Across the table, Luca just about chokes on his mouthful of wine.
* * *
As the dinner goes on,I find myself warming to Tara. Just like Mom, it’s impossible not to love her. She’s sweet, generous with her praise, and laughs at all my jokes. It’s strange to be on the other side of that kind of charm for once. Luca likes her, too, relaxing with her in a way he rarely does with people who aren’t me.
“I wish I could’ve stayed longer at the wake,” I blurt out eventually. “It was nice to see…people. Is Uncle Gus still here?”
Tara’s smile isn’t quite so wide this time. “He is. There’s been some trouble between him and Maggie. But I’m not sure what the problem is.”
I fill in Luca on some of the background details. Fearghus Donovan is a grandson of my great-grandfather, and still lives in Ireland. Tara and I have called him Uncle Gus since we were kids.
“He’s kind of…patriotic,” Tara says diplomatically.
“That’s a way to put it,” I say. “He’s a hardline Irish nationalist. Even the Real IRA are too soft, according to Uncle Gus.”
“Is he here often?” Luca asks.
“From time to time,” Tara replies. “I think last time he was here was a few weeks after your wedding, just a flying visit. But he was back and forth between Boston and Belfast all the time when we were younger. Though Gus and Pops had a disagreement a while back, I think,” Tara says vaguely.
“Uh, yeah,” I snort. “It wasn’t long after Mom died. Gus came in cursing and shouting one night, drunk out of his mind. Don’t you remember?”
“Idoremember the swearing. It was very inventive. Róisín was mortified.”
“Róisín!” I exclaim suddenly. “You said there was a story there.”
“Oh, God,” Tara sighs. “Well. Róisín joined a nunnery.”
I stare at her. “You’re shitting me. Actually, wait, no. That makes a lot of sense.”
“I know, right? She was always super into God,” Tara agrees.
“Which Order has she joined?” Luca asks, interested.
“The Poor Clares.”
“They’re cloistered, aren’t they?” Luca continues, as though this is a perfectly normal conversation.
“I didn’t realize you were so into nuns, husband,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “What’s a cloister?”
“They’re a contemplative order, rather than having a charitable focus,” Tara says.
That actually sounds less like Róisín than I thought. Like Celia, she was always focused on making lives better, not sitting around chanting, or whatever these Poor Clares do. “What made her dothat?” I ask. “Why now, I mean?”
Tara looks down at her food and places her knife and fork neatly together on the plate. “This was amazing. But I need to leave some space for dessert.”
“Why did Róisín do it?” I ask again.
Tara takes another swallow of wine before she replies. “Because we found out what Pops did. What Pops and Maggie did to you and Mom. Róisín—I don’t know, it was as though her heart broke right then and there. She went away for a while to South America, and she was working with some not-for-profits down there. But when she came back to Boston, she told me…she seemed to think there was no amount of charitable work she could do that would balance out the sins of our family. She said that she was going to spend the rest of her life pleading with God to save their souls. And so, I suppose, she is.”
The long silence is broken by Luca clearing his throat, although he seems to think better of saying anything.
“That’s wack,” I say bluntly. “She would have done more fucking good going back to South America. Who cares about souls when there are people who need practical help right here and now?”
Tara looks slightly startled. “I didn’t realize you were such a philanthropist, Howie.”
“I would be, if the Church would take my damn money. But apparently it’sdirty, so they don’t want it. Talk about hypocrisy. How many crooked politicians and businesses do they take money from?”
“I’m sure there would be a way to make it more palatable,” Luca says, before I can get my rant on. “And like I said, we can talk with our accountants about making appropriate donations. Now, what about dessert, baby bird? Ah—excuse me a moment,” he adds, as his pocket starts buzzing. He stands and moves into the hallway, speaking in a low voice. He’s not supposed to have his phone with him at the table—dinner rules—but that doesn’t stop him most nights. But I can’t blame him right now.
