Unexpected Gifts (17 page)

Friday night, Steve had outdone himself. Tables were set up in the front lobby of the Madsen Concert Hall, outfitted with standing posters and
Grand Elbow
's new CD's—at nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents a pop—stacked up, fanned out, and artistically placed. In addition, there were eight by ten glossies of the band, along with some extra ones of Mike, posed in a sexy stance. It all looked fantastic until Sonia stepped in closer. Nowhere was there any evidence of Pete. Not on the glossies, nor on the album covers.

Sick to her stomach, she located Mike, happily signing autographs and CD's, his moist face the color of glistening pink roses.

“What about Pete?” She yelled over the surrounding feminine cluster.

“What about him?”

She cupped her right hand over the side of her mouth. “He's not in any of the photos.”

“Yeah, well, Pete's not available, now is he?”

She marched down into the orchestra pit area to join Will's wife and the various twinkies, there for their one-night stands. Furious at Mike's attitude, she refused to get involved with the other women, choosing instead to slowly take in the regal architecture of what probably had always been reserved for classical concerts. Suddenly she thought of Lily, Sam, and Leroy and their experience at Carnegie Hall during the Beatle era. Were there the same screams, the same overflow of alcoholic drinks? Did the edgy, packed crowd and the lack of security bother them as well?

She stayed still in the midst of a growing frenzy, closing her eyes and picturing herself as a young, disenchanted Lily, but when the audience started roaring “
Grand Elbow! Grand Elbow!”
she popped them open just in time to see the curtain quiver.

The lights were dimming like a slow, steady sunset, and as the curtain opened, it was immediately apparent Steve had spared no expense on the special effects. Soft fog lights had created an eerie, unworldly ambiance as the band crashed into their opening song.

They were sensational, and as the set continued, the audience responded in kind, ending in such a fevered pitch, Sonia really didn't notice what was happening until it was too late. Off to one side, several coked-up young men had begun unleashing their enthusiasm. Pushing, shoving, grabbing drinks and swilling them down wherever they could, they were making their determined way over to Sonia's VIP area, undisturbed by the very few security guards stationed elsewhere.

A couple of women near Sonia were being flung to the floor, then stepped on, as the men grew more and more ruthless. Will's wife's panicked face was not enough warning. Within seconds, Sonia felt rough hands on her shoulder, trying to push her down. She hung on to the back of her cushioned seat for dear life, but it wasn't working. The men were too strong.

Somewhere in her brain, she registered the band had stopped and suddenly, there was Mike, down in the trenches, swinging wildly at her assailant. He was magnificent—Tarzan protecting his Jane. When the guards finally did make it over, handcuffing the two men and leading them away, he gave her a quick hug and a “You okay?” before hopping back up on stage to continue the set, the crowd roaring their approval.

She was in love all over again. Through all his faults, his behaviors of late, she couldn't discount the one thing that flooded her heart with happiness. He did love her after all.

After the show, she insisted on seeing him backstage. Forcing her way into the green room, she was met with pats on her back and “Hey, Sonia, you okay girl?” from the band members until finally, she ended up at Mike's dressing room. She flung her arms around his sweaty neck and gave him little kisses that mimicked those she gave Petra whenever she was feeling lonely.

“Mike, you were so wonderful tonight. Thank you, sweetheart. I…”

“Of course, Babe. Of course. Listen, I wanna be with you tonight, but Steve is actually pulling a meeting. Can you believe it?” He looked at his watch.

“Tonight? But I thought tonight was very important for me—for
us.
I thought…”

“I know, Babe. What can I say? Showbiz! I'll call you mañana. Please take the limo home with Will's wife now, ok?” he said, giving her one quick, hard kiss.

After she let herself into her apartment, fed Petra, and got into her PJ's, she luxuriated in the idea that Mike did love her, after all, and with Petra snuggled up against her, fell into the deepest sleep she had had in months.

Across town, Mike was far from sleepy. Wired after the concert, Steve had earlier encouraged him to do the one sure thing that always helped him cure insomnia. Doing two chicks at once. What were their names? Ashley and Beth? Joni and Raquel? It didn't really matter, particularly back at his apartment, where the coke was flowing (courtesy of Steve) and the naked girls serviced him like he had never been serviced before.

He crashed like a ton of bricks, satiated, dreamless. But it wasn't until noon the next day, when he went to take a shower, he noticed a small chunk of his long hair had been clipped and he was missing something from his bathroom shelf.

When Sonia called, Shannon sounded drugged. “How's Pete?” was her first question.

“Frankly, it's not good. They've set the bail unbelievably high. We can't afford that…”

“And what does Pete say?”

Shannon was bitter “He says he's innocent. Oh, Sonia, it's ridiculous. They've obviously got the wrong person.”

“What can I do?” Sonia asked helplessly.

“Just be there for us, and Sonia?”

“Yes?”

There was a pause. “I think Pete's really cracking up.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“He keeps talking about how much he always loved my brownies. How my brownies used to save the day for him. How it wasn't just anybody's brownies, only mine. Crazy talk!”

“Oh, Shannon. I'm so, so sorry. I'm gonna get Mike to get even more involved, I promise.” Right then was definitely not the time to tell her about how obsolete Pete had become.

When she hung up, the sudden, overwhelming need to escape overcame her. She thought of Mike and realized he was probably sleeping. Harry always made her so comfortable, but now that she knew Mike loved her, it wasn't really fair to bother him.

When her mom answered she asked if she could come straight over.

“Of course. But what's the rush?”

“Oh, nothing, just that I want to get Great-Grandpa Tony's journals back to you and find out about my next ancestor!”

On the way over to her parents she waxed philosophical. How good life could be sometimes, then, with just a flip of the switch, disastrous. Looking up, the sky was an ominous, mottled-gray, and all at once she envisioned the gigantic Dust Bowl of the 30's. How frightening those dark, ubiquitous clouds must have been, how insecure the entire nation felt, how her father got the short end of the stick in Vietnam, Martha, too, through genetic fate, and how Pete, always such a major part of the group, was now in No Man's Land, fighting for his life.

I shouldn't be content, she thought guiltily as she went upstairs to the attic with her mother. After the trunk was opened, she handed all the journals back to Lily.

“Tony really had his addictions, didn't he?” she said.

“Yes, he certainly did.”

The first thing that came out of the Daria box was an old, worn bible. “Look, this is what your great-grandmother Daria from Ireland wrote in. Good luck reading it. It's all written in between the printed lines, in margins, or even criss-crossed across pages.”

Sonia leaned in. “Oh, my God,” she muttered as she examined the yellowed pages. Putting it down gingerly, she tapped on it twice.

Next was a folded up, threadbare dress. “This is her morning smock,” announced Lily. “You'll read all about how thoughtful your great-grandfather was to his wife while he was out spending all their money.”

“You're being facetious, right?”

A raised eyebrow was her answer.

“Now, here is a little pressed four leaf clover. I think Joe gave it to her.”

“The Indian Joe? Why would he give it to her?”

Lily smiled. “Wait and see!”

Next came a telegram from Belfast, but Lily refused to show it or say anything about it. There was a box within the Daria box marked Rose, housing little toys and a china tea set.

“You'll start to see how your compulsions came about with this one,” was her mother's single comment.

The light was filtering in through the shutter windows, striating white bands against the trunk. Without warning, Sonia suddenly flung her arms around her mother.

“My goodness, what's all this about?” Lily laughed, holding up a little bag of coins.

“I just am feeling good today,” Sonia answered and fingered the bag. “Coins?”

“Oh, those. Now
that's
quite a story.” She reached in and pulled out a weathered piece of paper. “This is probably worth something. It's a Dance Marathon application.”

“Dance Marathon?”

“Yes, those were the rage. Don't forget, it was cheap entertainment and the winners could win a lot of money at a time when people were starving.”

“Marathon? Like a race?”

“In a way. You'll…”

“I know, I know, I'll see.” Both women grinned.

“Well, that's it. Go have fun, kid, as your father would say.”

“Speaking of father, Dad's being awfully quiet, isn't he? He's asleep?”

“Yes. Something's different about him these days,” Lily replied.

“Must be going around,” Sonia murmured.

To know a person one must live in the same house with him -
Irish Proverb

I was named Daria Brigit, Brigit after the Celtic goddess Brigid, one of the patron poets. And they say I was born at an inconvenient time. The year was 1902, and the moment, the wee hours of a rain-soaked morn in County Kerry. A terrible storm it was, with lightning that crackled the sky and hoarse winds that rattled the trees. If it be true that St. Patrick had banished all the snakes from Ireland, it sure was a shame he didn't bother with the rain. But maybe that was too big a job even for the likes of him, who knows?

None of that mattered to me mam and me da that night. Sean and Maggie O'Reilly were more than a little preoccupied. Apparently I gave Maggie an awful time of it I did, and for the rest of me young years in Ireland, me aunts and uncles always laughed when recounting me da's very first words after I had inched me way out of Mam's body.

“Good-morrow kindly to you princess!” Sean had said, tipping his tweed cap like we were about to have breakfast with the Queen of England herself. But then again, he had come from a long line of
Shananchies
, those wandering storytellers who could recite a story at the drop of a hat, whether it be about the Celtic gods, saints, leprechauns, or proverbs. Unfortunately, not only was me da a fine storyteller, as the proverb goes,
A drink precedes a story.
Well, he be certainly good at that, too.

Mam wasn't so bad at storytelling either, particularly at night when she be sitting at me bed, me eyelids carrying the weight of the world on them they were. She loved to tell me about St. Dedan, St. Ciaran, or St. Brendan the Navigator, but by far, her favorite legend was about Kevin of Glendalough, the Tree-Hugger who stood naked in front of the animals he loved, to be a part of them. I don't know why that was her favorite tale. Maybe because after many pints, me da got in the buff himself one Saturday night just before they were married, saying
Drink! Drink as if it was your last one but may the last one not come til mornin’!
or maybe he just reminded her of the Tree Hugger, but that's not for me to say.

Sometimes Mam would pause with her story and mumble to me through clenched teeth, “Ach, the curse of the Irishman—
wine drowns more men than water
and
good as drink is, it ends in a thirst
, don't ya know,” matching her proverbs to his any day of the week.

But there were fine occasions as well. Three times a year we'd go to Dublin to visit Mam's cousin, Shamus Malloy, a Guiness factory worker with a household overflowing with children and animals. We be screaming around the house with laughter, stopping only to eat fresh brown soda bread or Barm brack, with delicious Gubbean cheese on top. Sometimes there'd also be Dublin Coddle and as a special treat, Irish coffee pudding.

Each morning came with a mighty breakfast. A cuppa tay right off, of course (no self-respecting Irishman could survive without that), fried eggs, sausages, black pudding, fried tomatoes, toast and jam.

“Nothing like a good cuppa Irish tay,” Mam would beam at six twenty a.m., surrounded by her warm, sleepy family around the table. But she'd stiffen as Da, next to her, often mumbled a few soft words. Later, she be showing The Tight Face for sure, after she'd watch Da go off with cousin Shamus to the Guiness Factory for a day's extra pay and no doubt a free pint with the fellas when the whistle blew four o'clock every afternoon.

The two men would still be gone at eight o'clock they would, and after our supper and the washed and dried dishes, that'd be Mam's signal to charge away to bring her husband home for the night and me signal to go upstairs to bed along with me cousins.

But just once, I snuck out and followed her at a safe distance as she wound through the Dublin streets, her cloak flowing phantomlike behind her. Her head it be wrapped with her plaid woolen scarf like a shroud and her boots made hollow clicks against the cobblestones as she be cutting through the thick, foggy air. When she got to a drinkery she stopped, stiffened up like she be facing the English herself, and marched through the door like a battering ram.

Crouched down behind the large metal barrels just outside the alehouse, I'd be waiting, not knowing what to do. Five minutes later, it be me da, me mam and Shamus outside, the two men leaning onto each other as they weaved and stumbled their way back to the house, Mam poking them when they had steered off course into a building or two. As for me, I waited a minute then hurried back, suddenly remembering what it was Da had been mumbling to Mam every morning,
Have another drink and may St. Peter think it's tay!

I knew Da be filled with The Drink when he crooned to me, “Ach, Love of Me Heart,” or “You're me little princess you are. When you're next to me, you make the heavens themselves light up and bring us a rainbow!” because the next day, his face, the color of ashes lying in our fireplace, he'd be stone silent, distant and I'd no longer be a princess, just a speck on the wall.

It was at those times Mam chattered away like she'd never used her mouth before, reciting a childhood poem or two, or retelling one of our bedtime stories, anything to fill up the hush blowing in from the head of the table.

I noticed Mam wasn't only an angel to me. The Kilcullens received her kindness more than anyone else in the family. Tommy, Kathleen and their three children were a friendly lot they were, our cousins who weren't Catholic anymore because during the great Potato Famine, when Tommy's family were all starving to death, the only way they could get food from the local Protestant soup kitchen was to renounce their faith.

“Maggie O'Reilly, why do you even bother with those Soupers? After all, we suffered as well, and we didn't turn our backs on the church. Tis a sin, it is!” was the frequent tirade aimed at Mam.

She'd always raise up her chin and spit back, “Ach, leave those poor people alone! They did what they had to do to survive. Besides, they be family and that's the end of it!”

I loved them, too. Each time they came over, our house vibrated like a bodhrán drum, with a slow, steady throb that gave us smiles and a shot of spirit. And there always be talk about America there was, how they were going to go there soon because it was the Land of Opportunity, don't you know. Why, Kathleen had an uncle in Detroit who could get Tommy a job straight away at the Henry Ford Factory, where the wages were far better than anything he could garner in Ireland. He could raise his children as Americans and get some respect for himself on top of that, and didn't we want to come with them?

At those times, Mam would begin to look excited, but then turning towards Da's gray skin and shaky hands, a sadness would spread across her face. “Some day, maybe. Some day,” she'd mutter and moved us on to different matters altogether.

One night, I be awakened by Mam screaming like she be possessed by the Devil himself. “
Death takes the young as well as the old!
” she cried as I ran over to see her jabbing a motionless Da over and over again in his chest. Off they went to the doctor, leaving me with a craggy old neighbor for a good two days, and although me da did survive, the very next time the Kilcullens showed up for tay, Mam be asking them straight off if I could go with them to America. Da's face puffed out like a bright, red balloon. His wife must be away in the head, he stammered loudly, and wasn't it true that ships bound for America were still called coffin ships? But mid-bluster he froze. He had caught sight of Mam's fierce eyes and set jaw. It be all settled.

Mam and Da held a Mock Wake for me and our cousins they did, paying their grieving homage to us for leaving them and our village forever. But despite the laughter, the drinking, the dancing, despite the feast laid out on our kitchen table, me chest hurt inside me like the life was being squeezed out of it. I hid under the staircase, pretending it was all just another family gathering when suddenly, me mam's words rang out clear as the morning sun.

“The day he finds death is the day I go to America, I swear I will!” Instantly, me pain vanished like I was up in Heaven itself. I'd be seeing her again, after all.

Meanwhile, Da be reciting one proverb after another, his glass hand raised up over his head, his face the color of raw meat. “
My thousand blessings and God's blessing on you, and may you never want for anything.
”

The crowd applauded, but he wasn't half finished. “
May there never be a rattle in your skillet.
” More applause until he held up a single finger. “
To the doctor may you never hand any money, and sweet be your hand in a pot full of honey!
”

People started to cheer and cry out, “More—more—more!” clapping and stamping their feet so hard, I thought our floors couldn't take the force of it.

Da started again. “
If God sends you on a stony path, may he give you strong—
” and toppled over, useless as an empty bagpipe.

Everyone was hollering with laughter they were, but Mam didn't come to her husband's side. She was too busy saying softly to her cousin, Kathleen, “Promise me Daria Brigit won't be ending up like me. Swear it on your life!”

Although our first stop be New York, we soon were onto Detroit, a concrete city that reminded me of the Giant's Causeway of Ireland, with its barren honeycombed basalt shafts jutting out of the North Antrim coast. And barren me life seemed as I followed Kathleen around all day long. “Now, now, darlin’. Your mam will be here soon enough, she will. It won't be long,” she'd say, stroking me face.

As for Tommy, he did get a fine job at the Ford factory, earning good pay. And while he worked, we children be growing up polite and smart as English Parliament, a true testament to the Kilcullens’ child raising. Still, Mam was always in me heart, no matter how much time had passed since I last felt her arms about me, and I was wondering if I'd ever be seeing her again when a letter be showing up from Ireland addressed just to me.

Dear Daria Brigit,                                                     February 8, 1912

Remember, me love, there be many mixed blessings in life. Da has finally found Death he has, and you must know for sure he was a good man, but it was The Drink that changed him like the great storms that eat away at the rocks along the Kerry shore.

Continue to be the good girl that you are and I promise I be coming as soon as I can get on a ship from Belfast to America.

May God bless you, daughter.

Mam's telegram arrived a month later, delivered by a stiff young man in an ill-fitting uniform and cap. We huddled around our table, talking all at once, laughing at me trembling fingers desperately trying to open the thin, yellow envelope from Western Union. At last I simply tore it open.

DEAR FAMILY. STOP. HAVE BOOKED 3
^RD
CLASS

PASSAGE ON LARGE STEAMSHIP. STOP. THE TITANIC WILL ARRIVE NEW YORK APRIL 17
^TH
STOP. WILL PROCEED TO DETROIT. STOP. MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL. STOP. MAGGIE/MAM

Ach, we were squealing with joy we were. Smacking our hands together, our heels pounding drum-like on the over-trafficked floor, me heart fluttering like a baby sparrow. And on April 26
^th
, 1912, when Tommy and Kathleen held a small wake for Mam in their apartment, they decided last minute to include Da as well. Every Irish person they could gather in Detroit was there, and while Tommy raised his glass more than once to make a toast, it was the last one he delivered that stuck with me.