45. Saoirse
Saoirse
Things To Be, Places To Do
Maeve didn’t have much cash on her.
I stare at the scrunched up dollar bills and palmful of quarters. I never had a piggy bank growing up. Never had to earn pocket money.
Our way of life meant the man provides and the woman keeps house. The cruel twist of fate that gave Patrick Byrne only females to inherit his kingdom of dirt is not lost on me.
I’ve trekked dozens of blocks while mulling over my next move, but step by step I move closer to the destination I intended all along.
My path was destined to take me from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn to my old family home in Woodside, Queens right from the start.
I may as well pass the time by counting the reasons why.
Instead of traveling from my family home to Finn’s to be his bride, I was diverted to Sunnyside, to the Maguire mansion. But like a compass needle, I was pulled right back to where I belong.
Because Finn is my true north.
The one thing I like the most about being Catholic is knowing how precious life is. And how short.
Six years is just two words on paper, but I do the math in my head every day. And it adds up to being a massive one-tenth of my expected adult life.
Ten percent of my adult life was spent agonizing over the choices that were made for me, behind my back.
My mind’s made up. I stop and wait for a cab to pass with its light on.
I know where I’m going.
I have things I want to be: a mother, a wife, and a woman in love.
But there are places I must destroy first.
***
I know where to tell the cab driver to drop me off and pour all the coins and crumpled notes into his hand with no apology.
I’m locked onto my target. It’s evening time, and the dark is falling fast. The rush of traffic is tailing off and the neighborhood where I grew up feels peaceful.
This place holds the final pieces to the puzzle that’s kept me wondering for so long. Especially during those hot, sweaty summer nights when sleep feels far away and thoughts buzz in my head like flies on a corpse.
I know where the mortar has chipped away that gives me a handhold. I use it to reach for the tree branch that hangs over the brick wall.
It seemed so daring and adventurous to do this as a kid. Now, it doesn’t even register as wrong.
That was the spot in the garden where I dumped Declan’s orchids on the compost heap.
It’s where I threw Finn’s Claddagh locket too.
But memories don’t rot. They fester.
Or they imprint on the heart with dogged determination.
I walk over the dry grass with my head down. That’s where I ripped off my clothes and begged Finn to fuck me. Jesus wept—did I have no shame?
I’m in love with the man who’s obsessed with me. How ironic.
It’s hard to feel like a victim when he makes me feel so good. He makes me feel bad too. I guess it’s a balancing act between the two emotions.
Bad or good, I know how it’s going to end.
Because it must all end.
Stepping through the French doors, I find the living room empty. The unappetizing smell of boiled leafy vegetables and steamed gray ground beef taints the air, but when I walk past the kitchen there’s nothing cooking on the stovetop.
If that’s an indication as to what Mrs. Dugan has been feeding Patrick then it’s no wonder he’s sick.
First things first, I lock all the doors. I don’t want the Dugans coming in to boil more meat during my little heart to heart with my dear old Da.
I catch sight of guards posted at the gate. So, the Byrne soldiers have been called back for Patrick’s sake. I wonder why?
All the soldiers loyal to what was left of the Byrne family went to work for Declan. All I see outside are new faces, but not young faces. The men standing outside are middle-aged and hard-working, like my Da once was.
Holding my nose and breathing shallow so I don’t inhale too much of the stench of bad cooking, I go to the kitchen.
There’s the telly where I watched countless GAA matches. There’s the chair where my da slapped Liam around after finding out about the bouquet of red roses from my not-so secret admirer.
Liam, may he rest in peace. He’s probably somewhere out there, buried in the garden.
Liam’s death was the lucky charm that got me a seat at the table, without which I would be just another Irish American housewife in Queens.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, no wonder Feargal hates us.
I take a seat in the chair in Patrick’s room and wait for him to wake. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.
If Da’s taken only half of the meds on the tray next to his bed, I have every confidence that he’ll be asleep for a real long time. I might as well sleep too because this armchair is very comfortable.
I’m not sure for how long I zone out, but when I zone back it’s morning. I rub my eyes and reach over for a bottle of water to drink and then splash some of it on my face. When I look around the room, nothing has changed.
This was my parents’ room for twenty long years. Maeve and I were only ever allowed in here when our Da was out.
We would come in here and sit with Mam, untangle the chains and necklaces in her jewelry box and chat about the cutest altar boys at Mass.
My thoughts must have disturbed his sleep; Patrick stirs and wakes.
He does all those old man things. Yawns, stretches, and groans. Then he sees me sitting on the chair and freezes.
“Where did you get the gun, Saoirse?”
Holding up the revolver, I wave it around. “This? I remember you kept it taped to the top of the silverware drawer. The Dugans don’t come across as the types who would do a thorough clean.”
He edges up the pillows. I point the gun at him. “Nice and slow, Patrick. I can pull this trigger faster than you can draw.”
“Pfft.” His mouth is too dry to do more than rasp. “Who the feck do you think you are? Annie Oakley?”
“I’m a woman who plans on staying alive.”
His hands shake as he reaches for the bottle of water on the end table.
“More strength to you.” He lifts the bottle in a salute. “You have your Mam’s eyes, but not her sweet nature. You were a bad seed, Saoirse. A bad daughter.”
“Ha!” That makes me laugh out loud. “The seed came from you!”
“You were meant to be a boy.”
That says it all in a nutshell.
He swallows, recaps the bottle, and glares at me. “So, where did you crawl out from?”
“I ran away to visit my heart in Bay Ridge.”
I don’t want to bring grief to Feargal for his part in my abduction. Although I’m not sure it even matters anymore.
Patrick huffs and wheezes. His chest doesn’t sound good. Too many smug cigars smoked over too many dead bodies.
“You started a war, Saoirse, I hope you realize. You and that Irish thug.”
I shrug. “He chose me. As for the war you keep blethering on about, that was started decades before I came along.”
The old man bristles. “Don’t give me your pathetic version of history, girl! Not when you’ve learned it from the likes of O’Shea.”
I get up and push the armchair closer, but not so close that Patrick could reach me with a lunge. Settling back down, I point the gun at his belly and cock the hammer.
The cylinder full of bullets gives an ominous click.
“Who killed Uncle Seamus… really.”
“It was that Fin—” He stops after seeing the knuckle on my trigger finger whiten.
All the air goes out of him like a deflated balloon.
“It was Rian. He volunteered to do it. I… I couldn’t. I mean, my brother forfeited millions to opt out of the violence. He walked away empty handed—preferred to start again with nothing rather than live the mob life for a moment longer.”
I’m interested. “Why?”
“Seamus fell in love. She was pregnant. We all knew if the baby was a boy what would happen… what he would grow up to inherit. So, my brother opted out. Too bad the baby was just another girl.”
“You could have sent the boys back to the old country to be raised.” I remember what Finn told me.
But Patrick shoots me a withering look. “Only low types send boys to be fostered. It’s admitting defeat before it happens. What sort of loving mother would allow it?”
“The sort of loving mother who wants her children to live?” I put the idea out there, but what I really want to do is roll my eyes and say “Duh?”
Da notices my scornful sneer and gives it back to me double. “Like your one? Send a boy away for him to be trained up to be a reaper by ex-IRA soldiers? That’s not a kindness, Saoirse.”
“This,” I make a circle using my left hand. “None of this is a kindness. I only realized how shitty my life was after Mam passed. I wasn’t praying for Mam’s soul when I visited the Holy Places, Patrick, I was praying for mine.”
“You did all right for yourself.” Patrick tries reminding me of the positive side of things. “Got a seat at the table with all the higher ups.”
He sighs and shifts while keeping one eye on the gun.
“It’s the wreck of a man I am, Daughter. I made a lot of mistakes without Maire by my side.”
Patrick mumbles as he rambles on.
How he was forced to kill Declan’s father after his own Da was murdered, only to have Declan put a gun to his head and tell him it was Connor O’Shea who did it.
“Connor didn’t ask Finn to come back home, Saoirse. He summoned the boy like a fecking demon! Street by street, cop by cop, dock by dock, the O’Sheas took over. ‘Tis a plague I swear they are.”
“But Declan maintained control of the politicians and mayors, and that’s why you formed an alliance with him, right?”
Patrick nods. He just woke up and it looks like he’s already tired.
And that’s his best explanation for why he handed me to Declan Maguire on a silver platter like a sacrificial lamb.
“God, listen to yourself.” I’m appalled by them all. “When does it end?”
Patrick jerks his head at the gun.
“It ends when it ends for each of us individually. For too long there’s been something eating away at my heart, and I’m tired of it.”
I’m way beyond feeling sympathy. “It might have helped you to try and make allies instead of enemies, Da. Instead, you chose to slap men around like they were women. That’s not a power flex. That’s being a coward and a bully.”
It hasn’t slipped my notice that he’s made no attempt to scream for the guards hanging outside in the driveway.
I get a creepy sensation at the back of my neck.
Am I really alone as I thought I was?