Children in the Morning (15 page)

About listening, and about not getting my story done after I promised Mum I would do it. So I trudged back to my room and got to work.

But then I couldn’t help it; I got curious, and crept out to the register to hear if there was anything new. They were talking about little things, and about getting together with Daddy for dinner later on in the week. I was just about to get back to work when I heard the name Giacomo. I didn’t understand everything they said but it was like this:

“He wants me to sign this, acknowledging that he’s Dominic’s father. Then we can work out an arrangement. The arrangement they have in mind is shared custody, six months with me, six months with him and his family in Italy. That can’t happen!”

“We won’t let it happen.”

“You don’t know his family.”

“Do you?”

“No, but I’ve certainly had an earful about them from Giacomo.

He is their only son. Now they’ve found out about Dominic, who they believe is their grandson and the only one they have. They are a very powerful family in Panzano, in the Chianti region, and they have a winemaking business that has been passed down along the line of first-born sons for generations. You can be sure they’re determined.

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They’d be the ones bankrolling the lawyer and his upcoming trip to Nova Scotia. So here’s the document they want me to sign, acknowledging that Giacomo is the father. I’d rather get up before the judge and claim that all I can remember about the time of Dominic’s conception is that I was entertaining the entire nato fleet!”

“I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you weren’t entertaining the fleet or any part of it.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re not a little tart —” (Little tart? That’s what he said!) “— and I wouldn’t like to see you stoop to portraying yourself as one.”

“All right, all right, Father. Thy will be done.”

“That’s the spirit. So, have you contacted your lawyer?”

“I’ve tried. I left a message, but she hasn’t returned my call yet.”

“Get someone else, then.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I want Val Tanner.”

“Surely there are other lawyers you can call upon.”

“Let me tell you a story, Brennan. A father goes into a restaurant with his little boy. He gives the boy three nickels to play with, to keep him occupied. Suddenly, the boy starts choking, turning blue in the face. The dad realizes the kid has swallowed the nickels, and he starts slapping him on the back. The boy coughs up two of the coins, but keeps choking. The father is panicking, calling for help. An attractive woman in a business suit is at a nearby table reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. She looks up, puts down her coffee, neatly folds her paper and places it on the table, gets up and makes her way, in no hurry, across the restaurant.

“Reaching the boy, she gently pulls down his pants, takes hold of his testicles —” (It was Mum telling this, not me!) “— and starts to squeeze, gently at first and then more firmly. After a few seconds of this, the boy has a violent convulsion and coughs up the last nickel, which the woman deftly catches in her free hand. She releases her grip on the boy, hands the nickel to the father and walks back to her seat without a word.

“The father rushes over, thanks her, and says: ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before. Are you a doctor?’

“‘No,’ she answers. ‘Divorce lawyer.’”

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“That story is about . . .”

“Val Tanner.”

“I get it. So call her again.”

“I will. I don’t want to bug her at home.”

“Bug her at home. Just get her on the phone long enough to see if she’s going to take your case.”

I heard Mummy make a phone call, then say she was sorry and hoped the person would be feeling better soon.

“Oh, Val, no! There’s no need of that. I’ll find somebody. You get some rest. Well, if you’re sure, thank you very, very much.” Then she hung up.

“Val is off sick. If she says she’s sick, that means she’s flat on her back. But now she’s up worrying about this! Said she’s going to call someone else for me. Told me to stand by. Normie!”

Uh-oh. I got up and tiptoed into my room, then stomped out again. “Did you call me, Mum? I couldn’t really hear you.”

“Yes, sweetheart. How’s that story coming along?”

“Good.”

“Got it done?”

“Almost. Or kind of.”

“Do you have any other homework?”

“Not really.”

“Get it done, so you won’t be late going to bed!”

“Okay.”

So I went into my room and worked on the story. I made up a really sweet striped kitty who lived secretly in our backyard, and a really mean bird with dirty, raggedy feathers, who pecked at other birds and animals. My kitty ate him and spit him out, then went on to have all kinds of adventures. I was nearly done when the phone rang. Out I went to the spy post.

Mum was saying to the person on the phone: “Well! I knew Val was working above and beyond the call of duty, but I didn’t expect her to bring in the big, um — big kahuna, right! I’m sure you have enough on your plate without another legal dispute . . . I really appreciate it, as you can imagine. Yes, I have the agreement here. The baby is sick, so I won’t bring it over to you tonight, but . . . No! Don’t do that! Okay. See you in ten.”

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She hung up, and said to Father Burke: “You’ll never guess who’s on his way over here.”

“My guess would be another bollocks-squeezing barrister, recommended by Val Tanner.”

“Not just a barrister. Val’s senior partner. Who is . . . Beau Delaney!”

“What? He’s still working?”

“Of course he is. Under the radar. Val called and told him about my panicked call to her, and he’s offered to handle it for me himself.”

“Well! Is he allowed to do this?”

“I don’t know what his arrangements are. You’d have to ask Monty. But don’t! Whatever the case, Beau wants to help behind the scenes.”

“Never a dull moment in this place.”

“I could use a dull moment. Anyway, I told him I couldn’t bring the document over to him tonight.”

“I could drop it off.”

“No need. As I say, he’s coming over. You can get going, Brennan.

I know you have a class to teach.”

“I’ve got some time yet. I think I’ll stick around.”

“How come? You think Delaney’s going to toss me down the stairs?” She said it like a joke, but Father Burke didn’t make a joke back at her.

So Mr. Delaney came over to our house. I went down the stairs and saw him give Mummy a big hug, and she nearly disappeared.

She’s not a little tiny person but he’s a lot bigger.

“Beau, you didn’t have to do this. I know there are other things on your mind these days, including, but not limited to, your own ten kids! This isn’t a breach of your bail conditions, is it?”

“No, they didn’t think to include my lawyer’s spouse on the list of forbidden contacts!”

He and Father Burke said hi to each other. Mr. Delaney saw me then and came over and put his hand on my curls, and said: “How are you this evening, Miss Normie?”

“Fine, thank you, Mr. Delaney.”

“Good. Jenny and Laurence really like the Four-Four Time program, so thanks for getting them into it.”

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“You’re welcome. Is it true they made a movie about you?”

“It’s true, they did, but they wouldn’t let me star in it! Guess they figured I’d chew the scenery if I played myself.”

“That’s not very nice of them. You wouldn’t chew up all the scenery!”

“No, that just means I’d ham it up too much. And I would!”

“Still, that’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, it was fun. So, where’s your baby brother?”

I blurted out: “Do you have to see him?” Then I realized I was rude because Mr. Delaney looked as if I’d said something mean. It was only for a second but I could tell his feelings were hurt. As if I thought he really was a killer. So I said: “He’s sick. I wouldn’t want you to catch something.”

“Oh, well, thank you, Normie. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure I don’t pick up any germs.”

“Okay. I’ll go get him.”

Dominic was asleep and there was crusty stuff around his nose, so I wiped it gently without waking him up. I lifted him from his crib and carried him out to meet Mr. Delaney.

“Isn’t he a sweet little fellow!” He reached out and took the baby from me. He held him in one arm and kept looking at him. Dominic seemed even tinier than usual, compared to this great big lawyer. He woke up and stared at Mr. Delaney for a few minutes, then fell back asleep. “All that black hair! And the dark, dark eyes. Definitely got a Mediterranean look going on there.”

“Whose side are you on, Beau?”

“Yours, Maura, never fear! I’ll have the judge convinced the child is a Swede before I’m finished.”

“Oh, God, please don’t talk about judges. We can’t let it go that far!”

“Don’t worry, my love, it won’t go that far.”

He looked over at Father Burke, then back at Mum, and said: “So, got any black-Irish relations we can trot out in front of the court?

Old Grandpa Dominic-
dubh
, black Dominic, they called him back in the old country. That kind of thing?”

“Red- and brown-haired Scots is all I have.”

“Great-grandma has black eyes, Mum.”

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“That’s all we need, old Morag involved in this.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked her.

“She’s my grandmother. She has the sight. Very spooky.”

“Hmm. Maybe we’ll bring her in to frighten the intruder away.”

“We’d better come up with another plan.”

“Oh, we will. Trust me.”

Mr. Delaney gave Dominic back to me, and said: “All right, let’s get to work.”

“Can I get you anything, Beau? Drink? Snack?”

“Nothing, thanks, Maura. Let’s have a seat and go over our options.”

Mummy turned to me and said: “Homework and bed, Normie, in that order. I’ll be up to tuck you in. Off you go.”

So I gave Dominic to her, said good night to them, and went upstairs. I grabbed my books and sat down at the register to listen. But they must have stayed in the living room because I couldn’t hear them.

I finished my story instead, and then did a math page I had almost forgotten about, wrote down all the important events of the day in my diary, and then called Mummy to come up and tuck me in.

(Monty)

“Is there a Matthew anywhere in the Delaney files?” That was Maura, who called me at the office Friday morning.

“What do you mean?”

“Was there a client by that name, or a victim of one of his clients?”

“I don’t know. It’s a popular name. Why?”

“Normie was muttering that name over and over as she was falling asleep last night. She was in the den with me. I was watching the news and trying to get her up off the chesterfield and into her bed.

She was bundled up in the quilt, her eyes were closing, and she kept saying: ‘Matthew. It’s Matthew.’ I tried to find out what she meant but she drifted off. I asked her the next morning who Matthew was.

Was it the name of a boy at school or the brother of a friend?

“She said there are a couple of Matthews at school but she hardly knows them. Why was I asking? I told her she had said the name in her sleep. She just gave me a blank look. Didn’t remember a thing.”

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“Well, it doesn’t strike a chord with me. Why did you think it had something to do with Delaney?”

My wife didn’t answer right away. Eventually, she said: “It’s just that she looked upset, fretful, when she was saying the name. She looked the way she does when she has the spells, or the nightmares, whatever they are.”

“I’ll look through my file. But I hope I don’t find anything because I won’t want to deal with it! Remember, Normie’s experiences may have nothing to do with Delaney. It may be something else altogether bothering Normie. Is there something else, Maura?”

Maura was silent again for a long moment, then said: “Giacomo’s been around.”

Him
again.

“But I can deal with him,” she asserted.

“You can’t expect her to understand that. Kids take things to heart.”

“I realize that, Monty, but she’s seeing something else altogether.

A child being mistreated. Giacomo may be a nuisance, but he’s not somebody who should be taken off the streets because he’s a danger to children. So I’ll consult those clippings again.”

“I hope you’re right.” She probably was. “And we can forget all about your Italian interlude.”

Big mistake. Her silence would be short-lived, and I knew I was in for it.

“Speaking of Italian interludes, Collins, it strikes me that you and Father Burke have been a little evasive on the subject of the road trip you boys took to Italy. Even the most benign questions are met by bland answers that convey very little by way of information, yet speak volumes to those of us who weren’t born yesterday. What did you do?

Nothing, apparently. Who did you meet? Sister Kitty Curran and Father What’s-his-name at the Vatican, and Brother So-and-so at a monastery. Am I to believe you did nothing but consort with known nuns, priests, and monks when you were in the land of wine, women, and song, and thus maintained the decorum of nuns, priests, and monks yourselves? Would you care to answer that, Collins?”

Anything I said would be, well, evasive, so I evaded her questions by claiming the sudden appearance of a penniless widow who was being evicted from her apartment and needed my kind assistance.

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