necrology. . . .”

  He put his hand over the phone and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Monsignor . . . Indeed, well that resolves our little problem. . . . The cardinal directs me to thank you and to convey his fraternal greetings to your ordinarius. . . . Yes, Monsignor, but the pleasure has been mine.

  “Hooray for our side . . . as I expected you have been victims of a foul and, if I may say so, sloppy plot. . . . Can you gather your wedding party together tomorrow morning? . . . Good, Milord Cronin will be pleased to offer a nuptial liturgy in one of the side chapels in the cathedral tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. I would suggest that if you require an explanation of this nasty and messy plot, you contact this young woman. . . . Her name may be familiar to you. . . . She sings. . . . Yes, that one . . . she also has considerable talent at disentangling puzzles. . . . Oh, yes, I will be present for the liturgy to, uh, assist Milord Cronin and, if it pleases him to say a few words that might be appropriate for the occasion.”

  The next morning the cardinal said the nuptial Mass, a choir of teenagers led by a young woman named Crystal sang. The wedding party was there and Mary Fran whom Maria had seen coming out of Mass at St. Freddy’s and dragged over to the dinner, where she seemed to bond quickly with Maria’s kids. My Cordelia.

  After he had read the Gospel, the cardinal, tall, handsome, and charming, said a few words to us about how the Church should be judged by this service instead of what happened yesterday.

  “I could preach for you and maybe put our lovely choir maidens to sleep. Instead I am going to ask my helper archbishop to tell you why God made strawberries.”

  The nice little man was wearing a white alb. Only a gorgeous silver St. Brigid’s cross around his neck suggested that he was anything more than a random deacon who had wandered in.