Buried Troubles Read online

  “No, no, they all got on like a house afire. Seemed like nice boys, though of course, I only met them the once or twice,” Bridie responded.

  “How did Patrick get around?”

  “On the T. He had no car and I couldn’t lend him mine. I need it for work.” Bridie had started to rock back and forth in her chair, as if she might fall apart any moment. Rosaria thought Solly had better cut to the chase before Birdie lost it.

  “What was Patrick working on here?”

  “Just what I told you and Rosaria—American support for the Irish Republican Army during The Troubles in Northern Ireland. I can’t tell you much more than that.”

  Bridie thought for a moment and slowed her rocking. “I do know that he was working hard on it. He told me he stayed up all night, just the night before he was killed, writing some kind of report or article.”

  Then Bridie slumped in the chair. “That’s all I can tell you.” She paused, “But maybe Rosaria can tell you about an appointment he had with the man at the homeless shelter—Saint Martin’s. I don’t know if that would help.”

  “Oh?” Solly turned to Rosaria.

  “Yes, well.” Rosaria shrugged. “I would really like to tell you about that, but I just set up the meeting. I wasn’t there. And Patrick wasn’t ready to tell me about what the subject matter was.”

  “You set up the meeting and he wouldn’t tell you about what the topic was?” Solly raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah,” said Rosaria ruefully. “He stonewalled me.”

  “Interesting,” commented Solly.

  “Rude, actually,” replied Rosaria. “Sorry, Bridie.”

  “It’s okay, Ro.” Bridie shrugged.

  And so, after an hour of questioning and information sharing, with Solly taking notes, Rosaria and Bridie Callahan walked back to the Orange Line at Ruggles Street station. Behind them, back at the Boston Police Department headquarters, a big city system clicked into gear to find out who murdered young Patrick Keenan last night on Long Wharf.

  CHAPTER 4

  Later that evening as she was cooking up a light dinner for herself, Rosaria looked out the big window facing the harbor, lost in thought. She considered Patrick Keenan’s tragic end and remembered when she’d first met him over dinner at his Aunt Bridie’s.

  That soft, early summer night that Rosaria met Patrick, they’d had dinner at Bridie’s house. Bridie had asked Rosaria to see if she might meet Patrick and perhaps suggest some contacts for his independent study at the university back home in Ireland. Rosaria was glad to agree, both to support her friend’s nephew and—selfishly—to support herself during this time of her own healing. Rosaria wanted to fill these hard days with as many positive contributions as she could—a defense against the darkness that still threatened to engulf her. Bridie lived on the second floor of one of those 1920’s two-family houses in Malford with the gumwood molding, large windows, and high ceilings. Rosaria could remember thinking, Why does anyone live in those new apartment buildings going up all over the suburbs when they could live here, close to the city, in a real house?

  She could see that Bridie had gone to great trouble with the meal—a well-cooked ham, smashed potatoes with a sweet turnip and carrots dish, and sautéed cabbage with garlic and bacon. The apartment smelled heavenly between the cooking and the fresh breezes coming through the open dining room windows. Like any hungry young student on a limited budget, and still as thin as a rail, Patrick ate his fill and more of his aunt’s meal.

  “So, what have you seen now since you’ve been here, Patrick?” she had asked him.

  “Oh, I have been out with these guys in my sublet a little—Fenway Park, Faneuil Hall Market, the North End. And last night I was at the Burren—we had a grand time.”

  “The Burren?” laughed Rosaria. “Now that’s the place for spending an evening, for the craic.” The bar in Davis Square in Somerville was legendary for Irish music and good times—or craic as the Irish said.

  Bridie gave Patrick a wry smile. “But now, Ro, Patrick has to settle down to work on a project for his degree at the University. That’s what he came over here to do. With all his partying around, I’m not so sure now.”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. I’ll tell you that,” Patrick assured his aunt. His dark hair fell over his forehead as he shook his head and applied himself to loading another forkful from his dinner plate.

  “What’s the focus of your project, Patrick?”

  “Well, it’s not as focused as it should be.” He chuckled. “My advisor will tell you that.” He closed his eyes with pleasure as he tucked the forkful of his aunt’s good cooking into his mouth.

  “I’m hoping to narrow it down on this visit,” he said between bites, “but generally it’s about Irish-American support of the IRA during The Troubles in Northern Ireland. Before the peace process and the Good Friday Agreement in 1998.”

  Rosaria had always marveled at the characterization of the stunning violence in Northern Ireland that went on for four decades and took over 3500 lives in a small country—essentially a long-running war—as The Troubles. It sounded like a tactful way to describe a contained family problem—perhaps an impending divorce, a child experimenting with drugs or a parent with a terminal cancer. Or all three. The Donnellys have had some troubles, you know. Pity. Not what you’d call an accurate description of bombs blowing up innocent people in the marketplace or the pub, not soldiers on Bloody Sunday mowing down unarmed protestors, not executions and torture, not bullet-ridden Mass cards left in mailboxes, not the shoveling up of body parts on the streets of Belfast.

  “That’s a pretty big topic,” she said instead. “I suppose, for some, that support probably continues to this day.”

  Patrick put his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Well, really not all that many. Everyone’s pretty much moved on now to the political process. There was a transition period where some saw the path to power as ‘the ballot paper in one hand and the assault rifle in the other.’ Those days are gone except for a hardline fringe element. Those who never bought in, and still don’t. But for most people today, it’s the political process.”

  He shrugged, “I expect there are a few from here in the US who still support the Real IRA and the other splinter groups, the ones who don’t denounce violence to bring the six northern counties under the Irish flag again. Not too many. Fewer every day. Still, they are a problem. And not just in the north— some of that ilk in the south, in the Republic too.”

  “Haven’t a lot of those hardliners in the Real IRA kind of morphed into criminal gangs with drugs and robberies?” Rosaria asked before adding. “Still, I shouldn’t say, I don’t know who’s who in the whole mess.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty complicated. They’re not all thugs, you know, no matter what you read in the papers. One man’s thug is another man’s freedom fighter, as they say. Some highly educated people fancy themselves revolutionary nationalists and are active in surprising ways.”

  “Like how surprising?”

  “Oh, maybe violent things they would never do in normal times.”

  Rosaria considered what those things might be, but decided she didn’t need to hear the specifics over dinner.

  Patrick resumed eating. He chewed slowly and thoughtfully for a few moments before saying. “But, you know, as I say, the truth is that many people, most of the country, certainly south of the border, they’ve moved on from those chapters. So much of all that feels like ancient history. We’re part of the EU now. The world is much wider for our generation. We’re Irish, of course, but we’re Europeans too.” He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his beer.

  “Still, that must have been a tough time,” Rosaria commented.

  “It was, it was. But, receding further and further into the past since the peace agreement. You know, the demographics are changing. Catholics were only twenty-two percent of the population in Northern Ireland in 1922, when we won our freedom in the South. Now—they’re inching on up
to the high forties. And suppose if England really wants to leave the EU—God knows where that will go, such a daft proposal—there may be more in Northern Ireland who’ll want to stay part of the EU with the Republic. They get a good deal of funding from the EU for regional development and farming funds. They don’t want a hard border with the South either.”

  He laughed. “That would be a nightmare for the non-Catholics in the North who want to stay on as British subjects. The Prods would probably start their own resistance movement. Just crazy there.” Patrick kept smiling and shook his head with a low laugh as he reached for a second helping of the mashed turnip and carrot dish.

  “Pretty dramatic changes,” Rosaria commented.

  “Oh yeah, now in the South, there are people already working on what a consolidation might look like—how it would work, and it’s looking like the EU would accept Northern Ireland as part of the EU if people in the North voted for reunification. A poll shows over sixty-five percent of the population in the South would approve of reunification. I think that’s likely to increase. Before, they were almost becoming indifferent as things got more complicated in the North. They didn’t want all those troubles and that violence spilling over to the South, you know, even though they sympathized with and supported the Catholics in Northern Ireland. At heart, the fact is that many want the island to return to one nation. Can’t get beyond that. It’s an emotional thing, a heart thing. Lost sheep back into the fold, part of the real Irish nation—not some emotionally disengaged, shell of an empire.”

  Patrick raised his fork to make a point. “The UK would probably be glad to be rid of the headaches in Northern Ireland. They have enough on their hands. And now the Scots are making noises about independence. God bless them—it’s about time, but it may be just noise.” Patrick paused. “You know, there’s even a politician in Ireland who was an ex-IRA leader—the big one— Cathal McKenna—who’s a TD, that’s a member of our parliament—the Dail. Anyway, I can’t believe it, he’s running for Taoiseach.”

  “Pardon me? Running for what?”

  “For Taoiseach—our prime minister for the Irish Republic. Taoiseach is Irish for chieftain. It’s pronounced Tea-shock.”

  “Well, that’s a significant step.”

  “I’d say so,” Patrick said. “He has some passionate support—especially among those who think he’s the best one to bring the northern counties back under the Irish flag.” Then, he added dryly, “Now, I don’t know if he’s got a good shot—since,” he paused and took a careful drink of beer, not looking at her, “there are those who say he has a history. But, in any case, he certainly has the ambition.”

  “I imagine there are a lot of people from that time and that place that have a history. And didn’t McKenna have a lead role in the peace process?”

  “That’s the truth, he did and you have to give him enormous credit for that, yet...” Patrick didn’t finish that sentence. “Anyway, I’m not saying the struggle doesn’t continue for some—over there and here—but I’m not focusing on those who are active right now. I’m interested in those active around the seventies.” His blue eyes moved away from her. “A good many hard things happened in those days, much of it still coming to light. That’s really what I’m looking at.”

  “Like what hard things?”

  He avoided her eyes again. “Oh, I’d rather not go into it now, Rosaria—it’s just something in my head. I don’t know if I can even articulate it for you, so I’d rather not talk about it yet.” Patrick straightened the silverware at his place setting before continuing. “But I think a big piece of the story I’m looking at is over here.”

  Bridie frowned at Rosaria before giving her nephew an annoyed glance. “Well, you know, Rosaria could help more if she knew what you’re about, Patrick.”

  “Oh, I know, I know, Aunt Bridie. When I can work it out in my head, I’ll let you know—really.” He looked at them both apologetically. “In the meantime, there is so much else about the project to work on. Maybe we can come back to that piece later?” He gave Rosaria a winning smile.

  “Okay.” Rosaria drew the “Okay” out slowly and then leaned her elbows on the table. “How did you plan to go about getting information on this project of yours?” she said.

  Patrick gave Rosaria a grateful look. “Well, I thought if I could just get to know the names of some of the supporters from those days over here. Maybe the people who organized and went to the fundraisers that supported the IRA and all. That would be a start, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it would,” replied Rosaria. “Those fundraisers were years ago and I was never involved in them, but I do have some contacts that are active in various Irish-American organizations. They’d probably be able to offer some guidance.”

  “Oh, I knew you were the right person, Ro.” Bridie smiled across the table at her friend with affection. “Anyone for coffee with a touch of the Jay?”

  CHAPTER 5

  CONNEMARA, IRELAND—1974

  The boy used to slip out of bed late in the evening and walk down the lane to the Home, watching for his father if he had not been back for dinner. The boy was small enough that he could tuck himself between the rusty iron fence and a thick old oak with scratchy bark.

  This night, he watched as a stocky nun carried a tiny bundle through a worn, heavy wooden door at the side of the hall, her gait uneven on the rough ground. A limp—perhaps a bad hip. She struggled slightly, but held the bundle with firm, practiced arms. Once, he saw a tiny hand fall out of the wrapped sheet and he thought he saw it move—a little twitch, then nothing more.

  The nun maintained her balance and reached a hillock where his father stood waiting with another workman, both leaning on a large concrete slab pitched on its side. His father turned his face toward the iron fence for a moment as he took the small bundle from the nun. The boy quickly ducked behind the oak. But not quickly enough.

  When he dared to lean out to look again, he saw the nun and the two men standing with their heads bowed. The men were holding their hats before them. Then, the nun crossed herself, and started back to the hall. The men crossed themselves as well and put on their hats. Each took a side of the concrete slab to replace it on the front of the vault. The boy saw his father’s sidelong glance toward him as he lifted the earth-blackened concrete.

  His father had never taken his hand to him. More than could be said for many fathers in the village. But he was a heavyset, quiet man with a dark stare when he was of a mind, and the boy could be afraid of him on the occasion. That night when he got home, he took his son outside by the back wall and spoke more words than the boy ever heard from him.

  It was hard with the babies, all together like that. They caught things from each other. It could be the influenza or scarlet fever—or maybe they were born weak or things didn’t go well at the birth. And the nuns at Saint Mary’s were so overworked, and didn’t have the money to give the poor babes the best of care. The Home was always cold and damp in the mountain bogs.

  Others from the village never went down the long lane to the Home excepting the delivery men from the village. And they left: as soon as they dropped their parcels. Cars came occasionally, usually with American visitors, people looking to adopt, but coming or going, they never stopped in the village. Not the nuns or, God forbid, the mothers ever came into the village. And people said the shadow of the place was warning enough to any local girls not to stray.

  “I work at Saint Mary’s every day to keep the roof over your head,” he said. “Those girls at Saint Mary’s now, the ones that got caught with babies. Didn’t they deserve it? What could they expect for those poor little bairns? If they got lucky, the nuns found homes for them, but if they got sick or the birth didn’t go well, now what could the nuns do?”

  His father ended his speech with a warning not to say anything about the digging and the sad little bundles his father carried into the hole, to join the others in the old burial vault. Mounds of ancient bones and new rows of baby and child-
sized bundles, occasionally punctuated by one or two that might be a little larger, some even adult-sized.

  No, the boy must never say anything, sad enough business as it was. The nuns needed no further trouble. And so, the boy never did say anything about the tiny bundles.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Starbucks on Tremont Street in downtown Boston was buzzing, the smell of brewing coffee rich and heady as it wafted out the door into the early summer air.

  Rosaria had agreed to see Patrick before his meeting with Liam Joyce, Executive Director at the Saint Martin de Porres Shelter for the Homeless by Boston Common. She was glad to have helped set up this meeting for Patrick, but also had a bone to pick on with him today. He’d missed a different meeting she’d set up for him—a high-profile contact. She’d had to use a good deal of social capital to get the man to talk to Patrick and was annoyed to find he had not kept the commitment.

  While she looked around for two empty seats, Rosaria also mused that she wasn’t quite sure how Liam Joyce at the homeless shelter fit into the scope of Patrick’s project. As she recalled, his name wasn’t on any list of donors or organizers in the Irish-American groups that supported community efforts in Northern Ireland at some point.

  Community efforts in Northern Ireland, she mused. They were sometimes called such with a wink and a nod. Most really were, but there was no doubt that during The Troubles some or a good deal of money raised flowed to the Cause or the IRA. It was hard to believe that this fact was not known at some level to the organizations on this side of the Atlantic. Less direct contributions perhaps than the hats passed around at South Boston bars while songs of revolution played in the background, but money flowing to the Cause just the same.

  Of course, she thought, coming back to today, maybe Patrick had found a connection between Liam Joyce at the homeless shelter and those activities in Belfast during the ’70s. Unexpected connections did happen on projects. Besides, she reminded herself, this is Patrick’s project, not hers.