2. Finn
Finn
Stolen Hours
I’ve heard enough and seen a lot. Time for me to be heading off.
“I’ll be seeing you, chapel girl.” I left so fast it set the candle wicks waving.
What’s she like with her pale skin, pitch-black hair, and slender frame? Old country through and through, that’s what.
She’s untouched and untainted by the laws and judgments that drive me. The girl reminds me of the single malt, well-aged whiskey my Da used to hide on the top shelf and warn us lads with a fierce thrashing if we tried to reach for it.
Her voice didn’t whisper the prayer so much as purr it.
That’s what I heard and that’s what caught my attention. She drew me in and, seeing her, I felt obliged to stick about.
Saoirse Byrne. The name suits her. Freedom.
Freedom is probably something she’s been looking for a long time. It’s unlikely that she’ll find it on her own.
From that hesitant look in her eyes, I doubt the girl would know what to do with freedom if it were handed to her on a golden plate.
Those sensible shoes, chaste dress, and—Jesus wept—the head scarf with the tassels tangled in her long black hair.
And that Claddagh ring of hers? The one that’s on her right hand pointing inward. Window dressing. Pure and simple.
I could tell from the look in her eyes that she’s not taken.
The only relationship those virgin lips have tasted is with a mug of tea.
And if there is a fella somewhere out there who put that ring on her finger, he didn’t put a glint in her eye.
The poor lass has no wild oats to sow. And now that I know who raised her, I’m not surprised by that at all.
I don’t need to run back home. My stride is longer and faster than any outsider could keep pace with.
A waitress stands in the alley having a smoke outside the kitchen near the dumpsters. She sees it’s me and nods her head. It’s more of a half-nod with her neck bent, eyes down, and probably fingers crossed, hoping that I’ll ignore her and carry on my way.
Every civilian acknowledges my family like that. And on any other given night, I might stop and ask her what’s cutting.
But the purring prayer from St. Brendan’s is all I can think about.
And the young woman who was saying it. Saoirse.
If any prayer were to save my soul from damnation, it would be one of hers. Not because I deserve it, but because she’s that good.
The blood? Sure she saw it. And it didn’t rock that unnatural composure of hers one bit.
She threw down her indifference like a gauntlet. Too innocent to tease, but canny enough to mention it in passing.
She must’ve inherited the devout determination that put her grandparents on the boat from Ireland with only a suitcase and a promise to sustain them. She carries traces of them in her face.
Sharp cheekbones above hollow cheeks. Long lashes that hide the true objective of what she’s saying beneath a black curtain. Lips that form the word she wants to say before she gives up and says something else—something more appropriate and docile.
The two soldiers outside the house in Narrow Street give me the nod.
“What’s got you smiling?” says one.
“Ah, Finn’s always got something to smile about, don’t you know,” says the other.
I’m passing, not here to hang about and shoot the breeze with them, not when there’s light to illuminate the blood on me. “It’s the difference between a grin and a smile you should be learning, fellas.”
I’m halfway to the front door before they get around to asking their follow-up question.
“And what would that be, Finn?”
The door’s half-open, but I pause. “You have to feel emotion to smile. No feeling is required for a grin.”
I hear their comments as I close the door.
“It’s a stone-cold lad he is, for sure.”
“Sure look, what can you do?”
None of this stops me from heading upstairs. I shower and change, and go downstairs to the furnace in the basement to burn my clothes and shoes.
It’s a routine so familiar to me, the same as brushing my teeth or running my fingers through my damp hair.
My phone’s waiting for me in the bedside drawer. It shows nearly two a.m. I close my eyes and follow the girl from St. Brendan’s chapel back to Queens in my head.
It doesn’t make sense. She’s a Byrne, but there’s no way she would walk back to Woodside in the wee hours of the morning on her own.
I recalibrate the logistics. Got it. She had a cab waiting.
No. She has a driver. The girl didn’t carry a purse.
The dear departed she was praying for at the chapel must be buried at Green-Wood Cemetery. All I need to do is stroll through the boneyard and find out who it is.
Or I can just ask.
Because unlike chapel girl, I prefer to interrogate the living.
***
The same soldiers are on duty when I head out again. This close to Manhattan, the night sky is permanently lit up by neon and LED. It stains the darkness stale brown.
Somewhere out there, it’s dawn.
They give me the nod. “It’s that early, Finn.”
I nod and they step aside to let me pass. My stride kicks in the moment I reach the streets. I don’t look back or bother to check over my shoulder. It’s to Fourth Avenue I’m heading.
O’Shea’s pub is closed, but the staff are there wiping down tables and mopping the floors when I enter through the kitchen. They stand to attention when they see me, holding their brooms and spray bottles like they’re presenting arms.
“It’s grand, lads. Where’s Eamon?”
The barman jerks his head towards the backroom. Ducking behind the counter isn’t a problem. Nor is walking through the door without knocking.
My uncle, Eamon O’Shea, is the proprietor of this fine establishment, and he’s been my Da’s right hand man since Eve plucked the apple from the tree.
Since sin was invented.
It might not look it, but there’s got to be about four automatic weapons between me and the backroom. This is where Eamon counts the night’s takings.
As Connor O’Shea’s son and Eamon O’Shea’s nephew, it’s my face that gives me entrance. Not that I’m lacking in the ability to blag myself in there on charm alone. Or shoot my way inside if the need arose.
Eamon glances up at me and goes back to tallying the profits. “It’s a bee in your bonnet you have, Finn. And I want none of it.”
Grinning, I sit down and watch his fingers tap dancing over the calculator buttons. “Da never told me that Grandma O’Shea was a gypsy fortuneteller. Uncle, you have the gift.”
He scowls. “You’re here to ask me for a favor. And then you’ll ask me to keep it under my hat.”
“Honest to God, Eamon, I swear you must have a crystal ball.”
His fingers keep tapping and the scowl remains. “And then half a dozen of my best lads will go running to Connor with the news. And we all know where that’ll end.”
I stare up at the ceiling and pretend to hazard a guess. “With Connor coming here in person to ask you what I wanted?”
“Bingo.” Eamon tries to get rid of his scowl by taking a long sip of whiskey, but it snaps back again after he swallows.
He flicks the bottle. “Pour yourself a glass.”
“Ah, I’ll need to be keeping my wits about me on this one. I’m here out of curiosity. Connor can’t take offense at a couple of innocent questions being asked and answered.”
Eamon grumbles. “Truth be told, that’s exactly the sort of thing he’s likely to take offense with.”
“What the eyes don’t see and the ears don’t hear, the heart can’t bleed for. Tell me about Saoirse Byrne.”
Talkative from the whiskey, he abandons the money count and tells me what he knows. The Byrne estate in Woodside. The businesses Patrick Byrne controls. The parish where the family attends Mass.
After a sigh and slow shake of his head, he starts to sing in a deep baritone.
“Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows. Fair is yon lily of the valley. Clear as the water in the river flows. But my love is fairer than any.”
Eamon tosses back another gulp of golden spirits. “Patrick’s wife was the rose to his thorn. She passed lately. ‘Tis a shame and a pity.”
I rap the desk with my knuckle and it brings him back into focus.
“Saoirse is Patrick Byrne’s daughter, Finn. There’s a younger sister, Maeve. Both daughters attended St. Mary’s Catholic School for Girls last time I heard.”
Attended Catholic girls school. Jesus, of course she did. That’s enough to be getting on with. “I’ll be on my way then.”
My hand’s on the doorknob when Eamon calls me back.
It’s not like him to make any farewell a fond one. He’s not concerned when he beckons me to come closer. It’s something else. His gaze shifts and bounces off the walls before he finds the brass to look at me.
“An O’Shea man asking about a Byrne lass is how wars are started, lad.”
“I’ll be sure to keep it under my hat then. And you’d be wise to do the same.” Leaving Uncle Eamon with his whiskey, I head out.
Walking across town at sunrise is not for the likes of me. I have a destination now, and I want to be spruce when I reach it. Hailing a cab when I’m beyond the Bay Ridge boundary, I give the driver the cemetery address.
Brooklyn cab drivers know the resting places of the dear departed. “Sorry for your loss, sir.”
“Her loss. My gain.” I don’t elaborate. And the cab driver doesn’t make eye contact with me again.
It’s one of those foggy mornings that hints at winter and wet leaves. I spend a pleasant hour walking from tombstone to graveside, reading the names and checking the dates.
I find the one I want, stop and wait, cellophane-wrapped red roses in my hand.
I feel her before I see her. The tread of her shoes on the grass. The mists part before her, rising like smoke into the sky.
One of those beige trench coats hide the clothes underneath. The shoes are the same. Her long black hair falls down her back and over the coat lapels as thick as any knitted shawl.
She stops well short of getting too close to me, and lets me hear the long expulsion of air that could be a sigh or a huff. It leaves me guessing.
“Have you been following me?”
“You told me your name. It was enough.” For me to find you—hunt you down.
Another long sigh. No, wait. That was definitely a huff. The gall of the girl. She’s enough to turn my grin into a smile.
“I can’t be talking to a stranger. You better tell me your name, and be done.”
“Saoirse, I’ll never be done.” It’s best that she learns this up front.
Two red spots rise to her cheeks. “I mean, I can’t keep on calling you… never mind.” She takes a step closer and points to the bouquet. “Are those for my Mam’s grave?”
I’m holding the stems so hard a thorn has sunk into my flesh. The red ribbon camouflages the blood when I hold it out to her. “For you.”
She takes the roses. I like that she didn’t pretend not to want them. “Thank you.”
But she’s not here for flowers. “You haven’t told me your name yet.”
She cradles the roses in one arm, leaving the other arm free. I lunge fast and take her hand.
“What are you like? If you want to hold my hand, tell me your name!” Her voice echoes off the granite mounds. “I’ll not have folks scandalizing about me… about us.”
She must recognize the inevitability of us.
“Before we get to names and games, Saoirse, tell me what you call me when I’m not there to hear it.”
Her eyes drop to my hand around her wrist and then back up to my face. It’s a battle I’m seeing there, and one she doesn’t intend on losing.
“No. And you have to stop sneaking up on me like this. I thought you were the Dullahan waiting for me in the mist with your black leather jacket and trilby.”
I pull her closer and she yields, as she knows she must. “If I’m the Dullahan, then where’s my horse?”
It gets a laugh. “A headless horseman has better things to worry about, or don’t you know?”
I’m both headless and heartless, because I lost my head last night watching her pray in the chapel. “I come from Bay Ridge.”
The vapor panting out of her mouth stops. She’s holding her breath. “Is that meant to scare me?”
She doesn’t register it when I turn her hand palm up and thread my fingers through her own. I lift her hand to my mouth and trace the words against her skin with my lips. “It’s a warning.”
Saoirse lifts her chin. “I’m not afraid.”
You have nothing to fear, but fear himself, chapel girl. “It’s Finn O’Shea I am. In the flesh.”
I expect amazement, even a bit of disbelief. What I don’t expect is for Saoirse to whip her hand out of my grasp and run.
She hasn’t taken more than a few steps before I have one arm around her waist. She snaps at me with small, sharp teeth and digs her nails into my skin.
“Whisht, chapel girl. Don’t fight it.”
She goes limp. It’s not a surrender, but a pause. She can’t believe I’m doing this. “You’d be the worst eejit in Bay Ridge, so.”
“And you’d be the worst at running, Saoirse.”
She turns to face me with the red roses still cradled in her arm. She looks down at my flesh and blood under her fingernails, and confesses her amazement. “I… I’m not running.”
“No. You’re not.” The air hangs heavy between us. I let my meaning sink in. I watch her face as she absorbs it.
When I reach for her hand again, she gives it to me freely. My interest hardened into obsession back at St. Brendan’s.
Now, it hardens into absolute certainty.
Uncle Eamon’s warning about war and destruction gets filed away at the back of my mind.
The name Byrne makes Saoirse just as dangerous as me, but I no longer care.
I’m still here, no matter what.