Wandering in Exile

by Peter Murphy

  “I’ll just make a few calls,” was all he said but it was enough. She knew what he was really saying. He would pull every string he could reach until someone, somewhere, got him what he wanted.

  “We still might have to face the fact that the news might be bad.” He looked at her like she was a child, but she didn’t mind. He was getting all soldierly, sticking out his chin like he was about to lead his platoon back into the jungle.

  “I know, but I need to know, one way or the other.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She just nodded. She couldn’t tell him that she still had hope. Something inside was telling her that John was still alive—that she would know if he was dead.

  “Should we go down there?”

  “Not right now. They have started an inquest and they will want to wrap it up neatly. They’ll find a few scapegoats. They’ll have to; the Jesuits are kicking up a storm.”

  “For the others but not for John.”

  “Miriam. John was not among the bodies.”

  “Then there is a chance that he is still alive.”

  She knew he was keeping his face tight and she loved him for that. It was a fool’s hope but it was all she had.

  “There is. And when they find him, we’ll catch the first flight and you can give him shit for scaring the hell out of us.”

  “Us?”

  “What’s yours is mine.”

  She kissed him and turned away before he could see how frightened she was.

  “You know, we often lost guys in the bush, only they turned up later. And John was in the service.”

  She knew what he was trying to do and went along with it. “You’re right.”

  “Besides,” he continued like he was just sorting it out in his mind, “he’s an old fly-boy. Those guys always knew how to hole up well. We had to go looking for one once. He’d been shot down a few days before. We searched for miles and, just when we were about to give up, we found him in a . . .”

  “A what?”

  It was his turn to look like a child. “A knocking-shop.”

  It did make her laugh. “Well, maybe you can get them to widen the search but I doubt John would end up in a place like that.”

  “Unless he was trying to evangelize them.”

  “Organize a union more likely.”

  *

  “Who put the ball in the English net?” Jerry sang while Danny tried to ignore him. He’d been doing it all the way over to Martin’s soccer game in the minivan, singing until Martin sang back: “Sheedy.”

  In fact, they’d been doing it all afternoon since the goal. They’d stayed in to watch the game. Martin even wore his new ‘Irish’ shirt. Jacinta thought her nerves wouldn’t be up for it, so she took the girls for lunch and a bit of shopping, too.

  “Da! Don’t.” Danny nodded toward the parents all around them. They were mostly women, of British stock but with a spattering of Greeks, Ukrainians, a few Poles, a deranged Dutchman and a few Italians, presiding like royalty. Danny knew them all to ‘nod to’ but they hadn’t really accepted him yet.

  They liked Martin though. He was becoming a star player, and to become a ‘real Leasider,’ you had to have gifted children. Martin fit the bill and would be their ‘in.’ Deirdre said she couldn’t be bothered with all that but she wasn’t keen on having Frank and Jimmy over anymore.

  “Don’t what. Act like a real football fan?” his father asked, innocently enough.

  “Just cool it, Da. These people take their soccer very serious.”

  Jerry looked around at all the parents sitting in lawn chairs along the sideline. Some of them weren’t even watching the game properly. “Yeah, they’re the Kop, transported,” he laughed and began to sing:

  For he’s football crazy,

  He’s football mad,

  The football it has taken away

  The little bit o’ sense he had.

  He clapped along, trying to get those around him to join in but they didn’t. Most of them had suddenly become engrossed with the game, but a few nodded over at them. “Is that your father?” one of them asked Danny.

  “Over from Ireland?” another added, like that would explain things.

  “Guilty as charged,” Jerry beamed at them all. He’d had a few beers during the game and they hadn’t worn off yet. Danny’s had. He was always careful about that. Deirdre was always after him about it. She didn’t want her children’s father to ever embarrass them anymore. He’d had a few incidents since they moved. That’s why some of the parents were still a bit leery of him.

  “And that,” Jerry continued and bowed to them all, “is my grandson—number ten.”

  And even as he said it, the ball sailed across the goalmouth. All the others kids closed their eyes and hopped, hoping the ball would miss them, but not Martin. He jumped straight at the ball and hit it with his forehead, past the flailing hands of the keeper, just as he had practiced with his granddad.

  He kept running, past the distraught defenders who were looking at their parents for consolation, back to his side of the field, high-fiving with his team like they did in the World Cup. Some of the parents cheered their approval and began to discuss which of their kids had gotten the assists. And, while the coach of the other team argued with the referee, Martin winked over at his granddad.

  “You’re welcome, sonny boy. Anytime.”

  “What’s that about?” Danny muttered.

  Jerry stopped smiling and turned away to watch the game restart. “It’s nothing, son. It’s just I was showing him a few tricks.”

  “That’s more than you ever did with me.”

  “Y’er not still going on with that, are ya? Let it go, son.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “You don’t mean that, son, and some day you’ll realize that.”

  Danny might have said more but Martin had the ball again. He had it close to his feet and had his head up, the way Jerry had taught him. He was faster than the others and kept the ball under some control—as much as the lumps and bumps would allow. He got by everyone else and rounded the keeper, who had come out dispassionately, and banged it into the net.

  “Who put the ball in the Rangers net?” Jerry jumped up and began to clap his hands.

  “Jesus, Da. Don’t be doing that. The parents on the other side will get mad.”

  “They look harmless enough to me.”

  “Don’t be fooled—they’re really hockey parents.”

  Martin’s team won six to nothing, and Martin scored five. He could have had the other but he passed it off. Afterwards, after the coach had given out the frozen treats, Martin came over to where his grandfather sat and put his arm around him.

  “You’re good enough to play for Ireland,” Jerry said laughing. “When we get home I’ll phone Jackie and get you on a plane to Italy.”

  Martin laughed at that but Danny didn’t. He was miffed and gathered up the lawn chairs and headed back to the car park while Martin and his grandfather exchanged high-fives again. It was going to be a long four weeks.

  *

  Martin’s team won the next three games, while the Irish didn’t fare so well. They drew against Egypt and the Dutch before the shoot-out win over the Romanians. Even Jacinta watched that one, with Grainne on her knee. But it all ended against the Italians.

  Martin was in tears but cheered up when his grandfather offered to take him outside to practice some more. “We got to the quarter-finals.” Jerry tried to get him to see the bright side as he tied his grandson’s boots. “Nobody was expecting us to do that well.”

  “He’s crazy about him,” Jacinta remarked as she watched them through the window.

  “Which one?” Deirdre laughed. The visit was going so much better than she had hoped. Jacinta had stopped pressuring them about coming home and was still able to work her magic on Grainne. She got her out of bed and dressed without Deirdre having to get involved. She even managed to brush her hair without too much fuss. It made Deirdre happy t
o see the smile on her daughter’s face.

  Danny wasn’t so happy though. He was brooding a lot but she didn’t have time to find out why. It was probably something to do with his father. He still resented him about something.

  “You know,” Jacinta turned away from the window and sat by the kitchen table. “Jerry has a surprise for you all.” She had been hinting about it since she arrived. “I’ll let him tell Danny himself, but I want you to know first. He made a lot of money recently and he wants to give you some.”

  “That’s very kind, but we couldn’t.” Deirdre was tempted but they were doing much better and she didn’t want Jacinta and Jerry feeling they had to help.

  “Nonsense, Deirdre. Take it while he’s offering. It’s about thirty thousand.”

  Deirdre couldn’t help it; even as she turned to face her mother-in-law, her mind was calculating all they could do with that. Martin would be playing hockey again this winter, and she wanted Grainne to take up skating too. And ballet. And she really wanted them to be able to take a holiday down south in the winter. “I don’t know what to say, Jacinta.”

  “Just say thanks and don’t give it another thought. He’d only spend it all on drink if he didn’t have his grandchildren to be helping out with.”

  Not only did Deirdre thank her, she hugged her too. Even Grainne joined in.

  Danny was less pleased when he found out. He said they didn’t need his parents’ charity anymore so Deirdre had to work on him until he had the good grace to accept it and give thanks. That made Jerry happier than Deirdre had ever seen him, and when they saw them off at the airport, he hugged them all like he might never see them again. Jacinta chided him for being so maudlin and then they were gone.

  *

  Martin’s team won the playoffs, mostly because of his goals, and they were all invited to the coach’s house for a barbeque. It was the first time the neighbors had included them, so Deirdre warned Danny to be on his best behavior. He could have two beers but no more. And none beforehand, either.

  Danny agreed, for the most part, except for a few swigs of tequila while he was pretending to be tiding up the backyard. But he was going to be on his best behavior.

  It was in one of the bigger houses on Bessborough, and Danny and Deirdre had to take the tour on their way through to the back garden. Danny wasn’t comfortable; it was far too ostentatious for him but Deirdre smiled and admired it all, like she was in an art gallery or something. She even offered to help in the kitchen while Danny was ushered out to join the other men.

  They were gathered around the cooler and somebody handed him a beer, introducing him as ‘Martin’s father.’ They all smiled and congratulated him until Danny almost felt at ease.

  They talked for a while about the playoffs and how well Martin had played, and Danny basked in the middle of it all. But not for long—soon they were talking hockey, about Ballard and ‘the Great One,’ and Danny moved to the edge. He didn’t feel qualified to join in.

  “Is Martin going to play this year?” one of them finally asked, a swarthy, puffy-faced man who seemed to have sway over the others.

  “I dunno,” Danny answered as casually as he could. He was happy to have their attention again and happily accepted a second beer. “We’re not really a hockey family. We’re more into football. Soccer.”

  “Let me explain something,” the swarthy-faced man spoke slowly as if he wasn’t sure that Danny understood. “You’re in Canada now. Hockey is it here. Soccer is fine for the summer and girls,” he added as an aside to the others who stood around and laughed on cue. “But if you want your son to get anywhere, he has to play. I’m holding tryouts next week. Make sure you have him there.”

  Danny still wasn’t sure but the other fathers went to work on him, handing him his third beer and telling he couldn’t let his son miss out. The swarthy-faced man was going to form the ‘select team’ at the end of the season and it wouldn’t be wise to turn him down.

  *

  Danny was still trying to decide a week later as he stood in Canadian Tire, in the aisle with the hockey equipment. The stuff was expensive and he had no idea what some of it was for. The helmet, skates and sticks were obvious but the pads and garters were beyond him.

  “You know,” one of the fathers from the barbeque sidled up to him, “you can get most of this stuff second-hand.”

  “Really?” Danny answered and began filling his cart with the most expensive stuff he could find. He had no idea what he was buying but he could get Deirdre to exchange it later. “I don’t know if I’d feel right having my son playing in used shit.”

  When he got home he phoned the swarthy-faced man and told him they were in.

  *

  So, Danny Boyle became a hockey dad and, though he knew little about the game, he joined in with the other parents, berating referees while sipping his ‘Tim Horton’s.’ He could always be counted on for something acerbic.

  He carried a flask, too, and could usually be found among the other fathers, tippling when their wives weren’t looking. However, after an out of town Christmas tournament, Martin asked Deirdre to start taking him to games instead. The other parents were always talking about how much his father could drink—and how often.

  When Danny heard about it, he was furious and even threatened to pull Martin from the team.

  Martin tried to plead with him but Danny just grew more irate until Deirdre had to intervene.

  “Go on up to bed, Martin, while I have a little chat with your father.”

  It was the same way she spoke when Grainne had been acting up, so Martin retired knowing that his mother would sort it out.

  “Danny. You’re not going to take this from Martin.”

  “And have him listen to all that gossip.”

  “Danny. You brought all of this on yourself and Martin, and I think it is only fair that it stops, now. Hockey is the most important thing in his life right now—and being a part of the team, regardless of what you might think.”

  Danny knew better and stayed silent. He had been drinking too much; even he could see that.

  “And,” Deirdre continued like she was holding all the cards, “you are going to have to do something about your drinking. I think you may be developing a problem.”

  “I don’t have a problem; I can stop any time I want.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled.”

  She rose and went upstairs leaving Danny to smolder alone in the dark.

  15

  1991

  He had been in darkness for so long that he was almost afraid of the light. It was diffused through blinds, but it was still brighter than any light he remembered. A soft hand touched his brow and brushed his hair back from his face. He knew the hand by touch. It was a woman’s hand, soft and warm. It was a mother’s hand.

  He knew her voice too. She had called his name for days, calling him back from the shadows he had fled to. “John,” she had called, “John Melchor.” She spoke in English but her accent was obvious and her voice reminded him of Philippe’s.

  He tried to sit up but the woman’s hand pushed him back. “Lie still,” was all she said. He did not have the strength to try again but he did open his eyes.

  Dolores Maria D’Cruz Madrigal had once been a very beautiful woman. Her hair had been dark and her white skin had been smooth. She had once been the most beautiful woman in San Alejo. Her eyes were still dark but soft and now they searched John’s for any sign of fever.

  “Where am I?” was all he could think to ask. Since that night, he could not be sure what was real and what was dreaming.

  She smiled and little creases formed around the sides of her lips. “You are safe now. But you must not try to rise. The doctor will be back soon.”

  “So I am not dead yet?”

  She stopped smiling and wiped his face with a cool damp cloth. “No, not yet.”

  He could see the question troubled her and regretted it. He lay back and tried to remember.

  He remembered
the bullets hitting him and he remembered falling to his knees as he watched his friends die. Someone stepped behind him and something cold touched the back of his head. He could feel the gun trembling and tried to prepare for the end. But someone else called from the darkness. They whispered for a few moments and one of them approached and tried to lift him.

  That was when he passed out. He came to in the back of a car as it squealed through the night streets. He was carried into a house and placed on a table.

  A doctor approached him, a nervous man who wore his spectacles at the end of his nose. He examined the gunshot wounds and shook his head slowly. “He should not have been moved,” he chided others in the room. “But they would have found him and . . .” a familiar voice justified.

  “They still might,” the doctor interrupted and leaned forward with a syringe. “Hold him.”

  Hands reached from the shadows and held John steady until they all faded back into the gloom.

  ***

  “I am the mother of Philippe Ignatius Madrigal. He brought you here.”

  Before John could respond, someone else entered and began whispering to the woman. It was a man’s voice. It was a deep and commanding voice but it was whispering urgently. John could barely hear but he made out enough. An American helicopter had been shot down nearby and all three crew members had been killed. The man was insistent that they had been killed after they landed.

  He blamed the rebels and seemed to think that it somehow involved their ‘guest.’

  “He is not well enough to be moved,” the woman spoke so John could hear her. “He will not leave my house until then.”

  The man with the deep and commanding voice muttered something but the woman was adamant. “If they find out about him they will know what Philippe did. Do you really want your son exposed?”