White Man's Problems (6 page)

John got off the train at Thirtieth Street and walked up the ramp to grab the SEPTA line to Media. Inevitably, Mike became too deep in whatever he did. There was talk that he had done something really bad and gotten sideways with the wrong guys in Philly, who made him drive to New York City every Thursday and drop a package off in Hell's Kitchen. But Mike was back in the neighborhood by the seventh or eighth inning in the summer or the third quarter of a Big East game in the winter. No one asked any questions, and Mike spent most of the rest of his time in taprooms and at the OTB. John pulled the third beer out of his backpack after he sat down on the local commuter train. In a half hour, he would be home.

4.

A
t the gray stone cathedral where the Donegans were baptized, confirmed, and married, where they confessed, and where they said good-bye to their mother, the mourners prepared for the homily. After the opening liturgical matters, Father Walsh spoke.

“There are many interpretations of the angel Michael and many versions of Saint Michael throughout history. The ancient Hebrews viewed Michael as a field commander in the army of God. In
Paradise Lost
, John Milton's Michael fought Satan as the leader of the army of angels, taking wounds in the process. In our Holy Roman and Apostolic Catholic faith, we celebrate Saint Michael the archangel, the guardian of the church brought here by our heavenly Father to protect us against the supreme enemy Satan and all of the fallen angels. As with the archangel, our Michael Donegan often saw it as his duty to protect us. Michael took wounds in the service of the Lord, Jesus Christ. Always on the lookout for evil that might face us, whether by serving in the armed forces or loving his family in the manner in which he did, as we all remember the bond between Michael Christopher and his mother, our dear Rosemary, God bless her beautiful soul. Though Michael had many shortcomings and was a sinner like the rest of the holy children of the Father, he was in his soul a protector of Christ, an archangel in the spirit of his namesake, Saint Michael. Today he comes back into the heart of Jesus Christ and rejoins the Holy Spirit. He is returning to the house of the Lord. Let us read from the Gospel of Saint Mark…”

When the service was over, John went to find Bobby Murray, whom he saw sitting alone in the back. He found him outside the church, smiling and chatting with a few people. He was a big guy, a lot heavier than John remembered. He was the only black person at the funeral, a well-known regular at the same bars as Mike. Last John knew, he was in the union at Boeing.

“Bobby, hey man,” John said.

“Hey, Jack.” The two hugged. “Long time. Sorry about Mike, man.”

“Thanks, thanks. Hey, seriously, thanks for coming.”

“Aw, c'mon,” said Bobby. “Let me tell you something. Mike was a friend of mine. Me and him went way back. Way back. He was a stone-cold dude, but he was a
warrior
, you know what I mean? He was a good guy, your brother. God bless him.”

“Will you come over the house for a while?”

“I'm gonna try to stop by. I gotta go to work, you know. It's busy as hell down there. I'll try. Hey, where's Donny?”

“Back there with my dad,” said John.

“All right,” Bobby said. He shook John's hand and headed toward the church. “I might see you later.”

5.

J
ohn's old friends, Kenny and Maria, drove him to his father's house after the burial. There wasn't enough room in the hearse, and John didn't want Mary Meehan feeling awkward. John preferred to be with his friends for a few minutes before diving back in anyway.

“Ok.” Maria had printed out a list of the most popular things from 1978.

Kenny said, “Probably disco.”

“That's right, said Maria. “‘Stayin' Alive.' Bee Gees.”

“Perfect,” said John.

John and Kenny were best friends since being assigned the same locker at Indian Lane Junior High School. John had been in New York City for the past fifteen years, and they didn't see each other much. Ken was an offensive lineman in high school who got a CPA and became an accountant for a mobile-phone start-up. Maria, always the smartest, had a law degree and did real estate part time as she raised the kids. Kenny and Maria were a couple since tenth grade, and John was the third wheel. John had a few girlfriends float in and out, but mainly it had been the three of them.

As he looked at Maria from the backseat, John thought about how different she was from his sisters. She was a bright, brutally articulate girl from an educated, if still poor, Italian family. Her father taught art history at the community college, and her mother, Angela, was an Italian immigrant thrust into the role of American housewife. Angela Ursotti and Maria went to Mass together constantly, even through high school, when most girls avoided their mothers. It was the one true thing Maria shared with her mother, and while she did it out of duty and loyalty, she also developed faith. Maria loved Flannery O'Connor and Thomas Aquinas and had no problem telling lawyers' kids from the sprawling neighborhoods of Upper Providence with more secular, agnostic tastes that they were morons.

“Let's see, what else?” said Maria. She read through the list. “Pete Rose, three thousandth hit…Pope John Paul I dies, John Paul II takes over…
Darkness on the Edge of Town
released.”

“Wow.
Darkness
,”
said John.

“
Badlands
,” said Kenny.

“
Promised Land
,” said Maria. “Who won the World Series?”

“Yankees,” said Kenny.

“I hate the Yankees,” said John. And then, after a second, “Mike hated the Yankees.”

“Me, too,” said Kenny, eyes on the road.

“Me, too,” said Maria. “Fuck the Yankees.”

6.

W
henever John returned to Pennsylvania, the first thing that grabbed his attention was the smoke. Cigarettes blended with the smell of the fireplaces burning all over their block. The surfaces in the house had not been redone in twenty or maybe thirty years, and the yellows had gone brown and the greens a dull gray. The house seemed smaller each time he returned, more decrepit, more Catholic. Christ was everywhere, as were the faded mass cards with inscriptions like
In Memory of Margaret Dugan
or
Walter Coughlin—Blessed Be Thy Soul
over watercolor pictures of Jesus with a golden tunic, chestnut beard and hair, and those blue, blue eyes. And today there was a new one that read
Forever in our hearts, Michael Christopher Donegan Jr.
, with the blessed Virgin Mary in a blue frock with a tilted head and beams of light shooting out of her hands.

John was greeted with slaps of hello all around from cousins, neighbors, and nephews, and his face was held with both hands by aunts who kissed him. The group stood in the living room drinking and smoking, but they were pretty quiet. Father Walsh hadn't even left the reception yet. It was the stage before the shine hits: the ties were still on, and the shirts yet unstained with sweat. John whispered to Kenny, “Watch out for this crowd when it gets loose.” It was half past five. The men had thick necks and jowls and mustaches, and almost every one of them was in his only suit, polyester with pleats in the pants bought on sale at Penney's or Boscov's. The women, as Donny said, came in two flavors: black-haired with fine and pretty features (“the ones you screw”) and sweet-natured with fat ankles and fat asses (“the ones you marry”). John always wondered if it had occurred to Donny that his descriptions fit their own sisters.

The bar in the kitchen had two-liter bottles of Jameson, Canadian Club, Seagram's Seven, Gilbey's Gin, Smirnoff Red Label Vodka, and cans of tonic water, 7UP, club soda, and ginger ale. There was an aluminum tub stocked with ice and lots of Miller Lite and Budweiser. There were two-gallon cartons of red and white wine. The only food for the fifty or so mourners in the house was a large platter of lunch meat: turkey, ham, and roast beef with tomatoes, green and black olives, and a plastic tub of mayonnaise next to some soft round rolls. Aunt Marian brought a small plate of deviled eggs and slices of Lebanon bologna stuffed with cream cheese.

“There are no wakes in America,” John said, talking to himself for the third time that day. It was just what happened after a funeral in their small corner of the world. It was a bastardized tribal ritual, no more a proper Irish wake than a sports bar in Parkside was a pub in Dublin.

Mary Meehan came through the crowd to grab John. “Jackie, there you are. Come. Let me get you a drink, love. Your father is in the kitchen.”

“Mary, you remember Kenny and Maria,” said John.

“Of course. Hello, you two.” She gave them kisses.

Mary Meehan was not slowed down by a funeral. In her late sixties, she was in fine form, a handsome woman with a shock of white hair and not-so-bad gin blossoms at the cheekbones. She had become Mickey's companion thirty years ago after a coincidence of cancer took her husband, too. They married once a respectful amount of time passed, but inside the family she was still called “Mary Meehan,” because no one wanted to trounce on the graves. She wasn't John's mom, not by a long stretch, but she filled in and took care of his dad, and for that he was grateful.

As they came through the crowd, Mickey was telling stories, going in and out of an Irish brogue: “You know what my mother—she was from the old country—you know what she said when Mike was born? She came to me in the hospital and said, ‘Ah…best to name him Michael, Mick. It's a good name…That's why I give it to you…The fishermen say, “Plenty comes to the boat on Michaels' Day…”'” Mickey saw John. “Hey, there's my boy. And, my God, Kenny…and Maria.”

“Mick-ey,” said Kenny. And he grabbed Mickey's shoulders, pulled back, looked him in the eye, and said softly, “We just want to say sorry about Mike. I know he's in a better place.” Maria moved in to give Mickey a hug.

“It's all right, it's all right,” Mickey said gently as he hugged Maria back and looked at Kenny and John. His tie was loosened, and his white shirt was rolled up, revealing his forearms, broad and strong from years of hard work. Deep within the aging and liver-spotted skin was the faded ink of a World War II tattoo, the kind you knew was the product of a one-night leave in Boston or Baltimore or San Diego. Mary Meehan once told John that Mickey confided that he wished he could remove it. “I didn't join the goddamn marines or anything,” he said. “I was just a guy from Scranton who got drafted into the navy, like everybody in those days. We were all scared as hell.”

Mickey took John's elbow and said, “Jackie, come here. I want to show you something.” They walked to Mickey and Mary's bedroom on the third floor. When they were alone, Mickey produced a money clip and handed it to John.

“This is Mike's. I thought you should have it.”

John looked at the silver clip and its contents: no cash, but there were school pictures of Margarita and Ava from three or four years earlier and a picture of Mike and Ava in front of a roller coaster at Great Adventure. There were two credit cards: a PNC bank card and a card that denoted membership in some form of discount club at McAleer's Taproom on Baltimore Pike.

Then John saw a little torn piece of notebook paper with Mike's handwriting that read
BVM Novena: Day 1, Mom. Day 2, Ava. Day 3, Margarita. Day 4, Joanie. Day 5, Debbie. Day 6, Annemarie. Day 7, Margie. Day 8, Mary M., Day 9, Holy Mother.

7.

E
ventually, the kitchen thinned out, and a group was left sitting around the maple dinner table. The kids who had been there—strangled by ties, bored, and confused—were now in front of a TV somewhere or long gone. Ashtrays and empty beer bottles littered the table. The guys drank shots of Jameson. Besides John, Kenny, and Maria, there was a smattering of Donegan cousins and Donegan friends from the neighborhood—Mike's friends, people he had known all his life. The stories were starting.

“Who was that girl from Indian Lane who was
so
in love with him?” said Margie.

“Shannon Kelly,” said Annemarie. “The skinny one from Nether Providence. She moved away—she married a guy in New York.”

“Michael was so good looking when he was young,” said one of the women.

“The thing I will never forget,” said Donny, “was that he didn't complain about his teeth. I mean, when we were in high school, Mike's teeth were black in the back. He never said a word about it. I think he finally saw a dentist in the army.”

Carmen D'Ignazio said, “Yo, ok. I got a story about your brother—you wanna hear a story about your brother?” Carmen was younger than Mike but had been around Donny and Annemarie and Margie his whole life. He left school when he was seventeen to work at his father's auto body shop. He had a mustache and was a pain in the ass, but he would come over in the middle of the night to replace an old lady's blown fuse. Carmen was a fact of life for the Donegans, like the woods off of Middletown Road or the trolley running from Media to Sixty-Ninth Street.

“Go ahead, Carm,” said Annemarie.

“I was about fifteen. Mike was five or six years older than us, and we thought he was, like, some scary dude who was Donny's brother. It was, like, seventy-three, seventy-four maybe. People don't remember, but it was nuts back then. The country was crazy. Nixon, all that crap. Lots of shit, lots of racial shit. Anyway, I'll never forget it; we were out at the Dairy Queen that used to be down on Pennell Road near Brookhaven, in front of the Kmart. I was with Jimmy Mingey.”

“Oh shit,” said Donny, “Jimmy Mingey. Je-sus Chriiiist.”

They recognized the name, the face, and the reputation of not just Jimmy Mingey but all the Mingeys, a family of nine children, with everyone remembering the Mingey that they knew best. Some recalled affairs; some recalled football practice; some recalled playing pinball at the mall in junior high. But everyone at the table, young and old, knew a Mingey, had a Mingey story, and because they had all lived with them all their lives, knew that Carmen's story would profit from having a Mingey in it. Backs of chairs were pulled closer to the table.