The Parting Glass (46 page)

“Croissants,” Niccolo said, placing the white bag filled with pastries on the kitchen table of St. Brigid’s rectory. “From the bakery around the corner from my house.”

Iggy looked rapturous. “I’ve got coffee and eggs to go with them.”

The housekeeper made passable coffee and excellent scrambled eggs. The morning was looking up.

They served themselves from a pan on the stove and poured their coffee, taking it back to the table. Iggy took a croissant and broke it open, holding it up for Niccolo to see.

Niccolo looked at Iggy’s uplifted hands and was reminded of his dream, of the fact that the dream recurred and recurred and each time alarmed him more.

“You always know exactly what to buy,” Iggy said. “You have an unerring instinct about food. Only the best, the freshest. The Italians and the French. What would the world do without them?” He popped a bite of croissant in his mouth and smiled blissfully. “What would I do without you, Niccolo?”

Niccolo had planned on small talk. Discussions of next week’s fund-raiser to upgrade the parish hall, whether to cut down a tree menacing the St. Brigid’s parking lot, if Brick should move forward with renovations on the new house even though they would have to make them on a wing and a prayer. Now he couldn’t utter a syllable.

“Niccolo?”

Niccolo looked up and knew he could only talk about one thing. “I dreamed I was celebrating Mass. It’s a dream I have frequently.” He paused, then exhaled audibly. “Nightly.”

“Since you moved on from active priesthood?”

Niccolo appreciated the way Iggy had phrased that. “No.”

“When did it start?”

Niccolo didn’t answer.

“With your marriage.” Iggy did not phrase it as a question.

“Yes.” Niccolo lifted his fork and slid eggs on to it. They tasted like rubber.

“Let me guess further,” Iggy said, popping another piece of croissant into his mouth. “Not right away. After the honeymoon?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“I don’t!” Niccolo looked up, ashamed at his own sharp tone. “I’m sorry. Where did that come from?”

“I believe you’re angry, Niccolo. That’s where it came from. But don’t worry, I know the anger isn’t directed at me.”

“I am angry. I feel like I’m being punished. I don’t need these reminders of what I left behind. I don’t need to walk around with a guilty conscience.”

“You think God is punishing you?”

“No, God and I are fine. I’m punishing myself. And I don’t understand why.”

“Of course you don’t, because that’s not what’s happening.”

Niccolo didn’t know what to say to that. He had pondered his dreams over and over and gotten nowhere. Now Iggy, who had just heard the story, seemed to understand what Niccolo himself could not.

“What
is
happening?” Niccolo said.

“I think we have to back up.” Iggy started on his eggs.

“Back up to what?”

“To those moments not so long ago when you stood at the altar.”

“In the dream?”

Iggy looked up. “No, in real life. Back to the days when you did celebrate Mass.”

Niccolo smiled ruefully. “I’ll back up to my days in utero if you think it will help.”

“I think that’s a bit premature. Start with Mass.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Do you remember how you felt at those moments?”

“United with God. As if He were working through me. Humbled. Reverent.” Niccolo shrugged.

“Always?”

“Truthfully?”

“I think that would be most helpful, don’t you?”

“No. Sometimes I was thinking about everything else I had to do that day. And at the end of my tenure at St. Rose of Lima, when I knew I would be leaving soon, I was thinking about how sad it would be not to stand at that altar anymore.”

“Just sad?”

“Relieved, as well,” Niccolo admitted.

“And?”

Niccolo tried to dig deeper, without success. He shrugged.

“Put yourself there, Niccolo. Put yourself back in the robes for a moment. What are you doing in the dream?”

“Holding up the host.”

“Imagine it, then.”

Niccolo put down his fork. He was not comfortable with this, but comfort had little to do with getting past the problem. He had counseled too many people himself not to know this.

“I’m standing at the altar. I feel sad that I won’t be doing this much longer, but glad that my decision’s been made.” He could almost feel the cool, humid air of St. Rose surrounding him, hear the slide of clothing against wooden pews, the occasional wail of an infant.

“It’s easy to say the words. I know them so well. I’ve repeated them so many times. I could do this every day until I died without stumbling over a word.”

“And what are the people in the church thinking about you?”

“That I know exactly what I’m doing. That I’m their leader and they can trust me to do what’s right.”

“You know that you’ll be leaving soon. You say you’re glad the decision has been made….”

“I am.” Niccolo remembered the relief well. The decision had been anything but easy, but with it had finally come peace.

“What else?” Iggy prompted.

“Fear.” Niccolo looked up. “No, terror.”

“Ah…”

“Not terror that I’d chosen wrong, but terror about what I would do next. I knew I was supposed to be a priest from the moment I was old enough to think about a vocation. My parents wanted it for me, my grandparents did. I thought I wanted it for myself.”

“And when you discovered it wasn’t right for you, Niccolo, how much time did you have to think about what
was
right?”

“I gave myself time afterwards, remember? That’s why I came here to Cleveland. I wanted time to think about what to do next. I bought my house and started working on it as a stopgap measure. I was going to sell it for some extra cash when I’d finished.”

“And little by little the neighborhood kids came to see what you were doing, and before long Brick was born.”

“Brick feels right, Iggy. Brick is the right thing for me to be doing.”

“I have no doubt about that.”

“And I fell in love with Megan. And I knew that was right, too.”

“Again, I have no doubts.”

“Then what?”

“Niccolo, you’re standing at the altar. And you’re feeling great confidence about what you’re doing. You could do it every day for the rest of your life without making one mistake. The people in the pews have confidence in you.” Iggy quirked a brow in question. “Was this, perhaps, the very last time you knew exactly what to do?”

Niccolo couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen this himself. The truth of it washed over him. Doors swung open, and for a moment he was engulfed in fear. He couldn’t speak.

Iggy spoke for him. “You knew how to be a priest. You were slated to become one, nudged into it, trained, supervised, nurtured along the way. But who ever taught you to become a husband?”

Niccolo closed his eyes.

“On the contrary,” Iggy said. “You were taught the best ways
not
to become one. How to avoid intimacy. How to be celibate. How to avoid loving a woman.”

So in his dreams, Niccolo, feeling his way into marriage, trying and yes, failing badly, returned to the moments when he
had
known exactly what to do, and when the people surrounding him believed in his powers and competence.

The fear was fading a little, and relief was seeping into the hollows fear abandoned. Relief that the dream had been not self-flagellation but enlightenment.

“I
don’t
know how to be a husband.” He opened his eyes. “I’m doing a really lousy job of it.”

“Tell me how you went about being a priest?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What did you try to do for your parish?”

This seemed so obvious that Niccolo didn’t understand the need to recite it. “I struggled to make it the best parish I could, the way any priest does. I worked all day, every day, counseled, prayed, visited, administered—”

“Does that sound familiar?”

Now Niccolo understood. This truth, too, had been so easy to see, yet he had missed it. “I’ve been going about being a husband the way I went about being a priest.”

“Exactly.” Iggy went back to his eggs, which had certainly grown cold, as had Niccolo’s own.

“Because it was the only thing I knew to do,” Niccolo continued. “It
is
the only thing I know to do.”

“Of course it is. You were trained for the priesthood practically from the cradle. So you took what you knew how to do so well and transferred everything you’d learned into your marriage.”

“I don’t know how to be a good husband.” The truth was hard to swallow. Niccolo believed himself to be a good person. Surely a good man with good intentions should know how to give the woman he loved what she needed.

“Tell me. What does Megan want from you?”

The truth was so simple that Niccolo winced. “Intimacy.”

“And what have you been giving her?”

“I’ve been trying to make things perfect again. Renovate the saloon, make Brick something to be proud of. I wanted us to start a family right away. I wanted everything to be perfect.”

“You want what a marriage
looks
like, not what a marriage
feels
like.”

“Megan wants
me.
She doesn’t care about the trappings. They come with time. But I’m good at trappings. I’m right at home when I’m working hard.”

“And where does the image in the tunnel fit into all this?”

“I was giving the image and the people who were flocking to see it more time and attention and love than I was giving her.” Niccolo didn’t need Iggy to point out why. “Because the image was something I understood. People’s need for faith and hope was something I understood.”

“And marriage was not.”

“Intimacy.” Niccolo shook his head. “It wasn’t a big enough project. It wasn’t something I could throw myself into and see results.”

“So?” Iggy looked up.

“I feel like a fool. The harder I worked to make things right, the worse they got. All I ever had to do was stop working and start listening.”

“She’ll be coming home, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. She’s got a saloon to run.”

“And in the meantime, you’ll have some time to ponder this.”

Niccolo thought about all he had nearly lost. He just hoped it wasn’t too late to reclaim it.

He hoped it wasn’t too late to learn how.

Casey was just going up the front walkway when Niccolo drove up to his house. He was surprised to see her, but he supposed she had come to look in on her father.

He hadn’t talked to her for a few days, because he had been too busy. No surprise there.

Niccolo pulled into the space in front and got out. “He’s doing great,” Niccolo said from behind her. “I should have called to let you know. I’m sorry.”

Casey turned. She wasn’t in maternity clothes yet, but she was wearing an oversized T-shirt over leggings, probably for comfort. She looked rested and content. He hoped the worst of the morning sickness was over.

“Rooney? Don’t give it a thought. I’ve seen him every day. I pop by late in the afternoon, before you get home. I bring him something for his dinner or invite him to our house, but he’s told me in no uncertain terms that Megan’s cooking is better. He misses her.”

“So do I.” He paused. “Enormously.”

“Good.” She waited on the porch until he unlocked the door; then she preceded him inside.

“Can I fix you something?” Niccolo asked. “I have decaf coffee if you’re not drinking regular these days. Juice—”

“Nothing. I just came to tell you I’m going to Ireland.”

“I don’t believe it. You, too?”

“Why should they have all the fun?”

He ushered her into the living room, and Casey flopped down on the sofa, automatically hugging one of Megan’s quilted pillows as if it were the baby to be. “Megan called last night. Irene’s health is pretty precarious, and I got to thinking. What if she dies before I make the trip to meet her? Once my pregnancy is further along, I won’t be able to travel long distances. Then once the baby’s here, I won’t want to travel until he or she is ready. I have some comp time. Between that and vacation days, I can spare a few days there, then a few days here to recover from jet lag before I go back to work.”

“And you don’t want to miss anything. Them there, you here.”

“You know me well.” Her eyes lit up. “Want to come with me? Just drop everything and come?”

He considered, but in the end he shook his head. “No. I have too much to do.”

“Nick, I—”

He held up his hand. “I know, Casey. I know what you’re thinking. I’ve really been an idiot. But I have loose ends here that need to be tied up before my wife comes home. I think I understand a lot more than I did before she left. And I want our reunion to be here, in Cleveland. Just the two of us.” He smiled a little. “Not surrounded by avenging Irish-American redheads.”

“Aren’t you funny.” But she smiled, too. “She adores you, you know.”

“I adore her.”

“Good.” Casey got to her feet. “Is Rooney up? Will he be okay with you guys for a week? Jon says he’ll look in on him every day.”

“We’ll all bach it. We’ll take good care of him. Why don’t you find him and explain, but see me before you go, okay?”

“Sure.” She looked curious.

“I just got back from St. Brigid’s. Father Brady found more letters from Maura McSweeney, and these have been translated. The copies are in my car. When I saw you going up the walk, I forgot to bring them in, but you can take them to Ireland with you. There’s quite a stack. I hope they provide some insights.” He paused. “And if you dawdle with your dad a little, I’ll have time to add a letter of my own. To Megan.”

She nodded, understanding. “I’ll read them on the plane—except the one to my sister.”

“Thank you.”

She crossed the room and kissed his cheek.

1925

Castlebar, County Mayo

My dearest Patrick,

Your letters are my greatest indulgence, both those I read and those I write to you. So it was with much joy that I opened your last. I fixed a pot of tea and took it to the parlor where the light is best. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t seen that letter with my others, that it had slipped unnoticed to the ground, never to be found again.