Conor crossed Sappers Bridge toward Lowertown. A few Irishmen, like Nicholas Sparks and Daniel O’Connor, had made names for themselves in Ottawa, but the capital was dominated by Englishmen, Ulstermen and Scots. Most Irish-Catholic immigrants worked on the canals, along the train tracks and in the forests, and like Thomas O’Dea, lived in the slums. He looked in the windows of Howell’s Grocery Store and considered how little he had eaten today. As he neared his father’s basement flat, he felt a shiver of dread. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
Thomas O’Dea was a mess. After working the day shift at Lapierre’s, he had stayed on throughout the night shift, drinking away the money he had made. “Where have you been, boy?” he drawled, his breath reeking of dusty, cheap whisky.
Conor hung up his suit coat, hoping to avoid a confrontation. He knew his father would be impossible to deal with tonight.
“Did you hear me? I said, where have you been?”
“I was at the Confederation celebrations, watching the fireworks.”
“With who?”
“Will Trotter.” Conor didn’t dare say Meg’s name.
“With some Protestant thug?”
“With a pageboy who happens to be a friend of mine, if that’s what you mean. Please, Da, let’s not argue.” Tonight, of all nights, Conor wished he could talk to his father. He wanted to share the evening with him, tell him about Meg, ask about girls, about his restless, anxious longing. He had spent many nights making love to his pillows, but tonight he had actually found a girl who seemed to like him. He had saved her life, her mother had called him a hero and he dared not tell his own father a word of it.
Thomas had often said that Conor had his mother’s happy disposition. He had apparently inherited her red hair and green eyes—“the look of the Irish.” Margaret O’Dea, that mystery who bore him … how he wished he knew her and could confide in her.
Long ago, he had stopped talking politics around his father. Thomas’s hatred for England was too deeply rooted for a decent discussion. Conor knew his “Britishness” pushed every nerve in his father’s body. He knew he could be insensitive to Thomas’s pain, but then, he thought, what’s wrong with wanting to fit in? What’s wrong with trying to get ahead? They were in a British country, after all; why not accept it?
He found Thomas’s lack of imagination frustrating. His father always wanted to dismiss issues, avoid conversation and damn those in power. Maybe he was afraid he couldn’t keep up, or maybe he had just stopped trying. When he wanted to, Thomas could hold his own at the pub; why not at home? Why did he stay so sullen?
“The fireworks were spectacular,” he said, searching for neutral ground.
“I suppose your fancy politicians were there.”
“Macdonald has been made a knight.”
Thomas didn’t care. “You think this Confederation nonsense is wonderful, don’t you?” There was contempt in his voice. “Well, I think—”
“I know what you think,” Conor interrupted, surprising himself with his rudeness. “You don’t need to tell me. I know everything—and everybody—you hate.” He had wanted to be conciliatory and reach out to his father, but he had lost the moment and the inclination.
Thomas O’Dea’s face grew red with rage. “You fool. You know nothing, boyo. Nothing!” He spit out two words he knew Conor would hate: “Did you hear me, Bookie? Or is that Cookie?” Thomas persisted, delighting in Conor’s outrage. “You’re a pompous idiot.” In his thick accent, it sounded like eejit, an Irish inflection that sometimes had a funny, light tone. Not tonight. Tonight, it sounded like the hiss of the devil.
“I’ll tell you what I know,” Conor said, glaring at him; once his anger had been awakened, it continued to rise. “I know that if you hate Canada so damned much, you should never have come here. I know—” Thomas tried to cut off his son’s speech, but Conor’s voice rose even louder. “I know you don’t believe in Canada, or Canadians. You barely believe in yourself. And I don’t care. I really don’t.”
Thomas O’Dea was in his forties, but his mind had withered with ancient hatreds. Conor looked at him with pity and disgust. It was a poisonous mix. “Tell me, Father,” he jeered. “What do you believe in?”
“I believe in Ireland,” Thomas answered contemptuously. “I believe in my homeland.”
Conor buried his head in his hands. Ireland. Ireland. Ireland. Why can’t people forget yesterday’s pain? We have a new homeland now. He studied his father. Thomas sat on an old wooden chair beside a battered table, leaning on a cold stovepipe. His shoulders were stooped, his eyes blurry from the whisky. He was the very picture of failure. And Conor felt ashamed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Thomas roared. “I’m not one of your hoity-toity Brits.”
“No, you’re a bitter wreck.” Conor regretted his words as he heard them come from his mouth. “And you’re drunk.”
At that, Thomas threw himself at his son, preparing to strike him, but he stumbled getting out of the chair. Conor held his ground and blocked the blow. He grabbed his father’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “I’m sorry,” Conor said sternly, releasing his father’s arm. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not Cookie, Bookie, boyo or any petty putdown you may come up with. Not after today.”
His father dropped to the muddy floor, a defeated man, sobbing in self-pity. “It’s that McGee. He’s turned you against me. To you, I’m nothing but a worthless barman and he’s,” he said mockingly, “a great politician.”
“It has nothing to do with Mr. McGee.” Now that he had control, maybe he could manoeuvre this dreadful confrontation from spite to reconciliation. “No, Da, it’s not that at all.” Conor’s tone now was soothing as he bent down. “You know what I was thinking today?” he said. “I was thinking about Mother. How she would have felt about today. A new country. A new start.”
Thomas looked up at him from the ground, barely believing that Conor would talk like this.
“Da, think of Mother. Is this how she would have wanted you to act?”
Colour slowly returned to Thomas O’Dea’s pallid face. “Think of Mother,” this boy said. As if he hadn’t thought of Margaret every hour of every day since she died. What impudence. What stupidity. What on earth had he reared? Life was surging into his limbs. How could he make this boy understand? Yes, he was jealous of McGee, with his fancy talk and fancier friends. Yes, he despised the Protestant leaders like Macdonald and their railway cronies. He would admit that. But his anger was deeper than envy. Far deeper.
An old, almost forgotten vitality started to flow into his bloodstream, clearing the haziness of the whisky. This son of his spouted the empty slogans of politics, but he knew the full sting of British politics, and British politicians. He lifted himself up. This self-righteous boy—yes, “boyo”—hadn’t experienced enough of life to be called a man, yet he dared lecture him about life. About Margaret.
He took a deep breath and steadied himself. His eyes locked onto his son’s, and in a hushed but powerful tone, he said simply, “Sit down. Let me tell you about your mother.”