Death at Christy Burke's (14 page)

“Vince nearly had a stroke. There on the field was the Arsenal football club, kicking a ball around, giving tips to the local lads, and signing autographs. And who did Charlie Kehoe wave over but Spider O’Leary? Like Vince Walsh, David O’Leary was of Irish background and living in England. O’Leary was Walsh’s hero. If it weren’t for our Lord Jesus Christ, Spider O’Leary would be the Son of God for Vincent Walsh. And there Vince was, meeting him in the jersey of archrival Manchester United. O’Leary ribbed him about it, Walsh stammered, Kehoe snickered from the sidelines.

“After this, Vincent bided his time. That time came when the local bishop was scheduled to visit our village during a period when we were desperate for support and money to keep things going. The bishop was a godly man, but not a humorous one. Now Charlie, as devout and dedicated as he was, was not a fellow who took naturally to life in the wild. A city boy through and through. I don’t think he had spent a day outside the city of Dublin until he went out to Africa. Anyway, there were aspects of life in the tropics that Charlie had trouble with, things that gave him the heebie-jeebies. I’m thinking particularly of some of the fascinating and colourful creatures that inhabit that part of the world.

“So the bishop was coming, and Charlie would be saying an outdoor Mass for him and for the local people. The Mass was to be celebrated at a beautiful spot on a hill a few miles away from the settlement. Magnificent view, a place to give thanks for God’s marvellous creation. A place chosen by Vincent Walsh. Charlie wanted to do a good job, impress the bishop with all the good work our group was doing. He was especially proud of the way the people exhibited such reverence at Mass. Vince shared these goals but he had another goal in mind: revenge on Charlie Kehoe.

“We had two ancient Jeeps, probably World War Two vintage. Every part of them by this time had been replaced, jury-rigged, wired or taped together. They barely functioned, but we got there. Everyone was in place. The altar was set up on the hill, with a lovely altar cloth decorated by the local women. The tabernacle, the chalice, all of gold. The priest’s vestments immaculate. It was so hot that all Charlie had on under the vestments was a tropic-weight black shirt and his collar, his underwear, and sandals on his feet.

“Charlie begins the Mass. Vince is nowhere to be seen, but that doesn’t register with Charlie. At least, not right away. When Charlie gets to the point where he is to deliver his homily, carefully prepared to inspire the faithful and the bishop, he hears a noise behind him. Sounds like a toy helicopter. It’s coming towards him. Brrrrr, this loud noise gets closer. Charlie turns his head, sees something flying in his direction, jumps and gives a little squawk. Vince has planted a big bowl of ripe fruit behind a nearby tree and has released into the air a bunch of Goliath beetles. I don’t know whether you’re familiar with them.”

“I think I can speak for us all when I say no to that,” Maura said.

“Right. I didn’t think so. This is, as far as I know, the largest beetle in the world, grows to over four inches in length. It’s so heavy, it makes that helicopter noise when it flies. And the male has a big horn on its head.”

Michael looked over at Monty and Maura. The expression on their faces showed that they shared his opinion of the giant flying insect. Brennan, who had heard the story before, didn’t look much better.

“So Vince has released a bunch of these monsters, hoping that at least one will fly in Charlie’s direction on its way to the stash of food. In fact two of them follow the desired flight path. Charlie hates bugs, is terrified of them, especially the great enormous things that populate the African tropics. He wants to continue his sermon, but he can’t concentrate. Finally he reaches up and swats at the things, and one of them falls on his foot. That has him dancing. The people are smiling about this, all except the bishop, who doesn’t crack a smile. Charlie gets through the Mass, just barely. The whole time he’s sneaking glances above his head, down to his feet, fearful the beetles will get on him and climb up his legs. He’s got a hand going like a windmill at all times to ward them off.

“Finally, Mass is done. But the ordeal isn’t over yet. Vince has another surprise for Charlie. A post-Mass meal prepared by the local church ladies. And I’m not talking crustless sandwiches and little cakes. No. Among the delicacies presented to Charlie and the bishop were Mopane worms, which are very colourful and edible caterpillars. And edible stink bugs.”

“Oh, God!” Michael croaked. He couldn’t help it.

Kitty continued, “Charlie reels at the sight of them, clutches the table. All the while, Vince is behind him, speaking in a low voice, giving a running commentary. ‘Please take a moment to savour these delightful morsels, brought in specially for the occasion from Limpopo. The Mopane worm. Spiky, yet succulent. The edible stink bug. Note the piercing mouth parts. Perhaps you’ve noticed that the animal has glands between its first and second pair of legs that produce a foul-smelling liquid. That’s for defence purposes, of course, and can safely be ignored while consuming them.’ He goes on and on. Charlie can’t take it. He’s the palest white man Africa has ever seen. He comes up with an excuse for leaving, and casts pleading looks in my direction for support. Suddenly, he has to be back in the village to administer a dose of regularly prescribed medicine to an old woman who had to stay behind. I take pity on him and excuse myself.

“Well, Charlie and I hop in one of the Jeeps and we can’t get it started. We open the bonnet and fiddle with the motor and the alternator or some such thing. Charlie is pouring sweat by this time, and I’m not much better. Of course everyone back at the Mass site can hear us trying to start the vehicle. So they come over to help, led by Vince, who kindly bears a doggy bag full of treats for me and Charlie. Charlie says to him, ‘Fuck you, Walsh, and all belonging to you!’ And the bishop hears it, and purses his lips preliminary to delivering a lecture. But Charlie finally gets the Jeep going and starts down the hill. I’m hanging off the side by my fingernails. I assure the crowd we’ll be back to pick them up, and off we go. If you could have seen the face on poor Charlie.

“So,” Kitty said, “my time abroad has mostly been a career of busted motors, large and terrifying insects, and embarrassing outbursts of inappropriate language. Don’t know that I accomplished anything in all those years, but I’ve seen a lot of the world and met thousands of lovely people, and — believe it or not — had all kinds of fun and foolishness along the way. I’m after them to put me on the road again.”

The voice of Sean, the barman, brought them back home. “Your change, Tim!”

Michael looked over and saw Tim Shanahan heading for the exit, looking ill. Sean was waving an Irish pound note at him, but Shanahan ignored it. He gave Michael and his companions an anguished glance and left the pub.

“Paid too much and didn’t even stay to finish it,” Sean muttered, as he removed Shanahan’s near-f pint glass from the bar and wiped beneath it.

“I hope you’re able for it now, Kitty. Michael is a divil for the dancing,” Brennan said when they arrived at the dance in Phibsborough.

“We’ll see who’s able for it, Burke. But if he wears me out, there’s a whole room full of women here who I’m sure would love to do a turn around the room with Michael O’Flaherty.”

“And well they should!” Michael exclaimed, he who had been known all over Saint John, New Brunswick, for his prowess on the dance floor. He still loved to kick up his feet whenever somebody rolled up the rug. No wallflower was Michael O’Flaherty. You wouldn’t know it to see him now but he had been quite the eligible bachelor in his day; he had courted more than one young lady before he entered the sem. After his ordination, well, he had fallen for a pretty face, or a kind heart, from time to time. Resisted the temptation to act, of course. And then there was the occasional church lady who had become infatuated with him. Some of the flirtation directed his way was over the top, in his view. He did nothing to encourage it, God knows. In fact, he was embarrassed for those women, if the truth be known. He said nothing, and kept them in his prayers. Now, though, the band was warming up. Michael loosened his tie.
Who knows — before the night’s over, I may yank it off entirely.

The band played a set of fast modern numbers. Michael sat out the first few of those. If you couldn’t do a jive or a jitterbug, what was the point? But then they did a couple of pieces from the big band era, and Michael was on his feet. Kitty did a pretty good job of keeping up with him. Michael was having a ball, and Kitty looked as if she was enjoying it every bit as much. Monty offered a round of drinks and headed to the bar. Brennan and Maura came onto the dance floor just as the band struck up its next number. An old Strauss waltz. Very romantic! Michael took Kitty in his arms, and Brennan did the same with Maura, but not before looking over at Michael and Kitty and saying in a stage whisper, “She’ll only break your heart, Michael.”

“And she yours,” Michael retorted.

“Nah, she’s too busy breaking something else; I won’t say what they are. But the woman abuses and torments me from morning till night. And that one backs her up!” he said, pointing at Kitty.

“You fellows are no match for the pair of us,” Kitty responded. “Now give your gobs a rest and listen to the music. It’s heavenly.”

Heavenly, it was. After the Strauss, there was a break and they all rested their feet and had a drink. The band returned with a new tempo, a series of jigs and reels that had the whole crowd on its feet. Then the fiddlers stood to become first and second violin, and the opening chords transported Michael back to his childhood, when his father used to play this very song on their old Victrola. John McCormack singing “Macushla.” Not everyone appreciated the Irish tenor voice, but Michael did, and never more than tonight. It made him ache for a time that was forever lost, and ache for the present time, his time with Kitty, which would be all too fleeting. He held her close and she smiled up at him as they danced around the room.

Macushla! Macushla! Your sweet voice is calling

Calling me softly again and again.

Macushla! Macushla! I hear its dear pleading

My blue eyed Macushla, I hear it in vain.

“I don’t see Mr. Shanahan here this afternoon,” Michael said to Frank Fanning the next day at Christy’s. Eddie Madigan and Jimmy O’Hearn were poring over the hurling results in the paper. Sean Nugent was tending bar.

“Howiyeh, Michael,” Frank said in greeting. “No, I haven’t seen Tim yet today.”

“He was here last night, but he left looking a little distressed.”

“Is that so?”

“He left without finishing his pint!”

“Must be terminal, Mike!”

“He seems like a good soul.”

“He is. A fine fellow, is Tim. He’s a professor, you know, teaches poetry and literature. A Yeats scholar is what he is. Knows everything there is to know about William Butler Yeats and his poems. And it’s a shame what they’ve done to him.”

“To whom?”

“Done to Tim. They sacked him from his job because of the drink.”

“Oh! Where was he working?”

“At the college. UCD.” University College of Dublin. “And a brilliant professor. His students loved him. So what if he missed a lecture from time to time? D’you think the students don’t miss a day or two themselves? And for the same reason?”

“I’m sorry to hear it, Frank. He’s a young man still. Lots of years left in him.”

“That’s right. He toils away part-time in a library now to meet his expenses. He’s overqualified for that sort of work, to put it mildly. Not making use of his talents at all.”

Michael hesitated for a moment, then said, “You know, Frank, to me Tim has the look of a priest. That’s something I’m quite familiar with, as you can imagine.”

“Ah, yes. He doesn’t speak of it, but he was indeed a
sagart.
Still is, in a way, I suppose. Isn’t that what you fellows say, ‘Once a priest, always a priest’?”

Michael nodded. “Something like that, yes.”

“But he doesn’t practise his vocation now. I don’t know why. He’d make a fine man of the cloth. But he never talks about it, and nobody wants to annoy him about it.”