The Parting Glass (43 page)

“That seems awfully charitable of them.” Megan wished that she’d taken Jimmy up on his offer. Her glass was empty now, but Jimmy’s story was still in full spin. “And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I’ve never heard that the IRA was a philanthropic organization.”

“Oh, it was a different organization then, I can tell you. But helping him leave Ireland was more than charity.” Jimmy turned for a rag and wiped the counter as he talked. “They sent him to America to raise money for the cause of the Republic.”

“In Cleveland?”

“I don’t recall I ever heard where the lad went. I just know that years later Brenna came home without him, and Irene was a little girl by then. They moved back into Tierney Cottage, such as it was at that time. Brenna was a lovely young woman, I’m told, although I’m too young to know firsthand. But a local man fell in love with her, and they were married right here at the village church. He was a man of some means, and together they bought the land outright and made the cottage what it is today.” With a friendly salute, Jimmy left to chat up another customer.

Megan turned to her sister. “Peggy, that’s a
whole
lot of background Irene’s never bothered to mention.”

“You don’t suppose she was ashamed of what Liam did and kept it from us?”

“Two reasons why not. One, even though Liam killed somebody, it was probably considered an act of war. I’m sure some people, maybe most people in Shanmullin, think of him as a hero, or at least as a man who was trying to do what was right. Two, she must have known you would discover the truth from someone once you came to live with her. It’s only surprising you didn’t learn it before this.”

Peggy set her glass on the counter. “I didn’t ask anybody about
Liam.
I believed Irene when she said she didn’t know anything more than what she’d told me. I guess I just assumed nobody else in the village knew anything, either.”

Megan was trying to find a charitable explanation. “Maybe she really
doesn’t
know the way he died. From the beginning, that’s what she asked us to discover.”

“If she wasn’t straight with us about Liam’s reasons for fleeing Ireland, then maybe she hasn’t been straight about that, either.”

Megan acknowledged that possibility with a nod.

“Nothing of great interest here tonight,” Peggy said. “But there might be something of interest waiting for us at the cottage. Let’s go home and see if Irene and Nora have finished with their knitting.”

Between them, Nora and Irene had completed a pair of creamy white mittens. As girls in school they had been taught to knit by the nuns, who had viewed a perfect stitch as a rung on the ladder to heaven. Even though the two women’s education had been years apart, the mittens still matched perfectly.

“You’ve no idea how many rows we were forced to pull out only because our gauge was off by the tiniest fraction of an inch.” Irene put away her knitting. “I could pick up and finish any jumper Nora began, and no one would be the wiser.”

Nora had already gathered her things and was on her way out the door. Megan offered to take her home, but Nora insisted that she preferred to bike.

“She owns a car, you know,” Irene told Megan once Nora had gone. “She just prefers her bicycle. Claims she sees more along the way.”

Peggy motioned for Irene to stay where she was. “It seems there’s a lot the Donaghue sisters don’t know about a lot of things. Why don’t I make you a snack before you go off to bed?”

“Oh, thank you, dear, but Nora and I had toast and milk just a while ago. Did you girls have fun in town?”

“It was a lovely night. Not many people were about, since they were all at the wake.”

“Ah yes, for Thomas Harrigan, poor man. I’ll be going to the funeral tomorrow. Nora will take me. Dropped dead milking his cow, and no one knew it until he didn’t come in for dinner.”

“We did hear some interesting gossip,” Megan said.

Irene’s eyes sparkled. For a moment Peggy glimpsed the younger woman she had not been privileged to know. “You’re sure you don’t want some tea or another glass of milk?” Peggy asked.

“No, but a report would be nice. Pity an old woman who has to depend on others to keep her informed.”

“Well, I know how you must feel.” Peggy settled herself on the sofa. “Depending on others can be tricky, because they don’t necessarily tell you everything.”

“That’s God’s own truth.”

“For instance, when I heard this evening that your father had left Ireland one step ahead of the law, I was so surprised. Because in all our conversations, you’ve never mentioned it.”

Irene didn’t look shocked or even guilty. “Did I somehow omit that?”

“Irene!”

Irene smiled. “Well, I suppose I didn’t see much point at first in telling you that your very own cousin was a wanted man.”

“And I’m sure he wasn’t the first and only relative who was.” Megan dropped down beside her sister. “I could tell you some things about the Donaghue clan that would curl your hair, but the question is what else haven’t you told us? We know Liam was involved with the IRA, that he was sent to America to raise funds after he killed a man here—”

“He never meant to kill anyone. My mother told me he was defending another IRA man, and that even then, he only meant to injure the man he shot. He never liked guns.”

“I’m sure that’s all true,” Peggy said. “And even if it weren’t, it happened so long ago it hardly seems to affect us. So why didn’t you tell us?” She paused for effect. “And what
else
haven’t you told us?”

Irene didn’t look offended, even though Peggy’s gently voiced question was, in its own way, a challenge. “I’ve been less than honest about my da’s activities in Cleveland. I knew, for instance, about the bootlegging and his job with Timothy McNulty.”

Peggy took a moment to digest that. “But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell us? Right at the beginning, when we didn’t have a thing to go on? That would have put us so much further ahead.”

Irene didn’t answer directly. “As a matter of fact, I know more about those years with Mr. McNulty than you do. Tonight you learned about my father’s connection with the Republican Army. And how they helped him make his escape. You haven’t yet put the rest of it together, but I can help. My father took the job with Tim McNulty because Mr. McNulty was an Irish patriot, or so Da believed. And he hoped that once he was deep in Mr. McNulty’s trust, that he would give some of his considerable money to the cause.”

“The IRA cause?” Megan said.

“The very one. Da was convinced the only real hope for Ireland was to toss the Brits out fairly lively. Remember now, he’d grown up with a father who was a bit away in his head after all those years in an English gaol. My father was no great admirer of Great Britain.”

“And?” Megan waited, and when Irene didn’t respond, she added, “Did McNulty give the IRA money? And did that have something to do with your father’s death?”

“Mr. McNulty was a poor example of the human race. After a while it became clear enough to my da that he was, excuse the expression, like the barber’s cat, full of wind and piss.”

Peggy curled her legs under her rump and pulled a pillow to her chest, hugging it close. She had a feeling this was going to be a long story. “I guess we don’t need a translation for that one.”

Irene nodded. “And like many a political man of his generation, Da decided not to get angry. He decided to get whatever else he could.”

Unlike Peggy, Megan didn’t make herself comfortable. She leaned forward. “Irene, you sidestepped when Peggy asked you why you didn’t tell us this before. I think we need to know. I think there are two stories here, yours and Liam’s. I’d like to hear both of them.”

“Both in due time.” Irene held up a finger to stop Megan’s retort. “I
will
tell you this. I did hold back, and I’ll admit it. And I misled you. I’ll admit that, as well. But there’s nothing devious about why I did it. It was my way, you see, of getting to know you. We might be related by blood, but that was no reason to be certain I could trust you. So I asked you for help, then I waited. And you stepped forward to help an old woman you’d never even met. What further proof did I need?”

“You had to trust us? For what reason? You were afraid we would think less of you if we knew Liam’s real motives for coming to Cleveland? That was eighty years ago. Why would we care about the past of a man we never knew?
You
hardly knew him.”

“T’will all come clear. For now, though, will you settle for a bit more of Liam’s story?”

“It’s pretty late.” Peggy had just noticed the clock and realized they had already gone an hour past Irene’s bedtime. As much as she wanted to learn the whole story, she still felt responsible for Irene’s health.

“I had a long nap this afternoon, and I’ll sleep better for having told you more.”

“More?” Megan asked. “Not
all?
”

“Do you want to hear what I have the energy to tell tonight, dear?”

Megan looked as if she wanted to say more, but she settled herself much as Peggy had done. “Okay, shoot.” She winced. “Whoops. Maybe that’s not the best expression under the circumstances.”

“It’s good to see your sense of humor hasn’t bolted, dear.” Irene closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of her chair. “I’ve known for a very long time that I was related to the Donaghues who ran the Whiskey Island Saloon in Cleveland. Let me tell you how I knew.”

1925

Castlebar, County Mayo

My dearest Patrick,

In your last letter you asked me to make inquiries about the Tierney family of Shanmullin. You have forgotten, I fear, how rambling our distances and how primitive our communications. But you have remembered well the way we Irish love to know the comings and goings of all within our reach. Ireland may yet be a poor country, (no thanks to the landlords, who are only just being dispensed with, and not a moment too soon) but we are rich in what we know of each other and what we share with a willing ear. So this much I can tell you already, from conversations with my neighbors.

Years ago there was a family named Tierney who lived near the village of Shanmullin. Good people, by all accounts, even in the days when goodness often meant starvation. After the famine they dispersed as our poor families were so often forced to do. For years the cottage was deserted and the landlord raised sheep on their acres. Then a son returned, and the landlord took pity and let him farm the land. He married and had one son, who was later orphaned and sent south to Cork. That son returned as an adult, although as to why he might, I have no insight. Views of the ocean will not feed a starving sparrow. The young man, however, seemed oblivious to that fine point and returned with a wife and child.

There was trouble, Patrick dear. Of what nature I’ve yet to uncover, although of course I have my suspicions. Some things are not talked about freely in Ireland even yet. I only know the young man, Liam Tierney, disappeared with his wife and child one night after a policeman was murdered. And the Tierney Cottage once again lies empty and neglected on a windswept hill. How odd, is it not, that your young man’s name would be Tierney? Was not this the name of the young woman living on Whiskey Island of whom you wrote me so many years ago?

Yes, my Patrick. My memory is as long as my life. I find this both a curse and a blessing.

Your loving sister,

Maura McSweeney

chapter 28

L
iam made discreet inquiries about Glen Donaghue’s family but discovered nothing of interest. No one remembered exactly when the Donaghues had come to Cleveland. Years ago, for certain. The Donaghues had built the Whiskey Island Saloon themselves and made it a success by working hard and making friends of thirsty men. Someone thought that Rowan Donaghue was the first to come from the old country. Even those old enough to know seemed to think the saloon and those who had founded it were simply a part of Cleveland history. Always there. Always accessible. Standing, perhaps, before the first still was built on Whiskey Island to give the land its name.

“You’d do well to speak to Father McSweeney,” counseled an old woman who lived in the corner house on the Tierneys’ street.

Liam had stopped to chat as he strolled with Irene through their quiet new neighborhood. The houses were just recently built and spacious; in fact, several at the opposite end of the block were still under construction. There were established oaks and maples to lend shade, and wide porches for enjoying the fragrance of a neighbor’s roses or the song of a cardinal on a summer evening. After six months of living there, Brenna still marveled at her very own sweep of green yard and her gleaming oak floors. Liam could only rarely coax her from the kitchen, where she baked and scrubbed and hummed hymns that the sisters had taught her.

Liam tried to place Father McSweeney in his mind. “The old priest they trot out on holy days?”

“That would be the one.”

Liam only went to church because Brenna said they must for Irene’s sake. He found little there of interest, having released his tenuous grasp on religion the day he was sentenced to grow up under the squinty-eyed gaze of the Christian Brothers. Now he tried to remember what Father McSweeney looked like. He only recalled that the priest was frail and bent, and his voice quavered when he chanted.

“I’ve only rarely seen him,” Liam said, hoping for some information.

“Oh, he was a magnificent priest, he was,” the old woman said. “Put the fear of God in you, he could, and at the same time help you know God loved you, too. He married my Colleen to her Arthur, he did. They used to say that to be married by Father McSweeney was God’s own blessing, that all his marriages were happy ones.”

“And he knows something of the history of the area, does he?”

“Oh, much more than something. He knows it all.” She leaned forward in confidence. “But I’d be quick about it, were I you. His health isn’t the best. And he won’t go south, although they want him to retire where the weather is kinder. He says his life is here.”