Chapter 11

 

New York, 1976

 

Had someone arranged a match on sight alone the couple gliding through the swarm of admirers, Andrea was certain, would have been it. The same luscious mane of golden-blond hair curled as naturally on James Beechen’s head as it did on his eye-catching wife’s. The reigning princess in the powerful Connors clan, Shelia Connors Beechen nearly challenged her husband’s height of six foot. She carried her lithe frame proudly, not a hint of the slump often associated with a too tall female showed in her movements. Like her lightly tanned and attractive mate, Shelia required no artificial aids to enhance her looks. Even her propensity to overindulge in whiskey had not yet turned the classical features puffy nor darkened the area beneath the wide set aquamarine eyes. Blessed with a natural coloring that could accommodate any outrageousness, still, she chose to wear forest green with vague touches of gold in a simple but elegant sheath.

“Andrea, luv.” Shelia bestowed a warm kiss on the other woman’s cheek before her customary peck at her brother’s. “And where is our little Annie? She assured me she was hosting Michael’s wretched gathering and she would curl up and die if I didn’t show.”

“Be nice Shelia, Ann is doing a fine job.”

“Really, Johnny, you obviously haven’t spoken to your wife lately.”

“No one can attain Catherine’s perfection.” John Connors gave a malicious wink as he shook hands with his brother-in-law. “I didn’t have any choice, but how did O’Neill yank your chain?”

James Beechen simply shrugged deferring to his wife who exclaimed, “John—why are you so dense? Most of these people actually like Michael O’Neill ‘The Big Man’. I wouldn’t doubt they’d willingly march to the gallows to please him.”

“The Big Guy.” Beechen chuckled. “Precisely what the Irish called Michael Collins before they executed him.”

“Dream on, Jim.” Shelia smiled at her English husband. “You’re on the wrong side of the Atlantic. This Michael will probably dance on all your graves. Oh no!” Shelia groaned. Her eyes fastened on the child wiggling on the piano bench. “Couldn’t Ann have popped the little witch something to keep her unconscious?”

“Shelia, that’s mean. She seems like a sweet child.”

“Obviously girl, you have never been subjected to little Dee’s evil nature.”

“To be honest,” Andrea said, “I don’t think Michael ever told me he had a daughter.”

The music built and Deirdre’s voice, amazingly strong for her age, rose in harmony:

Her singing had the usual affect, and people began to move towards the piano. “Dee!” Her father’s bellow had to have reached her but she ignored it:

“Of all the tear jerkers,” O’Neill groaned. “I better head her off before she turns this into an IRA rally.”

Catherine Connors slipped her arm through her cousin’s. “Leave her alone, Michael. Everyone is getting a kick out of the little rebel. You’re at fault, really. You pack her off every summer to your father, and she returns all the worse. You should give her a permanent home life. Why don’t you marry Ann?”

“Aye, me Kate, always the matchmaker.” O’Neill eased out of Catherine’s hold on his arm and winked and touched a finger to his lips. Then he walked towards the crowd at the piano.

By now the chorus learned, the adults joined in and the level of noise rose conspicuously as the hand-clapping joined the music.

“Enough.” O’Neill stooped to remove the child amid growing complaints.

“Leave her be, Mike.”

“Come on Dee, girl, do us another.”

Andrea, having moved in on the group, added her protest, “Oh let her sing.”

To be rewarded by a hard, “No,” from Deirdre.

In an attempt to laugh off the rudeness of his daughter, O’Neill said, “Sorry Andy, but she’s a wee paddy yah know.”

Andrea slipped a hand through Devlin’s arm.

Deirdre’s features formed into a jealous pout. “Sure, I’ve known some black Irish—”

 Her father’s palm clamped across her mouth. “Shut up!” He warned.

She shrugged and with a shake of her head freed her mouth. Pointing to a caricature, of a red-haired, pipe-sucking creature molded in colorful green and white clay, with a top hat bedecked with an orange band, propped on the top of the piano, she asked, “What’s that daddy?”

“Sure, now.” Andrea attempted to mimic the Irish accent of the girl. “That’s a Paddy.”

O’Neill saw his child’s small mouth scrunch up trapping spit as the lips formed the exit. He knew what would follow. He grabbed Deirdre, swung her up and shoved her face into his own neck to catch her saliva on his collar. “That’s it! Ann!”

Ann Ryan was not within hearing and Michael O’Neill was required to tote the urchin away himself.

~~~

 

Shortly afterwards, Ann Ryan entered the hall from the kitchen. She heard Deirdre’s yells and O’Neill’s curses and rushed up the stairs after them. She ran into the room as O’Neill tossed the cursing child on its bed.

“Son-of-a-bitch! God damn!” O’Neill accentuated the blow that landed smack on his daughter’s butt. Deirdre scurried away only to be dragged back. “You were gonna call her a nig—” The word stuck in his throat. “Ann, she tried to spit at Andrea!” The large open hand connected with the child’s bare legs.

Managing to rise to her knees Deirdre threw herself at her father and her fists hammered his chest. His hand slashed across her cheek flinging her away and she tumbled off the bed. She scurried to safety beneath it.

Ann tugged at O’Neill’s jacket as she pleaded, “Michael! She didn’t know what she was saying. How many blacks does Dede associate with?” Tomorrow, she knew, the man would hate himself, Andrea Nelson, and her. For she realized every time he looked at the marks he put on his child he would blame somebody.

Ann Ryan, at five one wasn’t much taller than the girl beneath the bed. Still, she stepped in front of O’Neill with her hands firmly pressing on his chest. “Michael, she only repeats what she hears from you.” The fury in his face frightened her but she stood her ground. “She’s a child. She didn’t belong at an adult gathering.” She didn’t remind him how earlier she had pleaded the girl’s case herself. She had told him Deirdre despised being put on display and he hadn’t listened. He never listened to her—only treated her much like he did the little girl. They were both pretty toys, he could show off when the mood struck him or ignore when he had important matters on his mind.

“Get out, Ann!” O’Neill ordered. “Go down and see if you can repair the shambles.”

She had witnessed his angry outbursts but never this bad. The blush from his neck up could have lit a room. Suddenly she felt the urge to laugh. He’d been embarrassed, that was it. His daughter had made a fool out of big, tough, Mike O’Neill in front of others. Ann was careful not to so much as smile for fear he might throttle her. “Michael, it can’t be that bad. Kids throw tantrums.”

“Leave, Ann.”

Michael O’Neill’s rages were fleeting things. Ann could see the calmness taking hold. To stay and argue would serve no useful purpose and might set him off again. She obediently slipped from the room. Outside the door, she listened for a moment. She heard the low murmur of O’Neill’s voice. She didn’t need to hear the words. She knew his remorseful pleas by heart.

She surveyed her face in a hall mirror. Michael hated lipstick so she rarely indulged in it. Tonight the pale apricot color was a concession she allowed her own vanity. Get out! Just like that, he ordered her. She was not Deirdre’s mother. She probably never would be Michael’s wife.

Ann shook her short bobbed hair. She loved long thick hair that accommodated changing styles. The idea of how ridiculous she would look, her small features crowned by a pile of dark curls, kept that desire in check. She tested the smile in her reflection before she returned to confront O’Neill’s guests.

“Sorry. You know how kids can be.” She moved along with her painted smile. A gesture, a slightly laughed explanation, inside she fumed. A year of pampering Deirdre while trying to maintain a functioning household in the midst of Michael’s chaotic lifestyle was exhausting.

“Deirdre’s a bit upset John. Michael will stay with her until she falls asleep.” She personally freshened Connors’ drink. She was relieved to see John had joined his wife. Catherine could be bitchy when her husband deserted her for too long. While Catherine’s feelings would never surface in her voice nor show in the attractive face, Ann had years of experience from which to judge. Ann couldn’t recall a time in her life when she hadn’t known Catherine.

Shelia Connors, Catherine Anderson then, and Andrea Nelson, like the three evil stepsisters plaguing Cinderella. Trouble was, Ann Ryan thought, they were the beauties and she was plain little Annie Ryan.

“Nasty business,” Catherine said as if chastising hired help. “I had faith you could manage to correct Deirdre’s behavior, Ann. You shouldn’t have allowed her downstairs tonight, nor allowed her to disrupt the party. She was outright obnoxious to Andrea.”

A scene you undoubtedly enjoyed, Ann thought, but only smiled and said, “Michael spoils her fierce.”

“Well, darling, except for that incident and a few minor details, you put together a marvelous bash. Michael can be very proud of you. Do you think he will propose soon?”

Ann knew damn well, if any woman was privy to Michael’s plans it was his cousin Catherine. Years of expecting Catherine’s put downs made the remarks Ann wanted to say remain only thoughts. She said, “I’m so grateful for all the help you provided. Without it, you know little me; I would have made a mess of things. Now I have to check the dinner arrangements.” She hurried off before Catherine could cut deeper. Ann still wore her painted smile.

~~~

 

Upstairs, Michael O’Neill had gone to his knees but the canopied bed was too close to the floor for him to reach far. “Come on out Dee.”

Even in her crouched position, his daughter raised her head and spat at him but the aim was bad and she missed. He watched her rubbing a dripping nose into the hem of her dress.

Deirdre sniffled her own, “Get out. Go back at your ugly friends. Papa…” she sobbed.

“Papa.” The title slapped harder than a blow. Damn, always ‘Papa’. O’Neill knew it was for her grandfather when his child cried. He was fully aware it was his own fault. He hadn’t wanted this kid. Its mother was just a whore plenty of guys laid before him. Some, he didn’t doubt, during the time they lived together. Margaret died during childbirth and now their daughter’s whimpers reached him. He felt guilty that he couldn’t really love this child. He could never doubt she was his. Christ, if she looked anymore like him she’d be the ugliest female alive.

“Baby.” O’Neill begged. “Come out from under there. I’m sorry I got so mad. You pull the damnedest stunts. Come on we’ll wash you up, put on your PJs.”

“Go away or I’ll never come out. Suren, I’ll die ’ere, and then you’ll have ta let me go ‘ome to my papa.”

Leaving his daughter holding fast to that pleasant thought, O’Neill gave up. He learned before Deirdre was four that he could lay there begging until he turned to stone and this child of his would never relent. Damn, but she could turn him into a raging beast. He had problems that were eating at him. He didn’t need her to pull shit like this. He slammed the door behind him.

O’Neill stopped in his bedroom to change the shirt and tie that were wet with his daughter’s saliva. He scowled in the mirror as he adjusted a fresh green silk tie. Storm’s investigation was beginning to sour, that was some comfort. Ass didn’t consider whom he’d taken on. Now Tom Devlin was in place to keep him informed so he didn’t take a wrong step.

He had Raymond Connors to thank for that move. Bradley Fitzgerald would never have agreed if his Uncle Raymond hadn’t demanded it. Fitz just didn’t like him much. O’Neill grinned at his refection in the mirror. The big shot ex-soldier boy couldn’t forget Mike O’Neill had whipped his ass once.

Michael O’Neill chuckled. Mark Storm must be pretty disappointed in his new recruit. The cold anger in his eyes nearly frosted the mirror as he considered his adversary. He reflected on the conversations Devlin had repeated nearly verbatim that morning concerning the interviews conducted all month. Devlin told him he had informed that prick Storm, that none of those characters knew squat about anything. They were a bunch of blowhards who had some personal grievance against the union, so by association, with The O’Neill. A couple might be here illegally—Devlin had offered to look into it, he said, as if in an effort to impress his new boss.

Storm reacted as he expected. He’d been adamant. He was not about to have Devlin tie up his office with immigration’s problems, any suspicious cases were to be turned over to them. He had figured Devlin would be able to use his Irish magic to get the Irish laborers backstabbing The O’Neill. Storm was mistaken.

What really galled O’Neill was he’d never done anything criminal. Those hefty low interest loans had been questionable, but not illegal.

With his eye on a higher office, Storm set this scandal in motion as a political ploy to further undermine the unity of the Union and dilute their vote. Already problems were arising with the influx of minority members. Storm knew that if he could get a Senate hearing, even if O’Neill walked away squeaky clean, the after-stink would cling to him.

Hell…all they had to do was borrow his kid. He groaned. Put Dede in front of a TV camera she could destroy her old man in two seconds flat. Damn, she’s a handful. Maybe Shelia was right—he should leave her in Ireland. The kid would be happy. His pa would be ecstatic. And him…Damn it! No! She was his kid.

He stared in the mirror and memories of Shelia Connors came to plague him. Four years, and he couldn’t replace what they’d had together. Not only the great sex, but how they could talk together about everything, laugh without reason, care about simple things that had no purpose. He had loved her, and he thought she’d loved him.

Now he remembered, as he often did, the smirk on her lips the night he asked her to marry him.

“Mother your daughter is more like it. How crazy do you think I am? Parenting little Deirdre would be like trying to raise a tiger cub.”

But he read in her expression that hadn’t been the real reason. He was still that wild Irish kid, who once had a price on his head. James Beechen. A vile grin surfaced. What a perfect pair: the princess and the powder puff.

He ran a brush through his hair. Gotta make peace with Annie, he thought. She’s really a sweetheart. Tries so damn hard—maybe that’s it? She tries too hard. Shit! I could do worse. He’d done a damn sight worse too often. Oh yeah…what about Andrea…