“Migrated to Italy? From where?”
“Oh! Did I not say? Israel, of course.”
“You mean I am...?”
“Yes, Mrs. Riddell. A Jewess. Only 0.0004%, mind, but Jewish all the same. Oh, I just knew there was something about you when we met. We clicked, didn't we? And now I understand why. Welcome to the club.”
And then, while Zoë's head was still spinning like a dreidel about this revelation, they had talked about the other test results.
Now she was in the company car and, after two quick stops, the organic food store and the jeweler's, was heading to the Pence-A-Day lockups on the outskirts of town. She had to speak to Paddy Flood. She was a bit off-kilter. She didn't feel herself. And it wasn't just the verification of the surprising pregnancy.
It was as if something special was flowing through her veins, a never-before-encountered tingling. Like precious tiny crystals sparkling in her corpuscles. Not from a Russian or a Viking, who were recent additions to world history, but from someone, one out of four, much, much older. Zoë was now a middle-aged pregnant Jewess. Well, only 0.0004% a Jewess. But still. It was so unexpected. So exotic.
Over breakfast, an energy bar, she had done some quick research. In Ireland, there were only about 1,600 Jews in a population of almost 5 million, so 0.03%. In the North, the percentage was even smaller, if that could be imagined. Perhaps there were only 350 Jews or so, most, if not all, living in Belfast. There was only one synagogue in Belfast. Derry had none. Though, if Zoë remembered a lesson from a long ago Derry history class correctly, there had been one on Kennedy Place, just within the city walls. It had closed down in 1948, and Zoë wasn't even sure if the street still existed, let alone the building. Was she the only person in Derry with Jewish blood in her veins? Perhaps she was.
Zoë had gone to bed the night before as the same old Zoë Riddell. She had awoken as someone else. In a world jam-packed with people, Zoë was now one of a very special group. Only 0.2% of the global population was Jewish. She was now part of that 0.2% worldwide. She was different. Exclusive.
Yes, that's exactly what it was: exclusive. Just what Zoë was used to. Her spa, her travel, her single serve espressos. It seemed fitting. It was right. She nodded. As she leaned back in the plush Coach leather and let the exclusivity wash over her, Zoë felt—oh, surely it made no sense, was illogical, but then fewer and fewer things were making sense lately—she felt the history and tradition of that 0.2% percolating through 0.00004% of her chromosomes, that which set her apart from 99.8% of the world.
No wonder she had given so much to charity throughout her career. She had always thought it was for tax write-offs, but now she realized suddenly, it was in her blood. And at university, she had read the biographies of Golda Meir, Gloria Steinem and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She had loved them all, found them inspirational. Now she understood why. And, a few months ago, she had paid Rory and Dymphna a visit, and had found the girl in her bathrobe before the television watching an American daytime program called Judge Judy. Zoë had tried to avoid looking at the screen, but had found herself riveted and entertained. The woman was marvelous. Feisty. A kindred spirit.
At that visit, Dymphna had blabbered on and on about that McFee girl being visited by the Virgin Mary. Silly girl, Zoë had thought, for once not referring to Dymphna. Now, however, she understood how the McFee girl felt. Special. Chosen.
Zoë fingered the Star of David pendant she had bought at the jeweler's that morning. It felt cool and expensive nestled against the flesh of her cleavage. She was delighted to share her exciting new secret to the world. She thought of Riddell Enterprises. She now had all bases covered, well, three of them anyway. Her son, Protestant (and was he now a bit Jewish as well?; she'd have to ask Mrs. Foley) had married a Catholic, and those customers who knew this could shop at her stores without compunction.
In fact, paying close attention to the religious make up of the town, and therefore her customers, is one of the reasons Zoë had been so successful. It was the reason she had told McLaughlin and D'Arcy she couldn't remember anything about the robbery at her very own Final Spinz. If she had grassed, she would have been accentuating her Otherness in the eyes of the Catholic majority. She hadn't wanted to sit down with a police sketch artist and supply him with details of the perpetrators, which she certainly could have. She wanted to keep her reputation in the city intact, and the tills of her various enterprises ringing across town. Plus, her insurance would pay her the money she had lost, and even if they didn't, £15,000 wasn't enough in the grand scheme of things to alienate her customer base.
Now she had added another customer base, Jewish. Though, admittedly, that was perhaps only three or four people in Derry. But many American tourists visited her Amelia Earhart center, and there were loads of American Jews.
The pendant had been a calculated purchase. She knew quite a few of her business associates in London were Jewish, and now she was suddenly one of them. There was no harm in advertising the fact. It was just the opposite, actually. She did many video conferences with these business partners, and she'd be sure to let the Star of David twinkle brightly on the camera. She was now part of the brotherhood, or sisterhood, and she suspected there were going to be many special deals and discounts that were magically open to her.
And it was as if the Lord—Yahweh, was it now?—had been shining on her. Considering there were next to no Jews in Derry, why would a jeweler's carry a Star of David pendant? But Zoë had entered and asked for one, on the off-chance one might have purchased for the American tourist trade.
“Och! Ye're never gonny believe this, but two years ago, a daft gack I had working here accidentally pressed the wrong button when she was ordering. It was the Star of Bethlehem pendant we had been wanting, and the silly bitch ordered the Star of David.” He had gone into the back, rummaged around for an eternity, and come back out, blowing away the dust that had gathered on the case. “Here ye are,” he said, wrenching it open and showing her. It was as if a dream of his had come true as well. “I thought I'd never be able to offload it!”
And he had given her a special discount for taking it off his hands. Ten percent off. Her new special deals had already begun! “Welcome to the club,” Mrs. Foley had told her. Zoë was accepting the invitation with open arms.
The car made a sharp left turn. Zoë reached out and grabbed the sliding packet of pickled onion flavored veggie chips and the tilting opened jar of jalapeno-stuffed olives. She had purchased them, indeed, ripped them off the shelves of the organic shop closest to her home. She had had the same urges when she'd been carrying Rory. The car headed down the dirt road that led to the Pence-A-Day storage units. They'd be there in ten minutes or so. She wondered what Paddy Flood would say when she told him she was carrying his child. She had a feeling that in the future, when she looked back on this discussion with the child's biological father, she wouldn't be able to recognize herself. It was all emotion. It defied logic. It was the hormones raging through her, and perhaps her sudden new religion. But Zoë had always been one for honesty and full disclosure. She would tell Paddy; he had a right to know. It was her duty as an honest woman to inform him. She would even tell Dymphna the baby was her half-sibling. They just couldn't let the Flood woman know. For obvious reasons. Zoë stuffed three olives into her mouth. There was no thought of her terminating the pregnancy. It had been a middle-aged blessing, though now she didn't know if it was a Protestant one or a Jewish one.
She thought about the results of the paternity test. There were two heirs to the Riddell empire after all. The rumors must have been right. She'd figure out what to do with the bastard—literally!—at a later stage. For now, she could rest easy. And then, of course, there was her own child.
Here Zoë was confronted with a quandary. She had a choice to make: who to break the news to first? Rory or Dymphna? If she told Rory first, his wife would feel deceived. If she told Dymphna first, her son would feel betrayed. She came up with a solution, and it was simple
after all. She'd make a conference call. As they passed a deserted factory, and after she had told the driver to roll up the window between them so she could speak privately, she pulled out her iPhone and dialed Rory's number. He answered at once.
“Mammy?” He sounded grief-stricken. Did he already know?
“Hello, dear. Is...your wife there with you? I need to speak to the two of you.”
“Och, Mammy. Can this not wait? We've just been...just been...there was a, well, an incident last night. Dymphna's had a right shock, and we was just discussing it, discussing what must be done, and...and...she's in no fit state right now for anything.”
Zoë set her lips. Incidents. In the night. Was there a fourth grandchild on the way? Yet another imposter to be revealed nine months down their rocky road? Zoë's fingers asphyxiated the phone. How was she supposed to help these floundering knuckleheads if they couldn't help themselves? Or, at least, if that girl couldn't help herself? Couldn't keep her legs from springing open for any passing stranger? Zoë had to be firm.
“I'm afraid I must insist. The conversation must be had this very moment.” Zoë realized she didn't have Dymphna's number in her phone. “Could you give me the girl's number? I'd like to speak to the two of you together. I'll just add her to this call.”
“Hmm. Her number be's on me phone, but, and I kyanny pull it up as I'm speaking to you.”
“Ask her.”
“Dymphna! What's yer number, hi?”
There was some mumbling in the background—Zoë thought she heard the words 'she's insisting' and 'wile sorry,' and then Rory again, “She doesn't know it. She's looking it up now, but.”
Zoë waited, her eyes rolling. Seriously! What did he see in the girl? But she knew what he saw. Men! Thinking only with their groins! Though...Paddy Flood was also a man. And a man had needs. And she wasn't a man, but she had had needs also. So...
Rory finally gave her the number; Zoë had to scribble it down three times, as Dymphna kept getting it wrong. “I've got it now,” Zoë said when the feat had finally been completed.
“Is there something wrong, Mam?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Okay, I'm going to place you on hold now, dial her, then merge the calls. Tell her to pick up when she sees me ringing her.” Things had to be spelled out as if to a child.
“If we must. Right ye are, Mam.”
Finally, all three were connected.
“Hello, Mammy Zoë,” Dymphna said. The girl was obviously forcing herself to be cheery. She'd never win an Oscar, or even a Golden Globe.
“Hello, dear. I'm so sorry to interrupt whatever, well, whatever was going on.”
“I-I'll be fine,” Dymphna said. She didn't sound it.
“I'm afraid...afraid, I've some terrible and very important news for you all.”
Dymphna gasped. “Is it...?! Och! Don't tell me the wanes isn't gonny be let back into the creche? I was told what they did there yesterday, Mammy Zoë. I'm mortified, so I am! I'll pay for to get the walls painted again. I swear to God I will.”
“Don't worry about that. It's of no concern. No. It's another matter I have to speak to you about. A much more life-changing matter than some crayon marks and feces on walls.” No use prolonging the inevitable. She plunged ahead. “I had DNA testing done on the children.” She didn't know if Rory had told Dymphna or not, so didn't want to explain she had taken a DNA swab from him. The dim-witted girl probably wouldn't even think about that anyway. “And I'm happy to tell you...the, er, girl and the most recent boy are indeed children of you both.”
Here she heard a squawk of relief from Dymphna, and though Zoë knew exactly what this squawk meant, she hoped her son was a bit too dim, just like his bride, to understand. She continued, “I'm sorry to say, however, that the first child,” and here she didn't mind uttering the ridiculous name, as he was the imposter, “Keanu is not.”
The silence lasted so long, Zoë had time to count twelve cows on the side of the dirt road.
Finally, Rory wailed, “Ye're joking! B-but, b-but...Dymphna! That night we met! After at yer granny's! On the settee! We—we...”
“Please, no,” said Zoë.
“I heard,” Rory stuttered, “I heard weeks after ye were up the duff! That's why I...I proposed to ye, like.”
“Rory! Ye've got to believe me! Aye, I thought I was preggers. And that ye were the da, like. I hadn't a clue, but, there was some defective pregnancy test that I nicked from the Top-Yer-Trolley what told me—”
“The domestic can be played out between the two of you later. It wasn't my intention to cause you strife, place a wedge between you. But the truth is the truth. Hopefully you both can move forward from this. The important thing for the moment is, happily for all of us, there are two genuine Riddells in the next generation. Where this Keanu came from, I'm not sure. Nor do I really care. I've more to discuss, however.” She had to speak a little more loudly to be heard over Dymphna's sobs. “Dymphna? Do you need a few moments to collect yourself?” Like a judge to a tearful defendant in the box.
“I-I'll be meself in a second.”
Good. No need for a recess, then.
“Brace yourselves, children. What I've to tell you is perhaps more shocking that what I've just told you.”
“But what—what...?” Rory seemed to be sobbing, too.
“I feel ridiculous. Please believe me. I really, really do. You might never forgive me, either of you. But what's done is done. There's no going back now. The past cannot be altered.” Zoë looked down at her free hand, and was surprised to see her fingernails were digging into the leather of the seat. Clawing at it.
“M-mammy!” Rory said. “Ye're scaring me, now!”
“Aye, I'm afeared and all!”
“Ye-Ye're not dying, are ye?”
“Heavens, no. Though...now that you bring death up, if word of this gets out to a certain someone...” Zoë couldn't help herself. She had to have assurance. She had to add a caveat. She was being a coward, but tried to make herself feel better by telling herself it was for the safety of her unborn child. Yes, the truth is the truth. But where Fionnuala Flood was concerned, it was necessary that the truth to be a secret for all eternity. Zoë cleared her throat. “Dymphna, dear...?” Dymphna's sobs had disappeared, and now a gasp of surprise exited her mouth. Zoë clearly hadn't used such a tender tone with the girl before, and for that Zoë was now a bit sorry. “Please promise me that what I say you will never, ever tell your mother.”
“Me mammy?!” The surprise had turned to shock.
“Yes. Promise me, please.”
“I-If I must. Does this have to do with her job at Final Spinz? Ye're not giving her the sack, are ye?”
Zoë sighed at Dymphna being Dymphna. “Were I sacking her, she'd hear of it. No. It's something more...important than that. And, actually...if this will ensure your silence, I'll say this. If you promise never to tell her, I will always keep her employed. Perhaps not at Final Spinz. But somewhere. And I'll give her a pay rise.”
“And paid holidays and all?”
Maybe there was a glimmer of intelligence in the girl after all.
“Yes.”
“What's this all about, Mammy?” Rory brayed.
Zoë took a deep breath. The palm of her hand was sweaty around the phone. “I am pregnant. Your father is the, er, father.”
Silence. Then,
“Me da, but, he's been dead for. years. What did ye get done in that clinic last night...?”
“No, Rory. Not your father.”
“Do ye mean...” Dymphna cut in with a gasp. “My daddy?”
“Yes.”
“But...how...how...?!”
“That's a conversation for another date. I'm just approaching Pence-A-Day this moment. I'm going to tell him now. I'm afraid I must ring off.”
“Naw!” Rory roared. “Ye kyanny drop a bomb shell like that and just leave us hanging!”
“When did it happen? Where did it happen?” Dymphna asked.
; “I really must go. I'll answer all your questions later. Remember, though, Dymphna, your mother must never hear of this. Don't worry, I obviously won't demand your father support the child. It will be a modern arrangement. I just want him to know. I must tell him.”
“But—”
“Why—”
“Children! Children! I'm turning my phone off now. And after that, I have that ill-advised PTSD counseling at that church. St. Fintan's, I believe. I'm dreading it, and it's mostly to do with the fact that your mother will be there.”
“D-doesn't that be you, but, Mammy?” Rory asked, a tinge of confusion in his voice. “Aren't ye talking about yerself?”
“Again, I'm talking to your wife. Dymphna, before I ring off, promise me. Promise me!”
“I-I promise.”
The line went dead, except between Rory and Dymphna.
“Rory! Can ye believe it? I don't know what's worse...me daddy being the father of yer new brother or sister or...or...that Keanu doesn't be yers! I kyanny understand...understand...” Dymphna shrieked as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She whipped around and saw it was Rory. She had forgotten they were in the same room together. She turned off her phone.
“Dymphna! Does O'Toole really be Keanu's daddy?” Rory was angry.
“I'm telling ye, I hadn't a clue!” Dymphna insisted. “More to the point, but...ye know what? I'm gonny keep yer mammy's promise. I'll not tell her. As...as...I've something to reveal to ye, Rory. Something I've never told anyone. Except Bridie.”
Rory continued to heave angry breaths at her.
“Did ye see the Virgin Mary and all? Or have ye got seven other wanes I've not even set eyes on?”
“Naw, nothing like that. It's this other. About yer mammy and me daddy. It doesn't be as horrid as it seems as...as...well, I have a feeling me daddy's not me daddy. I found some things out a few years ago that got me to thinking me daddy was really the coal man.”
Static Cling (The Irish Lottery Series Book 5) Page 26
