Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78773 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78773 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
For a few months following Eve’s death, I did nothing but survive. It was the only option. I got up, fed the baby, walked through the motions of the day. My boss Keenan gave me leave not to work until I “got my feet back under me.” But I worked nonetheless.
As bookkeeper for the McCarthy Clan, my job is difficult, but I’ve always liked good, hard work. They kept me out of the harder work of the Clan, though. I haven’t been to a meeting, voted on a decision, or done damn near anything since Eve was taken, and I’m done with it. I’m ready to resume my life again. That part, anyway.
I turn again to shield Breena from the wind as I follow Father Finn’s steady footsteps up the roughly hewn stone steps that lead to the rectory.
I haven’t been to the rectory since I was a lad, as an altar server for Holy Family Parish. Maeve talked me into serving, said my mum would be proud. The graveyard sits right behind the church, both new and ancient tombstones stark reminders of our mortality, and from where I stand, I can see the darkened stained glass windows of the church. I wonder if it smells the way it did when I was younger, like incense, burning candles, and old wood polished with lemon oil. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been to church in ages.
I watch Father Finn’s slow, deliberate movements, mulling over what he’s about to tell me. Uncle to the Clan Chief Keenan, vicar of Ballyhock, there isn’t a life that begins or ends without his knowledge. Over the years, he’s become an informant to the Clan, though he has compunctions about how and when. It’s a fine balance serving both God and the Irish mob.
The heavy wooden door shuts with a bang behind me. Breena shivers.
“Where are we going, daddy?” she whispers.
“Biscuits, remember?” I say.
“Home?”
“No. We’re going to the rectory.”
She quiets, but holds tighter to me, as we walk up the rickety stairs to the back door. I’m unprepared for how my memories return, stark and vivid. My mother, scrubbing the floor of the rectory, not because she was hired to do so but out of the goodness of her heart. Housekeeper for the McCarthys, she would do her work there first. But she came of the generation that believed men of the cloth were to be revered, and during her spare time she would cook for the priests and clean their home.
I can still hear her talking to me in her clear, determined voice, thick with the brogue of Northern Ireland. “I may not be an educated woman, son, but I take pride in the work that I do. And if there’s anything I’ve taught you I hope it’s this: hard work and education will never fail you.”
She died when I was a child, leaving me in the care of Seamus McCarthy. I don’t know if she ever fought to reconcile her allegiance to the Clan and to the church, but if she did, she’s not alone. Father Finn straddles the line as well.
“Come in,” he says with a rare smile at Breena. He’s a sober sort, but when he smiles, he reminds me of Father Christmas. Breena buries her head on my chest shyly.
It’s more brightly lit here than I remember. Some of my brothers of the Clan have come here to pay Father Finn a visit, but for some reason, I’ve not been one of them. I forgot how the old wood gleams under the overhead lighting. I forgot how the Celtic cross, larger than life, crafted with fine silver, hangs in the main entrance. I forgot the ancient, oval-shaped painting of the Madonna that hangs in the hallway near the stairs.
Threadbare burgundy carpet lines the floor, snaking upstairs along the stairwell to the second floor, where the bedrooms lie. Back when I was a child, four priests took residence here, though now Father Finn’s the only one. Occasionally, a seminarian from Europe will pass by, but he’s mostly alone.
“Cup of tea?” Father asks when we make it to the kitchen.
“Please,” I tell him.
“Yes, please,” Breena says.
I smile and catch Father’s eye. “She takes it plenty sweet with lots of cream.” In other words, only flavored with the barest hint of tea.
“Certainly,” Father Finn says.
He looks with concern at Breena, then back at me.
“I’d have preferred to have this conversation alone, Carson,” he says softly, after our tea’s made and sitting in front of us at the small, circular table.
I give him a sharp look but don’t respond.
“However, it’s time. I considered going to Keenan, but I’m afraid if I do, I’ll stir up trouble among clans.” It’s odd to me he’s chosen not to inform Keenan, my Clan brother and Chief. What is it he has to tell me?