by Leo Gher
“You’re asking me to marry Tali?”
“Yes, marry her if need be,” Conor implored. “It will give her the status she needs. She will do the rest. She has the ear of President Guliyev.”
“I am not going to marry your cousin, your girlfriend, your lover.”
“Why not?” Conor asked. Jake had no concept of Shia sensibilities or Azeri cultural norms. He thought of Lindy, and what she might say to such a proposal. It was an explosive idea. “You have to promise me, Jake. It’s the only thing I ask of you.”
“I promise to ensure Tali’s safety and good health.”
“Will you keep your word, even if I am dead?”
“I always keep my word, Mr. Kedar Bey.”
“I can rest easy then.”
Wanting desperately to move on, Jake changed the topic, “I was at the cottage earlier.”
“Yes?”
“I found father’s grave. I was never happy with leaving him here. I was angry with you and your family.”
“I know.”
“I promised myself that I would one day give Thomas Moynihan a Christian burial.”
“I expected something like that.”
Jake went on, “I found his bones, a skull actually. I have long planned to take something of him back to the States.”
“Yes?”
“Steal it from the earth, you might say.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“You don’t object?”
“I object, Jake, but…” Conor sighed, and then he offered a compromise, “Take the head, but leave his heart here, in Azerbaijan, with me.”
Those were the last words Conor would utter that day, and for many days to come. He began convulsing; his eyes falling back under his lids, his legs stiffening, his hands trembling. Jake rushed to the door and shouted, “He’s having a seizure.”
A half-hour later, Jake was sitting in the passenger cabin when he looked outside and noticed the lights of a large city below. Then the plane suddenly fell out of the sky, causing Georghe, Shahin, and Jake to feel something of a panic. Conor would have laughed, and told them, “It is only the circus plunge to LCA runway.” But he could not tell them anything. Dr. Hasanov had determined that a medically induced coma was required if they were to save the Kedar Bey’s life.
The next morning, Jake, Georghe, and Shahin were enjoying a light breakfast at the Four Seasons’ restaurant. They had delivered Conor to the poison center at University College Hospital, and there was nothing any of them could now do that would make a difference in his care. “I must get back to Baku as soon as possible,” said the Markirov Bey. “Guliyev and the investigation, you know. Shahin will stay here to monitor Conor’s progress.”
“So, what’s next for you, Jake?” Shahin asked. “It’s going to be a long recovery for sure.”
“There’s a United flight leaving this afternoon,” he replied. “I have some unfinished business in Chicago.”
“To bury some demons, yes?” Georghe asked.
Jake said, “And other business.”
“Then we will say goodbye for now. We’ll let you know as soon as Conor is well.”
Jake next wrote out his U.S. telephone number and address, and then handed it to Shahin. “I can be reached here at any time.” They all exchanged handshakes, and then Jake went back to his room to pack.
What Georghe Markirov hadn’t told Jake spoke to the mistrust of not only the man but also of the West. Georghe’s son-in-law, Seyfulla Nadirov, had texted Georghe earlier that morning: “disaster in Istanbul, Kazimov dead, Mira wounded terribly, Tali missing!”
Markirov replied: “Tell no one. Shahin and I will return immediately. You and I will lead the clans now.
Seyfulla: “Guliyev suspects all members of the Dark Triad.”
Markirov: “Careful who you trust. We must take care of this problem ourselves!”
32
A Christian Burial
American flight #91 from London to Chicago seemed to take forever. There was a 20-minute ground delay at Heathrow, and after that, a strong headwind put the airliner another 15 minutes behind. But it gave Jake time to reflect on recent events in Azerbaijan.
He thought about the trophy he had shipped home: would it arrive in one piece; would Katie be pleased? He had never considered the righteousness of his actions, just his duty and the promise he had made. Jake also weighed his shameful breakup with Lindy. Hope she’s all right, he reflected on more than one occasion.
But most of all, Jake thought about his newfound relationship with Conor. The life-flight from Baku was the first time that he and Conor had a chance to really learn about one another. For several hours during the flight, Conor had been unconscious – he had the look and reek of sickness and mortality – antiseptics, chloroform, and disinfectants. Maybe it was just the smell of the medivac plane, but it left a nauseating taste in Jake’s mouth. If he dies, he thought, I will never know his mind, his intentions or his feelings about me. But then Conor woke up, and the brothers had a chance to talk, something they had never done before. His world and Conor’s were so different, their childhoods so different, their futures diverging. Jake did not know if things could be worked out. Conor even had the confidence in Jake to take care of his beloved should he die from the poison. That was wholly unexpected. But then Conor had another seizure, and many things were left unaddressed. But still, things were different now.
All that was for another time; Jake had reached his journey’s end. He gazed out the window of the 777 as the jumbo jet banked against the westerly horizon on its final approach to O’Hare International. He had to squint; the sun was a fiery spatter of reds and oranges in a cloud-laden sky. When the plane leveled off, Jake could see the entire expanse of the city against Lake Michigan. He was glad to be home.
True to his mulish self, Jake hadn’t let anyone know that he was returning. He just didn’t want the hassles. Too many questions and too few answers, he thought. So he decided to get a room downtown and spend the weekend recouping before he contacted the family or tried to restart his life in the city of the Big Shoulders. He was lucky to get a place to stay. It was the St. Patrick’s Day weekend, and with the parade and all the other activities, most hotels had been long ago booked. The Conrad Hilton, however, had a cancellation, so he grabbed the reservation.
After getting through customs around 11 pm, he took the Metra train to downtown and then walked to the south Michigan hotel. It was chilly, probably in the high 30s and dropping, but Jake didn’t mind. The brisk air felt good. He needed a bit of exercise to keep him awake, trying to acclimate to the different time zone. He was hungry, but most of the restaurants were closing, so he stopped at Fontano’s Subs and bought the Big Italian and a bag of chips. After checking in, Jake stopped at the hotel gift shop and bought a bottle of Jameson. Then he headed for his room. By 1:30, he had feasted on the Big Italian, watched a little late-night television, and then passed out.
Partly because he was still on a distant time zone and partly because he was exhausted, when Jake awoke the next day, it was already getting dark. Jake had slept for 15 hours. It was a disorientating feeling, made more so by a strange, kelly green glow in his room. What the hell? He searched for something to right the spinning ship that was his head. So, he turned to the clock on the nightstand. It read 4:30 pm, Friday, March 16.
Okay, he understood the kelly green mystery – the street lamps were all lit green for St. Patrick’s Day. Jake had experienced the changeover to all things Irish many times. Taverns everywhere in the city would be packed with revelers, jovial crowds would jam the city streets, and tomorrow the Chicago River would sparkle in celebrated colors of orange and then, with a bit of leprechaun alchemy, turn emerald green. He felt good, refreshed. So, he shaved, showered, changed clothes, and headed down to the hotel lobby.
On the ground floor of the Hilton, ther
e was a raucous swarm of people at Kitty O’Sheas. But it wasn’t his sort of crowd, mostly tourists, businessmen, and pub crawl types. So Jake headed for an old haunt nearby, Kasey’s Tavern on Dearborn St. It was a mere six blocks away; he could get some comfort food there, and, hopefully, see a few old friends. Fifteen minutes later, Jake had ordered a burger and fries and was enjoying a green beer at the bar.
“Jake Moynihan,” a voice from behind boomed. “Where the hell have you been?”
Jake swiveled around to see Martin Mills. “Marty, good to see you.” Mills was the head of the FAA Midwest and was just the familiar face Jake had expected to see at Kasey’s.
“There are a bunch of us in a private room,” Marty said, pointing to the back of the tavern. “Come join us?”
“I’ll get my food and be right over.”
The bartender interrupted, “Go ahead. I’ll have Judith bring your food over.” Jake thanked him, and then he followed Mills. “Hey guys, look who found his way home.” Everyone in the room was wearing tanker boots, and that’s when Jake Moynihan knew he was really home.
After a round of handshakes, Jake sat down with Mills, “I was going to come and see you next week.”
“That’ll be great.”
Marty reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. “What about?” he asked, then lit a cigarette.
“I’m all finished with my overseas gig,” Jake replied, “and need a job.”
The waitress interrupted Jake with his food. “Run a tab, honey?” He nodded.
“What about the Port Authority job?”
“Quit that before I left. I’m sure it’s been filled by now.” Jake really didn’t know whether that was true or not, but he had decided not to resume his tedious relationship with family at the docks.
“You know, Mike’s position is still open,” Marty replied. “With your reputation, you’d be an asset to the FAA. You interested?”
“Maybe so.”
“Just part-time – as recruiter and facilitator – doesn’t pay much,” Mills said, “but it’s a start.”
“I just got back last night and have lots to do this week. How about I come and see you the week after next?”
Marty pulled out a business card and handed it to Jake. “Here’s my number. Call me when you’re ready to talk. We’ll work something out.”
On Monday morning, Jake left the Hilton shortly after nine, walked to the CTA station at Harrison Street, and then took the Red Line L south. He was headed for the Port of Chicago, where he had worked for three years as a security guard. At 95th street he boarded a bus that brought him to the Calumet terminal, which housed the transit sheds. That’s where the overseas package from Azerbaijan would have been delivered. But Jake was worried. No one knew him there; he’d always worked at the Lakefront Terminal. He agonized, if someone asks, how do I explain a skull from Azerbaijan? When he spotted the security checkpoint, he knew he was in trouble. The guard stopped him and asked for an ID. Jake opened with, “I’m here to pick up a transit package from overseas.”
“See da clerk in da office,” said the guard. “Then bring your Port Clearance and ID back to me.”
As fate would have it, a cousin of Sean de Barras, a fellow stevedore, was passing by on a skip loader. “You’re Gerry Moynihan’s kid, right?”
Jake smiled, “Grandson.”
He yelled at the guard, “He’s Gerry Moynihan’s kid, Ed. For Chis-sake, let him in,” said the man, “He works at Lakefront, he’s okay.”
The security guard got the message, nodded, then motioned Jake through the checkpoint. “No more than 30 minutes,” he said. “Otherwise, ya gotta get da ID.”
Jake wanted to avoid any entanglement, so he quickly hustled across the warehouse floor to the transit desk and handed the clerk a claim slip. “It’s a small package,” he said, “about 12 by 12 inches.”
The clerk read the manifest. “You Jake Moynihan?” he asked. “I need to see ID.” After he showed his Illinois driver’s license, the clerk handed a retrieval number to one of his runners. “It’ll take some time. You can have a seat in the office.”
“I’m okay. I’ll just wait.”
After a half hour of pacing, Jake began to have doubts. They’ve lost it, he thought. Maybe an inspector had it x-rayed… believes it some kind of bomb. But nothing nefarious happened. The runner appeared shortly after that and placed the package on the clerk’s desk. It had been crushed during the overseas flight; a quarter of it flattened, probably by a careless freight handler. “For Christ’s sake,” Jake yelled. “What have you done?”
“Sorry, man, but there was no order for special handling. Was it valuable? You can make a claim.”
“Time, effort, and maybe ten-grand,” Jake complained, then, “No. No value, just a family heirloom.” He could only imagine what the fragile skull looked like now.
It took an hour to return to the Hilton and was a dreary trip. He set the package on the coffee table in front of the TV, got a knife from the mini-kitchen, and then sliced through the packing tape. The bubble wrap he had placed around the inner box had cushioned the outer jolt, so Jake hoped the skull inside had been protected from any real damage. When he opened it, Jake recognized the trophy he had recovered a week earlier. It appeared the only destruction to it occurred at the topmost of the parientale bone, where the impact had been greatest. But Jake really didn’t know if it was old or fresh damage. Only God would know that.
That afternoon, Jake called his mother to tell her he was home. She insisted he come to the apartment and stay with her, but Jake said no. “At least, you must come to Sunday brunch,” Katie said. “Julia will be terribly disappointed if you say no to that.”
“When?”
“After church, what else?”
“Okay. But I’ll be busy all week with other things,” Moynihan said. “I can’t have them fussing just because I’m back in the States, agreed?”
“What other things?”
“Just other things. I’ll call… let’s say on Thursday, agreed?”
“Okay,” Katie replied. “I’ll make kielbasas, dinner at 7:30, agreed?”
Jake was quiet for a moment, and then Katie asked, “Something else?”
“Yeah,” he broke off, then. “I’ve brought him home.”
“Him?” Katie Moynihan was puzzled. “Tom? You’ve brought Tom home?”
“Well, I’ve brought part of him home… his skull, or what left of it.”
There was a long, awkward moment. Katie grimaced and sucked at her teeth. Afterward, she said, “I want to see it, Jake.”
“Mother, it’s only the remains… of the dead, why would you have to see it?”
“My husband, he was,” Katie replied. “Bring it Thursday when you come.”
Jake checked out of the Hilton on Sunday morning. One of his FAA buddies had offered him a temporary room in his apartment until he found full-time work. He would head there after brunch at the de Barras. Once again, Jake took the L south. Wentworth Avenue, where the de Barras lived, was parallel to the Red Line tracks. He would hop off at 87th Street, and then walk the rest of the way to Sean and Julia’s place above Nowicki’s Grocery. Gazing out the window at 72th, Jake noticed the upscale buildings on Lake Michigan, just north of the South Shore neighborhood. The Freedom Army had often visited there – it was the home of the Nation of Islam and the headquarters of the National Black United Front. Jake considered Conor and the Shia Muslims of Azerbaijan. At least, they’re not a bunch of racists. He questioned how people of the same religion could be so distinctly different, but then he remembered the Republicans of Northern Ireland and their brand of Christianity. It was only a passing thought. He arrived at the de Barras apartment at 10:30, and the families were eating by 11 am.
Sonia had been invited to the brunch that day, and she immediately asked about her husband,
who had been absent for months. “Have you seen Mike?”
“Not for a few weeks. I left the Vartans in Georgia,” Jake replied. “He, Lindy, and the other expats were headed for Armenia.”
“To do what?” Sean asked.
“Help defend the motherland.”
Julia asked, “Why did you leave?”
Katie interrupted, of course, “To find Tom’s remains.” She felt she had to defend her son’s actions.
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
Julia pressed on, “And?”
“He brought the remains – body and soul – back with him from that God forsaken land,” said Katie. “We’re planning a burial at St. Andrew.”
“You brought back the body?”
“Just the head… his skull, actually,” Jake replied, “and his belt buckle, the one he received from the Ancient Order of the Hibernians.”
“Nothing else?”
Jake skipped over the details of St. Elmo’s Fire, and went on to explain, “There were many bones at the grave site, and…,” he gazed at his mother dolefully, “Tom was buried next to his first wife, Zara Kedar. I couldn’t tell the difference among so many bones, just this skull was obvious. It was my father.” Katie looked sadly away, remembering that her husband had chosen to be buried with that other woman. “I’ll be talking with Father Wysocki tomorrow,” Jake concluded.
“Twill be a full funeral service he’ll have,” insisted Katie. “Extreme Unction, and finally, a Christian burial.”
“And who’ll be payin’ for all this?” asked Sean.
“Jake, of course,” Katie insisted, “out of the money got from Papa Martin’s inheritance.”
Everyone at the table was anxious to hear about London, the sale of Papa Martin’s treasure, and Denis’ school days in Dublin with Aunt Maggie. But Jake refused to talk about the Vartan Alliance or his encounter with his brother, and so for the rest of the day, conversations centered on chit-chat about White Sox baseball and Chicago politics.
