Barrington Street Blues (29 page)

“Hello.”

“You don't have St. Augustine over there by any chance, do you?”

“He is with me in spirit, in more ways than I would care to enumerate. Thank you for asking.”

“Tommy needs to look at
City of God
. Do you have a copy? If so, I'll take a run in and pick it up.”

“Young lads these days don't get enough credit. Though I should-n't be surprised that
your
son is studying the Doctors of the Church.”

“He's doing a paper on just-war theory. It's due tomorrow.”

“He'll want part of the
Summa
too. And I think I have a couple of short articles on St. Thomas's thought on the matter. Can't do much of a survey without citing Thomas Aquinas.”

“True. It's going to be a long night. I'll be there in ten.”

“I'll run it out to you.”

“No, no.”

“Sit tight.” Click.

So then it was Brennan, Tom, and I working on the paper, and Normie, in her Paddington Bear pyjamas, peering at us through her glasses and drawing pictures of us in neon colours. Including Brennan's eye. But still: I could feel the tension of the last two weeks melting
away. There was nowhere I would rather have been at that moment than home with these three people.

“Where did you get that T-shirt, Father Burke?” Normie asked. “I would kill for, or, well . . .” The shirt was ancient and worn, with the word
Angelicum
on it.

“I always wear it when I commune with St. Thomas.” He leaned towards her and whispered: “The Angelic Doctor.” She gazed at him with wonder; Thomas Aquinas was someone she might have to work into her research. “When I take you to Rome, Normie, we'll get one a few sizes smaller for you.”

“Really?”

“Cross my heart. Was that your doorbell, Monty? Though ‘bell' is hardly the word for it. What an ugly sound. Get it replaced.”

“I don't think the previous owners chose it for the music, Brennan.”

“Well, it's yours now. Do something about it.”

I walked to the front of the house, wondering who on earth would be calling at this time of night. I opened the door to a demure-looking woman with black hair. She was dressed in a pale pink sweater with a cream-coloured car coat over it.

“Felicia?”

“Hi.” She looked at me briefly, then cast her eyelids downward. What in the hell was she doing here? “May I come in? I'd like to apologize for last night. I had too much to drink and, well, I'm embarrassed.” She stepped forward, I stepped back, she was in. “I didn't want to leave it till tomorrow at work. I hope you don't mind. May I?”

I moved aside and gestured with my hand.

“Who is it, Daddy?”

“Oh! You have company.”

“My kids.”

Normie appeared, and glared owlishly at the interloper.

“This is my daughter, Normie. This is Ms. Morgan.”

“Hello.”

“Hi there, Normie. How are you?”

“Tired. Bedtime, I guess.” She yawned ostentatiously.

Felicia looked around. “What a great house this could be!” She
moved in, casing the place as she proceeded. “Think what you could do with this living room. The floors are marvellous. Bird's-eye maple. And the kitchen, all kinds of potential there. I suppose it looks over the water. Yes, and this must be the dining room. Oh! More company.”

“My son, Tom. And this is Brennan Burke. Felicia Morgan. One of my colleagues at Stratton Sommers.”

Brennan and Tom stood and said hello.

“What are you working on?” She picked up a journal article Burke had brought over: “St. Thomas on War,” by Rocco Rosso, OP. “Who's Rocco Rosso, OP?”

“A Dominican,” Burke replied. “OP. Order of Preachers.”

“I see.”

“I'm doing a paper on just-war theory,” Tommy explained.

“Sounds fascinating. But you know what they say: ‘All's fair in love and war.' Are you at Dal?”

“No, still in high school.”

“Really! You look older. The girls must all have crushes on you.”

“Yeah, in my dreams.”

“He has a girlfriend,” Normie piped up. “Her name is Lexie and she wears glasses. She's beautiful.”

“I'll bet she is. Lucky girl!” She looked at my son as if she might have him for a little late-night snack. “Well, don't let Monty and I interrupt you.”

“Monty and
me
,” Burke muttered.

“What's that?”

“Don't let Monty and
me
interrupt.”

“I see. And what do you do, Brennan? Besides correct other people's failings?”

“That's pretty well it. You might say I'm a corrections officer.” The kids looked at each other and tried to suppress their grins.

“It might be fun to be corrected by you. I'll call you next time I do something naughty and need to be punished.”

“Feel free,” he said, and returned his attention to the
Summa Theologica
.

“Monty?” She had walked out of the room and seated herself on my couch by the time I entered the living room. “As I said, I wanted to apologize for my behaviour last night. It was out of character. It's
just that . . .” She lowered her voice. “I find you so attractive and I know how good we'd be together. But enough of that. I said what I came to say.”

She took herself off, expressing warm enthusiasm for seeing me the next day at work. Before she had cleared the steps I was mentally reorganizing my day and planning to divide my time between court and home, avoiding the office altogether.

We got Tom through his paper and Normie into her bed.

“Thanks, Brennan. I appreciate your coming over. I hated to have to admit I didn't have Augustine or the Angelic Doctor on hand.”

“That's my job, Monty, to bring the great works of Catholicism to those who haven't had my advantages. So, who's that rossey who came calling at such an unseemly hour?”

“I told you. A lawyer at the firm.”

“That's what you told me, yes. She looked as if she was dressed up in somebody else's clothing. I could picture her in something much less ladylike.”

“You said a mouthful there.”

“Well, hold on to your gonads.”

“She's not someone I'm interested in.”

“I'd say she's interested in you.”

“She'd be interested in that broomstick if it had a promising investment portfolio. And once she got her hands on the money, no more riding around on the broomstick.”

†

Tuesday was choir night, and I was just about to leave the office for a quick supper with the kids when my phone rang.

“Monty? This is Gareth Swail-Peddle.”

“Oh, yes.” I had nearly forgotten the psychologist who had treated Corey Leaman at the Baird Centre, then had a falling out with management.

“You must have been wondering where I've been.”

“No, no, not at all.”

“I finally got my notes together, relating to my interactions with Corey at the Baird. I would have got them to you sooner but I've
been busy with an eating disorders conference in the southern U.S., which I had to attend and prepare for. Then there were some emergencies. Anyway, my wife and I are going to be downtown this evening. I don't know whether you work late, or where you live, but I could drop the notes off.”

“I'm just on my way out for dinner now, Gareth. Would you like to join me for something Greek at the Bluenose II?”

“My wife can't tolerate spicy food.”

Greek? Spicy? “So how about a lobster sandwich?”

“I'm allergic to shellfish.”

“Well, they have everything else, but never mind. I'm going to wind up at the Midtown Tavern later on. If you're downtown, you could meet me there. Or I could come to your office later this week.”

“The Midtown! I might enjoy that. Penelope, my wife, has a meeting. I'll pick her up and meet you at the Midtown if she's feeling up to it.”

“Sure. I'll be there from about nine-thirty on.”

I was looking forward to choir practice, particularly because I had started brooding again about the blow-up with Maura. The music always had the effect of elevating me from my workaday world into another realm. Though I did have to endure the choirmaster's pointed suggestion that I take the music home and learn it more thoroughly. I had been guilty of slacking off. I was pleasantly surprised, however, to see Brennan's brother, Patrick, turn up at the church. We had spent a fair bit of time together earlier in the year, in New York. He was making a one-night stopover in Halifax on his way to Ireland for a conference. The choir was introduced and warned that Father Burke's brother had ears. Any false note, he'd hear it.

Patrick came along to the Midtown afterwards. He was around six feet tall, slightly shorter than Brennan, with sky blue eyes and sandy blonde hair.

“You look more like Monty's brother than Brennan's,” Ed Johnson remarked. “Maybe old man Collins crossed the Irish Sea some time during the war for a little R and R.”

“Casting aspersions on our sainted mother, are you now?” Brennan said, while raising his hand to the waiter.

“What the hell, it was wartime.”

“Not in Ireland, it wasn't.”

“Well, you never know now, Brennan,” Patrick replied. “Our da was off on manoeuvres of his own in those days.”

“True enough.”

“Your choir was lovely. The boys sounded angelic.”

“They didn't sound too bad, the little Christers. Now if I could just get Collins to do some practising at home.”

“This fellow has a big anniversary coming up,” Patrick announced. “Are you gentlemen aware of that?”

“Well, it's not a wedding anniversary unless he's even more tight-lipped and mysterious than we think he is. Though I wouldn't put anything past him,” Ed said.

“The twenty-fifth anniversary of his ordination.”

“Really! I guess I should have known that, Brennan,” I said. “Congratulations!”

“Or condolences,” Johnson put in. “Which is it?”

“I shall accept whatever greetings you wish to send my way, Edward.”

“Oh, I'll think of something. You can count on it.”

“Of course, we want him to ourselves for a couple of days. He's coming to New York for his anniversary Mass and a family celebration.”

“Shouldn't be hard for us to upstage that.”

“You haven't met his family, Johnson. I have. It would take some doing to upstage that crowd. When is it exactly, Brennan?”

“Weekend after next.”

“But it's never too early to break out the celebratory cigars,” Patrick said, reaching into his pocket and offering them around the table. Ed and I declined. Pat handed one to his brother, fired it up, then lit his own. They puffed contentedly on their stogies until we heard a strangulated cough behind Brennan's chair.

“Monty. Hello.” I turned to see Doctor Swail-Peddle standing behind my chair, with a tall, gangly woman in tow. Both were fanning smoke away from their faces.

“Hi, Gareth.”

“I brought the diary and my notes.”

“Great.” I took the papers from him and put them on the table in front of me. “Are you going to join us?”

“Well . . .” He looked at the tall woman with an expression of concern. She wore a long denim jumper over a thick grey cotton shirt. Her frizzy brown hair was tied in a ponytail and half-hidden by a scarf. She had the same enormous eyeglasses as Gareth.

“This is Penelope Swail-Peddle. My wife. Penelope, this is Monty Collins. I don't know these other people.”

“Here, Gareth. Grab a couple more chairs. This is Brennan Burke, his brother Patrick, and Ed Johnson.” Johnson nodded and picked up his glass. The Burke brothers, as if choreographed, clamped their cigars in their teeth, half rose from their seats and held out their right hands to the newcomers, who shook, then sat down.

The waiter put a draft in front of Penelope, and she looked up at him. “Do you have cranberry juice?”

“‘Fraid not. Coke, Seven-Up.”

“Oh, I don't want all that caffeine.”

“No caffeine in Seven-Up.”

“Or in draft,” Ed chimed in.

“Seven-Up then. I guess. What are you having, Gareth?”

“I'm going to have a beer!”

“Gareth . . .”

“It's all right, Penelope. It's just one.”

“That's what my father used to say.”

“Mine never said just one!” Johnson announced. “How ‘bout your old man, Brennan?”

“Sure, he'd settle in for a few if he was going to be takin' a drop at all, at all,” Brennan answered in an exaggerated Irish brogue.

“Penelope is the child of alcoholic parents,” Swail-Peddle explained.

“Aren't we all!” Ed exclaimed. “That describes half the population of the western world.”

The Swail-Peddles exchanged a look. Then Penelope announced to her husband: “I didn't wash my hair again today. Five days now.”

“Are you okay with it?”

Brennan was not okay with it; he looked at her as if a cockroach had crawled out of her ponytail. But Penelope assured us she was feeling good about herself.

Gareth questioned her gently: “But Penelope. The head scarf? Does that say maybe you're not okay with it?”

“I just like scarves, Gareth. Sometimes a scarf is just a scarf!”

I saw Patrick smile at that.

Gareth turned to us. “Penelope is going to visit her parents tomorrow. We've been doing some work around it.”

“You're going to see your parents,” Brennan said to her.

“Yes.” Her hand went up to her hair.

“I guess they'll be telling you to wash more than your hands before dinner.”

Two pairs of humongous spectacles turned to him in shock.

“That's not very helpful, Brendan,” Gareth admonished him. “Is that your name?”