Obit (6 page)

“Good evening, Badness!” he greeted her, and opened his arms. They embraced. He whispered something in her ear; she whispered back, and they shared a laugh. They chatted for a few moments, then she came my way.

I drew her over to a series of shallow storage cabinets along the east wall of the gym. They were about six feet high, made of plywood, and had padlocked doors; I supposed the basketballs and other pieces of equipment were kept in there. Standing beside the farthest closet in the row, we were partially sheltered from the eyes of the other guests. I leaned back against the cabinet, feeling the effects
of the alcohol that was thinning my blood and impairing my judgment. My wife wanted something.

“Well? What was all that about? The business with the watch.”

“Just a joke,” I hedged, but the professor of law wasn’t taken in by that, any more than a four-year-old would have been.

“We’re all in this together, this little New York excursion you and Brennan cooked up. Part of the reason for the visit, aside from the nonsense you told me about Declan and that obituary, was Brennan’s insistence on seeing Sandra again. I guess they’ve patched things up. He does seem a little different tonight. Why are you being so buttoned up about it?”

“How badly do you want to know?” I asked her. Fuelled partly by the alcohol and partly by the way her blue silk top set off her grey eyes and dusky hair, I put my arms around her and murmured: “You feel so good in this. Is it new?”

“All my clothes are new to the touch as far as you’re concerned.”

This wasn’t going to be easy. But, stupidly, I persisted. I moved my hands down her back and pulled her against me. She must have recalled something she still fancied about old Monty because she relaxed against me and put her mouth close to mine. “Tell me what went on,” she urged.

“Why don’t we talk about it later?”

“Feels to me as if you’re not going to last till later, Collins.”

“I don’t have much choice, do I? Considering we’re in a room with three hundred people. Unless you want a quick and furtive encounter in one of these closets here.”

“Right.” She pulled back. “So tell me. Who made the first move? Did Sandra call Brennan?”

“I don’t think he heard from Sandra.”

“What? That was Tuesday; this is Friday. You’re telling me he found someone else between then and now?” Her eyes were wide. The effects of our embrace were wearing off fast.

“Well, it was at this blues bar we went to —”

“A bar.”

“Yeah, and this woman was a singer there. Amazing voice, very sultry, and —”

“She seduced Brennan with her voice, did she?”

“No, if anyone was the seducer, it was him.”

“How do you know that? What did you do, watch?”

“No, no, by the time he was at the hotel —”

“The hotel? He was having it off with this woman at the hotel with you sitting there?”

“No! I wasn’t there.”

“Where were you?”

I looked around at the other wedding guests, hoping they couldn’t hear us and wishing to hell I had stayed sober and intelligent for the evening. “Can we discuss this later?”

“There is no later.” Fortunately, she was keeping her voice low. Low, but deadly. “You were with someone yourself. Less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“No, it wasn’t like that. I —”

“And you have the nerve to come on to me as if you sincerely wanted to reconcile! You flaming arsehole. You’ll be singing the blues all right. You’ll be holding a tin cup and singing ‘Buddy, can you spare a dime’ on Spring Garden Road before you get your hands, or any other part of your anatomy, on me again. You and
Father
Burke, trolling for women in a bar!”

“Mum!” Saved by our daughter.
“Yes, sweetie?”

“Can you come here? I need you. I don’t know where to pee!”

“Right there, angel!” Maura assured her. “As for you, Collins, why don’t you screw yourself all up tight, and burrow down through this floor till you get to hell!”

Why not indeed? I stood there for a few minutes trying to recover from my latest marital disaster, then straightened my clothes, yanked my tie into alignment and rejoined the party.

I stood with Brennan, Patrick and Teresa Burke; they pointed out various relatives and told me who they were. A mandolin started up and I looked to the stage, where I saw a tiny ancient man adjust the microphone and glare fiercely out over the assembled crowd before he began to sing:

O Father dear, the day might come in answer to your call
And each Irish man with feelings strong will answer to the call.
And I’ll be the man to lead the band beneath the flag of green.
And loud and high we’ll raise the cry:
Revenge
for Skibbereen!

Teresa caught her husband’s eye and spoke quietly. “Didn’t I say there’d be none of that?”

“I didn’t arrange the music and I don’t even know the man!” Declan groused.

“Nor do I.”

Mr. Burke started towards the stage, but was waylaid by a large man with a flushed face. I saw the singer walk out the door. Other musicians tuned their instruments and made ready to play.

“What was it?” I asked Teresa. “A rebel song?”

“It’s about a family evicted from their home during the famine. It all runs together, though, doesn’t it?”

A few minutes later, we saw Declan speaking to the security men on the door. Patrick went over to join them, but came right back.

“What did he say?” Brennan asked.

“He said: ‘I don’t like the face on you there, Padraig! Save your concern for your patients. They need it.’ But the security men told me the troubadour left and they didn’t notice his car. They did, however, check the building again. They found a window loose and they wedged something in it, so nobody can get in that way. The oul fella’s obviously been more forthcoming with them than with us.”

“Are you telling me this man came in and sang that one song, and nobody knows who he was?”

Patrick shrugged.

“So you’re the lawyer!” A woman had materialized before me. She looked so much like the bride, she could have been her older sister. Same petite figure and colouring, though with darker hair, and the same mischievous look about the eyes.

“This is my sister Brigid,” Brennan said. “Bridey, meet Monty.”

“This is what I think of you, for getting him out of trouble.” She reached up and put her arms around my neck, brought my face down to hers and gave me a long, leisurely, unsisterly kiss on the mouth. Someone who loved me more than my wife did. There was hope. When she finally drew back, I stared at her. The brothers laughed. “That’s all you’re getting. Don’t let me lead you on.”

“Not often he blushes,” Brennan said. “Don’t even think of pursuing her, Collins. She comes with a husband and seven children.”

“I can see how you wound up with seven kids,” I said to her when I got my breath back.

“And I wouldn’t mind an eighth,” she told me, looking me over critically. “Breed some blond good looks into my crowd.”

“I’m at your service.”

“I’ll keep you in mind. But the person I really want to meet is that wife of yours. I’m told she has a tongue in her head that could slit the hull of a freighter.”

“She’s right there,” I said. Maura had returned to the gym; with some trepidation, I beckoned her over.

Maura joined us, and I noticed that Brennan greeted her less exuberantly than he usually did. “Evening, MacNeil.” He gave her a quick little hug and a peck on the cheek, then sat down on the corner of the table beside us, swinging his legs and sipping his whiskey. Maura gave him a searching look, which he determinedly avoided.

Brigid spoke up. “We were just talking about good-looking children. I can see you two must have bred a fine-looking houseful. I was rather hoping the wife would be plug ugly, someone I could compete with. Because I kind of have my eye on Monty.”

“Well,” Maura joined in with unexpected good humour, “I am kind of bulky and not necessarily in the places I’m told I should be. You could use that against me. I hear you have seven kids and you’re just a little slip of a thing.” I knew Maura was perfectly content with her figure as it was. I guessed this was a little ritual of sisterly bonding.

“You’re not bulky. You’re what we call
zaftig
down here. What would we do without Yiddish?”

“She’s lush,” Brennan put in.

“You’re
a lush,” Brigid said to her brother. “Ease up on the whiskey there, Brennan. You’re not allowed to notice what women look like below the neck.”

“Hath not a priest eyes?” He wasn’t lost for an answer but the body speaks a language of its own. He had been sitting with his legs splayed out over the corner of the table; now the legs were tightly crossed. I smiled. I saw that Patrick hadn’t missed it either. He smiled back at me.

Meanwhile Brigid was speaking to my wife. “So, lush and pretty. Monty hit pay dirt when he met you. You both did.”

“You obviously don’t know about us then, Brigid. We don’t live together any more. So I’d hang in there if I were you. Nobody ever goes away empty-handed after flirting with Montague. Just use him like you would a pull toy.”

“Whoa!” Patrick exclaimed. “She’s a handful!”

“I’m sorry!” Brigid said, genuinely contrite. “I didn’t know.
He
never told me you were separated,” she accused, turning to Brennan.

“What do I look like, a gossip columnist?” Brennan retorted.

“Never mind, Brigid,” Maura consoled her. “It’s all right. Let’s go introduce your kids to mine.” They went off together.

We drank and chatted for a while, then Brennan said: “Let’s get some females out there on the floor, gentlemen.” The three of us put our glasses on a table and went to find partners. Brennan cut in on Brigid, who was being pushed around the floor by an old fellow who had clearly made one too many trips to the bar. I asked Brennan’s mum to dance and she obliged. Teresa must have been seventy but she was as lively as anyone on the dance floor. Brigid called out to her: “I think Da is on the lookout for your Young Man. I half expected him to turn up pretending to be a guest of the groom. Or to creep in behind a big bouquet of roses.”

“Oh, Bridey. Give us all a rest, won’t you?”

“Bet you didn’t know that, Monty. Our mother has a secret admirer. Has had for years. Used to hang around the neighbourhood, watching her. Mack, we called him. The story is he worshipped Mam from afar but I think she’s been having —”

“Monty isn’t interested. Brennan, manoeuvre her out of my way, will you?” Teresa shook her head, then spoke to me. “What a case she is. She’s always been like that. Brennan is crazy about her.”

The Irish music wound down, and someone announced a break before the Italian entertainment started up. Everyone broke into little conversational groups. Brennan was three or four tables away with his father, and they were completely engrossed in whatever they were discussing. A few feet behind Brennan was Maura, digging for something in her handbag. That could take a while. All the children were at the other end of the room, sitting in a semicircle. They were intent
on something; then I noticed Tommy Douglas was sitting with them, playing softly on his harmonica. I leaned on the edge of a table, contemplating another trip to the bar. I saw Declan nod at Brennan and move away to the unoccupied end of the room. Brennan watched him, shaking his head.

It happened without warning. A sound like “pop, pop, pop” against the wall facing me. I saw Declan drop to his knees at the same time I heard Brennan shout for him to get down. In the same instant, another couple of pops. Brennan whirled, put an arm around Maura’s neck, and pulled her down, hard, onto the floor. He covered her body with his, lifted his head and ordered everyone in the room to get down. People were standing around confused; some seemed not to have heard the shots. “Get them down on the fucking floor,” he yelled to his brother Terry. To my wife, he said: “Maura, stay down. It’s at this end. The kids are fine.” He got up and ran to his father, who was lying on his back. I was on my hands and knees by this time, crawling towards Maura, all the while desperately trying to spot my children. Yet I knew with a certainty that all the children were out of harm’s way. The target was Declan, and he had stayed as far away from everyone as he could in the cavernous gymnasium. The shots had come from the side of the gym; I turned my head and saw that one of the plywood closet doors was splintered. The shots must have come from there. I turned again to Maura, who was just getting up. She appeared to be in pain. I helped her to her feet, and she said in a hollow voice: “I’ll get the kids. You go help.” She headed towards the children. I saw that the men in Niccolo’s family had formed a phalanx around them.

I rushed to Declan. Brennan was kneeling beside him, trying to get his jacket off. “Da, where were you hit? Talk to me.” He looked into the crowd. “Get an ambulance here. Now! Somebody make the call. Where’s Patrick?” Declan’s eyes were closing and he appeared to be trying to speak. “Where the hell is Pat?” Brennan demanded. I helped him remove his father’s jacket, and we saw blood seeping from a wound in his chest.

Teresa arrived at his side. She fell to her knees and stroked his face. “Declan, stay awake for us. Stay with us darling. Talk to us.”

Brennan and I removed his tie and shirt. Patrick appeared and
took over. “It missed his heart,” he said. “Looks as if one bullet entered his right side. Almost certainly went into his lung. And a second bullet grazed the skin on the left side, may have hit a rib and glanced off.” He continued to examine his father and concluded that there were no more injuries. He bundled up the ruined shirt and pressed it against the bleeding wound. He looked up, and Brennan raised a questioning eyebrow. Patrick responded with a shrug that seemed to say:
Your call.

“Someone get me some oil,” Brennan pleaded. “Olive oil, whatever is here.”

I heard a woman say: “Yes, Father.” She returned seconds later with a cruet of oil.

Brennan began praying over his father in a low and urgent voice, and he made the sign of the cross in oil on Declan’s forehead. He began whispering in his father’s ear: “O my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.” He continued with the Act of Contrition and seemed to be waiting for Declan to speak. But Declan gave no sign that he was aware of his surroundings.