Wandering in Exile (21 page)

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.

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?”

The man with the deep and commanding voice muttered again and left.

John tried to rise again. He could not be a burden to them. He could not have them at risk for his sake, but the woman was ready and gently pushed him back. “No, Father. You must rest until your strength comes back.”

Miriam watched in disbelief. The world was going to war again and there was nothing anybody could do to stop it. The media had whipped them all into a righteous rage with images of premature babies thrown on the floor and gloating soldiers praising their God. CNN was outraged.

Karl had been on the phone all morning but there was still no news. John Melchor had vanished from the face of the earth.

She knew he wanted to say something, something that might offer a little reassurance. She loved and hated him for that. She loved that he cared so much but despised what she must look like to him—frightened and alone in a world that paid lip service to all that she held dear. She did not want pity. She wanted outrage. She wanted everyone to stand up and scream, all at the same time, so the masters of lies would have to pay attention.

But everyone around her was mesmerized by robotic generals showing video clips of pure, clean death, the vengeance of the righteous that only fell on the heads of the despicable. It was all too good to be true.

Miriam knew better. War did not differentiate between innocence and guilt. War was a hungry beast that, when loosed, devoured all that lay before it. There was nothing right about it and all who involved themselves were complicit in murder. In a way, she hoped John had left this world so he would not have to see this again.

“We mustn’t give up hope,” Karl reminded her, looking at her like he thought she might break.

“No, we mustn’t,” she agreed, but her soul was empty. Before, when they were actively opposing war, it had seemed so easy. They had ‘right’ on their side and nothing could threaten them. Sure, they could be arrested and incarcerated, but when the people found out, they demanded their release.

Now, things had changed. The people were bored with what was right. It was too hard—too demanding, so they turned away for reassurance. They believed it when they were told that they lived in the greatest democracy the world had ever seen. Appointed by God and secure in that righteousness, there was no reason for them to question, even those they knew to be dishonest.

“You know,” he said the way he said those things that he carefully chose to lift her when she was down, “I was thinking of visiting Canada one of these days.”

“Will they let you in?”

“I’m not sure; that’s why I want you to come along.”

“I see. And where were you thinking of going?”

“Toronto. I hear it’s very nice this time of the year.”

“It’s winter.”

“Okay. We can wait ’til the spring.”

Miriam smiled and melted into his warm embrace. She knew what he was doing and she loved him all the more for it.

Deirdre was really looking forward to their visit. She needed reinforcing. Danny had gotten drunk again, in February, after nearly seven weeks of abstaining. She saw it coming.

At first, he was enthusiastic and had even joined a gym. But as the winter wore him down, he stopped going and sat in front of the TV, night after night. She tried to go along as if nothing was wrong. She took Martin to hockey and Grainne to ballet, leaving Danny alone. She could tell they were all getting on his nerves, but for the most part he kept it bottled up inside of him.

Except when the kids fought. Then all that simmered inside of him would bubble to the surface. Deep down, he was angry at so many things—things that were not directly related to them.

She was getting very tired of him. Life, that was so grey and forlorn to Danny, had actually treated them quite well but he just seemed incapable of seeing it that way. They had used most of the money from Jerry and Jacinta to pay down the mortgage. They had postponed the trip down south so they could send Martin to hockey camp. His coach was sure that, with the proper preparation, Martin could have a future in the game.

Deirdre wasn’t so sure, but Martin, being the true Canadian he was, had his heart set on it. In return, to appease her, he kept his grades up and was a model child—except in his father’s eyes. Sometimes Deirdre wondered if Danny wasn’t jealous of him.

Grainne was a different story. She was only five but was showing signs of becoming very precocious. Deirdre hated admitting it but she was. And even at her age, Grainne seemed to be able to see the fault lines that ran through the family. She could make any squabble with her brother into a family issue. She had Danny wrapped around her little fingers and he could not see it.

Instead, when they did talk about it, he accused her of always siding with Martin. She tried to explain but he wouldn’t hear it. In fact, they agreed on less and less.

She was tempted to let it slide. She was busy enough at work and, when she finally got home, drained and worn down, she had little energy for family politics. But she had to deal with his drinking.

“What can I say?” he had muttered the morning after as he waited for the coffee to brew. He looked terrible.

“An explanation maybe?”

“Ah, Dee. Cut me some slack. I just had a few beers, that’s all. Where’s the harm in that?”

It might have sounded reasonable from somebody else. “Danny. We have discussed this and we both agreed that drinking has become a problem for you. You promised that you would deal with it—for all our sakes.”

“I know and I was. I just had a few beers. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Well, I’m not willing to wait until the end begins. I want you to get help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“That’s what people with problems always say.” Deirdre had done her homework. One of the women in the office had been married to an alcoholic. She made a point of letting Deirdre know that after the last office party, when Danny had gotten so drunk that they had to leave early. She told Deirdre what she had been through and even invited her to an Al-Anon meeting. Deirdre went, for Danny’s sake, and heard all that she needed to hear.

“You can’t be serious?”

“I have never been more serious.”

The people at the meeting had said that the best time to tackle the problem was during the hangover. That was when guilt and remorse bubbled just under the surface. He sat opposite her and sipped his coffee. She almost felt sorry for him but she had been warned against that. Alcoholics thrived on pity.

“Danny. I want you to go to AA meetings.”

“Jesus, Deirdre. I’m not that bad.”

“Then you’ll have nothing to worry about. You can go and find out what it’s all about.” She had been told that too. ‘Just get him to meetings,’ they had advised over coffee after the meeting. “It will do no harm to be better informed. Then, if you really don’t have a problem, we’ll know.”

“It was just a few beers, Dee.”

A part of her wanted to reach out to him but she had been warned against that too. They had called it enabling. “I will go with you if that helps?”

He seemed to realize that there was no other way out. She had done it. She had forced him into the realization. The people at the meeting had said that was vital.

“Okay. If that’s what you want—I’ll do it. But you’ll see. They’ll probably tell me there is nothing wrong and not let me join.”

“Then we’ll all be happier.” It was like shooting fish in a barrel. “There’s a meeting tonight, at St. Monica’s on Broadway.”

“It’s not a Catholic thing, is it?”

“No.”

“But what if somebody sees me going in?”

“They’ll think you got religion.”

“Ah, Jazus, Dee. Do I have to?”

Danny knew there was no point in arguing. He knew, after the last time, that it was his last chance. Still, it wasn’t the end of the world. He would go to the meeting and go along with it all until the heat was off. Growing up Catholic had its advantages.

Still, he sat in his car in the church car park to see what kind of idiots he was going to have to put up with. He thought about sitting there until the meeting was over but he knew better. Deirdre would have been in contact with them and they’d report back if he didn’t show. There was nothing for it but to head down to the basement, past the easel with the sign that read: You are no longer alone.

He tried to seem nonchalant but everywhere he looked somebody smiled back at him until he looked away. They must have all been tipped off that he was coming. What the fuck had he gotten himself into now?

I think you should hang around and see what it’s all about.

You would. How the fuck did you know I was here?

Kismet, Boyle. Kismet.
Anto sounded very pleased with himself.

You don’t think I’m one of them. Do ya?

Not yet, but given time . . .

Look at them, Anto. For fuck’s sake!

They seem happy enough.

That’s because you’re dead. Look at them, for fuck’s sake. What a bunch of fuckin’ losers.

Yeah, and you’re a real winner.

But before Danny could respond, the meeting opened with a moment of silence and a prayer. Danny fought the urge to snicker but he was afraid. He was the only sane person in the room and decided to go along with them for the hour or two that it took. That way, if they did report back to Deirdre, she’d know he sat through the whole thing. He could turn this to his advantage yet.

The room was decorated with green ribbons and balloons, and the man who chaired the meeting was a droll Irish policeman. They must have gone to great efforts to snare him. After some rituals that Danny could not understand, and some uninspired interpretation of the clearly legible slogans that stood on little easels around the stage, a man got up to speak. He was from Dublin and Danny was sure that he’d been set up.

The man began to talk about himself and, though his story was very different from Danny’s, there were enough similarities. Deirdre must have prepped him too. He talked about his feelings toward God and stuff like that, and how he always felt that he was on God’s hit list and how he had a deep feeling of shame that he could never get rid of.

Danny wanted to scoff but it was too close to home. The man talked about growing up surrounded by a veil of lies and Danny couldn’t help but pay attention. The man talked about feeling separate and apart from everything going on around him, about feeling like an outsider and how others noticed and picked on him for that. And not just the other kids, but school teachers, priests and nuns and in time, the cops.

He said that he used to question everything—that nothing made sense. He questioned why people lived one way but talked about living another. He said it drove him mad until he found drugs and alcohol. He said when he drank, that it blunted all the jagged edges and he could function with the rest of the world.