by Tom Corbett
Over time, their home became a quiet tomb. There were few fights. Evan stopped going through the motions of hiding his affairs. His flirting became obvious, and Rachel stopped attending those functions that were possible to escape. One day, she came home early from a professional trip, deciding not to stay for the events of the final day. She could see a strange, but recognizable vehicle in the driveway. It was a car she had been in several times, one owned by a colleague she considered a friend. Perhaps there was a professional reason for the visit. But then Rachel smiled to herself. Yeah right.
She remembered walking through the door and up the stairs, noticing two wineglasses on a living room table as she passed by. Without stopping, she entered the bedroom. “Don’t bother getting up, Jeanette. I don’t want to stop your fun.” As her colleague and friend died those thousand deaths of discovery, Rachel continued in a matter-of-fact manner. “I assume Cate is at your mother’s place. Of course, that would be a place to get rid of her while you fuck your whores. I am going to get her. Please finish up before I get back. See you at the staff meeting Monday, Jeanette. Oh, and enjoy this screwing. It won’t be the only one you will get from him.” Then she calmly turned and walked out the door. Rachel smiled at the memory of that moment all these years later.
She enjoyed the subsequent denouement. Evan made the expected overtures, the pro forma apologies and promises. She was flabbergasted. Did he believe her a total idiot? Even his mother was enlisted in the cause. She called on Rachel to seduce her back into the clan, using her syrupy sweet charm to best effect. She went on about how valued Rachel was to the family and how much she was cherished and respected. Rachel watched her with astonishment. In her heart, she knew she was tolerated at best. But since Evan had made this unforgivable mistake of marrying someone totally unsuitable, the damage had to be contained. Public opinion and the aura of respectability must be assured.
Then in a matter-of-fact manner, Rachel quietly stated that her son was a pig and she would never, under any circumstances, spend another day with him as his wife. The woman’s charm instantly evaporated. Between clenched teeth, she spewed words out with a vicious relief, “I knew it from the moment I saw you. Trash wrapped in a nice package. You were never good enough for us, just the daughter of a drunken Irishman, as if there is any other kind.”
“Dame Ballentine,” Rachel said calmly, “don’t let the door hit your backside as you leave. You cannot afford any more brain damage.”
Rachel could hear her muttered words as she left, something about trash like her would never get custody of Cate and that she would bury this ungrateful bitch of a daughter-in-law under lawyers and lawsuits. Rachel would not get a dime of the family fortune. Rachel just smiled; she was ahead of the curve, having hired a private detective to dig up dirt on Evan’s somewhat debauched personal lifestyle. She wanted Cate; she could give a rip about the family fortune.
Why had she married him in the first place? Was there ever any love? Did she know what love was? At first, there was comfort. They were both smart, ambitious, attractive, and directed. They fit well, had plenty to talk about. They could support each other. Eventually, though, two professional couples face tough choices. Opportunities arise that would tear the existing situation apart, requiring one partner to sacrifice much for the other. Doing things to advance her husband’s prospects was one thing. Sacrificing what she had worked for was another. Rachel understood that Evan would never sacrifice anything for her.
Rachel wondered if she should get up. Further sleep seemed hopeless now. But it was still very early, completely black outside. She could let her mind continue to wander. Perhaps she would have sacrificed more if there were any real affection. But it was never there. What always bothered her was whether it could ever be there. Had she loved any man? Then the cold fear hit her—she was becoming her mother. How many women had confided that the one thing they feared was turning out to be their mothers? Men did not seem to share a similar phobia. They often aspired to be as good as their dad and worried more about not measuring up, or that is what she believed.
Women, she thought, often clash with their mothers. The process of separation struck her as far more difficult for females. Their relationships are more intense. Females generally require best friends, confidants. They needed relationships more desperately. She knew that her female acquaintances would process their relationships in excruciating detail for hours, pouring over each line and facial expression that constituted the event they were dissecting. She found that amazing.
Moreover, social connections ran through females. Establishing oneself as an independent adult was not easily accomplished, the web of connections was set early for most women. Yet Rachel cannot recall any separation trauma with Ora. Her mother did not seem to care, particularly at the end. Sure, when Josh disappeared, she was paralyzed, first playing the piano for hours and not talking to anyone and then not playing at all. But Rachel could have run off to the circus, and not a drop of concern would have been displayed. Rachel mused that the Connelly females, she and her mother, were bereft of commonplace human passions. It had all gone to the males. Did Josh really have a passionate side? She had never seen him in love or even pursue any girl with any special interest. In any case, she was convincing herself that she could not feel the basics like love or hate or even lust.
Enough of this, she thought. This was not like her to lie awake in the early morning wasting time in useless masturbatory self-reflection. Perhaps it was being around her brother. Yes, it was his fault. Always wise to blame her sibling. She slipped out of bed. If she could not sleep, she would wait for morning by doing some more snooping through Josh’s stuff. She tried not to make a sound as she crept toward his study.
Her attempt at stealth was for naught. Josh remained awake after his own night terrors. For him, this was not an unusual state. He often would lie in bed halfway between sleep and consciousness. He often enjoyed such reveries, imagining making brilliant arguments on arcane topics. His insights during these nocturnal dialogues always were deep and innovative. Often, he would debate whether to spring fully awake to write them down, not trusting his ability to recall these gems if he were to relapse into a deeper slumber. He seldom did, however, choosing the pursuit of rest rather than documenting what he knew to be a breathtaking discovery.
On this occasion, he slid into more prosaic fantasies and images. He could not shake images of the saloon his father run. It looked like many other neighborhood joints, with a long bar and booths where couples could join up for furtive assignations or relive illusions of a united Ireland. Early on, he loved the old paintings of John L. Sullivan and Gentleman Jim Corbett and the tough depression-era Mick heavyweight champ Jimmie Braddock hanging above the bar. These were icons from eras where the pugilistic arts were a way out of crippling poverty for desperate Irish immigrants. There were pastoral scenes of the Irish landscape along with paintings and faded pictures of those who made real and imagined sacrifices for Irish freedom. Josh could still recall a picture of Ian Paisley, the Ulster Protestant leader. It had been pasted over the dartboard and soon was shredded with righteous anger.
There was a room in the back where card games could be carried on with no possible detection. It also served as a convenient spot for revolutionary talk or other activities of questionable legality. During the day, the flow of customers was sparse, but regular. Some had their favorite spots and provided little evidence that they had any other dimension in their lives. In late afternoon, workingmen began filtering in to be joined by wives and girlfriends in the evening. At night, it was a lively place with laughter and singing and great camaraderie.
Josh had loved the place as a young man. He was fond of the characters that seemed to be part of the furniture. A few seemed plucked from central casting to play the wistful revolutionaries pining for the next Easter uprising when the bloody Brits would be conquered, and Ulster finally brought into the fold. Terrence Feeney was a fixture at the bar. He had that grizzled face
, deep lines, and a stubble that needed shaving. His grayish eyes were always watery, as if the tears for a bygone era could not be dismissed. And the brogue would always be there.
“Josh, my lad, your dad is one of a kind, one of a kind I say. God never made better, you know. You should be proud, my lad.”
“I am, Mr. Feeney,” Josh would respond for the umpteenth time.
“You know, lad, he was a hero, a hero I say. He ran guns for the boys when Hitler was giving the goddamn Brits nightmares, not that they didn’t deserve it. Yup, he and your mum, lovely woman that she is, ran the guns right past the noses of those Limeys. Irish in her soul, your mom, you bet she is. She helped him with the gunrunning, that’s a fact. Never talks about it, but I know. Tis a fact, no doubt about it.”
“What exactly did she do, Mr. Feeney?” Josh would ask.
“Oh, son, can’t go into that. No, no, that would be dangerous. Can’t be too careful, even now. Some crimes they never forget. Treason is forever. Never forget that. Yup, can’t be too careful. Enemies are everywhere. Remember that, son. Some secrets you keep inside, forever. You think you’re safe, but you ain’t. No, you keep ’em deep. Take them to your grave, you do. In the end, you can only trust yourself, and sometimes even that doesn’t work. Say, son, I have a powerful thirst here. Can you pour me another libation, I pray?”
During the quiet hours, when he wasn’t in school, Josh ran the place. There was a buzzer to upstairs if Dad was needed and additional help would arrive by the middle afternoon, but he felt rather proud that his dad trusted him with the place. He even ran a few numbers and took sports bets from the regulars for his dad. It was the Irish world; you trusted members of the tribe. No one would complain about a kid serving beer and booze or running numbers. It was good training, like an apprenticeship. Besides, it was not long before Josh emerged as a local high school sports star. Now he was untouchable, a minor saint among the local deities. There were even rumors he might head to Notre Dame, the Catholic mecca of higher education. The worst he would do is Boston College—a more local temple to successful Irish aspirants for glory or at least respectability.
Some of his responsibilities were a little humorous. His dad usually was up late running the bar. Josh either studied or played sports. But there was an early morning flow of customers who wanted to be served before formal opening hours. Guys on their way to the day shifts, usually between six and seven in the morning. They needed a pick-me-up, or at least a balm for the previous night’s hangover before heading off to the day’s labor. They would knock on the back door, and Josh would be there to greet them. He would sell them shots and beers that would be downed quickly. Of course, it was illegal, but tribal customs are tribal customs. The law was something to obey at your convenience.
Josh realized that what made him untouchable in the neighborhood is that he was a fair reflection of his dad. He was not quite as stocky, but a bit taller with the same dark good looks and a V-shaped body with a muscular torso and reasonably slim waist. His dark hair hung down just over his ears in that tousled way that suggested a casual sexuality. And the smile was a killer, the same smile that Big Jim sported most days. It was never forced, never fake. It came naturally to his lips in a way that invited people in, helped them relax. What differed Josh from his dad was his willingness to listen. Jim dominated most rooms, his strong voice and personality centering all attention on his presence. Josh was subtler, asking questions and drawing others out. Still, he had that innate aura of authority. People trusted him. Besides, he wanted to learn what others had to offer. Everyone had a contribution to make. You just needed to ask the right questions.
This specific difference came from the inside. Jim was centered on himself, confident in who he was and his role in the world. He had been tested young and found himself adequate to all the challenges. Josh was less certain. The world for him was a bit less black and white though only at the edges. If you were a son of the Emerald Isle, much was expected. In those days, that meant you loved the Catholic church, the Virgin Mary, the old country, unions, and the Democratic Party. You hated the Brits, the Republican Party, and the WASPs who ran things. The memory of iconic politicians such as James Michael Curley ran strong. As with many of his Irish peers, he had fought for a place in this country. The tribe had suffered the attacks and hate of the Know-Nothings and other nativist parties. They saw No Irish Need Apply signs everywhere. They struggled with African Americans for the crumbs of society.
At the same time, they slowly built up a strategy of self-promotion. They used the church as an institutional anchor as they constructed functional families and communities. They erected parallel education systems (parochial schools) and social service systems (usually administered through local political operatives). And they hit upon a wonderful strategy for community revival—politics. Their natural gregarious personalities and tribal allegiances made political advancement a natural tactic. Once they wrested control of local government from traditional WASP control, patronage was a boon for those seeking entry onto the first rung of respectability.
In many ways, the Harp Bar of the 1960s that Big Jim owned and operated played out the final chapters of this century-long struggle. The British spent several centuries trying to exterminate the Irish culture, particularly Popery, which they viewed as a wild and dangerous cult at best. Cromwell had savaged the land with the rallying cry of “Connaught and Hell.” They would push the native population into the sea or, better still, into eternity. In the eyes of the Brits, worshipping God in the preferred Irish way was an ultimate insult to the new overlords. They would spend several centuries doing everything to separate the native Irish from their own culture. Of course, the exact opposite happened. The natives clung ever more fiercely to their church and their identity, which they would take with them into their diaspora of the mid-nineteenth century.
“My lad, have you ever been home?”
“Home, Mr. Feeney?”
“To Ireland, my boy, to Ireland. Oh, you must visit. Every Irish lad must visit the homeland, son. It is Eden for sure. Walk through the meadows on a spring morn. Everything is so green you can just taste the very color of the place. And you can literally smell the dew-drenched grass as the sun peeks over the misty horizon in the morn. The rainbows, my boy, the rainbows. In the old country, they truly are God’s special creations. No wonder we all looked for that pot of gold, imaginary as it was.”
“Sounds great, Mr. Feeney.”
“Son, never forget where you came from, never. They can take everything else away from you, son, your money or your job or even your freedom, but they cannot strip you of your conscience or your culture. You don’t face extinction and not come out hard. I was born the very week of the Easter uprising, that very week, in Dublin itself. I came into this world as those martyrs for the cause were leaving it.”
“I understand, Mr. Feeney.”
“Do you lad, do you?” Feeney’s eyes were moist, a tear creeping jaggedly down his cheek.
“I do, indeed, sir.” At that moment, Josh’s black-and-white world was very clear to him. There was nothing fuzzy in his early views. There was God and the one true and holy Catholic church. The pope was infallible and sat in Rome. The Blessed Virgin was to be revered and served as a role model to most of the Irish lasses in the neighborhood. The only problem with that, Josh thought, was that it was harder to get laid, way too hard. As a young teen, the few peeks he got into the promised land was by checking out the reflection from their patent leather shoes at school dances. It was a good thing that there were some older women who took pity on him.
Out in the world, there was good and evil. We were the good guys, J. Edgar Hoover told us so, and he was the top G-man. Josh had read his book, The Masters of Deceit, more than once. Even as a very young kid, he kept track on the back-and-forth front line on the Korean Peninsula. The Commie hordes almost pushed our guys into the sea, then the good guys pushed them back to the Yalu River, and then the Chinese poured in, pushin
g God’s defenders back. It was a metaphor for the universal battle of good and evil. The Commies were godless and bent on total evil. They all thought alike, plotting unspeakable things once they achieved world domination. Really, you had to know they were up to no good. How many times had he dived under his school desk to save his ass from the nukes the Reds were bound to drop any day now?
Josh recalled heading over to the Boston College campus one day to hear a talk by Tom Dooley, a graduate of Notre Dame and a missionary doctor who began practicing his trade in Southeast Asia during the chaotic decade of the 1950s. Colonialism was dying, but in a tortured way. The battle was on for the heart and soul of the people though few in the west, Josh would later conclude, gave a rat’s ass for the people. It was all a matter of stopping the inexorable Red menace while, it might be added, ensuring that access to the essential commodities these countries possessed remained undisturbed. Dooley brought the audience to their feet that night. He talked with compelling passion about how Catholics were being persecuted by Communist insurgents taking their orders from Moscow, or was it Peking? Young Catholic boys would be kidnapped and asked to renounce their faith and join the worker’s cause. If they resisted, sticks were driven into their ears, breaking their eardrums. At least that is what Tom Dooley said. Josh would have joined the marines that very night had he been of age.
His world was hierarchical and very rigid. People and things had their ordered place. Truth was not negotiable and flowed downward, from the papacy in Rome or the government in DC, from the fathers as the head of the family to their wives and then to obedient offspring. These truths were not negotiable. The hierarchical order of things was not to be questioned. He had his first lessons out of the Baltimore catechism where a series of questions were followed by an answer. That was convenient, he thought at the time, an answer for every question. Of course, the natural and preordained order of things held for people and groups as well. Religions, colors, and ethnic groups all had their determined place. In fact, even within the happy Catholic family, there was a hierarchy of worthiness. The Irish were on top and on down the line to the Italians and Portuguese who hovered above the blacks and pagans but only barely. The first question upon meeting someone new was to ask what are you? Polish, they might respond. Okay, the Pollacks were not as good as the Irish, but better than the Wops. Everyone had their place.
