Wandering in Exile

by Peter Murphy

  A much older man came to the Universidad Centroamerica to fight the good fight with nothing but the words of Jesus; it was the Jesuit way. They would right wrong with empirical examination. No one could argue that. No one could deny what was true, except those who dealt in lies and deceit.

  He had close friends in that; Jon Sobrino, Ignacio Ellacuría, Ignacio Martín-Baró, and Segundo Montes. When he was with them, it felt like God was gathering them to fight the self-serving logic of those who sold greed as a virtue. Those who violently oppressed the poor to save them from the clutches of godlessness. Those who broke every tenet of humanity for the good of the select few. It was so obvious.

  Philippe knew all of that, too, but he had gone and, after basic training, had been placed among the ranks of the Atlacatl Battalion, among the sons of the elite and the ruthless—the Jesuits of Oppression. All John could hope was that some of what Philippe had been taught might survive.

  The night was hot and hazy, the beginning of Verano, John’s favorite time of the year. Back home they would be getting ready for Thanksgiving, but here, life was reemerging from the rains. His rambling took him toward the house. His friends would have had dinner but would sit awhile to talk into the night, to talk about what might yet come to pass.

  He hesitated. Some sense that he could not identify, cautioned. He stood for a moment but it was quiet. He could see the house and he could hear voices speaking softly, but yet he lingered. Something else was prowling in the night. Shadowy figures converged on the house, but John could not make sense of it. They revealed their weapons and began to shoot, gunshots echoing and almost drowning out the stifled cries of terror.

  He could see his friends crumple as they died. He could see the shadowy figures of death walk among them, ensuring that none survived, not even the housekeeper and her daughter, who was only sixteen years old. John wanted to step forward and place all that he was between them and death, but as he stepped from the cover of the night, someone turned and shot him.

  He lay between life and death as someone stood over him. Someone else joined him and he heard whispers. And, as he faded from life, their words followed him into the dark.

  “Porquería” and “Sacerdote Americano.”

  14

  1990

  Jacinta was glad to be on her own in the cold dark church with flickering candles while the wind tested the trees outside. It was where she could always find a few moments of peace when life got choppy. She hadn’t wanted to make a big fuss; it was just another birthday, but Gina had disagreed. She had sipped her coffee and smiled. She always seemed to think that Jacinta liked to be coaxed. “But it’s your fiftieth. You have to have a big celebration.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t be reminding me. I just want to stay forty-nine for a while yet.”

  After she had excused herself and done the shopping for Jerry’s tea, she had a few moments to sit in the church. She didn’t believe in all the stuff that went on there, especially now with Fr. Dolan. He had a new way of telling the people what was right and what was wrong. He seemed more like a bank manager advising them about spiritual investments and how to enjoy their rewards. “If Jesus gives us good things,” was his favorite mantra, “then we should enjoy them in good conscience.”

  Jacinta didn’t like that at all. She preferred the old days when the bishop would drop by to berate them all for their unworthiness. Fr. Brennan could, too, if he was riled enough, but most of the time he just chided them like he was resigned to the fact that they would do whatever they liked and there was little he could do except set the bishop on them.

  And poor, piddling Fr. Reilly. He always wore his heart on his sleeve, God love him. Burning like a candle, hoping that you would go over to him to get warm. She hoped he was doing well in Rome. She’d heard his father had died but he went straight back afterwards. She had wanted to see him, to thank him again. She wanted to tell him that Danny and Deirdre were doing very well for themselves, no small thanks to all the help they got from their loving curate.

  Lately, whenever she thought about the Sacred Heart of Jesus, she saw Fr. Reilly’s face instead. It first happened in the church. She’d been praying by the side altar. It was just before Christmas and she’d come in when all the worrying about the holidays got the better of her.

  It was silent but for the trickle of beads in Mrs. Flanagan’s hands, praying away another afternoon, praying for the soul of her son. Jacinta said a prayer for him too. She always did. She liked praying. She didn’t think that God was on the other end but that wasn’t the point. It was the getting down on her knees and asking for a bit of help. She believed in humility being good for the soul. Jerry told her that was what all the Yogis in the Himalayas said and they spent their whole lives just thinking about it. It was such a ‘Jerry thing’ to say. He always had his head in the clouds.

  Anyway, when she had finished her prayers, she looked up at the stained glass window to see what the weather was like outside. The moment she looked, the sun came out and she forgot herself and stared at it, right through the face of Jesus as He was taken to the house of Caiaphas to listen to all the lies of those who believed in hatred.

  She knew she should look away but she couldn’t; Jesus was becoming Patrick Reilly.

  When she did manage to turn away, the face followed her, even into the gloom around the main altar and in the corner where Mrs. Flanagan prayed. Even inside of her eyelids when Jacinta shut them as tightly as she could.

  She tried telling Jerry about it, but he just laughed at her. She didn’t care. She had finally figured out what Patrick Reilly had been trying to tell them all along. Patrick’s God was not stern and remote, stalking the streets for retribution. Patrick’s God was more concerned with people being nice to each other and always being there for the people who needed help, coming through strangers and friends whenever He was needed.

  The more she thought about it, the more it made her look at her own life differently too. After Danny was born, when she went running out to drown the baby and was put in the hospital, she thought that Nora Boyle was just being cruel. She begged her parents for help, but they told her that she had to go along with things until she was better. Later, after a few years of staring at the walls, she realized that they were just cowing down to the Boyles.

  She tried to tell the doctors, but they told her that she was unsound—what mother would want to drown her baby? She told them she didn’t really mean to; it’s just she was so angry at Jerry. The doctors turned that back on her and for months talked about her ‘anger issues.’

  She was only eighteen, far too young to know who she was yet, let alone how to raise a child. And far too young to understand what was going on around her. Everyone had always said she was a bit touched, but never to her face. Except the other children. They never gave her a moment’s peace, pulling at her and pushing her and saying awful things about her. She hated them then, but now she understood—they just didn’t know any better.

  She used to blame the nuns for bringing so much attention to her when she was a child, shy and awkward and not as bright as the other children. But they were only trying to force her to do better. It was all they had from the limited understanding they had about life.

  She didn’t mind any of that anymore. Everything that had happened had led her to the point where she could sit in a quiet church and grasp the deepest mystery of all. The God that everyone prattled on about and fought about was a quiet strength that fluttered inside all of them. A quiet strength that grew stronger every time they were nice to each other. That was what Patrick Reilly had tried to teach them before they shuffled him out of the way.

  “Are you well, Mrs. Flanagan?” she whispered as the two women rose to leave together. It was a regular thing; they would stop in at the Yellow House for a few nips before they both went home to prepare the dinner. And, as always, Jacinta treated.

  *

  “Listen. It’s sound. They’ll put in the money now and when the job is
done, we pay them off.” Donal seemed very assured but Jerry couldn’t help but feel that there was more going on.

  “How much?”

  “Principle and ten percent of the profit.”

  “Ten percent? Jazus. Wouldn’t they have settled for a pound of flesh instead?”

  “That’s nothing, Jerry. If we tried to raise it on the open market, they’d want our balls as collateral. That’s if we could find anybody to take them. Times are tough out there.”

  “Times are always tough. What I want to know is where the money is coming from?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me. I don’t want to end up with Shergar’s head in my bed.”

  Donal laughed at that and slapped Jerry on the back—a little too hard. “It’s like everyone says: Never look a gift horse . . . Am I right? Listen. They could be selling their daughters as whores for all we care. We just need their money for a while. Afterwards, we’ll pay them off and be done with them.”

  He ordered two more drinks, large whiskies as was befitting their status even though Jerry would have preferred a pint, but Donal was big on keeping up appearances.

  “You have to shake hands with a few devils if you’re ever going to get anywhere, Jerry. But after this we won’t have to anymore.”

  “That’s what you said the last time.”

  “C’mon, Jerry. It wasn’t my fault the deal in Rathmines fell through. How was I to know your man was going to do a runner?”

  “I tried to warn you.”

  Jerry had. He knew the runner from way back—a dubious bollocks if ever there was.

  “And I told you,” Donal continued like he was explaining something to a moron, “that we’d take a hit now and then. I thought you understood the business by now. I need you as a partner, Jerry, and not someone who waits around to say I-told-you-so every time we hit a bump in the road.”

  “Bump, my arse, he got us for forty grand.”

  “Small change, Jerry. Toll money on the highway to riches.”

  “I hope you fucking know what you’re getting us into.”

  Donal drained his drink and picked up his car keys, the ones for the new Jag. He had to have it to impress clients while Jerry had to make do with the old Rover. “I’ve told you before—if it starts getting too rich for you, you can quit. I know lots of people who would be happy to buy you out.”

  He slapped Jerry’s shoulder again and left.

  *

  “Only you can decide, Jerry,” Jacinta agreed after he had explained it all to her.

  Since he had jacked in the government job and gone full-time in the business, he was always having doubts. Sometimes, she missed the old days when all he had to complain about was ‘all the blundering bollocks’ that he had to put up with. He wasn’t cut out for this. Not that he wasn’t smart enough; Jerry had too much goodness in him.

  Stuff like that mattered to her. She could see what was going on all around her. Everyone was getting caught up in wanting more and more and none of them were getting any happier.

  Though she did like when they took trips to Spain and all, but she was just as happy spending her afternoons down in the shops and in the church. Everyone still whispered about her, behind her back, but now they were just jealous. She and Gina were the envy of them all. Only she never let on that she noticed.

  “All that really matters is that you can live with the decisions you make.”

  Jerry looked at her in amazement ,and that made her happy.

  “I know what you mean. The only thing I want now is to be able to look after my grandkids.”

  Jacinta had to smile at that. Jerry may not have been the best father in the world, but he was making up for it with Danny’s children.

  “Well instead of throwing me a party I don’t want, why don’t we go over to Canada, again?”

  “How did you know about the party? That feckin’ Gina; I told her not to say a word.”

  “But I’d much rather see my grandchildren again. And my Danny and Deirdre.”

  “Do you think they’ll have the World Cup on over there?”

  “It’s the World Cup, Jerry. They’ll have it everywhere.”

  “Do you think Danny will be watching it? He was never big into football.”

  “Oh, stop fretting. Everything will be fine.”

  ”You’re right. And do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to bring over whatever money I make on this deal and give it to him. He’ll need it with that mortgage they’ve got.”

  *

  The days were getting warmer but the crowds of tourists were still thin. By summer they would fill out and take over every street and alley.

  Patrick had the day off. It was almost the end of term and he was feeling a bit lazy. Spring in Rome did that. It had rained during the night and the air was fresh with a hint of the ocean. It was a good day to be alive and content, standing by his window looking down on the little streets where life had dawdled by for centuries. When the phone rang, he answered without turning. He was watching an old man and his dog. The old man waited patiently as his dog stopped to sniff every pillar and post, sprinkling those that piqued his interest.

  “Patricio, I’m afraid I have to tell you some bad news. Benedetta is dying and wants to see you before she . . .”

  Patrick hadn’t seen her in a few weeks, not since he had given her his uncle’s letters.

  He still wasn’t sure why he did it. It was like some inner voice called out to him and wouldn’t be hushed until he did. He regretted it as soon as it was done. She had taken the letters in her trembling hands and her eyes clouded over. He should have left well enough alone. He had no business evoking old ghosts, no matter what crazy voice popped into his mind. The shock of it all had probably been too much for the old lady.

  He pedaled furiously toward the Ponte Garibaldi, across the river and along the Via Arenula. He often thought about getting a moped but there was something invigorating about being a priest in a hurry on a bicycle. He didn’t get to feel like that very often anymore. He hadn’t worn his collar in years. He was more of an academic now. He said his masses at Santa Maria at a side altar privately, except for a few nuns and the occasional elderly neighbor with time on his hands. And as he wheeled into the piazza, he wondered if he would be called on for the Last Rites. He hadn’t done one since Dublin.

  Giovanni met him and led him upstairs to the family apartments. Benedetta’s room was on the third floor, looking west. She liked to watch the setting of the sun from her bed.

  “She has been failing for a while but she’s content,” Giovanni explained as they climbed the stairs.

  She lay like an aged bride under white covers that barely moved as she drew shallow breaths. Patrick had been with so many when death came for them, but she was different. She lay serenely, almost expectant, and smiled when Patrick stood over her and motioned to Giovanni to leave them. When he had gone, she beckoned Patrick closer until he was leaning over her.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she whispered while staring past his bowed head. “We can be together now.”

  Patrick wasn’t sure so he just nodded. Benedetta had outgrown her religion, so he doubted she was referring to God.

  “All these years I wasn’t sure.”

  Patrick knew better than to interrupt and just held her hand and nodded.

  “But when I read his letters, I knew. He never stopped loving me, either.” She shifted her gaze to Patrick’s face so he remained as impassive as he could, only he didn’t do so well.

  “Do not be shocked, Patrick. We are free now, free to love each other for all time.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. He let go of her hand and, out of habit, joined it with the other on top of the covers. But Benedetta wasn’t praying—he knew what that sounded like, a hoarse and desperate rattle. She just sighed again and drifted off to sleep.

  She died later that night as Patrick sat vigil along with the family. Some cried and some prayed but, aft
er they had covered her, Giovanni took Patrick downstairs and out to the patio. He poured some whiskies and they drank to her memory—and the bishop’s.

  *

  “At this stage, I think we have to assume that no news is good news.”

  Miriam didn’t agree but there was no point in arguing with Joe. He would have done all that he could, phoning friends and the friends of friends, but there was still no word on John Melchor.

  Officially, he was not even reported missing, but friends in the Society of Jesus feared the worst. They didn’t say that, of course. They said there was still hope. Someone even suggested that there was no reason to believe that he was caught up in the atrocity.

  “But that makes no sense, Joe. Why would he just disappear?”

  “I don’t know, Miriam. All I can tell you is what I am hearing.”

  He had nothing more to offer into the silence, though she could hear him breathing across the phone line. She knew what he was thinking. John was probably dead and his body lost, but he was too good a brother to say that.

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Joe.”

  “I wish it could be more, sis.”

  “Well thanks anyway. I should be going, but call me if you hear anything.”

  “You know I will.”

  “I do, Joe.”

  Karl waited until she hung up and was ready to talk. He walked toward her and took her in his arms. She trembled with sorrow and rage but he held her tightly. “Perhaps,” he drawled the way he did when his mind was already sorting out what needed to be done, “I can call in a few favors.”

  She knew he didn’t really want to have anything more to do with all of that and appreciated what he was offering.

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m offering.”

  He still had friends in the army, friends who owed him, and some of them were privy to what was really going on. Some had just been sent to Panama as advisors.