Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (37 page)

“W
here is he?” McGuire snapped into the phone at Winthrop Pepoon. “All I'm getting is voicemail at the office and at home.”

“Sam, is that you?”

“Where is he, Winnie?”

“He's in Dublin.”

“With another woman?”

“No, no, Sam,” said Pepoon. “He's with Clarence Black.”

“What the hell is he doing in Dublin?”

“I think he needed to get away.”

“I bet,” countered McGuire, “he really needed a drink.”

“That too,” Pepoon chuckled, and then turned serious. “You know you're the reason he stopped drinking. Without you, there is no reason not to drink.”

“Oh, Winnie, what am I going to do?”

“Why don't you call him?”

“He still doesn't own a cell phone,” reminded McGuire.

“But Clarence does. They're five hours ahead of us. Give him a buzz.”

“I will,” said McGuire. She then paused before saying, “Oh, Winnie, I'm so confused.”

“He misses you, Sam.”

“Does he?” asked McGuire, brightening a little.

“He misses you with all his heart,” said Pepoon. “You know he's that kind of man.”

“Yes,” said McGuire, “I know he is.”

O
'Rourke and Clarence Black were sitting at the bar of the Stag's Head, just off Dame Street. O'Rourke had been coming here since the 1960s, when he was a college student at CCNY and he had first returned to Dublin to visit his family. At night it was an asylum, dense and loud, but by day the quiet reminded him of what Joe Flaherty had once written: “The warmth of the room appealed to my Irish heart; it seemed like a blend of wood and whiskey, combining the best aspects of the womb and the coffin.”

The bar dated from Victorian times and had lived through every major event in modern Irish history. According to legend, every remarkable Irishmen, including Joyce and Collins, had bellied up to this bar. He could just imagine Collins, hunched in a snug, conspiring with one of his spies from Dublin Castle, which was just a five minute walk away. In the great James Cagney movie,
Shake Hands with the Devil
, the Black and Tans come into the bar from the Dame Lane side entrance looking for IRA man Michael O'Leary and have the tables turned on them by the hard-drinking, quick-thinking clientele.

And now the bar meant even more to O'Rourke because of the information that he had just learned about his grandparents from the archives in Lombard Street. If you walked out the door and slid through the alley to Dame Street and crossed the road, you would find yourself in front of 26 Temple Lane, Rosanna's childhood home. Temple Lane was more alley than lane and the brick façade of #26 had been altered, but there was an atmosphere that hadn't changed much since 1900 when Rosanna left here to marry O'Rourke's grandfather. And O'Rourke wondered, when they were courting, did his grandfather drop off Rosanna at her mother's house, then proceed across the street to the Stag's Head for a pint before heading down the road for his home in Camden Row? Did he sit right at this bar, in this spot, and wonder about Rosanna, her scent, and what her wonderful breasts might look like? Could he ever imagine that a century later, his grandson, an American multi-millionaire, would sit at the same bar and wonder about him, Rosanna, and another woman with marvelous breasts?

The quiet of the afternoon was broken by the ringing of Black's cell phone. Black listened, then handed the phone to O'Rourke. “It's for you,” he said with a small smile.

“Tone O'Rourke here.”

“Tone, it's Sam. I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you too,” he replied, trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.

“Tell me about St. Brigid.”

“What?”

“St. Brigid,” insisted McGuire. “You know about all the Irish saints. I know Colmcille is your favorite, but tell me of Brigid.”

“Well,” said O'Rourke, staring at Black with a look of puzzlement on his face, “she is one of the three prominent saints of Ireland, along with Patrick and Colmcille. I believe the name Brigid derives from ‘fiery arrow.'”

“Fire!” said McGuire.

“Yes, fire. Fire has always been associated with her for some reason. She is the patron saint of milkmaids—”

“Milkmaids!” said McGuire holding her breast. “What else?”

“Eye ailments.”

“Stop it!” said McGuire excitedly. “What else?”

“I think sailors and, of all things, bastards.”

“Bastards!”

“Yes,” said O'Rourke, “bastards.”

“Tone,” McGuire said excitedly, “we have a bastard.”

“Well, you know, Sam,” O'Rourke almost whispered into the phone, “we can change that.”

“You're damn right we can.”

“Suits me,” said O'Rourke. “When can you get here?”

“Oh, Tone,” replied McGuire, “you've made me so happy.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Oh, I met this wonderful woman at the beach yesterday, who predicted we'd have a child and would be happy. You can't image what has been happening to me. Brigid Dillon knows all about children—she had fourteen of her own—and she says we're going to have a baby that will fill us with joy.”

“Brigid Dillon?”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes—and no.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well,” started out O'Rourke slowly, “my paternal grandmother was named Brigid Dillon and she married my grandfather, Seán O'Rourke, and they had fourteen children, including my father. But I never met either of them. They died way before I was even born.”

“Where were they from?”

“County Louth.”

“The Wee County!”

“Yes, how do you know that?”

“Your grandmother told me.”

O
'Rourke and Black waited for Sam McGuire to clear Irish customs. She had flown from Tortola to London on British Airways and then popped over to Dublin on Aer Lingus. O'Rourke waited for the first black face to appear, then ran to it.

“
Fáilte go Éireann
,” said O'Rourke as he embraced McGuire. “Welcome to Ireland.”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him as hard as she could. “I thought I'd never see you again,” she said then hugged O'Rourke again. “I never want to let you go again,” she confessed. She then started to cry.

“Jesus,” said O'Rourke, “don't cry or I'll be howling too.”

“Hey,” said Black, “doesn't the hired help around here get a kiss too?”

“Oh, Clarence,” said McGuire, pecking him on the cheek, “I'm so happy to see you guys.”

“You mean this guy,” said Black, pointing a thumb at O'Rourke.

“Especially this guy,” agreed McGuire.

“Let me look at you,” said O'Rourke and for the first time he could see McGuire's protruding belly. “You both look great!” was all he could say.

“Well,” said Black, “I got a plane to catch.”

“Where you going?” asked McGuire.

“Back to New York,” replied Black, “taking the 10:30 Aer Lingus flight.”

“Do you have to go?” asked McGuire.

“Hey,” said Black, “if I want to sit around with a bunch of harps in bars, I can do that at Hogan's Moat!”

McGuire laughed, but then frowned. “I thought you weren't drinking,” she directed at O'Rourke.

“I wasn't,” he replied, “until you left me.”

“Well,” McGuire replied, “I'm back, and I'm staying.”

“Okay, you guys,” said Black. “I'll see you back in New York. We have a busy fall ahead of us.” Black looked up at a television monitor where CNN International was playing. “Holy shit,” he said, then began laughing. It was Jackie Swift, Madonna-Sue, young Vitoessa, and the newest member of the family, just weeks old, whom they were waving around as the newest product of their family values beliefs.

“What's going on?” asked O'Rourke.

“The Republican National Convention,” replied McGuire.

“I see they have the new kid working already,” said O'Rourke, shaking his head.

“You know what they call her?” queried McGuire. Both Black and O'Rourke shook their heads. “Julie-Annie.”

Both men started laughing. “No fucking way,” said O'Rourke.

“It's true,” said McGuire, “they named the kid after Mayor Giuliani.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” was all Clarence Black could say.

“That's why I love Dublin,” said O'Rourke, “you get to miss all this disgusting shit.”

They said goodbye to Black one more time, then left the terminal, and O'Rourke waved his limousine to the curb. “My God, Tone,” said McGuire, surprised and cheeky all at once, “you sprang for a limo. You actually spent some money!”

“Hey,” said O'Rourke, “you make me sound cheap. I'm not cheap,” he protested.

“Not much!”

“Shaddup and get in,” and McGuire hopped in, helped by a tap on the bottom by O'Rourke.

“Some things never change,” she said, not really protesting.

“Let's go down O'Connell Street, then work your way to Wood Quay,” O'Rourke told the driver. “Use the city streets on the North Side.” Soon they were driving through Phibsborough and down the North Circular Road. “That's Mountjoy Prison,” pointed out O'Rourke. “This is O'Casey territory,” said O'Rourke, indicating Sean O'Casey's birthplace on Dorset Street. McGuire nodded, groggy from the trip and excited to be seeing Dublin for the first time on such a beautiful summer's day. Then they were driving down Parnell Square, zipping past the birthplace of Oliver St. John Gogarty, Joyce's Buck Mulligan.

“There it is,” said O'Rourke, pointing out the General Post Office in O'Connell Street. “That's where the revolution started. Doesn't the tricolor look beautiful today?” His pride in Ireland was evident in his voice. The limo swung onto the south quays and soon they were in front of Sts. Michael's and John's. They got out of the limo, and O'Rourke took McGuire's hand. “Take the bags to the Shelbourne,” he told the driver. “We'll walk back from here.”

“The Shelbourne,” repeated McGuire. “So you are spending some bucks.”

“Yeah,” deadpanned O'Rourke, “I'm trying to impress this broad I know.” McGuire gave him a solid whack and O'Rourke knew they were one again. “Come on,” he said, pulling her by the hand. They climbed the steps to the church and surveyed the River Liffey before them. “That's the Four Courts,” said O'Rourke, pointing to the left, “and that's the Ha'penny Bridge,” he said, thrusting an arm to his right. O'Rourke had his left arm around McGuire, holding onto her hip and buttock.

“Still like that ass, I see,” she said.

“I see there's more to like.”

“I should whack you.”

“But you won't.”

“But I won't.” He kissed her gently on the lips and then just licked the tip of her nose with his tongue. “You're going to get me in trouble,” she said.

“I already got you in trouble!” he returned, and they both broke into laughter. “This is Saints Michael's & John's Roman Catholic Church, now, sadly, defunct. A historic Dublin landmark. First Catholic chapel in Ireland to peal a bell after the passing of the Catholic Emancipation Laws in 1829.”

“As usual,” replied McGuire, “you know your history.”

“Do you know what happened here on Monday, September 17, 1900?”

“I don't have a clue,” she said.

“My mother's parents were married in this church,” he said. “If that hadn't happened, I wouldn't be here, and neither would that baby.” They remained silent and watched as a bird swooped down on the Liffey and plucked a fish from the river before flying off in the direction of Chapelizard.

“Wow,” said McGuire quietly. “Nineteen hundred—a hundred years ago next month.”

“Yeah,” said O'Rourke. “Long time ago. Queen Victoria's last visit to Dublin. I bet the old Famine Queen must have driven right by here on her way to the Vice Regal Lodge in Phoenix Park.”

“The Famine Queen?” asked McGuire.

“The Irish never forget,” laughed O'Rourke.

“Tell me about it!”

“So right here,” continued O'Rourke, “my grandparents, Rosanna Conway and Joseph Kavanagh, were wed. And I can't think of a better place to ask you this: Will you marry me?”

McGuire stood mute, she was caught so off-guard by the question. Then tears filled her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Tone. Yes, I will marry you.” They embraced each other and she sobbed heavily into his shoulder, totally overcome, this time with overwhelming joy.

O'Rourke and McGuire walked back to Dame Street then cut up Church Lane and across Suffolk Street where it became Nassau. They stopped by Molly Malone's statue at the foot of Grafton Street. “She is known,” said O'Rourke, “as the Tart with the Cart.”

McGuire laughed. “I think I love Dublin,” she said.

The most prominent thing about Molly Malone were her fabulous breasts. McGuire pointed to them, then at all the cleavage coming at them from Grafton Street. “I've seen more boob here in fifteen minutes than I've seen in New York all year.”

O'Rourke laughed. “Yeah. When the temperatures go up, the tops go down.”

“No kidding,” laughed McGuire.

“Something to do with dairy, I believe,” said O'Rourke as he pulled Sam by the hand. “Come on, I have to get you something.” Just in from Grafton Street was the College Jewelers. He took McGuire by the hand and led her into the store. “You'll need an engagement ring and a wedding ring, Sam. Go to it.” O'Rourke stood back and watched McGuire, who was like a kid in a candy store.

“Oh boy,” she said. “Oh boy!” She tried on several engagement rings, found what she liked, then looked for a matching set of gold wedding rings. “Come here,” she said. “Let's get a fitting.”

“For me?”

“Who else?”

“Well, my father never wore a wedding ring.”

“Well,” she said, “you're going to wear a wedding ring. I'm not letting you wander all over New York like a dog without a license.”

“Gee,” said O'Rourke, “great analogy.”

“You know what I mean,” McGuire said, seriously.

“I know what you mean,” he replied. “But I don't think you'll have to worry. You're the last woman I'll ever belong to.”

“You only have one other choice if you break that promise.”

“What?”

“Death.”

“Gotcha.”

It took forty-five minutes, but McGuire found what she wanted. The bill was nearly fifteen thousand dollars. “Can we afford this?” she asked, concerned.

“Yes,” was all O'Rourke said in response.

They came out of the jewelry shop and walked along Nassau Street hand in hand. They turned right on Kildare Street and walked toward St. Stephen's Green. At the corner they turned and entered the Shelbourne Hotel. In their suite, McGuire was blown away by the view of the Green. “It's so, so . . . ”

“Green?” replied O'Rourke.

They both laughed, then they kissed, and O'Rourke's hands were all over McGuire's ass and he was rubbing her belly and he was as hard as he could be. McGuire dropped to her knees and O'Rourke unbuckled himself and McGuire pulled down his zipper and his underwear, and then her mouth was on his cock and her hands were under his balls.

“Oh, man,” she said, “I missed these.”

Soon McGuire was stripped bare and O'Rourke ogled her different naked body. She was bigger and rounder in places and just looking at her made his engorged cock extend well beyond his bellybutton.

“I see you finally got those humongous tits you always wanted.”

“There's that word again, Tone, humongous. Your humongous balls and my humongous tits. What a pair of pairs!”

“You're something,” was all O'Rourke could muster.

“Man, I just love your cockadoo,” said McGuire as she played with O'Rourke's erect penis, pulling it and letting it go as if it was the arm of a slot machine. She giggled at his hardness. “Boy, are you glad to see me!”

“Only you can do this to me.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” replied McGuire.

They went to the bed and O'Rourke's hands were all over her. Before she knew it, she was laid back on the bed and he had buried his head between her legs. All she could see over her bump was the top of O'Rourke's gray head, like he was her gynecologist, but then a shiver ran up her loins.

“My God,” she said, “what are you doing down there?”