Chapter 55
For Star and her brilliant insight. And to all my faithful reviewers and readers.
Are you guys happy where the story has taken us? Cuz I'm blown away…Thoughts?
Flanery's real eyebrow scar came first in a car wreck and then was reinforced years later with a bottle. I don't know the whole story on the second incident, but my money is on SPF.
I debated and debated on which church to use here. Church of the Covenant where we are first introduced to the boys (God bless those Presbyterians), Trinity Church where the exterior shot of a church was done (God bless the Episcopalians), or the Cathedral of the Holy Cross where it is more likely the boys would actually attend, it being in Southie? Well, old St. Augie in the stained glass above the boys clinched the deal. That, and I had the privilege to stand on those church steps on a beautiful June afternoon.
And… do tell me what you think. So, so, so much went into this chapter. Harmonics. I sure hope you like our Murph here. He's kinda rad and you'll not forget our boys are wicked smart? Murph is one tough little bastard. This is the boy that made his brother break his left hand to escape the cuffs. Connor may have jumped off a building, but Murph took the abuse of his brother's boot in cold blood. If that ain't courage, I don't know what is.
Chains
Crosby, Stills, and Nash – Southern Cross
So I'm sailing for tomorrow my dreams are a dyin'
and my love is an anchor tied to you tied with a silver chain
I have my ship and all her flags are a' flyin'
She is all that I have left and music is her name
I exited the T and walked slowly towards the church, my feet carrying me unerringly to sanctuary. I paused at the corner, under the sign reading Newbury and Berkeley for another cigarette. Our church here in Boston was beautiful, situated in the Back Bay just southwest of the Common. Built in the 1800's in Gothic Revival, her golden bricks glowed, the glimmer of Roxbury puddingstone shining in the bright sunlight. She wasn't as old as our church back home, but grand enough and built of the bedrock that supported her. The Monsignor told us when we first started attending that the stained glass and chandelier were designed by Tiffany's. I could believe it; twas true art.
I stepped into the coolness of the church, using the smaller Newbury Street entrance, my spirit soothed, the storm easing. I dipped my right fingers into the stoup, the comforting feel of Holy water on my skin. The sanctuary lamp was lit.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spritus Sancti. Amen." I crossed myself, recollecting our baptism. The habits and patterns of church calmed me. I went to my right knee, my left hand steadying on the back of our accustomed pew, remembering Christ's sacrifice. The quiet rhythm of the building surrounded and embraced me and I looked toward the crucifix hanging in the tabernacle. The light streaming through the windows cast a beautiful mosaic across the nave, ever changing as I moved to my accustomed place near the back under the Resurrection windows. Why it was ours, I couldn't fathom, but it felt right, being here. I knelt on the prie au Dieu, the worn wooden cross of my rosary gripped tight in my hand. Connor was correct; I didn't need the beads to know the prayers. The form was reassuring and the presence of God brushed across my soul, a balm to my chaotic feelings.
I sat then, looking at Him, waiting for grace.
oOo
It could have been minutes or hours when the Monsignor sat down next to me. I blinked, seeing how the light had changed, the colors of the stained glass moving as if the church was upon water, a ship at sea bathed in light.
"You look troubled, Mr. MacManus." He was a bluff, hearty man with a piercing theosophical intellect and a rare gift for common sense. His glasses glinted sparks in reflection from the light in the windows, but his eyes behind the lenses were kind.
"I am, Father."
"A matter of faith?" He asked in surprise. We were regulars here, rarely missing a day. It's how we were raised, no question of dodging. I remembered chafing at the routine when we were teenagers, of Ma smacking us in the back of the head for squirming. Now it was a place of normalcy and safety in a world gone mad with wickedness and evil.
"No." I said it firmly and shook my head in negation.
"Your brother," he asked in some concern. It was a rare instance when Connor didn't kneel, stand, and sit at my right hand, his head bent in prayer with me, opening our hearts to God in this place of safety, our strength in faith turned toward each other.
"No, Father. He's fine. At home."
"A matter of the girl then? You've not be fornicating again have you, Lad? You and your brother have the Devil's own looks. I know it's hard to resist the attraction of women, but you're pious boys."
"No, Father. De girl is fine. I've handfast her." I saw his grimace of disapproval and hurried on. "I know tis splittin' hairs. But I'm as like t'be standing yonder," I jerked my chin toward the altar, "givin' meself t'de girl within de year, an' me brother at me side, sayin' any number of unlikely things such as 'I will' an' 'I take thee,' as is de sun risin' tomorrow." I had crossed the threshold first after all and it was as Connor wanted it.
"Jesuits," he chuckled. "Can't win with a Jesuit; unconventional bastards to a man. You've a fine education, Murphy. And I know better than to argue with a Jesuit educated Irishman." He shook his head, but not in defeat. "Don't get me wrong. I don't condone pre-marital sex, but I understand the cultural mores behind it." The Monsignor had a great capacity for understanding, letting us keep our pagan side. The Catholic Church wasn't always good like that, but this diocese was run by a pragmatist.
I nodded in acknowledgment, the feel of wood between my fingers, the smooth slip of my rosary sliding through my hand, a nervous fidget. I didn't delude myself. I knew his pragmatism would only stretch so far though and I omitted the details of just how unconventional our relationship with the girl was.
"Seems somewhat fast though," he said judiciously. "You're sure?"
"Aye. Connor found her fer me. Tis sealed in blood." Not letting go of my rosary, I unconsciously I spun the red rope encircling my wrist around and around. Ours, I thought. Ours.
He nodded, accepting, knowing that it closed the matter for me. "I'll want to talk to her, make sure the match is a good one."
"Tis a good one, Father." I narrowed my eyes, holding his gaze, willing him to know that she was ours for good or ill. He nodded, the barest of movements and I relaxed. "We'll bring her t'ye. Maybe Sunday?"
"After Mass then," he paused shifting to a more comfortable position. "Murphy, you're being very reticent. Is it that bad, son? Something from home?" He asked delicately. I dipped my chin, staring at my hands and cast him a side-long look under my lashes. I had told him parts of our history under the seal of confession, but not the whole story. Nor could I. But he knew enough to make an educated guess as to our affiliations.
"I've noted you and your brother always sit under the window with Saint Augustine," he nodded toward the stained glass over my left shoulder glowing radiantly with sun fire, indicating he understood without the need to say it outright. "'They who have waged war in obedience to the divine command, or in conformity with His laws, have represented in their persons the public justice or the wisdom of government, and in this capacity have put to death wicked men; such persons have by no means violated the commandment, 'thou shalt not kill'." His voice was steady and mild. The Monsignor was a very smart man. It wasn't anything I had confessed to him, but he saw more, far beyond the words unuttered.
"Aye, Father, de jus bellum iustum." (just war theory) I bent my head thinking on what he had said. I whispered, almost to myself, "'The public justice or the wisdom of government'." He truly was a good man, letting me draw my own conclusions; if he'd said it straight out, I wouldn't have been as comforted. Denial shredded away. I realized it wasn't just Bishopsgate that bothered me. We'd delivered any number of wicked men as well in our short career in Northern Ireland. Our ability and success is what brought us to the attention of Gerry and resulted directly in our placement here in Boston. The girl had asked me once if they were justified and the Monsignor reinforced that conviction with the words of St. Augustine.
I took a breath, searching for the right scripture to answer the question he could not ask. The words came unbidden to my tongue, the truth and justice of our actions apparent. "'For he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil'." I was restored somewhat by his words, and by my own, remembering what soldiering in the 'RA really meant, for we did serve a legitimate government, though one the English refused to recognize.
We're shepherds, Murph, Connor's whisper echoed in my head. We ha' t'take de fight t'de wolves sometimes.
"You'll remember your Yeats too? Innisfree?" He asked calmly, not rising to what I had just admitted.
"Aye. 'And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow. Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings'? Yes, Father. An' yer right. America is like dat. Though tis a bit hard t'have nine bean rows or a honey bee hive in Southie."
His mouth quirked in acknowledgment at the incongruity of the Irish slums and tenements of South Boston resembling anything like a bee-loud glade.
I took a deep breath and sat up straight, turning in the pew to face him directly. "I have a recurring dream. Connor is dead and I'm trying to follow him."
My right hand, covered in mortar and stone dust, reached for a pea coat turned almost grey with grime from the blast of a bomb.
"Suicide?" He asked in shock, his gray eyebrows lowering into a frown.
I shook my head, unsure what I meant. Was it suicide if half your soul passed through the veil to the other side, leaving you alone? To die defending my brother?
"To live out years and years without him at my side is what I imagine Hell is like," I whispered softly, looking down into my hands, the cross of my rosary once again cutting into my palm with stress. "Why has God given me this dream?" He heard the frustration in my voice and shifted.
"Murphy, you and your brother are special. I've seen how you are with each other and I don't think I've ever observed a closer bond between siblings. The Catechism says: 'Everyone is responsible for his life before God who has given it to him. It is God who remains the sovereign Master of life. We are obliged to accept life gratefully and preserve it for his honor and the salvation of our souls.'
"I know, Father."
"Look at me, son." When I reluctantly met his eyes, he continued, "I think what you're feeling is the responsibility for two lives. For if I know anything about you lads, you are your brother's keeper and Connor is yours."
"Aye, Father. But in my dream I fail him. He's... injured, unconscious and in grave danger," my voice trailed off. It was as far as I was willing to go, living in the denial of the front sight, center mass; refusing to feel again the trigger, slack taken up just to the breaking point. I shuddered, repressing the image.
"Ah, I see now," he smiled at me, but without humor. "Then you'll maybe remember, suicide is distinguished from the sacrifice of one's life for God or another, of offering one's life or risking it to save another person."
I sighed, somewhat soothed by his words. But he couldn't advise me if I wouldn't speak of it.
"Since we're in Romans, I'll provide you more advice. From 12:1-2: I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that by testing ye may prove what is that is good, and acceptable, and the perfect will of God."
I looked to the tabernacle again, seeing that which was in front of me and no longer the streets of Bishopsgate or Belfast; breathing.
He laid his hand on my right shoulder. "Go to them, Laddie. A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." He was right. I had come to church seeking sanctuary from the storm in my head. Here I had found some peace, but instead of refuge, I found only the driving need to be with him; with them. I had run away from the very thing that sustained me. I could feel the pull of my brother's love, bringing me home to the girl, and the chains of him which bound me tightly to this earth.
As I walked up the aisle, the song of Ecclesiastes rang in my head: 'To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance'. It was time to talk.
I tipped my sunglasses onto my face, pushing through the first set of doors in preparation for the bright glaring sunlight of Berkeley Street. I pulled the cigarette from behind my ear as I hit the second set of doors, looking forward to home and the refuge they offered.
I exited the Church and paused on the step to light my smoke. When I looked up, it was straight into the face of Michael O'Callahan.
