Whiskey Island (21 page)

“Damn it, are you trying to make me crazy?”

He stood. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

There was nothing more she could say right now. She had been manipulated, extolled, critiqued, confided in and kissed. It was more emotion, more conversation, than she’d experienced during her entire marriage.

“Ashley, we’re going.”

The little girl got to her feet, picked up the doll and held it out to Jon.

“You know,” he said, “if you promise to take good care of her, you could take her to Casey’s for a while. She might like a vacation.”

Ashley shook her head. “No, she’d miss her friends. I’ll come back.”

He took the doll. “I’d like that. Any time you want to play with her.”

Casey resolved to buy Ashley a doll to keep at the apartment. One that might help her have good dreams.

They followed Jon to the door and stopped at the threshold. “Are you going to keep dropping by the saloon?” she asked before she opened the porch door. “Are you going to keep me off guard?”

“You know where I live, I know where you do.”

“Well, if you’re not too busy, feel free to stop by. We serve pierogies on Friday nights. You might find me there if you come early enough.”

“I’ll remember.”

When she and Ashley reached the car, she turned to look up at his house. She fully expected him to be gone, but he was watching them. She lifted her hand in salute.

He smiled as he closed the door.

13

F
ather Brady’s study looked out over a small garden with a fountain and a stone bench. In the spring, daffodils lit the beds like golden sunshine. In the summer, roses bloomed, and in the fall, so did asters and clouds of white boltonia. The study was cramped, but Iggy always said that when he opened the drapes the whole world was his.

Niccolo stood at the window now, looking down on a fresh layer of snow that made a wedding cake of the fountain. He inhaled the familiar smells, musty books, lemon polish, worn leather upholstery, and felt nostalgic. “Will you try to go south when you retire, Iggy? Someplace warmer?”

“I try not to think about it. I still have so much I want to accomplish here.”

“From what I can tell, the place is in great shape. Attendance is up. You’re solvent, which isn’t all that common for a church with a changing population.”

Iggy poured coffee from a sterling service. The two men met here early several times a week, before the start of their busy days. Iggy had never said as much, but Niccolo knew that the older man understood how much he still enjoyed this “priestly” contact, the discussion of faith, lamentations on parish politics.

“We have our problems,” Iggy said. “But nothing monstrous lurking on the horizon. It’s more a need to put things in order, to hand over St. Brigid’s with everything in place.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I began on the archives this past month. We’ve had volunteers sorting and filing for some time, but it’s reached a point where I need to look through some of the materials myself, to determine how valuable or worthwhile they are. And some of the things we’ve found are of a personal nature. I’m loath to make them public without thoroughly examining them first.”

Niccolo joined his friend at the table and took up the cup Iggy had poured for him. “What sort of things?”

“A case in point. The journal of one of St. Brigid’s first priests. A Patrick McSweeney.”

“It sounds like the church is fortunate to have such a document.”

“Perhaps. It turned up not long ago, buried in a box under the minutes of countless turn-of-the-century sodality meetings. To my knowledge, the last person to read it was McSweeney himself.”

“Then you haven’t looked at it yet?”

“Niccolo, sometimes you make things so simple for me. It’s as if you read my thoughts.”

Too late Niccolo realized he had fallen into one of Iggy’s artful traps. “You want
me
to read it? Why?”

“Because I simply don’t have the time. And it’s another priest’s journal, not something I could assign to just anyone. Perhaps it’s filled with explanations of how he spent his days, or, worse, notations on every penny spent. But perhaps it’s not. Perhaps it’s genuinely and painfully personal. And if so, I’ll be forced to decide what to do with it.”

“Surely you wouldn’t destroy it. It’s a historical document.”

“No, not destroy. But I could quietly bury it in sodality trivia again.” Iggy lifted his own cup to his lips. “You’re just the man to do this, you know. You’ve taken an interest in the Irish on Whiskey Island. The ancestors of these Donaghues who fascinate you so were probably members of McSweeney’s flock. The history will interest you.”

“Tom Sawyer had nothing on you.”

Iggy’s smile blossomed. “Will you do it anyway? It would be such an enormous service. And I really do think you’ll find it interesting.”

Niccolo had already told his friend about Rooney and the shelter he’d discovered on Whiskey Island. He had felt that Iggy should know, since Iggy was the family’s priest. Iggy, in turn, had confessed that he hadn’t remembered anything more about the cuff link insignia.

“There hasn’t been a lot written about Whiskey Island,” Niccolo admitted. “I’ve been to the historical society. But apparently the Irish were too busy trying to survive to leave much behind. There’s nothing about the Donaghues, either.”

“It’s possible we have more here at the church than anyone else. For the most part, the Cleveland Irish story is a Catholic story, and priests have always been record keepers. I
can
tell you that life there was anything but easy. Disease, overwork, hunger, death. Yet it was so much better than what they left behind, and they had faith and humor to take them through the worst.”

“Not to mention fourteen saloons.”

“Desperate men crave oblivion.” Iggy got up and went to a locked glass case, where a number of rare volumes were stored. He unlocked it with a key ring he fished from his pocket, and the door swung toward him. Standing on his tiptoes, he felt along the top shelf until he found what he wanted. He locked the case and returned, setting a leather-bound journal, its brown bindings worn and tattered, beside Niccolo’s coffee cup.

“Will you look at this for me?”

Niccolo was too interested—and too indebted to Iggy—to refuse.

Iggy cleared his throat. “Will you transcribe it?”

Niccolo looked up. “Surely you jest.”

“It’s more than a century old. The ink is fading badly. You may be one of the last people who is
able
to decipher it. The years aren’t on our side. By the time I find someone else to do it, it may be too late.”

“We’re talking about a job of mammoth proportions.”

“I know, and I’m sorry to ask. But you have an interest in the subject, you have the needed sensitivity and mind-set, and you have a computer to make the work tolerable. It would mean a great deal to the church. And it’s possible it might mean a great deal to you, as well.”

“I don’t follow that part.”

“You’ll be privy to another priest’s life, Niccolo. A man who surely struggled with the same things that you have. Perhaps you’ll come to understand yourself better as you understand him.”

“You’ve read this, haven’t you? You know for certain it’s not a record of the price of prayer books or attendance figures at Mass.”

“I haven’t read it. Not all of it. But enough to know it’s more than record keeping. Father McSweeney was a sensitive and literate soul. You won’t be disappointed in what you find. You may even be enlightened.”

There was almost nothing that Iggy could ask of him that Niccolo wouldn’t agree to. His gaze fell to the book, which was one, maybe one and a half, inches thick. Larger than a paperback novel, but smaller than a ledger.

The secrets of a man’s soul.

Niccolo lifted the journal and weighed it in the palm of one hand. “It will take some time. The penmanship probably isn’t easy to decipher.” He leafed through the first few pages and saw he was right. Ink had been expensive in the nineteenth century, and the tiny precise letters reflected that reality. “And you’re right about the ink fading.”

“Do whatever you can, and take your time. I’m sure McSweeney himself would thank you for it.”

Niccolo closed the journal and set it on the table again. He wondered if McSweeney
would
thank him. When a man poured out his soul, did he expect, even hope, that someday that soul might be exposed? What torments had McSweeney suffered? What joys? And would he be glad if the world shared them?

Niccolo raised his gaze to Iggy’s. “Do you stay awake at night thinking of tasks to keep me connected to the church?”

Iggy smiled gently. “I have no need. You were never disconnected, were you, Niccolo?”

Niccolo’s crew was waiting by the time he returned home. He wasn’t sure when he’d hired the four boys lounging on his front steps. In fact, he was fairly certain he
hadn’t
hired them, yet here they were, waiting for him to take them in and let them play with their new tools.

At first there had only been Winston and Josh, the two boys who had perched on the trunk of his car and dared Niccolo to evict them. They hadn’t knocked on his door so much as walked slowly back and forth in front of his house one afternoon a few days later, until he invited them in. In a week’s time they’d become regulars, showing up after school and most of Saturday.

Then one day Joachim had tagged along with them. He was a huge kid, as broad shouldered as a stevedore and slim hipped as a supermodel. The half inch of hair that had grown out after an unfortunate date with a razor was jet-black and didn’t yet cover the extravagant tattoo of a leopard that arched from nape to ear.

The fourth kid, Tarek, had black hair, too. But Tarek’s hair was cut conservatively, and even when he “dressed down” his jeans were brand-new and carefully pressed.

The boys were Niccolo’s own personal Rainbow Coalition, a living history of neighborhood immigration patterns, and he fully expected a boy of Asian background to turn up next. At first they had come to watch his television and consume whatever junk food he had on hand. Then, after a few days of sitcom reruns and arguments about whether Jerry Springer staged the fights on his show, the boys began to follow Niccolo around.

At first they had only gotten in his way. Winston lived to annoy. He was happiest when he was in somebody’s face, and for the time being, he’d chosen Niccolo as his target. Josh was unsure of himself and never quite certain where to put his hands and feet, so they usually ended up where they didn’t belong. Joachim, a gentle giant, stayed out of the way but, due to his size, was never really out of sight. Painfully polite, Tarek tried to keep the others in line, and in the process usually caused more trouble than he headed off.

After a few days of disruption, Niccolo had gone to the hardware store with his charge card and returned with bargain table toolboxes filled with hammers and screwdrivers, pliers and wrenches. He made the boys swear they would stay out of his way, and in order to make that happen, he assigned them tasks. Like all adolescent males, they were born to wreak havoc, and tearing down walls was their birthright. In record time he had a truckload of unpainted plaster and rotting two-by-fours to haul away.

Warped floorboards came next. What the boys could do with a crowbar was magic. And oddly enough, when they had to be careful, they could be. He explained about molding, about how much harder it was to salvage woodwork than to splinter it, and they listened.

Winston, in particular, was beautifully coordinated. Most surprising of all, his self-control was extraordinary. Whatever passed through his brain rushed out his mouth, but his hands were a different story. He took on the smallest tasks, the ones that called for the greatest patience and economy of movement, and he flawlessly completed them. He had taken to working close to Niccolo. He never asked for help, and when Niccolo gave it, he always mouthed off. But when he thought Niccolo wasn’t paying attention, he followed his advice.

Today, despite a storm the previous night, the boys were waiting in their usual places. Winston sat on the snow-crusted top step. Josh sat one step down in a scooped-out spot. Joachim lounged against a pillar, and Tarek stood ramrod straight beside the front door. But this morning there was a new player in the daily drama, a dark-skinned girl with shiny black curls and an expression that identified her as a younger relative of Winston’s. She sat beside him and punched his arm when Niccolo approached.

Winston carelessly hiked a thumb in the girl’s direction. “My sister. Elisha.”

“Hello, Elisha.” Niccolo nodded toward her. Unlike her brother, who was never dressed appropriately for the weather, Elisha was bundled in a heavy ski jacket and mittens. Although no self-respecting teenager wore a hat, Elisha had the good sense to have her hood pulled over her ears.

Winston spoke for her. “She wants to see what we do.”

“You’re welcome to come in,” Niccolo told her.

Winston wasn’t done with him yet. “Where you been? It’s cold out here.”

Niccolo looked at his watch, another item no self-respecting teenager seemed to wear. “I’m not late. You’re early.”

“Didn’t have nothing better to do.”

“I’m surprised you don’t sleep in on Saturdays.”

Joachim yawned and stretched, threatening to bring down the pillar like a young Samson. “Too many kids at my house, man. Can’t sleep with little kids crawling all over you.”

Tarek spoke quietly. “We rise early to pray.”

Niccolo smiled at him, glad to see Tarek beginning to volunteer information. “An excellent habit.”

“My mama works the night shift,” Winston said. “She wakes Elisha up when she gets home so she can use her bed.”

“And I wake Winston up,” Elisha said, in the throaty voice of a much older, wiser woman. “Why he be sleeping when I can’t?”

“Why indeed.” Niccolo stepped past them to the door. Tarek backed away respectfully. “I’ll make hot chocolate to warm you up.”

They didn’t thank him, of course, but there was an interested murmur behind him. He smiled and let them in, noting with interest that Winston demanded that each of them take off their boots or wipe their shoes before they stepped onto the newly sanded hallway floor.