Wandering in Exile (12 page)

Since Martin got sick he seemed to have changed his attitudes on the things that people used to get them through life. He didn’t endorse any of it; he just wasn’t dismissive anymore.

“Deirdre thinks we should get him christened, but we don’t want him to be Catholic.”

“There’s a United minister that comes to see me. You could ask him.”

“Have you gone Prod?”

Martin didn’t even flinch. Not even a quiver. “Danny, from where I lay, none of that matters anymore.”

“Yeah, but.”

“Danny. The minister and I talk about life and death. We don’t discuss who’s right and wrong. None of that really matters. He listens to me and I listen to him and together, we help me find the peace that I need.”

Danny lowered his head. He couldn’t argue with that.

Since Martin had been hospitalized, he had become calmer, almost like he understood the bigger picture. Deirdre said that it was part of the process. That after feeling angry and afraid, people like Martin searched for peace.

She had been careful not to call him an AIDS patient. That still had so much stigma attached.

“There is just one thing,” Martin continued like he was really talking to himself, “that I want to know before I leave.” David kept his thoughts to himself and sat quietly, holding his dying lover’s hand. Danny wanted to as well, but he was afraid until Martin solved the problem by taking Danny’s hand in his. “I want to know that you will be all right, Danny. I want to know that you will go on from here and be a proper father to your son. I know things weren’t great for you growing up but everything is different now.”

Danny shrugged and tried to deflect him.

“Danny, I need to know that you will never allow all the shit we grew up with to ever affect your son.”

“Don’t worry,” Danny choked back his tears. “Deirdre would kill me if anything like that ever happened.”

“Danny. I need you to promise me that little Martin will never have to go through what you did.”

“C’mon, Martin. Don’t be getting so heavy.”

“Promise me.”

“Okay, okay. I, Danny-the-fuck-up-Boyle, promise that I will never let any crap happen to my son. Are you happy now?”

“And Danny, when I’m gone, I don’t want you acting the bollocks.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t want you drinking and brooding anymore.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m leaving but little Martin has just arrived. I want you to love him and to be the good in his life.”

“Like you were in mine?” Danny smiled but his tears began to fall.

Martin lay back and closed his eyes but, even though his face was sunken and his bones were sticking through his skin, he seemed happier than he had been for a while. When he seemed to have fallen asleep, Danny rose to go. He put his hand on David’s shoulder but couldn’t think of anything to say.

David didn’t speak either, but he did put his hand on Danny’s for a moment.

“Danny,” Martin called out as he got to the door, “I’ll always be there for you—if you need me.”

Danny nodded and turned to go, crying all the way to the door and down the street and all the way home.

The bishop didn’t survive the spring and died, as he preferred, in his own bed while Mrs. Power and Mrs. Mawhinney kept vigil, saying rosaries by candlelight. His pneumonia spread to both lungs and his last few days were spent in fitful, feverish, semi-sleep. So late one night, Pat McConnell passed from the world he had helped shepherd and his passing was marked in every parish with calls to pray for the soul of the faithful departed and a good servant of the Lord.

Patrick Reilly had come back from Rome just before the end. Mrs. Mawhinney had kept him informed with daily phone calls. “Come now,” she had told him and Patrick was there within a day.

His uncle clung to his last few breaths so he could share them with his nephew. “I have had Mrs. Mawhinney put together a box of my papers,” he had gasped, each word costing him. “I want you to have them and, when the time is right, read them.”

“Hush now, Uncle, and don’t be talking like that. You’ll be back on your feet . . .”

“Patrick! I’m near done. Don’t waste time pretending otherwise.”

His voice was failing and Patrick had to lean over him to hear.

“I will die a contented servant of God and His Church. I want you to know that. I’m at peace with all that I did there. It’s with you that I have business now.”

“You have always been a good bishop and uncle. There is no need for making peace between us. We have always had it.”

“Ah, Patrick. You were always a most loving and trusting sort and I have not been completely honest with you.”

The effort to speak was causing him to gasp and Patrick Reilly looked at the two women to see what he should do. But they sat with stone faces, like the angels in the churches, watching life come and go.

“Now, Uncle. Don’t be upsetting yourself on my account.”

“I am not upset, Patrick. In the box you will find all that you need to understand why I did the things I did. I did what I thought was right and I will meet my maker with that and let Him be the judge.”

He fell silent for a while and the priest and the two women sat and waited.

“I’ve been a most fortunate man,” the bishop spoke again, a frail rasping sound. “And I leave life in the company of those I love dearly. I have provided for you all as I think best and ask just one thing of you all.” The priest and the two women leaned forward. “Remember,” the bishop gasped and struggled for the last time, “remember me kindly.”

He left instructions for his funeral too. Patrick was to say the mass and lead his uncle to his last resting place in the world. It was an honor that Patrick felt unworthy of but he did his best. Mrs. Power and Mrs. Mawhinney told him he did his uncle proud.

Mrs. Mawhinney even drove him to the airport when it was time for him to return and handed over the old wooden box containing the bishop’s papers. “He made sure I had this ready for you, but insisted that you’re not to open it until you are good and ready.”

“Do you know what he meant by that?”

“I don’t,” Mrs. Mawhinney laughed, “but then again I was only privy to what His Grace wished to share with me.”

Patrick looked at her and, for the first time, could see how much she truly loved the old man.

“What will you do with yourself now?”

“Well, your uncle left money to Mrs. Power and me. Enough to keep us for the rest of our days.”

“It’s no more than you deserve.”

She seemed touched by that and smiled at the young priest. “And will you be okay, Father?”

“Sing us a song about Ballyporeen,” someone called up to get Frank going. Ronald Reagan had recently gone there to look for his roots and Irish votes.

“Fuck Ballyporeen,” Frank dismissed it with a smile, “and all belonging to it. We’re going to dedicate this song to Luke Kelly who died earlier this year.”

“Who the fuck was Luke Kelly?”

“He was the greatest singer ever to come out of Ireland, ya gobshite. Now shut up while we try to do a really great man some credit.”

Jimmy set the beat and Danny strummed along, gently leading in until Frank sang clear and true:

And even as the crowd clapped, Deirdre picked up the phone. It was David to tell her that Martin’s suffering was finally over. He didn’t think that she should call the bar. She should let Danny finish the gig. It’s what Martin would have wanted.

As she told him, Danny could feel his heart break and all that he had strived to become, fracture. He sat and put his head in his hands, trying to hold on to all that was good in life, but with Martin gone, there was a huge hole inside of him. He tried to be happy that his uncle’s suffering was over but he could never forgive the way fate had taken him.

Deirdre took the baby and left him alone—there was nothing else she could do.

By the morning he was done crying, and got himself ready to phone his parents. He wished someone else could have done it but there was no one else. Deirdre sat watching him, clutching little Martin tight.

Jerry answered and Danny was glad for that. His father took the news without too many questions but it was different with his mother. “What kind of hospitals do they have over there? Why didn’t you bring him back here where we could have looked after him properly?”

Nothing Danny could say satisfied her and he couldn’t tell her the whole truth—at least not over the phone.

“And why wouldn’t he want to be buried in Ireland?”

“I don’t know, Ma. I’m only telling you what he wanted. He made a will.”

“But he can’t have been sound in the head when he wrote that. Why else would he be thinking this?”

“He seemed fine when he wrote it.”

He had been quite clear about it. He wanted to be cremated and wanted David to take his ashes to the spot they called theirs, a small cabana by a sheltered cove where they often holidayed without David’s parents knowing. But Danny kept all of that inside him.

“And I suppose that this means that you’re not coming over again this year?”

“Ah, Ma. You know the baby is too young to be going on an airplane but don’t worry, we’ll all come over next year.”

“But you need to be here with me now, to help me through my grief.”

There was nothing he could say that would soothe her and in time his father took the phone. He agreed with Danny; they would all see the baby next year when it would be better for everybody.

That Christmas Eve, little Martin’s first, Danny stood alone on the deck, smoking and looking down on the sad state of the world that he and Deirdre had brought a child into. When he was inside with Deirdre and the baby he had to keep up the act, but he was getting tired.

Since Martin died, he’d get home from a gig and come in as quietly as he could. Deirdre and the baby would be sound asleep. But as soon as he got into bed, just as he was dozing off, the baby would cry out. He tried to keep his promise, rising and fetching the bawling bundle and bringing him to his mother’s breast, but some nights he was so tired that Deirdre had to nudge him. And then, an hour before he had to wake, the baby would call again. Some nights, he even dreamed it and woke to find the apartment silent, except for Deirdre’s breathing. She seemed to be able to fall asleep at will. She said she had to; otherwise she would never get any rest.

He never told her that it was all becoming too much for him, but being outside was calm and quiet.

What the fuck were you thinking of—bringing a child into a world like this?

“Ah, not you. I thought you only came by when I was wasted?”

What? And leave you to make a totally fucking mess of things. Danny, this life is tearing itself apart. There’s fighting and rioting everywhere. And what about all those people that got poisoned over in Bhopal? And the fucking IRA tried to kill Thatcher. This life is no place for a child. What the fuck were you thinking?

“Why don’t you just fuck off and pass over or whatever it is you’re meant to do.”

If you want me to leave just say so. I’m only trying to help you.

“Well that’s very kind of you but I don’t need your kind of help so please fuck-off and leave me alone.”

Danny shook his head and rested his arms on the rail and lit another, softly singing ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’ as the snow fluttered down and made the lanes and back alleys magical.

The Windsor House hadn’t changed too much, except the crowd was younger and the beer was better; McVeigh had brought in Guinness a few years back and served a good pint too. Danny and the lads hadn’t played there since Frank and Jimmy had a falling out.

“I hate when Jimmy Carton is here,” Frank muttered into his pint. “How the fuck are you supposed to compete with that?”

Both bands split their sets between two floors, doing two sets in each and Danny and the lads were finishing upstairs.

“He’ll have done his ‘finale set’ and they’ll be fucking wired. How the fuck are we supposed to top that?”

Jimmy couldn’t contain himself. “You could try singing in tune?”

“And you could learn to keep a beat. You’re always off.”

“It’s called syncopation.”

“Well stop it. You keep throwing me off. It’s hard enough to remember the words with having to wonder when you’re going to come in.”

“It builds anticipation. It’s expressive?”

“What?”

Danny just sat back. It was the same thing every night and he was getting tired of it.

“I like to come in with some panache,” Jimmy continued regardless.

“Panache my arse. You sound more like a bull in a china shop.”

Danny hardly paid any attention; he had other things on his mind. Deirdre was always putting on makeup, every time she went out. She explained that after looking like a beached whale for so long she just wanted to look pretty again. Only she hesitated before saying pretty.

“It complements your cracked voice. You really have to learn to sing properly one of these days.” Jimmy almost made it sound like he was concerned.

Danny hadn’t rushed to reassure her and she noticed that. And she turned it around on him. “I’m sorry if I don’t look good all the time, but I do have a child and I’m studying.”

He should have said something, but he didn’t and that just made it worse.

“Fuck you; everybody says that I sound like Luke Kelly.”

“Now or when he was alive?”

They hadn’t done it since before the baby. In the last few weeks of her pregnancy, she used to get so horny and even get on top of him. But since then—nothing. He knew it was going to be like that so he didn’t make a big deal of it and now she was probably thinking that he didn’t fancy her anymore. Anto kept telling him that she was probably having it off with one of her study group.

“And what would you know about singing? You sound like Elvis getting a blow job.”

“I wouldn’t know what that sounds like, but I do know good singing. Just go down and listen to Carton and you’ll know what I mean.”

“Fuck you too.”

Danny hadn’t mentioned Anto to anybody. He didn’t have to—he knew what was going on. His granny was right; the devil was reaching up for him. It was like Anto was his own Mephistopheles, like in
Dr. Faustus
. He hadn’t actually read it. Deirdre did and explained it all to him. They were watching something on the television when she mentioned it. She was always doing that. She always wanted them to talk, only she wanted to talk about smart stuff and Danny didn’t know how, so he pretended like he couldn’t be bothered.

Anto said that was why she was probably doing it with somebody else.
She probably needs to be with someone who stops grunting when they are not in bed
.

Danny had bristled at that but he knew Deirdre wasn’t like that. Sure, they had things to work through just like every other couple. And he had a lot of changes to make but he was going to make it with Deirdre. That’s what was really pissing Anto off—that and getting shot in the head. They were just going through a rough patch, just like every other couple.

“And you, ya bollocks,” Frank turned on him. “What are you sneering at? You should learn to tune that banjo; it sounds like you’re banging a bull’s balls together.”

Danny looked at him but he had no idea what he was going on about.

“Where’s your fucking head, Boyle? You’ve been all fuckin’ broody again lately.”

“Are you having problems at home?” Jimmy asked, almost sounding sympathetic.

“No, no. It’s nothin’ like that. I’m fine. I’m just tired. You know how it is with a baby in the house. It’s fuckin’ hell.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it’s only that,” Frank smiled and turned to Jimmy. “Pay up!”

“That’s no way to act when a friend is sharing his troubles. It’s obvious that the baby is keeping them from . . . you know.”

Danny decided to go back to ignoring them and took another swig.

“What’s fuckin’ eating you?” Frank asked when they got no reaction.

“It’s nothin’ really, only . . .”

“We’re fucked now. Here comes McVeigh.”

“Would you ever,” Jimmy McVeigh asked with his head slightly tilted, “get back on stage. I’m not paying you to stand around drinking. And try to keep the crowd from leaving.”

Frank looked like he was about to say something but probably thought better of it and walked back on stage.

“We’re back,” he announced and looked around at the crowd, “but before we begin I have an announcement.”

Danny and Jimmy followed and slung on their guitars as they waited for the other shoe to fall.

“Jimmy McVeigh needs you all the get shit-faced drunk before you leave.”

The crowd roared back in approval but Jimmy McVeigh walked away shaking his head.

“And now, the ‘F-an’-DJs’ would like to do a song that is currently very high on the charts in Ottawa.”

“What’s he doing?” Danny mouthed at Jimmy, who just shrugged and waited for Frank to sing:

“When Irish eyes are smiling.” He raised his arms like a conductor and led Jimmy and Danny into a very exaggerated waltz.

Billie walked in just as they began their second last song. She was wearing a black spandex skirt and the type of underwear that Madonna wore with nothing over it. Only Billie wore a jacket, like the ones that bullfighters wore.

When she took it off she nearly impaled the guy she was with—a dorky looking git with parachute pants and a black tee shirt with no sleeves. And arms like a junkie. She leaned forward enough for Danny to see her at her best and blew him a kiss. Her lips were dark and wet looking and her eyes looked so bright in all the dark makeup she had on. She even wiggled a little while her boyfriend was at the bar.

She did it again when they started their last song, and Danny had to turn to hide his bulging behind his guitar.

“What the fuck is he doing now?” Frank asked between verses of
The Irish Rover
—their party piece. They played it with almost enough energy to drown out Jimmy Carton from the floor below. He was singing
The West Awake
and the whole building seemed to be shaking.

“It looks like the Duck Walk—only he makes it look like he’s humping the guitar.”

Danny woke around eleven. Deirdre let him sleep in after gigs and even went out with little Martin to get the papers. She kept him quiet, too, when they got back. She’d keep him on her lap while she read the paper aloud but soft enough so as not to wake Danny.

He lay on his back and thought of Billie. She was just fucking with him—showing up like that—and carrying on like that. She left before he got a chance to talk with her but he knew what she was up to. Stuff like that was always happening to Frank and Jimmy, only they weren’t married.

He wanted to roll over but he had to get up; he had promised Deirdre that he’d call his mother. He hadn’t called her since Christmas. He made all kinds of excuses—that’s she’d still be going on about his uncle and why he wasn’t buried in Ireland but the truth was, he just didn’t want to have to deal with her right now.

He felt guilty about that and every time he held little Martin and stared into his eyes, he had to look away. Little Martin trusted him and so did Deirdre. The problem was that he couldn’t ever really trust himself. He never let on, though, and went on like everything was great. Deirdre seemed to sense that and said she thought he might be bottling things up inside him, but he just laughed. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “In fact I’m better than fine. I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

That always seemed to work and she’d stop bugging him. It was, however, one of the things he was beginning to dislike about her—she was always trying to get him to change. When Billie used to do it, she made it all seem like an adventure, but with Deirdre it was different. It was like she was a school teacher. She had even started to tell him that he should go back to school too. He could do it part-time. And where the fuck would he get the time? He was already killing himself, working night and day. But he had known it was going to be like that and didn’t feel right complaining. It was his job to go to work and provide for them. But with Deirdre finishing her degree and little Martin going to daycare, he felt he was the only person not learning anything.

Maybe that was it. Maybe she was getting embarrassed by him—in front of all her university friends.

“Well! It’s about time you called. I’ve been worried sick that you’d caught whatever it was that took my poor Martin.”

Danny made a face while Deirdre balanced little Martin on her hip and went into the bedroom so Danny could have some privacy. With the baby, the apartment was beginning to feel so small.

“Well I’m calling now. Besides, you could have called me.”

“Listen to yourself. We’re not made of money over here, you know.”

“Well they don’t give it out free here either.”

His mother seemed to sense his mood and changed tack. “Well, you’re phoning now. I know you’d never turn your back on your own mother. And how’s Deirdre—and the baby?”

“They’re both fine. Martin is starting to walk only he falls over a lot, but he should be able to get around by the time we come over.”

“It’ll be great to see you again son; it really gives me something to look forward to.”

For a moment Danny felt she was trying to turn things on him again. Deirdre said that she did that. She felt that Danny had to stand up to her more—for both their sakes. He wasn’t doing his mother any good either.

“So? Any news on your end?”

“They made a big fuss over that Bob Geldof down in the Mansion House. That could have been you, ya know, if you hadn’t gone running off to Canada.”

She was doing that again. Twisting everything around on him and forgetting what really happened.

“How’s Da’s business coming along?”

“Mister big-shot? Don’t be asking me; he never tells me anything.”

“Is it raining there?” She always got like this when it rained.

“It’s always raining around here, Danny, only I’m sure it will be fine for when you come over.”

“With my luck?”

“Danny? Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Did you burn up what was left of Martin?”

“Ah, Ma. Don’t be bringing all that up again. He was cremated—just like he said in his will.”

“I know that, but what happened what was left of him?”

David had taken his ashes to spread on the sands around the cabana. Danny had promised David that he would go and visit it, as soon as he got the chance. They held a celebration for him, too, on Valentine’s Day. Deirdre was busy with the baby so Danny went on his own. He didn’t mind being around gays anymore.

“He had his girlfriend spread them on the beach where they met.”

“Is she white at least?”

“She is, Ma. You would’ve liked her.” He lied but there was no point telling the truth—there never was.

“We’ll never know, now, will we?”

“Well,” Danny searched for something to lighten the mood. She was dragging him back to the days when he and his granny used to visit the hospital. “We know you’re going to love little Martin.”

“I will, but I’ll never be able to hear his name without thinking of my brother.”

“That’s the way Martin would have wanted it. It was his idea to name the baby after him,” he lied again.

“That was the way he was his whole life—always thinking of others.”

“So? How is your mother?” Deirdre emerged from the room as he hung up.

He wished she hadn’t asked. He wanted a bit of time to himself to come back from the places his mother had taken him to. It was always like that when he phoned. She always made him feel like he’d run away and deserted everything. “Morose, but she’s happiest that way.”

“Danny, you really shouldn’t let her get to you anymore. I know she can’t help it, but she can be very negative.” She balanced the baby on her hip as she kissed him. “Now,” she handed little Martin over, “please look after this lump for a few hours while I catch up with my study partners.”

“Ah, Deirdre. I’m working again tonight. I was hoping to take a nap.”

“You can take a nap when he does. Maybe you can take him for a walk first? That always tires him out.”

She kissed the pair of them and gathered her papers and things. “I won’t be long.”

“Deirdre,” Danny asked as she got to the door, “do you ever get ashamed of me?”

“Oh, Danny, not now. I’m already late. You always get like this after you talk with your mother.”

“Yeah, but do you?”

She assured him she didn’t and rushed off leaving Danny holding his son, who was watching him closely.

“What are you looking at?”

Little Martin made some sound and poked at Danny’s face with his tiny fingers.

“I suppose you’ll grow up to be ashamed of me too?” But he made it sound like a joke and little Martin laughed along with him.

There were three of them in the study group: Deirdre; Jean, who Deirdre suspected was lesbian; and Edward.

His real name was Eduardo but he wanted to hide his ethnicity. Sometimes he seemed to forget himself and called her ‘Dee,’ like they were so much closer. When she pulled him up on it, he’d get flustered and said that he had difficulty saying her name properly.