In the seconds that had passed since the car had appeared, typically, Koesler had come to no decision.
Suddenly, the other vehicle swerved to Koesler’s right and, to his great relief, continued past him on the other side of the road. As it whizzed by, Koesler took considerable interest in the driver and passenger. Unless he was badly mistaken, the driver was Joe Cox and the passenger Patricia Lennon—who appeared to be giving Cox what-for. If Koesler was correct in his identification, they must be returning to Dublin after learning of the attempt on Inspector Koznicki’s life.
He chuckled. Their excursion had been ended abruptly by a news story that needed reporting. While, with everything in as good order as possible in Dublin, and with the promise of no further trouble during their stay, his excursion was just beginning.
The engine seemed to be laboring. He looked down at the gearshift. It was still in third, where he had shoved it after slowing for Cox’s near-miss. Koesler depressed the clutch and shifted into overdrive.
There appeared to be another fairly straight, flat stretch ahead. Gazing down the asphalt highway of indifference, Koesler mused, his mind turning to reminiscences with Irish overtones.
He recalled, and laughed aloud at the memory, the time in the seminary when some patriots, to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, had painted all the toilet seats green. In apparent response then, some others, to commemorate the Feast of the Circumcision, had painted them red.
His mind wandered on to Irish jokes. The one about Mrs. McGillicuddy, whose thirteen children all were in a peck of trouble in various precincts throughout greater New York. She was being consoled as well as admonished by her friendly parish priest.
“Ah, now, Mrs. McGillicuddy,” said Father Murphy, “you must look for your inspiration, as well as your consolation, to the Holy Family. And particularly the Blessed Mother: think of her trials and tribulations, her sorrows, her afflictions—”
“Oh, yes,” says Mrs. McGillicuddy bitterly. “Her and her One!”
He shifted as he drove through Carrick-on-Shannon, which he knew was the home of Nelson Kane’s mother, one of Ireland’s grandest and most delightful gifts to the City of Detroit.
Koesler smiled, depressed the clutch, and shifted to third for a brief but steep hill. Then, back in overdrive, he relaxed again and returned his thoughts to Irish humor.
He remembered the one Arthur Godfrey liked to tell about the small-town girl who became a dancer in New York City. Back home on a visit, she went to confession one Saturday at the parish church.
As luck would have it, she was the last one in line. So, after she had gone to confession, the priest left his confessional, and the two of them began to talk about her life as a dancer. “Now, isn’t that wonderful,” said the priest, “and why don’t you just show me a bit of your routine?” So the girl did a couple of time steps and turned a cartwheel.
Just at that moment, Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. O’Toole entered the church to go to confession. Taking a look at what was going on outside Father McKiernan’s confessional, Mrs. Murphy nudged Mrs. O’Toole: “Glory be to God, would you look at what Father is givin’ out for penance, and me with me patched-up bloomers on!”
Koesler smiled again, as he shifted for another hill. He momentarily considered building up speed as he approached each hill so he wouldn’t have to shift, but in, for him, a rare moment of prescience he also considered the odds of traveling up the hill at considerable velocity only to reach the crest and encounter another Joe Cox coming at him on the wrong side of the road. All things considered, he decided it would be less risky to continue shifting.
Then, he recalled, letting his mind shift back into neutral, there was the time one of his classmates was being measured for a pair of trousers by an Irish tailor, who announced quite loudly, “He’s farty in the seat.”
But, Koesler reflected, that was missing the point. Those were not genuine Irish jokes, not authentic Irish humor. They were the transplanted Irish-American, Pat-and-Mike humor. He recalled hearing Liam Clancy offer a taste of genuine Irish humor. Now, how had it gone?
Oh, yes; it was coming back.
It had happened in a small Irish village, where, one rainy day, the parish priest came to the Maloney house to anoint the ailing grandmother. Over his head, he held an open umbrella. Now, it was the only, and, in fact, the first umbrella the villagers had ever seen. They couldn’t get over it: a man carrying his own cloud over his head.
The priest entered the house and laid the big black umbrella, still open, on the hearth to dry.
All during the ceremony of the anointing, there were sidelong glances cast, as the eyes of all present kept wandering back to the Thing. None had seen such a sight ever.
By the time the anointing was over, the rain had stopped, and the old pastor forgot about his umbrella, leaving it on the hearth, and returning to the parish house without it.
Then, the woman of the house said to her husband, “I’ll not have that Thing,” jerking her head sidewise at it, “in my house.” And she kept it up and wouldn’t let the matter rest.
Well, they couldn’t get the umbrella out of the door no matter which way they turned or twisted it. So the husband gathered the men of the village in for a consultation. They put their heads together and tried to figure out how to make the door wider without ruining the foundation, so they could get rid of the Thing.
Meanwhile, it began to rain again. The priest, recalling his umbrella, returned to the house, was admitted, picked up the umbrella, and walked to the door, the eyes of all upon him. He stopped, closed the umbrella, exited, and opened it, lifting it protectively over his head as he strode off.
Silence. Finally, the woman turned to her husband, nudged him, and said solemnly, “There’s no doubt about it: they’ve got the power!”
Koesler laughed aloud, resolving to tell that to Inspector Koznicki when next they met.
His attention to the present returned as he entered a small town. So preoccupied had he been with his Irish humor that he had forgotten to look for a sign. But it was about the right distance from Dublin and there were some railroad tracks nearby.
He stopped, rolled down his window, and called to a passerby, “I beg your pardon, but could you tell me, is this Boyle?”
“It is that,” said the man, who then noticed Koesler’s clerical collar. Promptly, he whipped off his cap and stood bareheaded. “Is it the parish house you’d be wantin’, Father?”
Most of the Irish, Koesler was learning, pronounced ‘Father’ as if it rhymed with ‘lather.’ He was also being made ever more aware that the Irish never used a simple yes or no in answer to a question.
“No, not really. I just sort of wanted to look around. My maternal grandfather came from this town.” Koesler surprised himself by laying such ancestral claim with a touch of pride.
“Did he now? And would he have been a Boyle, by any chance?”
“Yes. Kevin Boyle.”
“Ah, well, then, Father, have ya given any thought that some of yer relatives might still be here?”
“No, I haven’t,” Koesler admitted.
“Well, it’s just possible, definitely possible, you know. The place is crawlin’ with Boyles,” the man exaggerated. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Father, and meanin’ no irreverence, but ya might just want to reconsider yer decision not to visit the parish house. Father’d know which among them might be yer kin. And he’d be pleased to be tellin’ ya.”
“Well, maybe,” Koesler responded hesitantly.
“The parish house would be right down at the end of the street, Father. Ya can’t miss it.”
Koesler thanked him and drove on. He had no intention of calling at the local rectory or searching out any possible relatives. He wanted only to absorb some of the atmosphere and see for himself some of the things that his Irish ancestors had grown up and lived among.
He turned off before he reached the end of the street and drove through what seemed to be the center of town. Almost every parking sp
ace on the main thoroughfare was taken. That surprised him. Without quite knowing why, he had assumed that not many in a small Irish town would have cars. But there they were in a variety of vintages and makes, all compact or subcompact.
Eventually, he found a space at what seemed to be about midway down the main street. He pulled in, set the brake, and got out of the car. It was good to stretch his legs after a long drive. He began walking at a leisurely pace.
The people he encountered seemed genuinely pleased to see him. They were accustomed to seeing no priest but their own. So a stranger in clerical garb was a pleasant surprise, and there weren’t that many surprises in Boyle. Since he was a priest, it was a pleasure for the deeply reverent Irish to greet him. All along his walk, men tipped their hats and women performed an abbreviated curtsy. All wore ear-to-ear grins, and the greeting, “Good afternoon to you, Father,” was heard in the land.
He certainly hadn’t received this sort of heartfelt welcome in Rome, London, or, for that matter, anywhere else—other than from the Sisters of Mercy in Dublin.
Ordinarily, Koesler yearned to be greeted in a neutral, matter-of-fact manner. His complaint was that people met him as a priest prejudiced either for or against him. And he considered either premature judgment unfair. But he had never been greeted with such evident warmth and almost childlike openness. And, he had to admit, he liked it. He remembered overhearing two Irishmen talking. “They don’t apologize for bein’ priests in this country!” one had said with vigor. Now, he understood.
Turning left at the corner, he found himself walking toward a bridge over what had to be the Boyle River. He reached the bridge and stood looking around at the town.
For its size, it held quite a few stores and shops. He wondered how many, if any, had been standing when his grandfather had left for the States little more than a century before.
More probably, this had been farm country owned by absentee landlords in England. The native Irish would have been fortunate indeed if they had been allowed to work the fields. And, in those years, they would have been lucky to harvest enough from the tortured land of that time for them to survive.
But the Boyle River, now boiling away in a swift current beneath him, would have been flowing. His grandfather had possibly fished the river from this very spot. In his imagination, he began to anthropomorphize the river as Hammerstein had done with the Mississippi.
He walked back to the main street and set off for the other end of town. It was there he came upon Boyle Abbey, or more properly, the ruins. The outer and some of the inner walls were standing, but that was about all that was left of it. That and the memories that were inseparable from it. It would have been no more than a remnant even in his grandfather’s day. Cromwell or someone of his ilk undoubtedly would have made sure that no more prayers were offered within it.
But, as Koesler stood at the outer wall looking in, he could easily picture the monks walking reflectively through its corridors while meditating. He could almost hear the swells and diminuendos of Gregorian Chant. The people who lived in this area centuries ago must have heard those chants and felt comforted that while they were toiling for their very existence, there were dedicated men interceding with God on everyone’s behalf.
Years before, Koesler had visited the Trappist Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, where silence enjoyed a sacredness that may never be recaptured. He remembered being deeply impressed, especially by the silence. All those men going about performing their chores and duties and no one saying a word. One could almost slice the silence with a knife.
It must have been like that here . . .
Now that he had recalled Gethsemani’s monastery, Koesler recalled also his first evening there. He had been ordained a priest only a few weeks earlier. One of the monks asked if he wished to say Mass. When Koesler answered in the affirmative, the monk asked what size alb he needed. Already aware that most albs were too small for him and further that there was no way of adjusting a vestment that was not large enough, Koesler had confidently said, “The biggest one you’ve got.”
Next morning, he would have sworn the monks had spent most of the night making that alb. It had been at least a foot too long for him and he had spent several minutes rolling up the sleeves. The monks must have decided to fix that wise guy. After all, there was such a thing as silent laughter.
All in all, this was becoming a most satisfying trip down Nostalgia Lane. Koesler decided he just might follow the advice of his nameless tour director and call on the local parish priest sometime before returning to Dublin.
But not now. He wanted to get settled in at Teach Murray and begin to start experiencing what it was like to live in an Irish pub.
6.
If Koesler thought Boyle was a small town—and he did—he was quite unprepared for Gurteen. The name, his friend had informed him, meant “small, tilled field.” And that pretty well described Gurteen.
First there was a cemetery—a rather imposing one if he could trust the glance he was able to steal as he drove by. Then a string of small homes and a few shops on either side of the only street in sight—a little less than a mile in length. Aside from that street with its modest houses, shops, and establishments, all else, as far as Koesler could see, consisted of little plowed fields. Whoever had named Gurteen had been proven inspired.
He drove as slowly as possible, looking attentively at each edifice on the north side of the street, for that was the side on which Chris Murray had told him the pub was located.
Approximately halfway through the village, he came upon Teach Murray. The large letters identifying the pub extended across the front of the building, which looked exactly as it had in the picture—neat and well-kept. There was something to be said for truth in advertising, even if one rarely encountered it.
Koesler stopped the car in front of the pub and looked about for a parking place. Only then did he notice the lot on the pub’s east side. He depressed the gearshift, enabling him to put the car in reverse, as he breathed a prayer of thanks that the young lady who had delivered this rental car had informed him of this operational necessity. Otherwise, he would have made innumerable U-turns.
He parked, took his suitcase from the trunk, and entered the pub through the front door. Once inside, he stood motionless, trying to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior. The only light in the pub came through several side windows, but the day had turned overcast, and it was no longer all that bright outside—which meant it was even less bright inside.
“Father Koesler?”
“Yes?” He peered through the gloom. “Tom?”
“That’s right.”
Koesler had been informed by Chris Murray that his son Tom would be caring for the pub, taking time off from his spring term at Henry Ford Community College to do so.
“Right this way,” Tom invited.
“Right which way?” People whose eyes were accustomed to the dark seldom empathized with those who were going through the adjustment process. Koesler instantly recalled the occasion when he had gone into a darkened church to lock it for the night. He had lingered in the sanctuary, praying. Meanwhile, the pastor, not realizing his assistant was locking up, sent a young man over to do so. When the man entered the rear of the church, he could not see well in the dark, so he groped his way toward the front. As he reached the communion railing, Koesler, who could see quite well, reached out to grasp his hand in guidance—and scared him half out of his wits.
The recollection took only a split second to pass through Koesler’s mind. The next, related memory was that of an old joke. A priest, figuring he has finished hearing confessions of a Saturday evening, turns out most of the lights and returns to the confessional to complete his prayers. At which point, a teaching nun enters the near-dark church, kicks aside a misplaced priedieu, then stumbles over several kneelers, all of which makes quite a racket.
Finally making her way to the confessional, she begins by saying, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It’s two weeks since my last confession and I have been angry with my children several times—”
“How many children do you have?” the priest interrupts.
“Sixty-two,” she answers.
“Get the hell out of here,” says he, “I knew you were drunk the minute you came in!”
“Oh, all right; I can see you now,” said Koesler, as Tom materialized before him.
“Sorry, Father; I keep forgetting: My eyes are accustomed to this place and yours aren’t. I was just stocking the bar. Would you like something to drink, or would you like me to show you to your room?”
“Well, I would like to get settled in.”
Tom nodded, and gestured toward an open door behind the bar. “Follow me.” He led Koesler through the door and up a flight of stairs.
“This is the bathroom.” Tom indicated a room to the left of the landing at the top of the stairs.
Koesler looked in. A rather large room, painted blue, with a washstand, toilet, and tub. No shower, Koesler noted.
“And this is your room down at the other end of the hall, Father.”
Koesler stepped into an adequately furnished room. A chest of drawers and mirror, a large closet, and what appeared to be a queen-sized bed. He set down his suitcase, then pulled the light curtain aside from the room’s only window. “What’s that?”
Tom stepped to the window and followed Koesler’s finger.
“That’s the church . . . St. Patrick’s, what else?” Tom said, smiling. “Or, at least it’s the bell tower.”
“Kind of close, isn’t it?”
“Four or five buildings away . . . but they’re all jammed together.”
Koesler nodded. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll just get cleaned up and be down in a little while.”
Tom left, closing the door behind him. Koesler seated himself on the bed and began to wonder if this had been such a hot idea after all. This place seemed to be further out than the proverbial boondocks. And, from experience, he knew himself to be urban . . . very urban.
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