The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (59 page)

 151

“
I
’m shocked,” said a dead-serious Diane, “that such sexual hijinks were going on in London during this important time.”

“You’re a regular Captain Renault from
Casablanca
,” replied Johnny. “Just shocked,
shocked
by it all!”

“You’re such a wiseass,” hissed Diane. “I’m surprised at Michael. At least Grandpa wasn’t gallivanting around.”

“Eoin was getting his from Róisín back in Dublin.”

“I still don’t like it. I expected more from Michael Collins—fidelity to Ireland!”

“Oh,” shot back Eoin, “and this from Miss Nude New Jersey of 1973!”

“Will you stop it!” Diane screeched.

“Love, there’s no one else here.”

“Oh,” said Diane, relieved, “I keep expecting to see the kids coming into the room and learning of my little adventure.” Then Johnny started laughing, hard. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” said Johnny, his face aglow. “The family enforcer, the scourge of your children—no credit cards, no tattoos, no piercings. How would they react if they knew their mother was an exhibitionist?”

“Yeah,” said Diane, “I always get to be the bad cop to your good cop.” She straightened up and stared hard at her husband. “I should never have told you.” In one of their many breakups on the way to marriage, Diane—apparently “just because I wanted to”—landed in a nudist colony on the Jersey Shore. “If I recall,” said Diane, changing the subject, “you were under indictment or something in Dublin at the time, when you should have been courting me.”

“No,” corrected Johnny, “that was Grandfather. He was indicted. I was his
unindicted
co-conspirator.”

“Big difference.”

“Grandpa needed help. I was his legs. I was young and innocent.”

“Young and innocent my ass,” countered Diane. “But we did some nutty things when we were young and foolish—and so full of hormones.”

“I didn’t consider helping my grandfather foolish,” replied Johnny, solemnly. “We forget what old, conservative fucks we have become. We forget how it was when our hormones were raging, and the only thing we could think about was getting naked and screwing.”

“I know,” said Diane. “We should have saved some of those hormones for middle-age! I see the girls, and I just want to borrow some.”

“Jesus,” said Johnny, “I don’t want to hear anything about my daughters’ hormones.”

“They are young women, don’t forget, with the needs of young women. In fact, our Róisín is just about the age I was when you first met me.”

“Don’t give me any of this ‘needs of a woman’ crap,” said Johnny, deadly serious. “These are my little girls!”

Diane suppressed a laugh and patted Johnny on his hand. “There, there, Daddy.”

“My daughters can have all the sex they want,” spat Johnny, “after I’m dead!”

“You hypocrite! You had your hands down the back of my pants on our first date!”

“That was different.”

“Sure it was.”

“Well, maybe Michael Collins had the same idea with Lady Deametrice and Lady Lavery,” said Johnny. “And maybe even Kitty Kiernan.”

“But, in his situation, it wasn’t right.”

“Who’s being the hypocrite now? Michael was a man. With the needs of a man. He wasn’t saving it for
Cathleen Ni Houlihan
.”

Diane laughed. “You know,” she said, “I told only one other person about that nudist camp—Grandma Róisín.”

“You’re kidding,” laughed Johnny. “What did she say?”

“‘Good for you!’”

Johnny laughed out loud. “Typical Róisín. Rebel to the end.”

“She was great,” Diane reminisced. “I was all upset at your reaction—you were totally disgusted!—and so I tearfully told Róisín. She said, ‘Dearie, Johnny is an old, moralistic stick-in-the-mud like his grandfather. They are like all Irishmen—seemingly horrified at the sight of a naked female body, except when it’s under them
assuaging
them!’ She went on to say, ‘Do what you want, you’re only young once.’ Then she added: ‘I would have
loved
to have gone with you!’ I felt so much better after talking to Róisín. She had you Kavanagh men pinned down perfectly.”

“Grandma didn’t miss a trick,” agreed Johnny. “It’s amazing that she and Eoin took to each other like they did; happy to the end, they were.”

“Well,” said Diane, “they did lead very separate lives. Eoin in Washington and Dublin, Róisín in New York with her feminist friends. Róisín said she always admired Eoin for his earnestness and steadfastness. Something you just didn’t see in other men. I’ll never forget what she said to me about Eoin. She said, ‘He was such a good person, taking care of his Mammy, Daddy, and siblings. You know what impressed me most of all? The absence of greed. He wasn’t interested in power, money, bullying people. And even with all the terrible work he did for Collins, he was, in a very sweet way, very gentle. He was just a good man—and I found that sexy.’ She then gave me this devilish laugh and added: ‘He was also a great little fuck in bed!’”

“She didn’t say ‘fuck,’ did she?”

“Yes, she did,” laughed Diane. “Róisín was such a great broad.”

“It’s a wonder,” laughed Johnny, “that she didn’t fall in love with Michael Collins herself.”

“Not Róisín’s type,” said Diane definitely, as Johnny looked on, doubt on his face. “Women know these things, husband dear. Their Type-A-driven personalities didn’t match. She came to love Collins, but I think that was because of Ireland and Eoin and what he was doing. That poor man. 1922 doesn’t look promising.”

“Well,” said Johnny, holding up Eoin’s diary for January 1922, “you can see it didn’t start off well.”

“It’s beginning to look like a disaster.”

“Well,” said Johnny, pensively, picking up a book and looking for the right page, “you’re pretty close to the truth. Collins brings the Treaty back with him from London, with the admonition to the
Dáil
that he did ‘not recommend it for more than it is. Equally I do not recommend it for less than it is. In my opinion, it gives us freedom—not the ultimate freedom that all nations desire and develop to, but the freedom to achieve it.’”

“Wise words from General Collins,” said Diane.

“Well,” continued Johnny, “to some extent, he had Dev, Brugha, and the rest of them cornered.”

“How?”

“The people were tired of war. The people were
for
the Treaty. It was the dead-enders—Brugha, Stack, etc.—who were against it. They couldn’t buck public opinion, except by scurrilous deeds in the
Dáil
, and that’s what they were trying to do in the early part of 1922.” Suddenly, Johnny laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked his wife.

“At one point in the debate, de Valera was trying to use all kinds of parliamentary tricks to subvert the Treaty, and Collins shouted at him and his cohorts in the
Dáil
, calling them out as ‘bullies.’ He went on to say, ‘We will have no Tammany Hall methods here. Whether you are for the Treaty or whether you are against it, fight without Tammany Hall methods. We will not have them.’”

“Tammany Hall!” laughed Diane.

“Yeah,” said Johnny, “it was like Collins was telling Eoin where his future was—in New York, with Mayor Walker and Tammany.”

“It’s funny how this old world works, isn’t it?”

“It’s diabolical, that’s what it is.”

“Seven months,” said Diane.

“Seven months?”

“That’s all Collins has left.” Johnny put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. A tear escaped his paw. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s this fucking book,” said Johnny. “It’s tearing at me. The emotional toll is still overwhelming, even nearly a hundred years later. Can you imagine how tough it was to live through the period that Collins and Grandpa did?”

“What’s that old Chinese saying?” said Diane, with a wistful smile. “‘May you live in interesting times’?”

Johnny shook his head. “It’s really a curse, because sometimes, you die in them.”

 152

R
óisín had just dropped off a friend at her nurse’s job at St. Vincent’s Hospital on St. Stephen’s Green when she looked up to see the Countess Markievicz advancing on her. The
Dáil
was meeting at University College Dublin in Earlsfort Terrance just down the way. There was no mistaking the Countess, with her big feathered hat and that determined walk. Strangely, thought Róisín, with all the focus on the
Dáil
and the Treaty debates, she was without an entourage.

“Connie!” Róisín called out, interrupting the Countess’s concentration.

“Róisín? Is that you?” Markievicz asked in surprise, as she stopped in her tracks. They embraced as the early January darkness descended on Dublin like a lid closing on a coffin. “How have you been?”

“Oh,” replied Róisín, “things are pretty much the same. I’m still up at the Mater.”

“Well,” said the Countess, “we in the
Cumann na mBan
must stay together during these tumultuous times. That was quite a vote by the
Cumann
—419–63.”

Róisín stared at the sidewalk. “I was one of the nays,” she said quietly.

The Countess looked shocked. “But why, dearie? We must be adamant at this crucial time.”

“I’ve had enough,” said Róisín, bringing her eyes back up to the Countess’s face.

“But we must fight for the Republic!” the Countess declared. “We can’t let cowards and English deceivers like Collins and Griffith seduce us with this false Treaty. Walk with me,” continued Markievicz, “I have a meeting at the Shelbourne.”

Róisín, mouth agape, starting walking with the Countess, when it hit her. “Wait,” she said, stopping Markievicz by taking hold of her arm. “Cowards? What cowards?”

“Collins and Griffith.”

Róisín had a quizzical look on her face. “Cowards? Mick Collins is not a coward. Mick Collins won the war. Mr. Griffith said so in the
Dáil
just the other day.”

“Collins did no such thing. Poor man. He’s now starting to believe his own press. The ‘Dublin Pimpernel’ and all that rot. Some soldier. Brugha said he was just one of his subordinates. A very minor subordinate, at that.” The Countess starting walking again, leaving Róisín alone by the fence of the Green.

“Connie,” said Róisín, running after Markievicz, “that’s not true. Brugha’s a fool. Everyone in Dublin knows that. A little man with a big chip on his shoulder. He’s jealous of Mick.”

The Countess stopped in her tracks. “Cathal Brugha is one of the most courageous men in Ireland.”

Róisín moved her head closer to the Countess. “He may be brave, but he is a fool.”

“How can you talk like that? What has gotten into you?”

“Sense,” replied Róisín. “Sense has gotten into me. We have our own country. The English are leaving. What more do you want?”

“We want a Republic!”

“You’ll get your Republic in due time. That’s what Mick said.”

“Mick, Mick, Mick. I thought you didn’t like the ruffian.”

“Mick Collins is not a ruffian. He is a patriot. Unlike de Valera, he is selfless. He didn’t go hide in America when things got sticky.”

Róisín saw Markievicz’s face go as dark as the approaching dusk. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the Countess, as she turned the corner of the Green and started galloping towards the Shelbourne.

“I know very well what I’m talking about,” snapped Róisín. “I’ve been in Dublin for the last six years, when you and de Valera weren’t.”

“I was in prison in England.”

“I know you were, but I was here. I saw the Black and Tan terror, and I saw Bloody Sunday, too. Mick did that, you know. Not Brugha. Not de Valera. He wiped the English scum out in one morning.”

“I always thought Bloody Sunday was overblown,” countered the Countess.

“Overblown? I know the men who did this,” Róisín said, thinking of her Eoin, Vinny Byrne, and Jack Lemass. “This was an act of supreme national courage.” She subconsciously gestured towards Baggot Street, where two of the shootings had taken place. “Bloody Sunday drove the British to the truce. Without it, we’d have a Black and Tan stationed on every corner in Dublin today.” The Countess always knew that Róisín was direct, but she had never seen her so impassioned. “Yes, Connie, Mick’s men eliminated the scum, and who shows up immediately, after two years of sitting on his arse in America? Our esteemed president. He knew the truce was coming, and he had to have his hand in it.”

In front of the Shelbourne Hotel, the Countess stopped and looked at her erstwhile acolyte. “I stand with the president. His work in America was important, raising funds and bringing the struggle of Ireland to world attention.”

“And I stand with the General,” replied Róisín. “Raising money before Legion of Mary breakfasts in Columbus, Ohio, is not the same as taking out British spies.”

The line was drawn, and the two women just stared at each other. “Róisín,” the Countess finally said, trying to bring Róisín back to her side, “think of our martyred heroes. Think of the unborn generations of Irish children.”

“How about us?” retorted Róisín. “The living. Do we not get to have a say?”

“But look who’s against the Treaty,” implored the Countess, as she started the litany of prominent names. “Kathleen Clarke, Mary MacSwiney, Grace Gifford Plunkett, Mrs. Pearse.”

“I don’t want to belittle their martyred dead,” said Róisín quietly. “But they are dead, and I am alive. Don’t I get any consideration? I want a free Ireland—now—for my own unborn children.”

It was no use. “Goodbye, Róisín,” said the Countess. “We have nothing further to discuss.” With that, she turned and walked into the Shelbourne.

“Goodbye, Connie,” Róisín called after Markievicz, realizing that their friendship, like the country, was forever fractured.