by Peter Murphy
John Melchor argued that terrorists were not born, but made. Made by the actions of those that supported tyranny—like those who had gunned down Archbishop Romero at the altar. Those that American governments had befriended and armed.
And when things seemed to be getting heated, Karl insisted they walk across to the Alamo, to remember those who had died in the cause of American Imperialism. Miriam could see he was enjoying himself but she was getting tired. For men, the problems of the world were matters for the mind, like Gordian knots. For her, it was much more a matter of the heart, albeit a bleeding one. She worried for John Melchor. The cruel lashings of the world would only spur him on and he was getting far too old for all of this. But they all stood reverently in the old mission. Each one had answered their country’s call; John over Japan, Karl and the older FBI man in Vietnam, and the younger one in Kuwait. They all had that in common.
*
It was one of those nights when the breezes woke old ghosts. Rome was full of them, doleful souls of the slaves and saints who had died to make the place great.
It was too warm and Patrick couldn’t sleep. He sat up and read for a while as the murmurs of life dwindled. The city was noisy most of the time but there were a few quiet hours, after the last of the night-lifers had drifted off and before the early morning rustling began. Giovanni often said that in those few hours, if you listened intently, you could hear the talking statues of Rome.
After he tossed and turned a few more times, Patrick gave up and got dressed. When he was a young curate, he was often called from his bed. It was an imposition he bore with all the grace he could muster. Some weeks he was lucky if he got one decent night’s sleep, especially when Fr. Brennan was failing. He didn’t miss those days but he didn’t regret them either. All of that had led to this—a tranquil place to sit and watch the world.
Sometimes when the news of the world was troubling, he wondered if he shouldn’t be doing more with himself. He still got letters from Miriam and she was still fighting the good fight. She still railed away against all that was unjust and Patrick admired her for that.
She had written to him about John Melchor, about his recent troubles and that he was on his way over. Of course Patrick agreed to meet with him but he was unsure. His life was an idyllic island. He spent his days with his nose in a book, only taking it out to share what he had found there. His students loved him and the college was proud of that. They thought his kind of priest was what was needed in a world that grew more secular by the day. All of Europe was becoming one in that, except in Yugoslavia, where the old fault lines were tearing the people apart.
He had been able to ignore most of that by focusing on all that had gone on before, accounts of the days when kings and popes wrestled for the reins of power. He found great comfort in that, that the more things changed . . .
He crossed the Tiber at the Ponte Mazzini. He had no direction in mind; he would just wander until the sun came up and the cafés opened.
He was unsure about meeting John Melchor because Jesuits always made him nervous. They were the best and brightest and had a bad habit of looking through people. And this one was tainted by notoriety. Patrick had made discreet inquiries. John Melchor was a black sheep—the type that once ended their days in ashes.
By the time the sun was about to rise, he was standing in the Campo De’ Fiori. The cafés were beginning to flicker to life but it was still calm. A delivery van scuttled across and then it was quiet. He had been there many times during the hot afternoons. He came by but had never said ‘hi’ to Bruno as his uncle had once suggested.
Bruno had been waiting. His likeness had stood there since 1899, a few years after Pope Leo had issued the Humanun Genus. The Masons had put him there, forever staring off toward those who had consigned him to the flames back in 1600. Patrick had never understood what his uncle had meant but it was that kind of night.
“Hi.”
So! You’ve finally gotten here.
Patrick was startled and looked around to see who might be playing a prank.
Over here. It was his uncle’s voice. Up here.
Patrick approached the base of the statue. It had to be a prank, something Giovanni might have thought up.
Do not be afraid, Patricio. It was Benedetta’s voice. There was no mistaking it.
Patrick looked around but he was alone in the piazza. Except for a few cats and a man washing down a patio.
“Uncle?” He whispered loud enough. “Is that you?”
Were you expecting Giordano?
Don’t tease your nephew. That’s not nice.
But Patrick had heard enough and scuttled away. Not so fast as to draw any attention to himself, but fast enough. He bustled along narrow streets and lanes until he got to Giovanni’s. He was sweeping and setting out his tables and chairs.
*
“Patricio. What has you out so early?”
When he returned with a coffee he sat down and searched Patrick’s face for a moment. “Would you like to tell me what the matter is?”
“There is nothing the matter.” Patrick raised his cup and gulped his coffee down in case he was sleepwalking.
“I see.”
He waited until Patrick was a little more settled and tried again. “Patricio?”
Patrick checked to see that no one else was listening before he asked: “Tell me about the talking statues.”
*
“I can’t fall asleep.”
Grainne stood in the doorway. Her hair was tussled and she dragged her raggedy doll along behind her. They had been to see Jurassic Park and she was far too young but their father was sure it’d be fine. Martin was a little scared, too, only he didn’t let it show. He knew it was just a movie and stuff like that was supposed to make you jump and laugh about it later. He pulled his blankets back. “You can lie down here if you like.”
Grainne didn’t hesitate and bounded in beside him. “Whatcha reading?”
“My hockey magazine.”
“Does it have pictures?”
“Yeah. See.” He flicked through a few pages but she didn’t seem interested.
“Does it have pictures of anything else?”
“No, silly. It’s for people who only like hockey.”
“Do you only like hockey?”
“I love hockey. When I grow up I’m going to be the best.”
“Better than Gretzky?”
“No one can be better than Gretzky.” He put his arm around her and let her rest her head against him. He knew what was bothering her. Their mother was away and things were different when it was just their father looking after them. He let them eat in front of the television but he never cooked. Their mother had left stuff in the freezer but their father never bothered with that. Instead they ate pizzas and burgers and fries. It was all right but it didn’t really feel good.
“I miss Mommy.”
He squeezed her a little tighter. “She’ll be home tomorrow evening.”
“But what if there are dinosaurs were she is?”
“She’s in Montreal, silly. There are no dinosaurs there.”
“How do you know?”
“‘Cause they have a hockey team there and dinosaurs are afraid of hockey players.”
“But what if they are hiding and jump up at her plane?”
She was getting sleepy but he knew she would persist. He didn’t mind; she just wanted to feel safe.
“Dinosaurs can’t jump that high. Besides, Mommy is not afraid of anything.”
“She gets afraid of Daddy when he’s drinking.”
“That’s because Daddy is Irish. Back in the Stone Age, the Irish killed all their dinosaurs. Granddad Jerry told me all about it.”
“Did he kill any?”
“I don’t think so—he’s too nice. Besides, he would have just been a little kid back then.”
She was nodding off and just smiled back. “Mammy says we are going to go to Ireland to visit him and Granddad Fallon. He’s not as mu
ch fun.”
“He’s all right. He’s just different. Granddad Jerry told me that they are friends.”
“Granny Fallon is nice. She doesn’t smell like cigarettes.”
She was almost there so Martin put away his magazine and turned down the light. He brushed her hair away from her face and began to whisper:
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Just like his mother used to do with him when he couldn’t sleep.
18
1994
“So he’s back on the drink?”
“He is, ya.”
“And there was nothing you could have done?”
“C’mon, Martin. You know what he can be like. Besides, how was I to know that Deirdre was going to take him back?”
“Yeah, that was unforeseen.”
Martin could tell that Anto had tried, in his own limited way. He didn’t understand what was going on yet. He wasn’t open to it. “But you have to start allowing for stuff like that. You used to be good at figuring out the angles.”
“Ya, and look what it got me.”
“Get over it, will you. You’re getting a chance, now, to put everything right.”
“But why does it have to be with Danny. Isn’t there another way?”
“You and Danny are bound to each other; that’s how it works. You got killed while you were trying to kill him. You guys owe each other.”
“Ya but, he still gets to live.”
“Yeah, Danny Boyle has a great life.”
“He would if he wasn’t a total fuck-up.”
“Anto, listen to me. You have been given a chance to clear your slate, you know? To address your karma imbalance.”
“Karma imbalance?”
“Penance, if you prefer.”
“It still sucks. Why can’t I just be dead and get on with it?”
“Because of your mother.”
Anto didn’t say anything for a while.
“What’s she got to do with it?”
“She’s the one who keeps praying for you. And as long as one person prays for you, you get another chance.”
“They get you coming and going.”
“Don’t be cynical.”
“I’m not.” Anto was trying to seem defiant but Martin could tell—the mention of his mother had unsettled him.
“Martin, can I ask you something? Why are you still here?”
“Because I volunteered.”
“Why?”
“Do you remember Danny’s grandmother?”
“Ya. She used to tell me that she would have me off in the Borstal all the time.”
“Yeah, that’s her. Anyway, I’m doing this for her. She asked me, a long time ago.” He paused to reflect. Promises were promises and had to be kept no matter what. “So what’s Danny up to these days?”
“The same, drinking and lying, but they are all going back to Dublin soon—his father is almost done.”
“Are you going with him?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“You always have choices, only sometimes they are for the worse.”
*
Danny had taken the kids and his mother to the zoo. They were going to stop at the Garden of Remembrance, too, so that Jerry could have the house to himself and could have his nap. He’d been overdoing it again and his color was bad. Jacinta insisted: “You’ve done enough river-dancing around. Stay home and rest up for yourself. We’ll all be back in few hours.”
Even little Martin agreed: “Don’t worry, Granddad Jerry. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home, after your nap.”
It almost made Jerry’s heart burst with joy and sorrow.
Deirdre had gone out to have lunch with her sister. She and Johnny were back for a few weeks, too. Deirdre had brought them over one evening. Jerry really liked them, especially their kids, and managed to sneak them some sweeties when their parents weren’t looking.
He had the house to himself and settled into his armchair and listened to the Wilburys. He didn’t care too much for Dylan or Petty; they reminded him of the shite Danny used to play, but the rest of them were all right.
Danny had gotten a lot better though. He played Christy Moore stuff, now, and the Pogues. It was a pity that he ever got mixed up in all the shit. He could have been good. But he’d done all right for himself and Jerry was proud of him. He’d never say it though. They weren’t really the type of father and son that did stuff like that. But at least they were a lot better than him and his father. Not that he had any issues about that anymore. The heart attack had shaken all of that out of him.
It had taken over too. Everywhere he went, it came with him, and no one he met could see past it. “Are you minding the old ticker?” they’d ask, and they wouldn’t let him smoke any more. Dermot let him have a drag on his, once in a while, but he never let him have a full one. And when he went to the pub, he could only have just one pint a night. He told Jacinta that he was losing the joy for living but she told him that he was just thinking of himself.
He tried to agree with her and looked forward to seeing his grandchildren again. He had been counting down the days. Only now that they were here, he realized he wasn’t able for it anymore.
*
He woke as Deirdre came in.
“Were you sleeping? I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, girl, I had to wake up anyway to take my pills.”
“Would you like me to get them?”
“No at all.” He tried to get up but he struggled.
“Sit down right now or I’ll tell Jacinta and Martin. I’ll get them for you. And I’ll make us a nice cup of tea too.”
He sat back and, without thinking, reached toward the little table where he used to leave his cigarettes. He hadn’t had one in weeks.
“Ah, that’s grand,” he said as he sipped when Deirdre brought the tea. He sipped again and swallowed his pill. “I’m sorry that you have to be spending your holidays looking after me.”
“It’s just a cup of tea, Jerry. It’s no big deal.”
“It is for me. I can’t do anything for myself without looking like your . . .”
“My father?” Deirdre laughed. Her father was putting on weight and looking a bit purple from time to time.
“Well, I wouldn’t like to be saying.”
“Oh, it’s okay. It’s all my mother goes on about.”
“She’s a good woman for doing that. Jacinta is always on at me, too, about getting me out for walks and all. Us men would be lost without our wives.”
Deirdre looked at her cup, like she was deciding something. “Jerry? Why don’t men ever listen?”
He knew what she was asking. “We’re always listening, girl. Only we don’t always understand for a while. We have to try all the other ways before we start doing things the right way.”
“Pride?”
“Ah no, not entirely. I think a lot of it comes down to just being plain stupid. It takes us forever to grow up and admit it.”
Her eyes were a bit moist so he decided he’d said enough. He knew she was looking for a bit of direction. Deirdre was a good girl and she would do the right thing. And if he only knew what that was, he’d tell her and try to save her some heartache. In a way, he was glad of the heart attack. It gave them all something else to be talking about. He and Jacinta were being so careful not to say the wrong thing.
Jerry had wanted them to leave the kids and to go off and have a few nights on their own, but they all thought it was a bad idea. They thought the kids would be too much for him and Jacinta, even after Martin and Grainne promised to be good. He and Jacinta didn’t take sides and let them sort it out for themselves.
“Will he ever grow up?”
Jerry reached ou
t and put his hand on hers. “Sure of course he will, but, if he’s anything like me, he’ll need a bit of help yet for a while.”
*
“And when I was young, I used to come here with your daddy’s granny.”
Grainne’s eyes grew wider and wider as she took in all the hustle and bustle that was Bewley’s. “Was she nice?”
“Yes,” Jacinta decided very quickly. “She was the nicest, kindest person. And she loved your daddy. She used to say that he was an angel.” She stole a quick glance at Deirdre but she had her head down, smiling as she watched her own daughter’s face.
“Daddy said she used to lie to him.”
“When did he say that, sweetie?” Deirdre glanced up but Jacinta didn’t flinch.
“When he’d been drinking.”
“Grainne!”
“No, that’s all right,” Jacinta assured the two of them. “Grainne, darling. It was different back then. Back then people used to say things to children to try to keep them away from harm. They didn’t mean them as lies.”
“Did you ever lie to my daddy?”
“Grainne!”
“No, Deirdre, let her have her say. We’re all family and we’ve been through worse.”
She turned back to her granddaughter and smiled as the waitress returned with their tea and coffee and the big dish of ice cream, with a chocolate swirl in it.
“Grainne, pet. Sometimes you say things to people to try to help them. They’re not really lies. They’re just little white lies. There’s no real harm in them.”
Grainne looked toward her mother, who just smiled like she agreed, and turned back to licking her spoon. But Jacinta knew she was still listening. Grainne was like that; she was always taking everything in. It didn’t bother Jacinta, but she could see it bothered Deirdre. She was always so tense around her daughter. Jacinta understood; it was a lot easier just having a boy and Deirdre was always very good with Martin, and Grainne could get a bit like Danny sometimes.
