Wandering in Exile

by Peter Murphy

  He sipped from his glass so his nephew wouldn’t know he was lying. He just didn’t want his nephew run over when Fr. Dolan swept up in a Cadillac and drove off with the pope before poor Patrick would get near him.

  “You need to speak up soon or the position might be gone.”

  “Well if Your Grace doesn’t think . . .”

  “It’s not that at all, Patrick. Fr. Dolan just wants to make the parish more like he’s used to and he might be right. Over in America they have to compete with all those evangelists on the television. Fr. Dolan has a bit of the impresario in him and the likes of you would be better off teaching than playing second fiddle to the likes of him.”

  Patrick sipped his whiskey and almost made a face. His uncle always enjoyed watching him. He still looked so much like the young man who came to see him years ago—just before he finished secondary school. When he had come to tell him he had decided on the priesthood.

  “And you don’t think I have anything to offer the people?”

  “It’s not that, Patrick. I just think that a young man like you, with your love for studying, could serve the Lord and the Church better doing what makes you the happiest.” He let it sink in but they both knew he wasn’t really giving the young priest any options.

  “Very well, Your Grace. I’ll go. When should I travel?”

  “You can go over any time you like. You’ll enjoy being in Rome. It gets a bit hot but you’ll be used to that in no time.”

  They finished their drinks and Patrick rose to leave.

  “You’ll not regret it,” the bishop repeated a few times as he ushered his nephew out.

  When he sat back down, he poured another nip. He had no choice. Fr. Dolan was making a fuss about Patrick and the ex-nun. Fr. Dolan knew all about her from Chicago and made sure the bishop knew too. “An undesirable sort,” he had called her and the bishop had no defense. Patrick was better off out of there, for everyone’s sake.

  *

  Miriam got to Bewley’s early and found a table near the back. She wanted a little seclusion in which to re-read her letter. She hadn’t heard from Fr. Melchor in a while, though she wasn’t surprised. The last time she met him in Rome, she could tell he was up to something.

  He had been banished there rather than face possible conviction at home. Neither the State Department, nor the Society of Jesus, had any appetite for a public trial and he had taken the option his superiors offered and agreed to the position in Rome.

  But she knew he would never let that be the end of it. He had been angling for a teaching position in Central America and wrote, I only want to‘strive especially for the propagation and defense of the faith and progress of souls in Christian life and doctrine,’ whilespreading liberation theology among the downtrodden!

  Miriam feared what he might get up to there, but he wrote about it like it was nothing.

  What else can they do with me? I have done my penance and my superiors are happy to believe that I am reformed in their image. They have, however, insisted that I do not go back to the States. It seems that in trying to be Christ-like, I have offended the sensibilities of those who claim to be a Christian nation.

  Miriam smiled at that. John Melchor could always cloak his casuistry within his cassock. But she worried, too. He had always shown disregard where others might be afraid for themselves and what their dissent might cost. Not Fr. Melchor though. He always said that a true Christian would suffer death rather than go along with the murder and repression of any who disagree. He said the Church had done enough of that. And his country.

  My beloved United States has gone from being the policeman to the world to being the hired thug of despots. But the world will, as it must. The shah has gone to Egypt and some ayatollah is taking over. I doubt he will be our puppet for very long. Everyone is blaming the president. They say he isn’t strong enough on the world. He can’t be that bad, though, he commuted Patty Hearst’s sentence. Maybe he will put in good word for me—if it comes to that.

  His mood changed again as he went on to write about the death of Pedro Joaquín Chamorro Cardenal. He was blasted from this world by cruel men with shotguns. The people of Nicaragua knew who was responsible and over 30,000 rioted against Somoza. I must find a way of doing what I can in this.

  Miriam knew exactly what he meant and worried for him, but she had to smile again as she continued to read. Don’t worry about me. Tell me all your news. How are the Mother-loving Catholics of Ireland accepting you?

  *

  “Sorry I’m late; the buses seem to hide when it rains.”

  Miriam folded her letter away and smiled. “Not at all Deirdre, I was just catching up with an old friend.”

  She caught a passing waitress’s attention and watched her friend while she ordered. She didn’t look too happy. Danny had been pestering her to go over but Deirdre wouldn’t go without her parents’ approval.

  “Have you asked them yet?”

  “Not yet. I just haven’t found the right time.”

  “Is there ever a good time to ask your parents if you can go live in sin for a few weeks?”

  “I know. It’s not like I’m still a child. And besides, he’s been away for over a year.”

  “That might be what they are afraid of.”

  “Danny’s not like that. And neither am I for that matter.”

  Miriam started to laugh. “Not that I would know anything about that type of thing.”

  She had tried. She tried to do all the things that women did to suggest interest without being overt about it, but men never responded to her. She knew why—men just weren’t into hitching up with ex-nuns. Deirdre had told her that she probably intimidated them but Miriam knew better. She had once been married to Jesus; no man alive would try to follow that.

  “So who was the love letter from?” Deirdre smiled.

  “Father Melchor. He is about to get himself into trouble again.”

  “And you are worried about him?”

  Miriam smiled. “To know John Melchor is to worry about him. He has no concern for his own safety and always answers when social injustice calls. He said that the war made him like that. He was a bombardier in the Air Force and took part in the fire-raids over Tokyo. He said it changed his life. He had nightmares for years.”

  “It must have been awful for him.”

  “It was. After he got out of the Air Force he spent a few years in Mexico trying to forget, but he couldn’t so he became a Jesuit. Since then, he has been using the protection of the collar to speak out.

  “He galvanized us all to do whatever we could to protest against Vietnam. That was when I got into trouble too. We got caught pouring pig’s blood on draft records. We weren’t formally charged, as the Diocese got involved and promised to look after the matter internally. I was banished to Ireland and John was given a desk job in a basement somewhere in Rome.”

  “Do you ever regret it?”

  “Never. I would have regretted not doing it no matter what it cost me. I’m just not one of those people who can sit silently by while . . . but you know all that. Tell me, what are you going to do about Danny?”

  It was Deirdre’s turn to look troubled. “I think I will wait until I graduate and then I might think about going over for a few weeks. They wouldn’t mind that?”

  “And do you think Danny Boyle will wait for you?”

  “I’m not asking him to. I told him I couldn’t this year.”

  “Are you testing him?”

  “No! Not at all. I’m just letting fate take its course.”

  They fell silent for a while until Deirdre looked at her watch and gulped down the rest of her coffee. “I’m sorry. I have to run and catch my lecture.”

  She rose and gathered her things but Miriam stayed where she was.

  When Deirdre was gone, Miriam ordered one more coffee and thought about all that she had given up, both as a nun and as an anti-war protester. It didn’t make sense to her anymore. Evil was openly rewarded while people l
ike Fr. Melchor and her paid dearly. She wished she didn’t know that. She wished she were still like Deirdre, still able to believe in something.

  *

  Billie knew Danny was still hung up on the girl he left behind and hadn’t wanted to push him. She hadn’t wanted to change the way things were between them. He was off limits but she liked hanging around with him. He was safe. The only time they ever messed around was on St. Patrick’s Day. She’d had a little too much to drink and they both decided that she could stay at his place and that nothing would happen.

  **

  “Are you saying,” she had asked as she twirled in the falling snow, “that you don’t find me even the least bit attractive?” The snow was heavy and wet and would be gone by morning, but tonight she was happy—drunken happy, but happy.

  He stood waiting for the lights to change, clutching the bags from Harvey’s. They’d be cold but it wouldn’t matter. Tonight, she was going to make out with Danny Boyle.

  She didn’t want to have sex with him. Getting laid on St. Patrick’s Day was far too clichéd, but fooling around with someone who wouldn’t try anything was just what she needed. It would appease the wanton within, the Harpie that emerged when she drank too much. She had been very popular during her first few years away at university. Only, she got a bit of a reputation. Boys were still studs and girls were still sluts, just like it had been in high school. There hadn’t been anybody since, except Danny Boyle and he had a girl back home.

  “Come and sit beside me,” she beckoned from the couch as Danny returned from the kitchen with a bottle of Mateus Rosé.

  “No, you’re fine there.”

  “Come on, I won’t bite.”

  “Only if you promise then.”

  She pulled her knees up to her chin as he sat and poured. “Danny, play me a song.”

  “I’m too drunk. Besides, we spent the whole night listening to songs.”

  “Not those kind of songs. Sing me one of your songs. I’ve heard you singing bits and pieces of them and I want to hear a whole song. Sing me a song about you.”

  She really had to pester him until he picked up his guitar and twanged and tuned for a while.

  “Close enough,” he laughed in his shy way and began to strum as she lowered the lamp behind her. He changed as his strumming became a rhythm. His hands grew steadier and his eyes began to clear, the boozy blur began to part and he sang. Unsurely at first, but steadying, and he sang about being alone. About being so terribly alone, about love and all good things coming and going but always leaving him alone. But not in a whiney way, Danny sang like a man who had been all the way down and had come back to tell about it. She couldn’t help it. She almost began to cry for him, for her, and for them. She uncoiled beside him, reaching one arm around his back as she rested her head against his shoulders, listening to him singing in time with his heartbeat.

  He sang another. A sweet gentle song of hope but it was almost like a lullaby. She couldn’t help it and let her hand slide between him and the guitar.

  He pulled away and stood, placing the guitar gently against the couch.

  “Oh, Christ, Danny, I’m sorry.”

  She started to sob so he led her toward the bathroom, to clean her face but he had to steady her, one hand holding her arm, his fingers softly brushing past her breast.

  She leaned a little more and bumped his hip. It made him stagger toward his bedroom so she did it again. They were both laughing by the time they fell across his bed.

  “We can’t, Billie. It’s not right.”

  “I don’t want to have sex with you. I just want you to hold me.” She nestled across his chest, her face next to his. “I just want to kiss and stuff. Nothing that we ever have to feel guilty about.” She reached up with her lips but he pulled back and pushed her away.

  “Fuck’s sake. We can’t, Billie. Don’t ask me to do stuff like this. I can’t do something like that to Deirdre.”

  He turned and left and slept on the couch. She snuck out when the subway opened and they avoided each other for a while.

  **

  She stayed away from the Windsor for two months before she could face him again.

  “How ya?” he smiled from the bar, the night she finally walked in.

  “Listen, Danny,” she brushed her hair behind her left ear so she could look up into his face. “I’m really sorry about what . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that. What harm was done?”

  “I couldn’t face my best friend for months.” she smiled back.

  “Come here to me.” He hugged her roughly and ordered her a beer and they were back to normal by the time the bar closed.

  “I’ll only see you to subway.”

  “Aren’t you worried about me alone on the train?”

  “I’d be more worried if I had to go with you.”

  “Listen, Danny Boyle. You’re not that cute.”

  “You didn’t think so on Paddy’s Night.”

  “What can a colleen say? Sometimes I overdo the Irish thing. Sue me.”

  “Go on then, while you still have a handle on your libido.”

  She dropped her token and brushed through the turnstile but she did turn and blow him the sexiest kiss she could manage. He caught it, too, and held it to his heart.

  **

  They were fine after that and she started dropping by his place on Sunday afternoons, just as a friend again, and listened to him play. They spent hours drinking coffee and smoking up a little. He’d sit on the couch and she’d sit on the floor, across from him. Sometimes, she’d even clap when he finished but it only seemed to distract him, so she stopped.

  His songs were good and getting better. He re-worked every one and she listened to each improvement. She told him he was good enough to play in coffee shops and places like that. She even offered to introduce him to people who knew people, but Danny wasn’t sure and wanted to start somewhere more familiar.

  He finally arranged a gig at the Irish Center and pleaded with her to come for moral support.

  She did and it was a total disaster. The crowd was like her parents, older, having come over in the fifties and sixties. They weren’t there to hear what was new from Ireland. They wanted to hear the songs from their day and Danny didn’t know any of them. But they were a good-natured crowd and just talked and laughed through every song he sang.

  While Danny was recalling the last night of some poor unfortunate that got mixed up in the drug scene—he made him sound like another martyr for old Ireland—they asked after each other and their children. Some openly boasting and some putting-on-the-poor-mouth, even as they paid for their drinks from wads of freshly minted dollars. They worked hard for them and they knew how to enjoy themselves.

  As Danny switched and tried to sing songs they might know, they just grew louder until Danny couldn’t be heard at all. He kept going, though, with sweat streaming down his face and darkening his armpits through his lime-green t-shirt.

  Because no one else would look at him, he stared at her, sitting alone at a table in the front row, putting her in the spotlight where she could suffer along with him.

  In time a small man with a big accordion joined him on stage and the whole crowd got up to dance. They danced jigs and reels, foxtrots and waltzes without ever changing gait. They were all the same to them and the small man played on and on.

  “What key?” she could hear Danny’s loud whisper as he tried to join in.

  “B-Flat!”

  Even Billie could tell it wasn’t, but Danny fumbled with his capo until he found the key. That was when she started to have real feelings for him—when she glimpsed him as he really was—a voice crying in the wilderness.

  “Would you consider coming home with me?” he had asked on the cab ride back, his voice sadder than she had ever heard.

  “Do you really think I should?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Deirdre’s never going to be coming over. It’s over
between her and me.”

  *

  Jerry had a great afternoon, sitting in the pub picking horses. He had a three-cross-double come in but he only had a few pounds on it. Still, it paid over two hundred and he was in the mood for a night on the town. He’d take Jacinta for a meal and a few bottles of wine but the lights were all out when he got home and the house seemed empty.

  “I’m home,” he called into the darkness as he reached along the wall for the light switch.

  The breakfast dishes were still on the table and the house was cold. Jacinta usually had a fire going by now. “I’m home,” he repeated as he wandered into the living room.

  She was sitting on the couch in the dark with a half-empty sherry bottle on the coffee table.

  “Ah, Jaze, Jass, what are you doing sitting in the dark? I thought you might have died on me.”

  “I may as well be dead, Jerry. I’ve done a terrible thing.”

  Jerry sat down opposite her and lit a cigarette. He should have known better—God never gave with the one hand but he didn’t take away with the other. “What’s the matter with you now?” He didn’t mean to sound impatient but he couldn’t help it, even after all these years.

  “I got a call from Danny that’s after upsetting me.”

  “What’s he done now?”

  “It’s not his fault, Jerry. It’s mine.”

  “Why, what’s happened?”

  “He told me that he has met someone—a Canadian someone.”

  “And why’s that a bad thing. He’s a good lookin’ lad. He was bound to meet up with someone.”

  “But don’t you see? He’ll never come back now.”

  “But how’s that your fault?”

  She looked up at him with tears rolling down her cheeks as she pulled a cigarette from his pack. Her own pack was empty and the ashtray was full. “I was the one,” she said, pausing slightly, “who told him that the young Fallon girl wasn’t interested in him, and now he has gone and got someone who is probably giving him sex and he’ll never want to come back.”