Irish Tiger

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “Good evening! It is good of you to permit me to visit your home again this year to sing my songs and help you to get in the mood for Christmas or whatever your midwinter festival may be. I promise you that I will intrude on your peace and quiet for only a little less than an hour and that my children won’t be disruptive. This year we’re doing lullabies again, singing some of the old ones and adding some new ones from all over the world. We’ll begin with the favorite American Christmas carol, a blues carol written by Irving Berlin and sung famously by that great Irish American jazz singer Bing Crosby. I’m asking the kids from our Sheffield Avenue neighborhood and everyone in the audience here and at home to join in.”

  My Nuala can sing a song in its proper color no matter what’s going on around her. She has the knack of carrying an audience, just as easily as she waves a hand at the Sheffield Avenue chorus. We sang “White Christmas” the way it ought to be sung—a blues carol. I was weeping at the end as was the mayor on one side of me and the senator on the other side—and most of the Donlan-Connors crowd behind me.

  I relaxed. It would be the best special yet.

  She glided from scene to scene and from performer to performer like a benign fairy godmother or perhaps a friendly local seraph. Her gracefulness permeated the performances, the soundstage, and I’m sure the millions watching.

  And this was the same wanton woman with whom I had romped earlier in the day. Grace is indeed everywhere.

  “I should tell you that the young mother and child are Arab Christians, Assyrian Catholics but their lullaby, I am told, has been sung by Arab mothers to their children, regardless of their religion, for thousands of years. Mary may have sung a lullaby like that to Jesus.

  “Now as some of you might expect I’m an Irish-American and proud of both heritages. I’m from a place so far out in the West of Ireland that the next parish west is on Long Island. Out there in the town of Carraroe many of us speak the ancient Irish language, which was made to be sung. So I’m going to sing our own favorite carol in Irish and then in English. And I’m going to sing it to my youngest Patrick Joseph Coyne. . . .”

  Applause for the little blond brat.

  “We call him Patjo and everyone says that he’s just like his father, big, blond, handsome, and laid back.”

  She sat on a chair and accompanied herself on the harp. Patjo, the little scamp, rested his head on her thigh just like he was going to sleep.

  “Now we’re going to sing it in English with his brother and sisters and some of the kids on the block. . . .”

  On the wings of the wind, o’er the dark, rolling deep

  Angels are coming to watch o’er your sleep

  Angels are coming to watch over you

  So list to the wind coming over the sea

  Hear the wind blow, hear the wind blow

  Lean your head over, hear the wind blow.

  The kids sang as though they really liked the little monster (which they did) and blew like the wind with enthusiasm and, for them, wondrous restraint. And so it went, the show did not drag, her voice did not falter. Her grace did not fade, her charm did not wane. She was getting better every year. And not just in her songs either.

  There was a brief five-minute break halfway through which Nuala used to talk about her own family.

  “I’m delighted that for the first time people in my other country are watching this program on Irish television and that my mom and dad, me ma and me da, as we’d say over there, are watching it out in my home town of Carraroe, which is the most beautiful little village in the west of Ireland. Nollaig Shona Duit to everyone in Ireland and especially to everyone in Carraroe and especially my mother and father.”

  A panoramic slide of that lovely little village appeared.

  “Now we’re going to start the rest of the program with the second and last Irish lullaby—the ‘Castle of Dromore.’ ” The kids rushed out, lined up smartly, and let their mother lead them. Socra Marie was off-key as always and won everybody’s heart.

  The program moved along briskly, not losing a beat in its tempo as it wound down.

  “We have one last lullaby, maybe the most famous of them all, written by the great German composer Johannes Brahms. It’s the theme of tonight’s program. My daughter Mary Anne and I will sing in the original German and then in English and I want everyone to sing the English along with us.”

  Nelliecoyne appeared carrying her mother’s small harp. She was dressed in Christmas red and green appropriate for an eight-year-old. Great applause and a nod of her head in return. She had a Junior version of her mother’s stage presence and a lovely little voice to which her mother deferred in the German version. Then “Lullaby and Good Night.”

  “Now that we’re in German, let’s end the program with the greatest of all Christian carols. Let us imagine that we are in Bethlehem honoring the Baby Jesus or our own most favorite new baby. . . but not so loud to wake him up.”

  The Sheffield Avenue choir, led by Socra Marie and Katiesue, scurried into position. Shaped by Nuala’s restrained singing the program eased into a conclusion. Nuala turned to face the millions all around the world.

  “Thank you for letting us sing in your homes again this year. Good night, Happy Christmas, and with the help of God till we meet again.”

  The ovation from the listeners rocked the building. Then they began to clap and demand an encore. Nuala hesitated, shrugged her shoulders, and took the small harp out of her daughter’s hand.

  “I’ll sing one more song and that’ll be the last one. . . . One cold rainy night a long time ago I was sipping a pint in O’Neil’s pub just off College Green, minding my own business and studying my world economics book. An obnoxious Yank sat down at my table and tried to chat me up. He was kind of cute, but not very perceptive. So when the people in the pub started to shout for a song, I figured that was an excuse to dump this Yank. So I sang this song. The Yank, who obviously had no manners, just sat there at my table and stared at me. I haven’t been able to get rid of him ever since.”

  So she sang “Molly Malone.” After all these years it still makes me cry.

  As the crowd left the hall and passed through the line of police guards, a few of us drifted back in to the bowels of the studio for a small splash of Baileys. The mayor walked next to me.

  “How did you like our Godzilla?”

  “She’s totally cool and adorable,” I replied. “I was disappointed that she didn’t get to show off all her little tricks.”

  “It’s nice to know she works,” he replied.

  My radiant wife greeted me at the door to the party room, with a plastic cordial glass containing a generous splash of Baileys and a broad smile, just short of a grin—still in control of the event with her grace and charm.

  “Not bad,” I said hugging her cautiously so as not to spill either of our jars. “Not bad at all, at all . . . You improve with age Nuala Anne McGrail.”

  “So do you, Dermot Michael Coyne, so do you!”

  Her one arm hug became more insistent.

  The Sheffield Avenue rug rats did not run wild. On the contrary, they behaved decorously as they accepted congratulations from their admirers, quite unfazed by the praise of the mayor and the senator and the various functionaries of NBS and Kosmic Entertainment. The president of the latter, a nervous but exuberant little man, was especially lavish in his praise of everyone.

  “You’re her husband, aren’t you? . . . She’s a delightful young woman. . . . Her performance was reviewproof. . . . Most of them will be good anyway. . . . We’ll have DVDs out by the middle of next week. . . . I think we ought to make a film about her. . . . There’d be a tremendous market. . . .”

  “You’ll have to talk to her about that. . . . I’m not her agent, you know. . . . She acts for herself. . . . She’s a toughone. All those West of Ireland women are tough. . . .”

  “Still you’re a very lucky man!”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You look good for yourself
,” I told Jackie Donlan a few moments later.

  “My wife has had a lot of experience as a caregiver. . . . Also at managing a high-energy group of young women!”

  “That project goes well?”

  “It will take a little time for them to understand and adjust to one another, but they seem to genuinely like one another. They’re going home tomorrow so we won’t be running a sorority house anymore. . . . And my wife and I are going back to work on Monday. Maybe our lives will settle down. Christmas dinner in Oakdale next Saturday.”

  “Business is okay?”

  “It would seem so. My eager little gnome, Joey, worries a lot, but nothing much will happen in the markets till after New Year’s. Then the world will know I’m in charge again and we’ll be okay. It will take some time, but we’ll bounce back fine.”

  Only if we—well Nuala—can sort out the puzzle.

  “Not an easy transition, Jack.”

  “Nonetheless, as you can imagine,” he blushed, “a very welcome one . . . And we still have a honeymoon ahead of us, maybe in February.”

  “Best time to get away from Chicago.”

  In our family there were no vacations, save for trips to Grand Beach and Connemara and they weren’t vacations. I’d have to work on that.

  “Dermot love, I think we should get the chiles home. They’re beginning to fade and we have a big week ahead of us. And Mass in the morning.”

  Only two Masses.

  Indeed yes. A big week. Christmas shopping. Gift wrapping, tree decorating, carol singing, Aer Lignus to Shannon. Mad rush there. I’d get my annual cold. Then back to Chicago and back to school.

  Ugh. I needed a honeymoon too.

  We took the kids home and put them to bed and then staggered in our own room for a last little jar to calm our nerves then to bed for a quiet night.

  “You’re the best husband in all the world,” Nuala whispered as she sank into sleep.

  “Till you find a more resilient one.”

  She was, however, sound asleep as I was a few minutes later.

  Still we have a puzzle to solve.

  Dermot

  THE KIDS were irritable, Nuala was snappish, and I was glum—not exactly a band of cheerful Christians on the fourth Sunday of Advent. Why do we have to go to Mass twice? None of the other kids do. Why can’t we play in the snow before it melts. Mass at St. Josephat is dull. Mass at Old St. Partick’s is dull. Didn’t we sing enough last night?

  You’re nothing but a bunch of heathens. You’re lucky you can go to Mass in two churches. Stop fighting and pay attention to the priest. It is not boring. Dermot why don’t you do something about your children?

  I think it’s boring too.

  You should be ashamed of them.

  It’s not their fault. We’re all worn out. It’s just a letdown.

  Da’s right. We’re all let down. It’s natural after a big victory. Just like after a big volleyball game.

  You’re a little pagan and yourself with the use of reason.

  I’ve given up the use of reason. Besides Da’s right.

  He is not!

  He is so.

  All of youse be quiet. I have a terrible headache.

  That stopped them cold. The very thought that poor Da might be sick always silences the murmuring. What would happen to the family if poor Da were sick? I didn’t use this tack of poor sick Da very often. It always worked.

  But then we were back in the kitchen for our Sunday brunch which we all make together—blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, piles of bacon, Quaker Oats for Ma, soda bread, and maple syrup over everything and everybody. And lots of treats for the doggies who had been left alone last night. It is a family myth that we all make it together because Da presides over the effort, does most of the work, and prevents the younger kids from throwing syrup-drenched pancakes at each other.

  Then the kids went to the playroom and Ma and Da to her study. (I have an office and she has a study, which is not to be confused with her music room where she has a piano. The next thing she’ll be wanting is a “meditation” room. She also has an exercise room which I can use when she’s not.)

  “We may have to cancel the reservations to Shannon,” herself said as she sank into her thinking couch. As always she approched a problem from the perspective of the consequences of not solving it.

  “We have a whole week before we’d leave.”

  “The week before Christmas is not a time to solve puzzles.”

  “’Tis true,” I admitted.

  “And ourselves knowing not much more than we did at the beginning.”

  I had been idly glancing through the Sunday papers. My article on Congressman Stafford had yet to appear. I saw a heading in “Eyes and Ears.”

  Peace on Earth for Donlans?

  It would appear that the divided Donlan clan has decided to kiss and make up. The daughters of stock tycoon John Patrick Donlan (Donlan Assets Management) are now praising their new stepmother, Maria Angelica Connors (Elegant Homes). “We were not fair to Maria and we feel terrible about it. She’s a wonderful woman, very sensitive and sympathetic and very, very witty. She and her kids are welcome additions to our family and they don’t seem to mind us in their family. We’re all going out there to Oakdale for Christmas.” The combined families were in town for the taping of the newest Christmas special of singer Nuala Anne McGrail. Ears hears that all the reviews will be ecstatic.

  I read the item for me wife.

  “Just asking for trouble,” she fumed. “They need a convoy of armored cars to get out there unless we can untangle this mess. . . . Well, what do we know about it, Dermot?”

  “If we assume that from the false allegation at the wedding, to the bomb plot last night were the work of the same perpetrator, that person is a clumsy amateur who has access to some dangerous people, not approved by our friends out on the West Side, that he becomes more reckless each time he tries something, and that he knows how to cover his tracks.”

  “And why is he doing these terrible things?”

  “He seems to want to destroy both their businesses, especially Jackie’s.”

  “Why?”

  “For some reason he hates him or maybe both of them. He’s obsessed by his hatred. He started low key when he tried to ruin the wedding. Then when that didn’t work he escalated.”

  “Mad?”

  “One would think so.”

  “Does he have anything personally to gain by it?”

  “Other than personal satisfaction, probably not. Unless it is Joey McMahon. He thinks that he could buy out the company and make more money on it than Jack. He’s probably wrong. I suspect that someone else would buy it out first if it came to that. Someone with deeper pockets than Joey.”

  “Disgusting little rodent.”

  “True enough. But where does he get his troops? Even if there may be wiseguys in his neighborhood, they’d be afraid of offending the boys to say nothing of the political organization.”

  “He’s been out to Oakdale, hasn’t he?”

  “To do some of the preliminary work on the deal.”

  “He might have heard about Maria’s brothers and talked to them. Maybe a deal to get rid of both Jack and Maria. . . Drive them out of business and then do physical harm to them.”

  My Nuala would think of something like that.

  “We don’t have any proof of that. Ster Stafford might have used them as a go-between.”

  “Give over, Dermot Michael. Your version of the congressman tells me that he never recovered from being hit in the head by the camera our friend Maria Angelica threw at him.”

  “Yet he clearly worships her.”

  “He had a terrible way of showing it.”

  “For which I think he is genuinely sorry. . . In any case he is not smart enough to fake his admiration and regret. In a strange way, he seemed almost glad she defeated him in the election.”

  “Fair play to you, Dermot love, sometimes you’re wrong about women, but never about me
n. I’d just as soon not leave him out of the game, though if you don’t mind, I’d also like to call him tomorrow morning.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Still. That leaves us with the possibility that the rodent, and Lou Garner and the brothers Sabattini might have entered a conspiracy against our clients, doesn’t it now?”

  “It does, though Garner is too clever a small-time gombeen man to mix himself up with anything as crazy as the assaults on our clients and then the attempted murder of our family and perhaps our neighborhood.”

  She considered this for a moment.

  “So in this perspective we are considering, without any evidence, save for the characters of the people involved, the possibility that Joseph McMahon in conspiracy with Maria’s brothers, is the solution to our case?”

  “An eminently plausible thesis, love of my life. All we lack is proof.”

  “And also any conviction on my insight that this theory is correct.”

  “Alas, ’tis true.”

  “We should ask that nice Mr. Casey if he knows of any evidence at all at all of any link between them recently.”

  Mike the cop is always that “nice Mr. Casey” when I’m expected to call him. So, loyal spear-carrier that I am, I called him and it being Sunday morning.

  “Casey.”

  “Coyne.”

  “Wasn’t herself brilliant last night, dead friggin’ brilliant!”

  Mike likes a phony Irish brogue.

  “Brilliant altogether . . . We have some matters on which we need your input.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Is there any reason to think that Joe McMahon has had recent contact with the Sabattini brothers out in Oakdale and secondly has he had recent contact with Lou Garner, a gombeen man who went to school with Jack Donlan?”

  Nuala scribbled on a piece of paper. “Tell him about the Christmas plans.”

  “So that’s the way herself is thinking? You’re right about Lou being a gombeen man. Joey and the brothers out in Oakdale? That’s an interesting idea. It will be a little difficult, but I’ll see what we can find out.”