46

The Gerstner was exactly where Sean had said it was: in the basement, stored at the bottom of one of those self-assembly plastic shelving units. The oak tool-chest was locked, which surprised him. Mickey thought the police would have found a way to open it during their search of the house. Maybe they found whatever they needed and skipped it, or maybe they had been lazy since they already had the evidence recovered from the crime scene in Byrne’s backyard.

Rather than wasting time searching for a key, Mickey used Sean’s drill and bored a hole through the lock. When Sean wasn’t out and about, or when he got into a particularly nasty fight with his wife, he would come down here to the basement and putter around on some project. Sean had a talent for wood-working, but he didn’t have the patience. It was here, using Sean’s tools, that Mickey had made the birdhouse he had given his mother.

The chest opened without a problem. Sitting inside the walls of green felt were six neat stacks of envelopes bound together by elastic bands. They were all addressed to René Flynn in Sean’s trademark chicken scrawl. Most of the paper had yellowed over time, the stamps either missing or curling at the corners, about to fall off.

Must be Sean’s war letters, Mickey thought. Odd that Sean would have kept them. It was such a sentimental act, and Sean was hardly sentimental. Even odder that he’d written them in the first place, since he rarely talked about what had happened over there.

Mickey removed one stack and set it down on top of the long counter that stretched its way down one length of the wall. He unfastened the elastic, which snapped because it was so old, and picked up a random letter written in faded pencil.

13 May 1965

Dear René,

The sun here doesn’t let up, and everywhere I go there’s this thick, wet heat. Mail over a fan when you get a chance.

Things have been heating up here in Gookville. The other day we were choppered into Dodge City and immediately got stuck in the middle of a firefight. I had my helmet and flack gear on, otherwise I wouldn’t’ve made it. Damn gooks had us pinned down for two hours. Never been so damn scared in my entire life. Keep trying to talk some sense into my brother. I don’t want him over here.

Please write. Your letters will get me through this. How’s Mickey? What’s he doing? Send a picture of him. The two of you are always in my thoughts.

Love,

Sean

‘Scared’ and ‘love’. Words Mickey had never heard Sean say but had used here.

Mickey opened another envelope. This letter was dated a week later.

They have us guarding a road next to a graveyard. Every night I’m sleeping next to a damn tombstone made out of wood. We’re losing about a man a day here, most of it ’cause of the heat.

You and I had some words before I left. I know money’s tight and things are tough on you and Mickey. I’ll come home and make it up to you and him and give you the life you’ve dreamed of. That’s a promise.

There were a dozen more letters like this one, Sean describing the hell around him and practically begging his wife to write to him. The last letter in the stack read:

I’m sure you already know about Dave Simmons. He was standing right next to me and sneezed and it made me think of you so I said God Bless You and the back of his head blew apart. It keeps replaying over and over and over in my mind.

Please stop punishing me with your silence. If you don’t want to write a letter, okay, fine, I get it. But send a picture of Mickey. Just one picture. That’s not a lot to ask.

A card-sized envelope was on the bottom of the chest drawer, resting on top of an envelope for Brick’s Photos, the words THANK YOU FOR TRUSTING US WITH YOUR MEMORIES printed across the top in letters so bold it read more like a scream than a simple thank you. The card inside was addressed to Mickey Flynn at Jim’s old address – just as Sean had said.

The card had a return address in the corner. It was from Paris, France.

Mickey removed the envelope from the pile of pictures. The back flap’s seal had been torn open. He lifted the flap and prised out the heavy note card.

Dear Mickey,

I’m sorry it has taken me so long to write back to you. I’ve been actively searching for a place big enough for us. Paris is incredibly expensive, especially here on the Île Saint-Louis. There’s first and last month’s rent to consider, and things like security deposits. I’m working as a waitress at a café, but money is slow coming in. Looking back, I should have taken the money I put aside for your tuition and used it to set us up here, but, after all the setbacks you’ve suffered, I didn’t want you to endure the pain of having to move to another school and be away from James and all your other friends while I got settled in Paris.

I’m coming for you. I know it’s taking longer than I said, and I know you’ve been patient. I need you to keep being patient. You can write to me at the address on the front of the envelope. Don’t let your father get this address. Hide this letter where he won’t find it. If your father knows where I’m hiding – well, I don’t have to remind you of what he is capable.

No matter how bad it gets, always remember to have faith. And always remember how much I love you, how special you are and will always be.

She signed the letter in the way she always did, using the French word for ‘Mom’: Maman.

Mickey slid the note card back into the envelope. His eyes were hot and his throat felt raw when he swallowed.

Pieces of this morning’s conversation with Sean came back to him. The day she left? She took all the money I had in our bank accounts, left us with nothing. She’s the reason I don’t trust banks … Your tuition for St Stephen’s. Who the hell do you think paid for that after she drained my bank account? Your mother?

Mickey opened the Brick’s Photos envelope.

No pictures. Nothing. It was empty.

Were they somewhere down here, or in some other part of the house? Or were they gone forever? He didn’t care, and he didn’t feel like moving either. His feet felt like they had been welded to the floor. He felt lost.

Who could he go to in order to find the truth?

Mickey searched his memory – his mother had been close to Father Keith Cullen, the priest all too well aware of Mickey’s home life with Sean. He remembered asking Father Keith if he knew anything about where his mother had gone (this was before the letters came), Father Keith looking shocked before saying no, he had no idea – no knowledge of where his mother could have run off to. If it was an act, it was a damn good one. He took out his phone and dialled Father Cullen’s cell phone number and got a ‘No longer in service’ message. He called the rectory and, after telling the secretary who he was and why he was calling, she told him to hold on while she transferred the call. Mickey felt some relief, and a sense of building anxiety, when the phone on the other end of the line picked up.

‘Father Cullen.’

‘It’s Mickey Flynn. Sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you could help me with something … I had a quick question about my mother.’

‘Your mother?’ he said.

‘Yes. I was wondering … I know this is going to sound odd, but I had a conversation with Sean today, and he told me he paid for my tuition at St Stephen’s. Is there any way to find out if this is true?’

‘It’s true.’

‘You’re sure.’

‘Positive. He came to me personally and paid me in cash not long after your mother … went away. Every year he paid in cash.’

‘Cash,’ Mickey said. ‘Sean.’

‘Yeah. He’s the only parent I know who ever did that. You remember a thing like that.’

‘I see.’ Mickey felt cold all over.

‘Mickey, I hate to cut you off, but I’ve got to –’

‘Go. Thank you for your time, Father.’

Mickey hung up, blood thrumming in his ears, his vision swimming.

Sean said he had paid the tuition, and Father Cullen had just validated Sean’s story. Which meant his mother had lied to him. His mother had written: Looking back, I should have taken the money I put aside for your tuition and used it to set us up here, but, after all the setbacks you’ve suffered, I didn’t want you to endure the pain of having to move to another school and be away from James and all your other friends while I got settled in Paris.

His mother had deliberately lied to him. Why?

Timothée loved your mother, but he hated kids, Sean had told him. So he gave her a choice: life with him in the city of love or life with us. Which life do you think she chose, Mickey?

Mickey imagined Sean wandering the streets of Paris, following his wife and her long-time lover, snapping pictures and thinking about how he was going to get René alone, confront her, get her to come back home.

He leaned forward and splayed his hands across the countertop, his head bowed and his eyes tight shut, wondering how much grief a heart could hold, how many truths it could be forced to accept before it ruptured.