The Best American Mystery Stories 2012 (41 page)

It was on one of those hunting expeditions that Myles came to know another side of his father. He also learned a well-kept secret about his mother that cast her in whole new light. The conversation began after Myles had downed a pheasant with a brilliant shot and Jack, sensing his son morphing to a man, opened a delicate subject: his years in the IRA.

“You know, son, the crack of a gun always reminds me of when I led the flying column down in Bunclody back in '19. We'd been tracking the Black 'n' Tans for a week after they burned out the whole village of Kiltealy. Well, we hit 'em at three in the mornin' . . . blew up the barracks where they were billeted, out toward Vinegar Hill. Never knew what hit 'em. Bastard foreign riffraff . . . Criminal element turned loose from British prisons and armed on condition they come over an' massacre us. Five of 'em escaped the first blast, but we blew their balls off as they came charging out of the back.”

“What happened after that, Da?”

“They caught us in Enniscorthy four months later, but not before we'd done several more jobs like that.”

“How come they didn't kill you like they did when they caught Padraig Pearse and the others in the Easter Rising?”

“Did yer mother never tell ya the story? Sure I'm not surprised; it's not like her to dwell on the past. Or to brag.”

Myles was now listening to an entirely different man than he'd known before. Gone was the funny raconteur. In his place was a soldier, focused and gleaming at the memory of battle. This was the real IRA hero, the one he'd never believed existed. Yet here he was listening to the firsthand account, like a dream come to life. Myles sank down on the stone wall, ready to drink it all in, watching his father's glistening blue eyes harden as he warmed to the story.

“Well, see, we were arrested and taken to the local jail in Enniscorthy. The whole county knew what happened: someone had informed on us, one of our own. We were to face the Tan's firing squad the following Wednesday. So here's what happens. We were allowed one last visit from family and friends to say our goodbyes. No men, only women. I was dating your mother at the time, sort of—she was Kitty Cusack then, a gorgeous slip of a girl, but secretly a commander in the local Cumann na mBan.

“I thought only the men could be commanders?”

“Oh, no, son. The women were commissioned, too. Kitty had a reputation—well deserved, may I say—as a fierce Republican. Absolutely fearless. And deadly. She shows up on Tuesday night, acting the green, gawky country girl—‘Sorry to bother ya, sir'—with freshly baked brown bread, four packs of Sweet Afton fags, and guess what else?”

“A hacksaw blade?”

“Ha, you've been reading too many comics. No—a sawed-off shotgun, stowed under her big winter coat.”

Jack smiled at the memory and lit his pipe, puffing to fill the silence. Myles felt his pulse race. His mother with a shotgun? Was this the same woman who forbade him to even handle the old shotgun gathering dust upstairs before his da came home? He watched Jack's face for a few more seconds before asking, “So did she manage to hide the shotgun from the guards?”

Jack laughed and rolled on. “No, that was not the plan. She had a different idea. The guard, a Tanner, never knew what hit 'im; she fired at point-blank range . . . right through the coat . . . blew a hole in him the size of yer fist.”

Myles tried to swallow, but felt his mouth go dry and his chest tighten. Then he heard himself say in a faint voice that sounded high-pitched and distant, “You mean ta tell me that Mammie killed the guard . . . I mean, the Tanner?”

Jack smiled indulgently at the boy's amazement, continuing calmly, as though telling a bedtime story. He moved in closer to Myles, holding his gaze, warming to the subject, enjoying both the memory and the discomfiture of his audience.

“Oh, absolutely. Dead as a doornail. He made one fatal mistake—didn't think a country lass would have the nerve to pull the trigger. Stupid ejeet dared her: ‘Go ahead,' he sez, ‘ya Feinian bitch. I dare ya. Ye don't got the fucken nerve.' Sure we all heard 'em yell it from up an' down the cell block. We knew they'd be the last words the Tanner ever spoke. Didn't know Kitty Cusack like the rest of us . . . That woman had nerves of steel; tougher than most of the lads in the movement. Kitty always took care of business. Always got the job done.”

With that, Jack looked off in the distance and paused to relight the pipe. A long silence followed before Myles broke in, choking back tears.

“I never knew any of that, Da. Mammie never told me . . . How could she? So how did you escape?”

Another long pause, puffs on the pipe, and a resigned sigh. “Well, after Kitty sprung us—all twelve of us . . . Oh, listen, 'tis a long story, son. We split up. Packie Hayden, Denny Brennan, an' me stayed together an' got out to Canada; ended up in Montreal. We had contacts and a lot of help up the chain of command. But that's why yer mother and I had to meet up in New York after it had all settled down years later.

“I'll tell ya the rest some other time. Sure Mick Collins and I were best buddies; started out as handpicked lieutenants in the IRB—Irish Republican Brotherhood—before De Valera and the treaty tore us all asunder. I can't bear to even think about the betrayals and treachery; all those fine young men and women, tortured and martyred for . . . for what? Look what it got us.”

The memory seemed to wilt him. Gone was the aloof storyteller, spinning a yarn. His soft tenor voice broke and tears welled up in the blue eyes, turning gray in anguish. Embarrassed, he turned away, trying to regain his composure. “I'm sorry, son. I shouldn't have told you all this. Promise me ya won't tell yer mother I told you about Enniscorthy. I shoulda let sleeping dogs lie . . .”

“I promise, Da. I won't say a word.”

With that, Jack stood up, stuffed the pipe in his pocket, and started up the hill toward the red-tiled farmhouse. They walked the distance in silence, deep in their own thoughts, Myles a few steps behind his father. His mind raced with questions and the dawning realization that his world had just been turned upside down.

Suddenly the mysteries of deference to his mother made sense.

After each incident, Myles had assumed his mother, a naturally dominant personality, intimidated her targets with sheer force of will. Now he understood the pitiful pleading, the sudden show of compassion, the ready admission of guilt. They all had one thing in common: terror. They weren't facing his mother; they were facing Kitty Cusack, legendary commander in the Cumann na mBan and secret enforcer for the IRA.

But did they know the whole truth? That she'd shot a Black 'n' Tan prison guard, and the only living witness was Jack Hogan? Maybe the whole truth was worse. Perhaps she'd shot others? If so, how many? And who besides Jack knew?

Myles was left to ponder these questions alone. He would have to bide his time before he could even broach the subject with his da, and Kitty was completely off-limits; on that front, he was sworn to secrecy.

After that one extraordinary tale of his jailbreak, Jack returned to his other persona: an endless fountain of hilarious mimicry, ancient wisdom, songs, and poetry. Myles, in turn, decided to focus on the bright side of this newly revealed heritage. He was the only son of Kitty Cusack and Jack Hogan, Cumann na mBan and IRA insurgents who'd trounced the Black 'n' Tans, hooligans and murderers all. This was nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, he was proud of his pedigree. After all, Kitty and Jack had put it all on the line for Irish freedom when it mattered most. He didn't know anyone else who could say that about
both
their parents.

So resolved, he got up each day now intent on making the most of being alone with his da. He never raised the topic of the IRA again, and Jack avoided all references to his days “on the run.” Instead they seemed to have reached a tacit agreement that Kildargan farm would be their new cause.

Jack taught Myles the verses to all his favorite songs—“Slievenamon,” “The Croppy Boy,” “Dawning of the Day,” and Myles's favorite, “Kevin Barry.” They cleaned out the old car shed, built a workbench, and cut down several hardwood trees—ashes and oaks—for the new paddock they'd planned behind the stable.

At night Hogan's farmhouse turned into a lively “rambling house,” the center of community fellowship and entertainment. Gone were the days of isolation when Myles and Kitty wouldn't see a soul from one Sunday to the next. The Voice had raised the ante; singers never heard from before emerged to perform and match their talent against himself. The same with the music—and all the other performances, including the storytelling, poetry, and occasional tug of war on the long summer evenings. It was the best summer of Myles's life, far and away. He finally had a father of his own, and one who was supremely talented, great fun, and a genuine IRA hero to boot.

Then, one balmy August evening, their idyllic summer ended.

The ramblers had assembled for another night of music and storytelling, but Jack was still down in Enniskerry on some errand. Myles heard the border collies first, their barking chorus unusually shrill—with Parnell, the big black alpha, dropping into an ominous crouch, hackles up, slamming against the kitchen door with increasing urgency, as if engaged in some mortal combat with an invisible foe. This was a sound Myles had never heard the borders make before, and he felt a shiver invade his whole body.

Kitty finally tuned in to the banging against the kitchen door and turned to Myles without noticing that he'd turned pale. “Myles, will you go out and call off those dogs! They're giving me a headache with all that randy-boo.” When she saw his hesitation, she picked up the Tilly lamp and, without further comment, stormed into the dark farmyard to see what all the fuss was about. “Parnell! Shep! Rover! Come to heel! I said, HEEL!”

With that the dogs went mute; but not quite. They stopped barking, but Parnell kept baring his fangs in an ugly snarl, while the others growled and refused to lie down as they normally would when Kitty took charge. As one, they paced back and forth, glaring toward the outer gate with baleful suspicion.

Standing just beyond the gate, frozen in fear, was a homely little woman dressed in black, with a large hat on top of a wizened little head. As she stepped into the farmyard, Myles could see her large pair of glasses reflect the light as she introduced herself as Fanny Wilcox, explaining that Ned Delaney had driven her up from Enniskerry but had to go for another fare, leaving her to carry her large suitcase down the long driveway by herself. She looked exhausted, leaning on a cane, and Kitty immediately felt sorry for her. “Well, come on in and have a cup of tea and some refreshments, Fanny. You look famished and sure who wouldn't be after lugging that suitcase down the lane all by yourself. I'm surprised at Ned to leave a woman in such a lurch. Shame on him.”

Fanny waved this aside with “No, no—Ned seemed like a nice chap, really. Very polite and friendly, 'e was. I don't want to put you to any trouble, but I'm looking for Paddy Hogan, and I understand 'e lives 'ere.” Here was an accent Myles had never heard, and he could barely make out a word.

“I'm afraid you may have the wrong farm, Fanny. This is Jack Hogan's house, and he's away at the moment, but we don't know any Paddy Hogan.”

Fanny sipped her tea, glanced through her horn-rimmed glasses at the assembled ramblers, and Myles, before speaking. Then, with a condescending cackle and an air of conspiracy, she leaned toward Kitty and whispered, “You may want to 'ear the rest of wot I 'ave to say privately. Can we go into another room, then?” Caught off-guard, Kitty blushed and said, “Of course, of course . . . sure let's go up to the parlor so that we can talk. Myles will join us.” Myles moved past the ramblers toward the parlor, but as he walked by Fanny, he felt her cold, clawlike hand grasp his wrist and whisper, so that all could hear, “I don't think we want our knuck here listening to wot I 'ave to say.” Kitty recognized the British taunt: knuck—dimwit, eejit—but hadn't heard it since her days as a nursemaid in London, when it was used to ridicule Irish country girls fresh off the boat on the “downstairs” staff of her upper-crust employer.

Ignoring Fanny, she guided Myles in front of her as the three of them withdrew to the parlor, the formal room reserved for company, to the gawking silence of the ramblers. Kitty poured more tea and invited Fanny to proceed, which she did with an air of being in a deep conversation with a long-lost friend. Her story, which took over an hour to tell in her halting, Yorkshire style, erased all doubt of its credibility.

“Paddy came to live at Windgate House about five years ago. I'd been running the boarding house ever since me 'usband died in WWII, rest his soul. He was a career military man, you see, Captain Wilcox. A good man; a good provider. Paddy and I grew very fond of each other, and got engaged a year ago. He told me all about 'is life—about Rathdargan farm, about 'aving a sister wi' six children, five daughters and a boy, who'd lost her 'usband in the war, just like me. He told me how he was helping her out, letting 'er stay 'ere, though 'e was legal owner of the farm. But 'e was allowing his sister—ye—to live 'ere out of kindness, not cuz 'e had to, mind you. And 'e always did say how 'e intended to come back to Ireland to run the farm when the time was right.

“Being 'is fiancée, I trusted 'im with my life's savings, five hundred pounds, which 'e said 'e needed to fix up Kildargan, till 'e could send for me. I was planning on selling Windgate House as a going concern—I'm tired of all the 'eadaches that go with running a boarding 'ouse. You 'ave no idea wot goes on.”

Myles looked at Kitty as the story ended. The only sound in the parlor was the loud ticking of the grandfather clock by the heavy mantelpiece, over which stern portraits of Hogan ancestors across the generations hung. Outside, the border collies were still barking in their high-pitched chorus, and Parnell, the alpha, was pacing back and forth, still growling, disturbed by something unseen in the summer night.