Shannon (20 page)

They found the little Episcopalian church locked.

“Oh, yeh,” said Father Reddan, “I forgot. They're away for three weeks.”

Fruitless, they went back to Father Reddan's house, where he— and Robert, following the example— shared every second bite of supper with Dolly Blue and Miss Mack.

Next morning, nobody called Robert. He woke at eight o'clock, having slept deeply; he attributed it to the previous day's long walk by the lake. When he came downstairs, Father Reddan was sitting at the breakfast
table, reading from his breviary. He closed it within minutes of Robert's arrival, and his warmth radiated out once again.

“William will bring you breakfast in a minute. And Robert, you may be the very man I need. If you were in France with the army, doesn't that mean you can ride a horse?”

Robert nodded.

“Well, I need a mare delivered to my brother in Banagher, and you're going through Banagher. Would you take her there for me? It'd be great if you did. There's a path by the river the whole way, I'll lead you over to it.”

William arrived with breakfast— not a man, but a woman with blond hair and an educated accent. She rose to the occasion of Robert's surprise.

“Wilhelmina. My mother was a cork or two short of a bottle.”

This was all she said. Father Reddan disappeared, as did Wilhelmina, leaving Robert with mounds of ham, eggs, and bread that had been fried with the ham.

After breakfast, a lively procession left the house. Father Reddan led the way, on a silver mare called Betty, while Dolly Blue and Miss Mack trotted along, their leashes tied to his saddle. Robert followed on Rose's Surprise, a black mare eighteen hands high. The U.S. Army horses had been smaller, and Robert, when he became accustomed to the greater height, felt his spirits rise. The mare responded to every nudge, and before long he was able to drop his hands and work her with his knees.

An hour from the village, they left the main road and edged slowly down an overgrown lane, where the branches kept brushing hard across Robert's face. Father Reddan found the riverside's entry point and told Robert, “Follow the path and you can't miss Banagher. You can stay the night with my brother, he's great value and he has a fine big house.” He reached across and handed Robert an envelope. “But the letter is for you.”

Such a ride as Robert had that day comes rarely in life. The pathway, though remote, took travelers frequently enough to keep the way open. Any trees and bushes that might have encroached had been cut back, so that two horses side by side could have ridden through— and evidently
often did. The Shannon had become a stream again, some miles above the top of Lough Derg, and thereafter that day the river stayed faithfully on his left hand.

He trotted Rose's Surprise but never cantered her. Now and then he slowed her to a walk because the scene forced him to: a wide and confident river flowing between banks of lush green foliage, with swans and other birds and, in the distance, animals grazing on the hills. Sometimes the wind blew from the water; mostly the sun shone in an uninterrupted warmth. Unthreatened that summer by storming waters, the pathway bloomed in wildflowers— blues, yellows, reds—all against a background of a green that he had never seen before, a soft green, yet freaked with a voltage of black like a stab of energy.

He stopped once and dismounted, to stretch his legs— and to think. When he tethered Rose's Surprise to a tree and stood with his hand resting casually on her high shoulder, he found himself in tears. He remembered Dr. Greenberg's advice—”Always let the tears flow”—and began to collect his spirits. He did so more easily than he could recall having done for some time.
Maybe a day will come when I am no longer frail

Father Reddan had said nothing of his brother, other than that he lived near Banagher (he gave Robert the address) and wanted his horse back. He had not told Robert of the brother's veterinary practice, or of his prodigious consumption of whiskey, or of his magnificent motor truck (all wood and brass), or of his passionate feelings about the political history of his district, which remained very alive for him.

“I speak French,” said the vet. “I'm very fluent, because of the French here at Banagher. And I want to honor them by speaking their language.”

Robert said, “The French?”

Mr. Reddan said,
“Oui.
The very same.”

Robert said, “I didn't know.”

There was no way he could have known. The French hadn't been in Banagher for a hundred and twenty years.

“Oh, yes. We'd have no town here but for the French,” said Mr. Reddan. “Life would be very bad.”

A calf lay on a blanket in front of Mr. Reddan's fireplace, and Mr.

Reddan prepared some warm milk, to which he added a dash of whiskey from his own glass. Robert had already declined— or, rather, had attempted to decline— but his glass was filled to the brim anyway so he just let it sit there.

Mr. Reddan filled a bottle with the warm whiskey-laced milk, fitted a rubber nipple to it as on a baby's bottle, and began to feed the calf.

“Here,” he said, after a few minutes, “give him that, Father.”

He held the base of the bottle so that the calf could continue to drink, and Robert, a little unsteadily, took over the feeding. The calf's brown eyes shone like lamps on Robert's face, and the sucking proved so strong it almost dragged the bottle from his hands.

“His mother died at birth. That's only the third cow I ever lost at calving in my whole and entire life.”

Mr. Reddan sat down in his chair opposite Robert and fell asleep. In a moment the only sounds in the room came from the slurping of the calf and the slurred snoring of Mr. Reddan. The calf soon emptied the milk bottle and Robert had to pull it away hard; the calf then caught Robert's sleeve in its mouth and went on sucking. When Robert tried to ease the sleeve away with his hand, the calf found his fingers and began to suck them, a clammy and warm tongue.

Mr. Reddan didn't wake up, nor did it seem likely that he would. Robert slowly relinquished the calf, who put his head down and closed his eyes too.

In search of food, Robert found milk, a cold chicken, and some sort of sweet cake, all hidden in a cupboard behind rows of unopened whiskey bottles. He ate on the bench outside the front door, watching the sun go down.

A man passing by said, “Don't eat it all yourself.”

Robert asked, “Where is the River Shannon?”

The man pointed west. “You can't miss it.”

“And where do the French live? Is there a French quarter?”

The man looked mystified. “There's no French here. And I dunno what a French quarter is. Is it bread? Like a quarter of a loaf or something? A French quarter?” The man stroked his chin. “The French quarter? Well, a quarter is half of a half. And French is from France itself, so what we're looking for is half of a half from France.” He stroked his chin
some more and hitched his breeches. “Would it be like, say, a drink maybe, that'd be it. Yeh. Like a half-whiskey? Yeh.” He brightened. “A brandy, like; the French have great brandy. That could be it.” The man brightened further. “God, the French quarter. Very good for the heart. Any pub'll tell you.” And he walked on.

Robert went indoors, saw that Mr. Reddan continued to sleep deeply, and climbed the stairs. As he turned left on the first landing he came to an abrupt halt. A boy sat there on the staircase, in striped pajamas, a blond boy aged about nine.

“He has a disease,” said the boy pointing downward.

“Oh,” said Robert. “That's not good.”

“Sleeping sickness. He doesn't know he has it.”

“I have a sickness too,” said Robert, an announcement that would have startled his caregivers back home.

“You don't look sick either,” said the boy.

“My name is Robert. And yours?”

“Fergus. I'm called after a river in Clare.”

“And I'm Robert Shannon— same name as that river out there.”

He sat down beside Fergus, who turned to stare at him and then spoke.

“Are you staying a few days?”

“Perhaps,” said Robert. “How will your parents feel if I stay?”

“My father loves company. My mother lives in the town. She comes over to us every day.” Fergus saw Robert's raised eyebrow and continued. “My mother says she won't live with my father until he gives up drinking.” He saw Robert's question and pressed on, “I stay here so that I can run and tell my mother the day he stops.”

“How long have you—”

“Four years.”

At that moment somebody knocked on the door— hard, loud. Robert looked at Fergus. “Somebody has a sick animal?”

Fergus rose, in no hurry. Robert watched as he walked downstairs. He opened the door a fraction— and then a hand reached in and snatched him. The door slammed shut. Robert sat, wondering what had happened. Then he heard Fergus's voice: “No! I didn't! No!”

Robert rose, thought to go down, sat again— the will had not yet
caused the effort. He heard another cry, and this time he went down and opened the door.

Outside, two men held Fergus by the arms; a third tugged the boy's hair and asked, “Where? Where did you take them?”

“I didn't! I didn't!”

Robert said, “Excuse me.”

The men turned to look at him. “Who are you?” said one.

“He's a priest,” said Fergus. “He's visiting us.”

Robert made a dismissing gesture— and the man let go Fergus's hair. The others released Fergus's arms and the boy stepped back inside the house.

For a moment nobody moved. Each of the three men looked hard at Robert, who steadily returned each gaze. Then one jerked his head and they sloped off. Robert waited until they had gone out of sight.

Indoors Fergus, shaking a little, waited in the hall. When Robert had closed the door, Fergus rapidly shot the bolts. To Robert's inquiring look he said, “They think I'm bringing messages. They're in the army.”

Robert looked into Fergus's eyes and shook his head very slowly and very deliberately, as though to say,
Don't.

Fergus climbed the stairs, went into a room, and closed and locked his door.

Next morning, Mr. Reddan was feeding the calf when Robert came downstairs.

“Ah, I fell asleep last night, Father,” said Mr. Reddan. “Were you all right? My brother'll eat me for my bad manners. But I'll make it up to you, I'll put you on the road to Clonmacnoise. There's a man up that way who has a boat, and if you tell him I sent you he'll take you the whole way.”

No sign, not a trace of Fergus. During the night Robert had heard a great deal of movement from the direction of Fergus's room; at one moment he even heard a faint song, but the boy never appeared.

For breakfast Mr. Reddan made tea, and Robert ate some more cake. Mr. Reddan took Robert to his motor truck and sat at the wheel as Robert cranked the handle. The engine turned slowly, with metallic growls, and the handle snapped back in its arc.

Mr. Reddan called out, “Be careful. That thing is like a swan's wing. It can break your arm.”

Robert persisted, and the engine started. He climbed in beside Mr. Reddan.

“My brother tells me,” he shouted above the noise, “that I shouldn't be allowed to drive anything— not even a bargain.”

The previous night, Robert had opened the envelope from Father Reddan and found a chunk of money.

“Your brother is very generous,” he shouted back.

Mr. Reddan yelled, “He makes a ton of money on the dogs. Them two are the best-earning hounds in the country.”

Powerful men know not only whom to thank, they also know how. If you served Cardinal William O'Connell, he glowed; his thank-you smile could be seen miles away; you remembered it forever. He went on showing you his tender side— and it increased his power. People wished to do things for him: favors, services, donations. Much wants more, and those who discovered the warmth of the cardinal's gratitude longed to do him ever more and deeper favors. Thus, many in the archdiocese took it upon themselves to render him services for which he had never asked.

In June 1922, a group of men met in a private house in South Boston, the most Irish enclave in the world outside of Ireland. Devout Catholics all, they convened to address a dilemmatic situation that had reached their attention through a concerned member of the archdiocesan clergy. One man, an accountant of some standing in the city, laid out the story like a balance sheet.

In the goodness of his heart, His Eminence had sent to Ireland a troubled priest. The man, not known to any of them as he was from Hartford, had been suffering from shell shock.

It was understood that the young priest had seen and heard at first hand about some difficulties that the archdiocese had been having. His Eminence had expressed private relief that the young man had gone away for some time, because apparently he had been talking— in fact, he had been talking wildly, and the things he had been saying disparaged His Eminence, and the clergy, and the Church. Disparaged them gravely.

Now, at His Eminence's prompting, the young man had gone on an
Irish trip, a journey such as any one of them might have taken to trace family roots. His Eminence had reluctantly agreed with those doctors who suggested travel as part of the cure for these unfortunate war victims.

Not that His Eminence made any suggestions or expressed any wishes— but would it not be best for everybody were the young priest not to return?

It would certainly solve a problem.