Night Of The Blackbird (11 page)

“Very nice to meet you,” Siobhan replied, studying him with an open smile.

“Was that bacon and eggs you decided on?” Katy asked.

“I think he said he ate, Mum,” Moira said.

“They're only happy, and they'll only love you, if you eat, you know,” Danny warned Michael.

“Then bacon and eggs it is,” Michael said.

“Now, Dan O'Hara, that's not at all true,” Katy protested. “Though surely everything here will be better than at your hotel.”

“Oh, I'm positive of that,” Michael said. “But, Katy, all this food…And you're just going to clean up and start cooking again so we can film?”

“I'm cooking again because we're planning on having dinner,” Katy said. “And I've lots of help.”

“Except for me,” Patrick said. “Appointment,” he explained. “And I want to go by and check on the boat.” Besides his wife and children, his one real love in life was his boat. He kept it berthed at the docks in Boston because he loved going out on the open sea, except that it was something he seldom did in winter when the seas were too rough. It was a nice toy, forty-five feet, sleek as a devil, with sleeping facilities for eight people.

Patrick glanced at his watch. “If fact, I've got to get moving. Moira, I'll try to be back in plenty of time to do my part, sitting on the couch, scratching, drinking beer—and doing the dishes, as well. Sweetheart…” He paused by Siobhan's chair to give her cheek a kiss.

She didn't offer him anything more.

“Okay, Munchkins,” he said to the kids, delivering only slightly distracted kisses to the three of them. “Behave now, okay?”

“The kids are always fine,” Eamon said. Moira was curious at his tone. She wondered if her father wasn't a little bit disturbed by her brother's exit.

“Bye, then,” Patrick said, taking his coat from the hall tree. Maybe he felt all eyes on him. He turned at the door. “Honest, I'll drink a lot of beer and do a lot of scratching,” he said. Moira offered her brother a slightly pained smile. His eyes fell on his wife.

But Siobhan wasn't watching him. Her eyes were purposely lowered as she buttered toast for Molly.

Patrick departed, and Danny cleared his throat. “Well, now, can't let Patrick be the only bad child. I'm off for some cigarettes. Nasty habit, I know. I'll keep it outside. Katy, do you need anything while I'm out? Something traditionally Irish you might be missing for your meal?”

“Now, Danny, you know that between the pub and the house, we don't often run out of what we need,” Katy said.

“Actually, I think we're a bit low on butter,” Colleen murmured. “The real thing, no margarine.”

“Colleen, we can't be making a guest go to the store,” Katy said.

“Sure we can,” Colleen said quickly. “He's not a guest, he's a big brother, remember?”

“Katy, how much butter?” Danny asked, starting for the stairs that led out through the pub.

“Better make it two pounds. We've a full house,” Katy said.

“Right,” Danny said. “I'll be back soon. I don't want to miss the fun.”

“You told my father you'd open up the pub,” Moira reminded him.

“And so I did. I guess I, like Patrick, will have to do my share of scratching and guzzling a bit later.”

With that he left, but something about his departure seemed odd to Moira.

Only Michael was still eating. Siobhan rose, picking up plates from the table. “I'll wash,” she said.

“Fine, I'll dry,” Colleen added.

“Then I'll get the rest,” Moira said, quickly busying herself with plates and condiments.

“Now, let Michael finish his meal before you go stealing his plate,” Eamon told her.

“Right, Dad.” As she took her grandmother's plate, she saw that Granny Jon was looking curiously at the floor. But she looked at Moira quickly, as if her attention had never been anywhere else. “The kids drop something?” Moira asked, ducking.

But the kids hadn't dropped anything.

Granny Jon had been staring at the brand-new pack of cigarettes that lay on the floor beneath the chair where Danny had been sitting.

 

Patrick hurried down the street, tightening his wool scarf around his neck and hiking up his collar. Having spent the majority of his life in Massachusetts, he was accustomed to weather that could be brutal far into the spring. Stopping at a traffic light, he stomped his feet and spoke aloud to himself. “No wonder the fucking Pilgrims all died,” he muttered. He looked up. At least, for the moment, there was no snow. Just a blue sky with puffs of white clouds, fast-moving.

The light changed. He suddenly looked back, struck by an eerie feeling of being followed.

No one on the streets except a kid on a scooter.
Wait till the ice forms toward night, kid, you'll be sorry,
he thought. It was a Saturday morning, still fairly early. Bostonians took some time to get going on Saturdays. Still, it seemed as odd to him that the street was empty as if it had been full.

Why had he thought someone was following him? Nerves? Guilty conscience? Maybe it was just the weather.

He moved quickly, then glanced back again. No one there.

Still, that feeling. Unnerving. As if he heard silent footfalls echoing in his mind.

Someone's breath, whispering at the back of his neck.

Right. And maybe he was being followed by leprechauns, little people in green, trailing along behind him.

And maybe he'd just been home too long, listened to too many stories as his parents and grandmother entertained the kids.

Tales about fairies, mischievous leprechauns…

And then, of course, there were banshees, black shadow creatures tracking a man, wailing in the night, foretelling his death.

He looked back once again and hesitated, eyes scanning the street.

There were no fairies, no leprechauns or banshees. Both the good and the evil in the world came from men.

He started forward with determination. He had made up his mind, set his course.

He was going to do what he thought was right.

M
oira was delighted to see that her mother was a natural in front of the camera. After a few minutes of being a little bit nervous about the camera, the lights and the overhead mike, held on a pole above her head by a total stranger, she was just fine. Katy Kelly loved to cook. She warmed to her subject, instructing her daughters and talking about being a little girl in Dublin, how times had changed drastically in a way, and then again, not at all. Somehow, in the midst of cooking, instructing Colleen to keep an eye on the cabbage, Moira to watch the meat and Siobhan to make sure that the mixture of chopped cabbage and onions was properly sauteed for the colcannon, she also got going on the temperament of the Irish people. Too many people thought of Ireland as a divided island, she said, but what they forgot was that over the years everyone had become Irish. Northern Ireland might technically be part of Great Britain, but Eire was a great place whose spirit entered the souls of those who loved her. The Vikings had come and invaded and created terrible havoc, but then many had settled and stayed. The English had begun coming to conquer in the eleven hundreds, but from those ancient invaders had come some of the most well-known Irish surnames of today. Being Irish was more than being born on the island, more than heritage. It was a spirit of warmth, of storytelling, of a special magic, and it was in so many Americans today.

Moira, meeting Josh's eyes at one point, signaled her pleasure with her mother's natural dialogue, as well as her amazement. Josh gave her a thumbs-up and a big smile. It was going to be a good show. Her family was charming. It was all going to work.

Eamon Kelly was beaming with pride at his wife. Watching them both, Moira realized that she was lucky in many ways. So many of her friends had parents who were divorced, had never known what it was like to grow up in a household with both a mother and a father. And her parents weren't together just for the children or any other practical reason. After all these years of marriage, they still loved one another.

Michael and Josh were getting along wonderfully with her family, and the crew was great, too. She watched some of the tape as they reran it, and it was excellent. Katy was pleased, blushing at the congratulations bestowed on her by both her family and the crew. She was like an old pro when Josh asked that she repeat steps over and over again so the cameraman could focus with more detail on exactly how to prepare the meal.

The kids had been taped sitting at the table, but then, not long ago, they had disappeared. While Josh was busy talking about how to edit the segment, Moira wandered into the family room. Granny Jon, who was scheduled to have her moment in the sun discussing, naturally, the elements of a really good cup of tea, was busy with needlework as she waited. She told Moira that the kids were in the pub; they had grown restless, and Danny had returned to entertain them.

“I didn't see him come back,” Moira murmured.

“He was careful not to disturb the work, but he told your father he'd open the pub, and so he did, taking the kids down to help set up,” Granny Jon said.

“I'll walk down and see how things are going,” Moira said.

When she got downstairs, she realized how late it had gotten. The lunch crowd had come and gone. Danny was behind the bar, while Chrissie Dingle, Larry Donovan and a new young waitress, Marty, whom Moira had never met before, worked the floor. Joey Sullivan and Harry Darcy were cooking in the kitchen. Brian, Shannon and Molly were at a table in the corner. When Moira approached them, she discovered that Danny had brought them Irish coloring books. Molly's leprechauns were bright purple instead of green. Moira rather liked them.

“I don't really color like this often, you know,” Brian told his aunt gravely. “Uncle Dan asked me to keep an eye on the girls, so I'm watching them.”

“And a fine job you're doing,” Moira said, and winced. There she went, sounding like her mother or Granny Jon again.

“We had ice cream for lunch,” Shannon told her.

“Brrr,” Moira said. “Great coloring. You're being little angels. Patrick doesn't deserve you.”

Brian frowned at her seeming criticism of his beloved father.

Moira quickly hugged him. “Your daddy is my brother, you know. I love him with all my heart, but you know how you tease the girls sometimes? I like to tease Patrick that way.”

Brian smiled, happy again.

“I'll be back,” Moira promised.

She walked to the bar, ready to bite the bullet and thank Danny for helping her dad out while they'd been filming. But when she reached the bar, Chrissie was at the taps. Thirty and attractive, Chrissie was also efficient, with a no-nonsense manner.

“Where's Danny?”

“He just walked over to see to the kids,” Chrissie said.

When Moira turned around, she saw that not only had Danny gone to sit at the table with the kids, but Michael had come down, as well. They were both there, each with a pint of beer.

“We're going to include your dad in this thing, too, Moira,” Michael told her, rising. “He's going to tell us about the Irish beers he has on tap and the Irish whiskies he carries.”

“Great idea,” she said. “We'll stay entirely away from the political.”

“What are you so afraid of, Moira?” Danny inquired, watching her.

There was something about his voice. She should have walked away quickly.

“I'm not afraid of anything, Danny.”

“Then why are you so determined to be ‘politically correct'?”

“Because I do a friendly little travel show, that's why,” she said angrily.

“And we're making sure all the Irish look good,” Michael added lightly.

“All the Irish. Well, you know, that's just great,” Danny said, his tone equally light. “Let's just pretend that everything is always perfect. That the Irish haven't been trod upon since the time Henry the Second came to power and forced the Irish chieftains to submit to him. And that Henry the Eighth didn't come to power, want a divorce, create his own church, fight the Irish of the established church who couldn't see changing their religion because he wanted a new wife, beat them to a pulp and confiscate the lands of all those who opposed him. And let's just forget about William of Orange and the Battle of the Boyne and the subjugation of the people who had supported the rightful king.”

“Dan, those things happened hundreds of years ago,” Michael reminded him.

“And the Easter Rebellion, where the leaders of the hoped-for Irish Republic were shot dead, executed
after
they had surrendered.” Dan was speaking as if he hadn't even heard Michael's words.

Moira was about to speak when Michael answered Danny sharply. “And let's not forget those leaders who willfully and cold-bloodedly assassinated English public servants in Ireland. And let's not forget the bombs that went off and killed dozens of innocent people, including children.”

Moira realized that though Molly and Shannon were still coloring, ignoring the tones taken on by the adults at their sides, Brian was staring at them.

“Is there still a war in Ireland?” he asked.

“No,” Moira said.

“Yes,” Michael answered angrily, staring at Danny. “Some people insist on fighting one.”

Danny shrugged suddenly, a slow smile curving his lips. Moira realized that he had intentionally provoked Michael. Trying to break the tension, she said, “I think we should go shopping, maybe take the kids down to Quincy Market. Have pasta for lunch in Little Italy. Or find a Chinese restaurant.”

“The kids just ate,” Danny told her placidly.

“They're kids. They'll be hungry again,” Moira said sharply.

Danny shrugged.

Michael sighed, rising. “I've got to get back to Josh. We're going to bring your father down now, while there's a lull after the lunch crowd.” He curled his fingers around Moira's. “Later? We'll do something later?”

“Absolutely,” she told him.

He rose and walked by her, close, slipping an arm around her, kissing her cheek. “Sorry,” he whispered softly.

“Not your fault,” she told him, purposely letting Danny hear her. Michael frowned, then squeezed her hand and walked by.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Moira asked Danny angrily as she dragged him away to where the children couldn't overhear.

His eyes narrowed on her speculatively and seemed to gleam with a golden, predatory light. He shrugged. “Just trying to suss out the lay of the land.”

“Why? Leave him alone.”

“He's Irish, isn't he? That's what your mother told me.”

Moira waved a hand impatiently. “Emigration has been going on for hundreds of years. Some people get to the States and become Americans. He's Irish—he's just not
Irish,
the way some people insist on being.”

“Moira, I'm sorry, but I
am
Irish.”

“Fine. But this is America.”

“So it is.”

“Auntie Mo,” Brian called suddenly, “are you going to marry Michael?”

“No,” Danny assured him.

“Yes, I think I just might,” Moira said.

“Your auntie Mo is willing to go to great lengths to aggravate me,” Danny said.

“To aggravate you?” Moira said incredulously. “Gee, he's smart, good-looking, charming and willing to tolerate a lot of abuse for my sake. What on earth could be wrong with my marrying such a man?”

To her surprise, Danny replied softly, “I don't know. That's the problem. I just don't know.” She realized that he wasn't looking at her. The television set over the bar was on. He rose, and said, distracted, “Excuse me.” Standing before the television, he slid his hand into his pocket and watched the set. Curiously, Moira walked over and joined him.

“Turn it up, please, will you, Chrissie?” he asked the woman behind the bar, who obliged him with a quick smile.

There was a tall, broad-shouldered, white-haired man standing on the steps of New York's Plaza Hotel, answering questions put to him by news crews on his way into the hotel.

“Mr. Brolin, how does it feel to be in America?” a tall, dark-haired reporter asked.

“Great,” the man replied. “It always feels wonderful to be in America.” He had a deep, rich speaking voice and a light brogue, enough of an accent to mark him as Irish. He was clearly comfortable with the mikes thrust in front of his face.

“Have you come here for diplomatic reasons, sir?” a woman queried, getting her question in next.

“Well, now, as part of the U.K., Northern Ireland has a fine relationship with America. As part of the Irish people, we in Northern Ireland want you Americans to come see us when you're visiting the Republic in the south. Some of the greatest places of legend, for Northerner and Republican alike, are in the north. Armagh, Tara, landscapes so beautiful they take your breath away. They belong to all of us, and to the Irish in America, as well.”

“Mr. Brolin, do you have a campaign to see the island of Ireland reunited again?”

“My first campaign is to see people united again,” Brolin said.

“Can such a thing ever happen?”

“We're into the twenty-first century now. I believe we see more clearly, that we can get to the root of our problems. Not to say that decades of bitterness can be wiped away overnight. But in the past ten years, we've made some giant leaps. We are working together in the North. Come now, you all know that we want your American tourist dollars. That's a goal that can get all the people working together right there.”

He started to turn away. For a split second, it was possible to see the exhaustion on the man's face.

“Mr. Brolin, Mr. Brolin, one more question, please,” a tiny woman, who had just maneuvered her mike near the politician, called. Brolin hesitated, and she went on. “We've thousands of good Irish Americans right here in New York. What made you choose Boston for your appearance on Saint Patrick's Day?”

Brolin smiled slowly, eyes alight. “New York is as fine a city as a man can find, with many a good Irish American, indeed. I didn't choose Boston, though it, too, is a fine American city. They invited me. Invite me to New York next year. I'll be delighted to come.”

With that, he waved a hand in the air and started up the steps of the hotel. Moira noted the police in attendance, protecting him.

“He's charming,” she murmured. “So even and moderate. I wonder why on earth he has such a large police escort?”

Danny looked at her strangely. “Because some people don't want to be moderate,” he told her. “Ah, look, here comes your father. I guess you're back on. Time to give Eamon a chance to promote the brews of Eire—and Boston, of course.” He turned away, walking to the street door at the front of the pub. He lifted his coat from a hook and left without so much as a glance back.

She could hear her father, Michael, Josh and some of the others coming down to the pub but, curious, she followed Danny, sliding past one of the tables by the window and looking out. He'd been in such a hurry to leave, but he hadn't gone anywhere. He was just standing in front of the pub, lighting a cigarette. He turned, almost as if he knew she was there, and she shrank from the window. Danny looked at the Kelly's Pub sign for several long moments. Then he crushed out his cigarette and started down the street.