Chapter 6

(Normie)

We were learning about sins on Monday in catechism class. Mrs. Kavanagh said there used to be more sins and you got in more trouble for them in the old days, but sin is still with us today. Ian put up his hand and asked if it was a sin to disguise your voice in the confession box. Mrs. Kavanagh said it might be like telling a lie but she wasn’t sure, so she would ask Father Burke. Ian squawked: “Don’t tell him it was me asking!” And the whole class burst out laughing. Then Kim asked what would happen if you committed a sin and went to confession, but then you ran home before saying your Hail Marys or whatever your penance was, and you got run over by a bus and died. Mrs. Kavanagh said she didn’t think it would be a problem, at least for our souls, but she gave us a lecture on crossing the street safely.

Ian was teasing Kim afterwards at Four-Four Time, making a noise like a bus and pretending he was going to knock her down. “You’re dead! You died in a state of sin! Going to hell. Next. Beep beep.” And he went after another kid and pretended the same thing. Jenny Delaney asked what he was doing, so I said it was all about dying with a sin on your soul. Then I told her I remembered something about telling God you’re sorry even if you don’t get to confession. There’s this prayer you can say, the Act of Contrition, and it’s supposed to work too.

Jenny looked really worried: “But if you don’t have time even to say the prayer, if you sin and then die a second later, does that mean you go to hell?”

“I guess so,” I said, “or you have to wait for hundreds of years before you can be with God in heaven. It’s an in-between place you go to. I can’t remember the name of it. Anyway, people have to say prayers to get you out of there.”

“That doesn’t sound good!”

“I know, but you don’t have to worry about it. Cross at the crosswalk, and look both ways, and you won’t get killed. Or just don’t commit any sins.”

“It’s not me.” Jenny looked around to make sure nobody was listening. “It’s Mum!”

“Your mum wasn’t a sinner. They wrote all this good stuff about her in the paper.”

“I know. She was always really good. Except just before she died. She committed a sin! Or what might be a sin, I’m not sure.”

I was worried then too. “What did she do?” I whispered.

“She swore!”

“No!”

“Yes! My sisters and brothers don’t know this because I was the only one awake. And even then, I fell back asleep and didn’t get to save her. I don’t know how I could have saved her, but maybe I could have done something. Anyway I was so tired I went back to sleep.”

“There’s probably nothing you could have done. You shouldn’t worry, Jenny.” Then I couldn’t help it, I was curious. “What swear word did she say? Don’t say it yourself, just say the first letter.”

“Well, I’m not sure if it was swearing, but it sounded like it. She said ‘Jesus!’ I know it’s bad to say that. Then she said ‘hell’s angels!’ in a loud voice. I think that’s swearing. That’s all I could hear, so whatever else she said must have been in a normal voice and maybe wasn’t bad.”

Hells Angels! That probably was a sin, a sin I had committed myself, and so had my whole family! We have all said those words in our house. I have done my own personal research into angels; I’m trying to figure out if Father Burke is one himself, even though he doesn’t look it, because he has spirits around him when he’s on the altar in church. You should see the picture I drew of him looking happy all in white with wings in my diary. I added a picture of Dominic peeking around the bottom edge of the robe by Father’s feet. Dominic can crawl now, so it’s really cute. Anyway, I’ve seen all kinds of pictures of angels. And I could never figure out how the Hells Angels — who are a motorcycle gang! — are allowed to call themselves that name. Hell is bad, so they must be saying they are bad angels. I figured they looked more like devils. I always secretly hoped I would see one. I only saw them speeding by on their motorcycles, but never up close, standing still. And whenever we drove by their clubhouse, which is near where Tommy’s girlfriend lives, we would see all the motorcycles outside but we never saw any of the gang members themselves. Tommy always takes that street to get to Lexie’s apartment, even though he doesn’t have to. He slows down and stares at all the bikes. And one time our family had a barbecue with the families of a bunch of lawyers, and one of them — Katie Sheehan’s dad — said he had actually been to a Hells Angels lobster party!

So all along we’ve probably been swearing whenever we’ve mentioned their name. I shouldn’t say this, but I got even more curious to see one of these “angels from hell” after Jenny told me about her mum saying their name.

I asked Jenny: “Who was your mum talking to when she said it?”

She looked at me as if I had asked a question she didn’t understand, or it didn’t make sense to her. Then she said: “She was all alone when she died, so there couldn’t have been anybody there for her to talk to.”

“So the bad words were the only thing you heard?”

“Yeah. She must have been thinking about something, or remembering something bad, and swore really loud, to herself. How can we find out if ‘Hells Angels’ is swearing? Is there a list?”

“I don’t know. If there’s a list, maybe it’s a sin to look at it!” We were both quiet then, trying to figure out what to do. I said: “Let’s ask Father Burke. I saw him out in the hallway.”

So we went over to see him. Jenny was too shy, so I did the talking. “Hi, Father.”

“Normie and Jenny. How are the girls today?”

“Fine thank you, Father. Can we ask you something?”

“Sure you can.”

“Is it okay if we say something that may be a swear word, but we don’t know for sure? ’Cause that’s the question we have to ask.”

“Ask away.”

“Is it swearing if you say ‘Hells Angels’? Especially in a loud voice?”

He didn’t laugh but his eyes looked like he was going to laugh, if you know what I mean. He said: “It’s not swearing, but don’t let me catch you girls roaring up here on a motorcycle and coming in with a Hells Angels patch on your jackets! Then I’ll think you’re up to no good, the pair o’ youse.”

“What do you mean?” Jenny asked.

“The Hells Angels are a motorcycle gang and some of their activities are, well, not the sort of activities we’d encourage in young Catholic children.”

“We won’t act like them,” I promised him. “Why would your mum say their name, Jenny?”

“Your mum?” Father Burke asked, looking at Jenny.

So Jenny told him: “I was scared Mummy might be in hell because she said ‘Hells Angels!’ But if it’s not a swear word, then it’s not a sin, right?”

Father Burke squatted down in front of Jenny and held her hand. He said: “It’s not a sin at all. How long have you been worrying about this, Jenny?”

Jenny’s eyes flicked over to me and then back to Father Burke. “I wasn’t worried all the time. She just said it once, uh, one night.”

“Well, you can be sure your mum is right there with God in heaven. Everybody knows what a lovely and kind woman she was. I’ll bet she’s watching over you right now.”

“I hope she’s not mad at me, for thinking she might have been a sinner!”

He just shook his head as if to say no, Jenny had no reason to worry.

“I’m sure your dad would reassure you that there’s nothing to worry about with respect to your mother’s soul! Did you tell him about it?”

She shook her head again.

“How come?”

“Because in our house you’re not allowed to say ‘hell.’ My brother got in trouble one time for telling one of my other brothers to go to hell. We’re not allowed to say ‘Jesus’ in a bad way either, or ‘God.’ So I didn’t want to say it or get Mummy in trouble for saying it. Even though she’s dead now.”

Father Burke said: “Ah. The perils of a Catholic education.” Whatever that meant. “I’m sure you won’t be in trouble if you talk it over with your dad. He’ll set your mind at ease.”

Then he put his arm around Jenny and hugged her because she started to cry. He wiped the tears off her face. “When I say my first Mass tomorrow, I’m going to say it for your mum, and for you and your whole family.”

“Okay. That’s good. Thank you, Father.”

“But in the meantime I think you should have something to lift your spirits a bit. What do you like as a special treat, Jenny? Chocolate? Ice cream?”

“I like both!” she blurted out. Then her face turned red, because she must have thought she was being greedy.

But he just said: “Sure don’t we all! A chocolate sundae perhaps?”

“Yeah!” Her eyes were really big.

“What else do you like on it?”

“Sprinkles!”

“How about you, Normie?”

I was glad I was getting one too, but I tried not to let it show. After all, it wasn’t me whose mother was dead. But it would be rude not to answer, so I said: “I like marshmallow on mine. Whenever I get one. It doesn’t have to be today.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you girls go on with your music and I’ll go out and get some stuff for ice cream sundaes, and we’ll have kind of a sundae-making party. You two girls will be in charge of making them for the other kids, scooping up the ice cream and putting the toppings on. How does that sound?”

“Great!” Jenny and I both said it at once, and we had big grins on our faces.

So he left to go to Sobeys or wherever priests buy their groceries, and we practised our piano lessons, but we had our minds on the treats to come. When he arrived back at the choir school, he had everything you could imagine. Chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream, chocolate sauce, butterscotch sauce, marshmallow sauce, coloured sprinkles and cherries, tall plastic sundae dishes, and long see-through sundae spoons in all kinds of colours. He set everything out on a table and called me and Jenny over, and gave us these plastic scoops. Hers was red and mine was blue. The kids freaked out! He told them me and Jenny — Jenny and I — were going to make them whatever kind of sundae they wanted, with as many toppings as we could fit on. He made us wash our hands first, but that was okay. It only took a couple of minutes, and then everybody lined up for their homemade sundaes. Most of the kids wanted every single kind of ice cream and topping we had, but they wanted them in different orders, so then everybody could compare the designs before gobbling them up. Jenny and I had so much fun it didn’t even matter that we didn’t get to make our own until the end. Then we remembered to make one for Father Burke. He said it was brilliant. Jenny seemed to forget all about the Hells Angels.

I was still stuffed when it came time for dinner that night, which was too bad because we all went out to eat at Ryan Duffy’s. I love it there, so I ordered what I always get anyway, fish and chips, even though I could only eat half of it. The whole family was there, including Tom’s girlfriend, Lexie, and also Father Burke. The sundaes didn’t stop him from eating all his steak. Daddy was with us at first but he had to leave before dessert and write some kind of emergency paper for the Supreme Court, which he was supposed to finish at the office but didn’t. He said goodbye to us and left.

Father Burke looked at Dominic in his high chair and then at Mummy and said: “Have you told him yet?” He meant Daddy.

He said it in a really quiet voice, and that made me pay attention. Tom and Lexie were talking in their regular voices, so I knew they weren’t talking about anything secret.

“No. Anything to do with the baby puts him all out of gear. He won’t want to hear about it.”

“He can hardly miss it once things heat up.”

“I’ll deal with Monty when I have to, not a moment sooner.”

“Mother of God,” Father Burke muttered. Then he put his hand up, and the waiter came over. “Another Irish here. MacNeil?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

The waiter brought the Irish, which is a nickname for a kind of booze. They say it’s even stronger than beer.

“Do you really need that, Brennan?” Mum said to him.

“Do I hhwattt?” That’s what it sounded like, as if ‘what’ had all kinds of extra letters in it. He looked at Mummy as if she had said something crazy.

“Do you need another glass of whiskey? Do you need to drink?”

“I enjoy a drink, MacNeil, I don’t need it.”

“Are you sure you know the difference?”

“What are you on about? You’ve managed to skate away from the topic of most importance here, custody of little Dominic, which you should be dealing with, and instead you’re giving out to me about my drinking!”

They were talking even more quietly now. Tommy and Lexie didn’t seem to hear them, but I did.

You would think Father Burke would say to Mum: “It’s none of your business!” But he always tells them what to do, like telling Daddy he should sell his house and move back in with us. And they gave up telling him it’s none of his business because he just laughs, or says he was put on the earth to see that God’s will is done. So I guess he figured it was his turn to be told what to do.

She was still going on about it. “I’ve been concerned about you for a long time, Brennan. You drink too much.”

“Amn’t I a big strappin’ lad who can hold his drink? The amount I sip may be ‘too much’ for the faint of heart and the delicate of stomach, but it is not too much for me.”

“I beg to differ.”

“What else is new? At some point in your life you’ve differed from every other member of the human race and if you had the time, you’d make a point of telling every one of them face to face exactly why they are poor, benighted, misguided eejits, and you and you alone are one hundred percent correct.”

“So you don’t think your drinking is a problem?”

“Of course it isn’t! What’s got into you?”

“Prove it. Don’t drink it.” She looked at his glass.

“Are you daft? Leave a glass of Jameson sitting there, unconsumed? Think of, well, think of all the labour that went into perfecting that glass of whiskey. Distillery workers dedicated to their craft, spending hours . . .”

“Spare me the labour theory of value, Father Marx. Though now that you mention it, I should drink it myself in solidarity with the workers. And of course this way it won’t be a temptation in front of you for the rest of the night.”

“Jaysus Murphy, now there’s a new twist on cadgin’ a drink. Tell someone he’s a drunk, then take the jar away from him, and down it and get rat-arsed yourself.”

“I can hardly get rat-arsed on the wee drop you left in the glass, Brennan. Give it here. Prove to me and to yourself that you don’t need the stuff. Go without it for a couple of weeks. See how you do.”

“I’ll do fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” And she took his glass, drank the rest of the whiskey, choked, picked up her glass of water and gulped it. Mum can’t drink very much. Which is probably a good thing. Then she turned to me and Tom and Lexie and asked if we’d like to see the dessert menu. There’s something people say about questions like that, something about the pope and bears pooping in the woods, or being Catholic, I don’t know what it is, but it means “duh, that’s obvious!”

Father Burke lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. I saw Mum turn around as if she was going to growl at him about that too, but she decided not to.

I had a lot of work to do with the dictionary after that night out, finding “custody” and other words, so I was up really late sneaking the story into my diary. I was very sleepy the next day but I had to act as if I wasn’t.

(Monty)

Tuesday was the night I could claim, with justification, to be a choirboy. I was a member of the St. Bernadette’s Choir of Men and Boys, directed by Father Burke. We sang magnificent traditional sacred music, then customarily observed another sacred tradition: we went to the Midtown Tavern. Dave arrived with two draft as soon as we sat down.

“Em, none for me, thanks, Dave,” Brennan said.

“Sure.” Dave laughed and put the glasses on the table.

“Really, I’m not having any tonight.”

“Are you okay, Brennan? Are you under doctor’s orders or something?”

“No. Well, yes, in a way.”

Dave looked at me as if I could explain Brennan’s aberrant behaviour. I couldn’t. I just shrugged and told Dave to leave both draft for me.

“So, what would you like then, Brennan?”

“Just bring me a . . .” He stopped. Must have drawn a blank. “What else do you have?”

“Pop, juice, water . . .”

“A ginger ale! That would be just the thing.”

“Would you like a little umbrella in the glass, and a twist of —”

“You bring me a little umbrella, David, and then you can shove it up your arse so far it’ll choke the breath out of ya, and ya won’t be able to gasp out your Act of Contrition before dying unforgiven and unmourned.”

“Got it. Back in a sec.”

After Dave had gone and returned with the ginger ale, ungirlified, I said to Brennan: “What’s this all about?”

“Nothing. Why should it be about something?”

“Are you sick?”

“What kind of a world are we living in, when a man orders something different one night of his life, and everyone blathers on and on about it?”

“All right, all right. It just seems unusual, that’s all. You here in the Midtown, without —”

“Have you nothing else to converse about, Montague?”

“I’ll come up with something.”

“Maybe it’s time you thought about adoption.”

“Whoa! Where did that come from? If you’ve gone off the sauce to clear your head, it’s not working for you! Adoption is for guys who have a wife, but no children. I have children, but no wife. Remember?”

“I’m talking about young Dominic.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you.”

“That child needs a father.”

I looked at him. There was a whole world of things I could say in response to that, but I wasn’t going to give voice to any of them. That did not mean I was unmindful of the little boy growing up — so far — without a father in his life. The truth was that I was seriously concerned about it, about Dominic, but I could not bring myself to get into it with Brennan. Or, God knows, with Maura. All I said was: “Next topic.”

We eventually got on to the subject of travel, and reminisced about the road trip we had taken together to Italy. Burke suggested it was time to think about Ireland as our next destination, so we made some half-arsed plans for that. I mused about what the ginger ale would be like over there, and got a damning look in return.

(Normie)

We had concert practice on Wednesday. We were going to be on cable TV because our bit was part of a whole night of concerts to raise money to help the poor. The grown-ups’ choir school was going to sing a couple of pieces, too. And Father Burke was doing one himself. He was standing at the front of the room with sheets of music, trying to decide between two songs. One was an Irish song called “Macushla,” which I liked. But the other one I liked even better, “La Rondine.” It’s about a little bird flying away. It has a really nice tune and there are words in it that sound like Mummy and Daddy’s name: Monty and Maura. Well, it’s actually monti e mare, mountains and sea, in the song but it almost sounds like their names. I told him to sing that one. “For you, mia piccina — that means ‘little one’ — I’ll sing ‘La Rondine.’” Other school choirs were going to be in the show but they weren’t as good as us. It’s not their fault, though; we are a choir school so there would be something wrong, and Father Burke would kill us, if we weren’t the best.

We practised “God So Loved the World,” by a guy called Stainer, and “O Vos Omnes,” by Croce, over and over again. Monsignor O’Flaherty came by to hear us, and said we sounded like the heavenly host of angels. He is so nice! He’s the boss of the priests but he’s never bossy. He went up to Father Burke after we finished singing.

“Brennan! Could you find it in your heart to say the morning Mass for me tomorrow? Mrs. O’Dell is going into surgery in the morning. Doesn’t look good for her at all, God bless her. They found a shadow on her —”

“No need to go into the details, Michael. I’ll be happy to say your Mass.”

“Thank you, my son. You won’t find the wine too rich for your blood, now, will you?”

“Em, no, Mike, I’m pretty well accustomed to it now, after a quarter of a century celebrating the Eucharist.”

“Oh, I just thought you might have become a little sensitive to alcoholic beverages! I notice you didn’t have your customary nightcap the last couple of evenings when you got in. Not that there’s anything —”

“Blessed St. Gobnait! Can a man not change his habits and be left in peace for it?”

Monsignor looked up at him. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m feeling no worse than I always do. And no better either!”

“Well, I’ll leave you . . .”

“Good!”

See? If Monsignor was bossy he’d boss Father Burke around, but he just laughed and went on his way.

Then the after-school music kids started arriving. There was one little girl who was really cute. Laurie. She had red hair like mine. She looked at me, and I knew she liked me helping her, so I went over to her.

I had just sat down beside Laurie, and started teaching her how to sight-read do-re-mi, when I heard somebody bang the door open and come barging in. “We gotta hide in here!” I looked up and saw two of Jenny and Laurence’s big brothers talking to Laurence. Their names were Connor and Derek.

Laurence said: “How come you’re hiding?”

“They’re after us again!” Derek said. “I think they followed us from school.”

“They better not come in here!”

“Go look out the window.” Derek gave Laurence a little push. “They probably won’t recognize your face.”

“How do you know?”

“Never mind. We’ll just wait. Maybe they’ll go away.”

“What seems to be the trouble here, lads?” That was Father Burke. He went over to where they were standing.

“Nothing, Father,” Connor answered.

“Laurence’s brothers, would you be?”

“I’m Connor and this is Derek. We came to see Jenny and Laurence.”

“And somebody was bothering you on the way?”

“Just these guys who, well, I don’t know. It’s okay.”

“What is it?”

Father Burke just stood there looking at them. He’s used to making kids tell the truth. The two brothers shuffled their feet and looked at each other, then Connor said: “They followed us before.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“No. We don’t know them at all.”

“Have they said anything to you?”

Connor looked at Derek and then back at Father Burke. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

You could tell Father didn’t believe them, but he didn’t say anything. He walked over to the door and went out. By this time Jenny was with the boys, and they all kind of huddled together. Father Burke came back in and said there wasn’t anybody out there.

“But it was true, Father! They were there,” Connor said.

“I know. How are you planning to get home today?”

They all looked at each other. “We’re going to walk. When Laurence and Jenny are finished.”

“Well, why don’t you treat yourself to some — what’s over there today? — banana bread and mango juice, and listen to your brother and sister play a couple of tunes. Then I’ll give you a ride home.”

“All of us?”

“I’ll not be leaving anyone behind.”

So they stayed and had something to eat, and heard some music. Then all the parents came and picked up their kids. Daddy came to get me, so we went out with Father Burke and the Delaneys. He told Daddy he was driving them home, and he gave Daddy a kind of look that said: There’s something going on here. But Daddy didn’t ask. Instead he said: “How many shoulder belts do you have in your car, Brennan?”

“Em, four.”

“And there are five of you getting in the car.”

“Right. I’ve never had more than four people before . . .”

“And you’re not going to now. Who wants to come with me and Normie?”

“I do!” Jenny said.

Daddy knows all the bad things that happen to people, like getting in accidents without seat belts on and getting murdered. And he goes to court for the very people who killed someone or let them in the car without their seat belts. I wouldn’t want to do his job.

“So you’ve got some more family members in the Four-Four Time program, eh, Jenny?” Daddy asked.

“No, those are just my brothers being chased by somebody.”

“Who’s chasing them?”

“I don’t know. Bad guys.”

“Kids or grown-ups?”

“Big kids.”

“Why are they after your brothers?”

“Nobody knows!”