"For he who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen."
I John 4:20
"It's time, brother," Murphy said, kicking a boot heel against the ground and looking down. Connor could remember other times when these exact words had been spoken by his twin, and all of them had led into dangerous, new situations. In some ways, though, this decision now was as dangerous as any of them. They lived their life in plural, two halves of one entity, nameless parts of a whole, a whole called The Saints by zealous media outlets. To cleave the two halves this way changed everything they had ever known.
"Ya don't fucking know that," Connor shook his head and looked out over the rich green land of Ireland. The countryside was as beautiful as anything on God's earth, so alive that every blade of grass seemed to be singing praise to its Maker. The brothers were in the meadow with the sheep around them, their horses grazing too, while they surveyed the scene. When he was here, looking on this slice of heaven, it was easy to ignore the grisly realities of organized crime and human evil, but he knew better than to ignore, or worse, forget, them. His brother's decision was a risk to that knowledge. If men like them could get married, then they could also forget God's mission for them on this earth.
"I do so." Indignation was in his voice now. "I'm not some kid who doesn't know what he's talking about. I know this is right. I know wha' I'm doing."
Connor knew that only a few months before, Murphy's words would have been littered with the f-word, but his brother's sharp tongue had softened of late, ever since he met Clara. At first, he, too, had comfortably softened his language. There was no harm in cleaner speech, and additionally, he felt less need to curse now that they were back living in the homeland, farming and working with their hands on a day to day basis. A few months in the Hoag, followed by two years out of it, had changed them; they worked on call now, so to speak, and it was not unusual for a plane ticket to show up on the doorstep, often in the hands of local clergymen, with a social security number or other detail for them to follow up on to work out their own plan. Some copycatters worked stateside, but they inevitably got caught after one or two small-scale acts. Still, though, he was proud to have awakened the American consciousness out of indifference, to the belief that good should and could triumph over evil.
Murphy coughed obviously, and Connor knew he had taken too long to reply.
"Clara's a real nice girl, Murph, but there's no reason to marry her right this second. You've only been seein' her for a coupla months."
"She's it. Ya just… ya just know," Murphy touched his hand to his heart and tapped twice. "Isn't that how Da described finding Ma? Tapped twice on his heart just like tha' and we just ate it up. Loved the idea."
"That was fucking different! He didn't have a—" He caught himself before he finished the sentence, but Murphy knew in an instant. Connor should have known there was no hiding anything from him, especially anything emotional. Murphy had always been the one quicker to joy, quicker to rage, quicker to sadness, and had leaned on his brother's cooler logic to hold him together. Now that logic was fleeing in a moment of vulnerability.
"Didn't have a brother, eh?" Murphy finished softly, taking a step closer and putting a hand on his shoulder. The familiar weight of the broad hand was comforting. This hand was one that had held him still as gory wounds were cauterized, had pulled the trigger to save his life, had carried him out of firefights, had cut his hair and tattooed his body. For a melodramatic second, he recognized that the hand on his shoulder was as dear to him as his own; then he smacked it away.
"That's not what I was gonna say," he hoped he sounded annoyed and indignant. Just because Murphy had read him like a book didn't mean he wanted him to. It sounded stupid out in the air. You can't get married just because you have a twin? What kind of crock of shit was that? But it felt right, even if it sounded stupid. They weren't normal; they had murdered together, had visions together, dreamed together. Their connection was deep, soul-deep even, and he could not imagine bringing someone outside into it. Their parents had been one thing, but a wife was something entirely different. They would no longer share a room, no longer spend every moment together; there would be another person to whom Murphy had made unbreakable promises. It would no longer be between just the McManus brothers and God.
"That's exactly what you were saying. Didn't have a brother. You're right, Connor." Murphy's voice was thoughtful, heavy. "What we do… we can't be bringing someone else in on it. You're fucking right. Look at what it did to Ma, Da leaving her with us and all that, and then we would be split up. Splitting up would be a good way to get us fucking killed out there. You're right. Ya always are."
Connor felt the defeat in the air and knew without a doubt that Murphy meant was he was saying and that meaning that was breaking his heart. But he loved his brother more than himself, and he would do nothing to hurt him. Murphy was that kind of brother.
Connor felt the hot rush of shame.
"Each man should have his own wife, and each woman her own husband."
Corinthians 7:2
Knelt at the altar in the tiny chapel, Connor whispered the Lord's Prayer. The lines of his face were tight, etched into prominence by the worries he was carrying with him. There were two beings he took his concerns to: Murphy and God, usually in that order. And now it was time to talk to God. He whispered the Lord's Prayer over and over, the rote action soothing as his mind raced to find commune with the Lord. He had read his Bible, said his prayers, but nothing was easing his mind. There was still the fear of change, the fear of losing the connection with Murphy that allowed them to be what they needed to be, but now it was equally mixed with guilt for what he was robbing his brother of. His brother loved a woman, a good salt-of-the-earth, God-fearing woman, with a kind face, rosy cheeks, and bright eyes, and he wanted to marry her. Yet Connor was unwilling to let that happen for his possibly selfish reasons.
"Give me an answer, God," he finally said, opening his eyes and lifting them heavenward. Jesus hung on the cross on the wall, silent and still, and Connor thought of the awe-inspiring power and clarity of the vision they had once had in the jail. Where was another message from above like that to guide him now?
"You can't go around making commands of the Almighty," the voice floated forward to greet him, and Connor turned to look. His hope for an angel was dashed; it was just the priest, smiling at him kindly.
"Ah, father, ya startled me. Thought I'd be alone this late at night."
"As did I, my boy. You are bringing your troubles to God tonight, and I am bringing Him my gratitude. For you and your brother, amongst other things."
Connor raised an eyebrow in surprise. "For us?"
"Aye, for you. You uphold the Lord's tenets in a world quickly forgetting them, and your devotion to His will inspires me not to abandon this building, even though there are so few farmers left in these hills to attend."
"We're grateful you're not leavin'. We need to attend mass."
The priest waved his hand appreciatively, but then his eyes turned serious and still. "What is troubling you, Connor?"
Connor could not reveal his anguish; though the clergy knew of his… work with his brother, they were not family, and the bonds of blood and friendship ran deep and unbreakable between him and Murphy. He tried to think of a way to word his query without betraying the brotherly trust but could think of none. "I cannot say, father. It is between me and God."
The priest looked disappointed, unable to resist the temptation to know more about the McManuses. They were good men, he knew that much, but Connor also knew the priest was naturally curious to know more. Not many men walking the modern world had been given a mission from God with such clarity. But today was not the day he would find out more about these brothers.
"Very well. Shall I leave you with your prayers?"
"No, I best be getting home anyway."
Connor rose and walked to the back of the church and out the door. The walk across the chilly, damp path from the farmhouse to the church was quiet. No lightning cracked and carried with it the voice of the Lord, and no visions sprang up in his path. When he reached the house, he walked in quietly and shut the door behind him. It was warm from the fire inside, and he saw Murphy in the chair by the fire. He was sitting hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, one hand cradling a scruffy chin. The deep sadness written on that face, with its closed eyes, made Connor's stomach turn.
This image right here was his sign from God. Murphy had to marry Clara. Connor could stop him, but he should not and would not.
"Aren'tcha even gonna welcome me home after a long walk in the damp?" Connor said, and Murphy looked up. He straightened his back and shook his head, obviously trying to clear any traces of his sadness from his visage.
"Welcome home. There's stew on the counter still, and I can add a log to the fire if ya have gotten chilled," he said kindly. "I got in early. The ewe who was due to lamb in a few months died. Twisted intestine, I suppose."
"Hard to keep those pregnant ones alive in this unseasonable cold."
"Sure is."
Connor scooped up a bowl and ladled himself out some stew; it was good, thick nourishment for men who worked hard. He held it with one hand and grabbed a wooden chair with the other, pulling it over to the fire so it was across from his brother. First, he ate some, not realizing how hungry he was until he started, and then he broke the peaceful quiet they both had come to love nearly as much as the raucous noise of an Irish bar.
"Ya remember Rocco, Murph?"
His twin looked up, startled, and answered so fast the words were barely legible through his indignant brogue, "Of course I do. What the fuck kind of question is that?"
Connor smiled at the very corner of his mouth, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of smokes. He hit it against his hand and pulled out two cigarettes. Simultaneously, the motion trained by years of familiarity, Murphy pulled out his lighter and tossed it to him, then accepted the second cigarette. The exchange was so smooth, so practiced, that it did not even have to interrupt their communication. Connor took a long drag and then replied,
"Rocco wasn't one of us, you know?"
"You mean a twin?"
"No, one of us. The Saints, or whatever the hell you want to call us. That's just us."
"Ah… I guess not."
"But he was still our brother, just not one of us."
"What tha hell are ya saying, Connor?" Murphy's eyes were starting to glint, a sure sign that his quick temper was starting to tip towards anger. Murphy did not like to have trouble following anything, particularly anything his brother was saying.
"I'm saying you're pretty fucking dumb not to see that Clara can marry you. Fuck, she can even be a fucking McManus, but she won't be one of us. The fuck does having a brother have to do with having a wife?"
Now the vein in Murphy's temple was starting to visibly thump, and Connor knew he was getting really angry. "Now what in God's name are ya saying? You were the one who –"
Connor interrupted, "You're not wanking off looking at me at night or some fuckin' creepy shit like that? That why you think ya can't get married? Effing weird, man."
And just like that, the precarious lid on Murphy's temper flipped, and he thrust an arm across the gap between them and smashed his lit cigarette down on Connor's arm. Connor howled in pain and launched himself across to tackle his brother. They fell in a tangle, grappling, punching, kicking, acting for all the world like two overgrown children, but Connor could feel anger in Murphy's actions that ran deeper this time, and he was glad for this scrap to get it out.
Finally, Connor bested him. It almost always happened that way; Murphy would start a fight, instant in his anger, but the emotion would burn out before the physical altercation did, easy come, easy go, and Connor would pin him. Now he sat, knees pinning down the inside of his brother's elbows, and chuckled.
"So easy to get yer goat, dear brotha," he said, "Now listen up, now that you have no choice," Murphy struggled and opened his mouth to speak, but Connor clamped a hand over it. "No, ya gotta listen. Shut up and listen. You'd better marry this gal, so's I can stop worryin' that you're lustin' after me body."
And with that said, he rose to his feet and held out a hand to help Murphy up. Murphy accepted it and eyed him suspiciously. "Ya truly mean it? Ya want me to marry her?"
"As long as I'm the best man."
"Fuck no. I'll be the best man. I always am," Murphy cracked a grin at his bad joke. He reached two fingers over to touch the red and black cigarette burn on his brother's arm. "Sorry about that."
"Ah, it's fine. I made ya do it. Hurts like hell though. When are you gonna propose?"
"Shit. I hadn't thought of that part."
"What if she says no? No, no, no, no." He chanted the two letter word, sing-song and chuckling.
"Fuck you."
The banter felt good, warm, real, reassuring, and Connor thought he could feel God's smile on them as they talked. He could feel he had made the right decision. He could feel that it must happen this way, that perhaps, even, things must change to stay the same.
"Love is patient. Love is kind."
I Corinthians 13:4
On a rare sunny day in the wild green hills of a sheep farm in Ireland, Connor accepted a gift from his brother: a new sister. Some might view it as Connor giving Murphy away, but both twins knew better. Instead, they were welcoming someone new to them. Clara was radiant in her lacy dress, smiling the deep, knowing smile of a woman with complete confidence in her decision, and she pulled Connor aside before the ceremony and whispered, "Thank you," as if she somehow knew what had had to transpire between the brothers before this day could come.
The three of them fell into a new rhythm. Connor moved into the loft of the farmhouse where he and Murphy had once lived when their Da had been alive and here with them, and Murphy and Clara lived downstairs in the main bedroom. They would sit around the fire the three of them and eat and talk and laugh. She would chuckle at their fights, frown at their language, and soothe the cuts and bruises of their work days. At the end of the night, once everyone had gone to bed, Connor knew that Murphy and his wife became something new and foreign to him, a new kind of partnership he could not yet comprehend. But he felt God's blessing on the house.
Even more, he knew his brother had made the right decision when they finally told her about who they were. A quiet, country woman she might be, but Clara did not flinch from Murphy's hands even as he informed her that they had borne death to many men. She simply straightened her back and said, "Our Lord works in mysterious ways," and handled that as smoothly and gently as she handled their excursions to take the sheep to greener pasture. She was soothing water to the hot fire that had always been Murphy.
When the day finally came that Connor met a woman whose rollicking green eyes pierced his soul and who chased her Hail Mary's with shots of whiskey, he was not afraid to marry her and bring her into the fold. They were shepherds, after all. He now knew that he and his brother shared a love that was big enough to never be spread too thin. They still faced bullets side by side and doled out justice in the form of gratuitous violence, but they were all the stronger in their war with the peace of their home always at their backs. The Saints were spreading their purpose in God's plan to new places, beyond the battlefield also to the homefront.
Places that made them think of their Da with their Ma all those many years before. Was their life pattern written out in their blood, spelled out in DNA to be passed on to those yet to come?
Each night, Connor still knelt in the chapel to say the Lord's Prayer, still waiting God's message for this coming phase of their lives. Did their mission ever end, or was its closure only with death? Were they meant to start families or follow a mercenary's discipline? What was their new purpose?
God remained silent.