Born & Bred (26 page)

His one regret was that he hadn’t done enough fishing. Two weeks a year was hardly enough. He had dropped a few hints, back in the spring, but he rarely got to see the Bishop face-to-face anymore. It was like he was avoiding him, and, depending on the day, he was either happy or angry about that. Either day, he’d spend it in the garden, unless it rained.

Everyone knew to leave him alone when he was there.

“You can’t come in,” he heard O’Leary explain to a couple of old women who had tried to intrude.

“Why not?” they asked, like they were offended by the old gardener’s air of authority.

“’Cos it’s closed for maintenance.”

Fr. Brennan smiled as his eyes began to droop. There weren’t many like O’Leary anymore. There weren’t many like himself, either.
A dying breed
, he laughed to himself as he drifted off in search of more pleasant times when he was young and full of hope. But a shadow fell across him.

“Are you dead yet, Father?”

“I’m not, Dinny. Are you?”

“I don’t think so, Father, but I thought I’d better check. I figured that if either of us knew, it would be yourself.”

Fr. Brennan opened his eyes as the old gardener sat on the bench beside him and pulled a cigarette butt from behind his ear. Fr. Brennan had never seen him light a new one but had often seen him take a few puffs and stub one out before putting it back behind his ear.

He lit it with a carefully cradled match, protected from the breeze by years of practice. He could keep one going in the teeth of a gale. It was something he had picked up in the trenches when he went with Redmond’s men to “fight for small nations.”

“No Dinny, they haven’t decided what to do with me, yet.”

“Who, Father?”

“God and the Devil. Neither is sure if I would fit in with their crowd.”

“Yerra, Father, if the likes of you can’t get to Heaven, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

“Dinny, a good gardener is always welcome in Heaven.”

“Well, in that case,” the old man laughed, a wheezy, choking laugh, “you’d better let me go first so that I can put in a good word for you, Father.”

They settled into comfortable silence for a while as the autumnal afternoon cooled. It had been the hottest summer they could remember. It had even set records in Boora, Offaly, of all places. But it was passing and the finer days were becoming fewer, and a bit cooler. Fr. Brennan had to wear his coat. Fr. Reilly insisted on it and would come running out like a clucking hen if he didn’t.

Fr. Brennan envied Dinny, who always had something to do, tidying up leaves and taking the last of the flowers, but he always had time to sit and talk and took it upon himself to pick the topic.

“I was just thinking about the Brendan Voyage, Father.”

The whole country had been abuzz with the story of “the bunch of crackpots that had set out from Dingle in a replica of the famous boat that found America long before the rest of the world even knew about it.” They had reached Newfoundland in June, but O’Leary knew that Dan Brennan never got tired of discussing it. “How did they know how to make the boat?”

“It was all explained in the
Navigatio,
Dinny. It told them how to make it and what to expect along the way.”

“And did they know for sure that they would make it all the way?”

“They did, to be sure, though they knew that they’d need a few miracles along the way.”

Fr. Brennan waited as the old man’s laughter turned to coughing and finally subsided.

On the days when his mind was clearer he could prevail on Dinny for the real news of the parish. He had grown tired of Fr. Reilly’s evening reports, delivered over dinner, full of happy or sad news, but never any of the gossip—the glumpy, fatty, delicacies of human interactions.

“Dinny, tell me something. What do you make of the news about that young Boyle blaggard?”

Fr. Brennan had never forgiven Danny for his part in the incident with Deirdre, even though Danny had agreed to their terms and done odd jobs around the church for a year or so, as penance. Fr. Brennan had had nothing to do with him, but O’Leary had. The two had spent a lot of time together, looking after the church and the grounds.

“Well, Father, to tell you the truth, he wasn’t the worst of them. He’s a bit afraid of work but what can you expect these days?”

“True for you, Dinny, but do you think there might be any truth in what’s going around?”

“I doubt it, Father. Since when did the people of this parish ever have a kind word to say for each other? Present company excluded, or course.”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” Fr. Brennan laughed and slapped his palm against his thigh. “You are one of the last true wonders of the world—an honest man.”

The old gardener was flushed by the praise and when he rose, almost stood to attention. ”Well, Father, I’ll get back to it and leave you to get on with your meditations.”

“You’re a good man, Dinny O’Leary.”

“And the same to you, Father.”

Fr. Brennan settled back into his repose but his hooded eyes were watching Fr. Reilly. He might be able to pull the wool over his uncle’s eyes, but Fr. Brennan could see. His curate was always saying how busy he was but always had lots of time for the younger ladies of the parish.

It could have been worse, but Fr. Brennan couldn’t help but feel that there was a bit too much “Mary Magdalening” going on. First it was that hussy who used to be a nun, God bless the mark, and now it was that young trollop who had desecrated the altar and had got away scot-free. The whole world was going mad around him.

*

Outside, Fr. Reilly lingered by the door so he could keep an eye on Fr. Brennan who had just suffered another one of his episodes, forgetting himself and wandering around with no clothes on. No one else had noticed it yet but Fr. Reilly knew it was only a matter of time. He would have to let the Bishop know, one of these days. Only he didn’t want to end the old man’s career. He was due to retire in January. Surely he could keep it hidden until then?

He masked his smile as Deirdre approached. He knew she would be along one of these days—Miriam had given him the heads-up.

“So, did you get to see Miriam since she got back? She mentioned that she was going to meet up with you.” He wanted Deirdre to know that he knew so they could talk to each other on the up-and-up and not through veils.

He always got flustered with women when they did that. He had seen it in the films, how women could say one thing but really mean something totally different and, if the poor man misinterpreted, they reserved the right to be shocked and outraged. Speaking to women was the toughest part of his job, especially when they were young and talking about matters of the heart. At least in the confessional he could shield himself with the grill, but, face-to-face, it was hard.

“I did indeed,” Deirdre looked demure, like she might be trying to tell him that she knew about him and Miriam.

“And was Miriam well?” He shouldn’t have said her name again but he couldn’t help it. It felt so nice to be able to talk with somebody about her.

He knew all about their meeting; Miriam had updated him on the phone. She had called him, but it was appropriate on account of the fact that they were trying to help Danny, and besides, Fr. Brennan had taken his medicine and was sound asleep.

**

“I’m not sure,” he had ventured, unsure if he had understood. He was always having to remind Miriam that she was back in Ireland now and not off in America where you could say or do anything—where she had got herself into so much trouble. “Not to mention what might happen if her father found out. We are a bit more shy about scandals over here.”

“Don’t try pulling the priest act with me, Patrick. I’ve seen it all before. Let’s just think about what’s best for these two young people. This is just as much about Deirdre, you know?”

“How so?”

“Come on, even a priest must able to tell that they are in love.”

Her tone changed and sounded more wistful. He was never really sure what she meant by that but he knew she was trying to tell him something that she couldn’t say over the phone. There was nothing for it but that he’d be better off talking with her face-to-face. It was the only way he could be sure. And besides, he hadn’t seen her since before she left for Rome.

“You know, Miriam. We shouldn’t be talking like this over the phone. If someone was to overhear they might get the wrong impression.”

He had heard Fr. Brennan get out of bed and he’d be down any minute—and probably naked, too. “I’ll be downtown on Saturday afternoon and we could meet up and have a proper chat.”

***

“And tell me,” he asked Deirdre, after he had savored every detail of Miriam. “Do you have any news about Danny?”

“That’s the reason I’ve come to see you. I bumped into him the other day and we ended up going for coffee. I can’t be sure, Father, but I think he is really trying to change his ways.”

Fr. Reilly didn’t look directly at her. He stood to one side. He thought about resting his foot on the low part of the wall like Chuck O’Malley would have done, but it might be inappropriate, standing like a bluebeard.

“I’m of the same mind, Deirdre, and I think Danny will need all of our help.”

Danny had come to see him the day after he had gone to see the police, after he had some time alone to think about what he should do.

He had started to come back to confession, too, his bless-me-Father evoking older memories.

Until he told him about the night Scully died and how he had been tricked into leaving his fingers on the gun. He knew he had sinned but he was sorry now and wanted to ask for God’s forgiveness.

Fr. Reilly couldn’t deny him that. Nor could he ever divulge what had been revealed.

“I suppose that all we can do is trust in the power of love.”

He wasn’t sure but he thought Deirdre blushed before she smiled and thanked him. She told him that she did and excused herself—she had a few errands to do for her mother. He stood by the gate and watched her walk away. She reminded him of Miriam. She walked so purposefully, too. Though sometimes high-heels made her teeter a little.

Sometimes, with Miriam, he almost hoped she might stumble a bit so he could reach out and steady her.

*

“Are you well, Father?”

Jacinta had just come out of the church and had probably seen him watching Deirdre walk away. He’d have to be far more careful than that and not let his mind wander. They had enough of that with Fr. Brennan.

“Tell me, Father,” she asked after he had inquired after her, her husband, and Danny. And she had assured him that they were all as well as could be expected—given the circumstances. “Do you think that there could still be real miracles in the world?”

“I do indeed, Mrs. Boyle.” He was delighted that she wanted to talk about something cheery. He never knew how to deal with her when she was depressed—her having been in the hospital for all those years. He was always afraid he might say something that might send her back there.

Sometimes, when trying to deal with the day-to-day, he doubted his vocation but at least he knew how to talk about miracles. “We are surrounded by little miracles every day, only we never notice. We usually have our heads down, praying for big ones.”

He waited to see if he had said the right thing, and, after she had wrinkled her brow for a moment, she smiled like he hadn’t seen her do before.

“Good, because I think one is after happening to me. I think Nora appeared to me, by the little altar. Not that I’m surprised, mind you, I’ve felt her there a number of times and today she finally appeared to me.”

Fr. Reilly was unsure. If someone else had said it to him he would have been sure that they were speaking symbolically. Not that he doubted Heaven and those saints who could come back to visit a bit of good on those who prayed to them. He just wasn’t sure if Nora Boyle was such.

And, if Jacinta was to go around telling people, he would have to let the Bishop know and he could imagine what he might say:
Apparitions of Nora Boyle by the side altar. Should we have RTE over to cover it for the six o’clock news?
The Bishop didn’t have time for miracles, he was far too busy trying to carry out God’s will.

“And did you find comfort in that?” He smiled as kindly as he could.

“Of course I did, Father. She told me that Danny would be kept safe. She came back from Heaven just to tell me that.”

She looked content in that, so Fr. Reilly let it pass. “But I am sure she still wants us all to do whatever we can to help him.”

“I realize that, Father. I’m not mad, you know.”

“It’s not that, Mrs. Boyle, it’s that God works His miracles through us and we all have our part to play.”

“Sure; isn’t that what Nora just told me.”

There was no point. Jacinta must have cracked again and he couldn’t blame her. The whole thing with Danny must have been too much for her but at least she seemed happy. “Will you tell Danny? It might do him good to know that we are all pulling for him.”

“Of course I’ll tell him. I tell him how I was able to get his Granny to help, not like his father. He hasn’t even raised a finger to help.”

He tried to assure her that Jerry was probably doing all that he could, but he wasn’t convincing. He rarely saw Jerry anymore; he hadn’t been to Mass in years. He felt bad about that. Jerry was lost and there was nothing poor Patrick could do about that, but there was still time for Danny.

“And Mrs. Boyle, would you ever tell Danny that I’ll say a Mass for him this Sunday. Only I won’t announce it so as not to have people talking.”

Jacinta was grateful for that and hurried off because the shops would be closing and her without anything for their tea.

*

As everyone else settled down for the night, feeling that it had been a good day, Danny snuck out his bedroom window. He had to meet Anto at midnight and he was dreading it. Anto had told him that he had a favor to ask and then they’d be even. They were to meet up on Willbrook Road. It was darker up that way and the Watchers wouldn’t be about. Anto wasn’t afraid of them; he just wanted to have a little chat in peace.