The Delaney Woman (2 page)

He kissed her cheek. “I'm here because it's a lovely town and it's not Belfast. Say hello to Mam for me and tell her she's always welcome here.”

The following morning Connor Delaney strapped his son into the child's restraint in the back of the car and took his place in the driver's seat. “We're on our way, lad,” he said cheerily and pulled out onto the tree-lined street. He turned left, negotiated the roundabout onto the Coast Road and settled into the slow lane for a leisurely drive. Danny's head was already nodding. He would nap most of the way. Connor turned on the radio. Classical music filled the cab. It wasn't his normal preference but he left it there anyway. Today it suited his mood. The car was comfortable, tuned and packed for his vacation.

He stopped for petrol in a small town near the Welsh border. For the remainder of the journey the roads would be winding and narrow. Danny munched on crackers. Connor began singing the first verse of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” Somewhere in the middle of the third verse, Danny joined in.

The sharp, rugged beauty of the mountains rose on the right side of the car. Connor, intent on the descending road, spared no more than a cursory glance at the soaring peaks of the Swanseas on one side and the slate-gray ocean slapping against jagged cliffs on the other. He maneuvered the car around a hairpin curve, downshifted and applied the brakes. Instead of slowing down the car picked up speed. He depressed the brake pedal once again. Nothing happened. He pulled at the emergency brake. The car shuddered. Connor watched the lever on the speed dial creep up to seventy kilometers per hour. Solid rock rose on one side. “Hold on, Danny,” he muttered. “Hold on, lad.” His last conscious memory was the wide eyes of his son as their eyes met in the rearview mirror.

Kellie was well into a thorough cleaning of her flat when she heard the doorbell ring. Wiping her hands on a towel, she opened the side window. Two police officers stood on her front stoop.

“Yes?” she inquired politely. “May I help you?”

“We're here to see Miss Delaney,” the older one said.

“You've found her.”

“May we come in, miss?”

“Of course.”

Kelly opened the door. “Pardon the mess. I'm cleaning.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Delaney, very sorry, but there's been an auto accident. It's your brother and his son. There were no survivors.”

T
he granite headstones marking the plots were varying shades of gray, a pale color, thick and uniform whether the stone was new, or dark and thin, covered in mildew proportionate to its age, or weathered by the centuries. It seemed to Kellie that the entire world was shrouded in gray. Gray heads bent over prayer books, gray clouds hanging heavily over the treetops, gray coats absorbing the color of the day. Rain pounded sideways on the grassy hillside, mixing it up with wind in uneven spurts so that even those who'd come prepared with golf-size umbrellas were drenched to the skin.

Kellie had the vaguest memory of her mother saying something absurd, something like,
It's God's will, after all
. She hated her for that. Other voices murmured words of sympathy. What was it they said? Something about how terribly sorry they were.
Sorry
. Where had such a pitiful word come from? It conveyed nothing of the magnitude of their loss. Connor and Danny were gone from her forever. She couldn't bear to think, could barely muster the effort to breathe. Her bright, sunny-headed nephew was dead. How could such a thing be? How could a being powerful enough to arrange the events of the universe have allowed such a mistake to take place?

It was fitting that it should rain today, that the world should be dark and wild and angry. What had the priest said? Kellie couldn't remember. What did it matter? Nothing mattered, not the people gathered here today, not the Mass, nor the reception that would follow at home. She wanted it all to be over, the grave side ceremony, the wake, the mourners, the entire day. Then she could take the pills the doctor had prescribed, crawl beneath the bed covers and sleep. Sleep brought peace. The hours of drug-induced unconsciousness were worth the ache of waking, the initial discomfort of knowing something was wrong followed by the heartbreaking awareness that nothing would ever be right again.

Tears froze on her cheeks. She looked around at heads bent against the wind and hands stuffed deeply into overcoat pockets. It must be cold. She shifted slightly, turned into the wind and waited. Nothing. She felt nothing but pain. It consumed her, this emotional awareness, devouring all thoughts of such minor physical discomforts as cold or hunger or pain or exhaustion.

Somehow, it was over. The mourners were disappearing in groups of two and three. Perhaps something was expected of her. She looked around, confused. Gillian Chambers, a friend from her earliest days in Oxford, wrapped both arms around her and led her in the direction of the car.

“We're going to get through this,” her friend muttered, “and then you're coming home with me for as long as it takes.”

Kellie stared at her blankly, neither arguing nor agreeing. It simply didn't matter.

A man in a dark wool coat approached them. He had no umbrella. “I'm very sorry, Miss Delaney. My name is John Griffith. I'm a colleague of your brother's. I need you to verify some information for me.”

Gillian's arms tightened protectively. “Are you mad?” she snapped. “Not now.”

“I understand,” he said immediately. His accent wasn't quite British. “I'm terribly sorry for your loss.” He handed Kellie a card. “Please ring me when you're feeling up to it.”

“Idiot.” Gillian's grip on Kellie's shoulder guided her toward the car. “Where do they find people like that?”

Kellie didn't answer. She couldn't. It was enough to simply cling to her friend's arm and move forward. Later, much later, when she could think again, if she could ever think again, she would attend to John Griffith.

Gillian sliced open the muffin and slathered white mayonnaise on both sides. Then she carved two sandwich-size pieces of ham from the bone, added several slices of cheese and tomatoes and popped them into the microwave. “It isn't much but I've the lecture to attend tonight.”

Kellie sat at the table, staring at the newspaper.

Gillian turned to look at her. “Would you care to come with me?”

“No, thank you. I'm tired tonight.”

“What else is new?” muttered Gillian under her breath.

“Did you say something?”

The microwave beeped. Gillian removed the sandwiches, took another plate from the cupboard, divided the food evenly and set both plates on the table. She took a deep breath. “Kellie, love. Life goes on. I don't expect you to dance jigs on tabletops, but you've got to go on, too. The term starts next week. Are you ready for it?” She sat down and reached out to take her friend's hands. “What about your job? How long will they wait for you? It's a good position. You've worked hard to get where you are.”

Kellie stared at her. “Where is that, Gillian?”

“You're a respected teacher in the community. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

Kellie thought a moment, testing the question. “I suppose so,” she answered, as if she hadn't really understood the question.

Gillian sat back in her chair, defeated. “I don't know what's to become of you,” she said. “What will you do all day if you don't work?”

For the first time since she heard the dreadful news, some of the glaze left Kellie's eyes. She pushed back her hair. “Of course I'm going to work. I certainly don't expect you to support me and I'm not going back to my mother.”

“I worry about you.”

“I know. You've been a grand friend.” Kellie bit into her sandwich. “This is very good.” She smiled. “I'm going home, Gilly. It's been a week and you're right. I need to clean out Connor's house before I can sell it.”

“Did he leave you everything?”

“Yes, but I'm not taking it. There are enough at home who can use the money. I don't need it and I'd never hear the end of it if I left them out.”

“They'll canonize you, Kellie. Why not keep a bit for yourself?”

“I don't want anything that came of this awful tragedy.”

“Sorry.” Gillian bit her lip. “I didn't think.”

“Never mind. Eat your sandwich. I'll be gone when you get back.”

Kellie threw the overnight bag into the back of her Rover and drove the three miles to her flat. Everything was as she had left it. The plants were a bit droopy, the newspapers stacked up and the mail had collected in a pile on the floor, but otherwise all was as usual. How odd. Pre-Connor and post-Connor and nothing had changed. Nothing but her life. What would she do with herself now that Connor and Danny were gone? There was her teaching, but that was over every afternoon. Her life, her real life, began and ended with her family. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away.

Dropping her bag on the floor of the entry, she walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at the table to sort through her mail. The peal of the doorbell startled her. Kellie looked at her watch. How odd. Who could it be this late? She wasn't expecting anyone. Kellie made no move to leave her chair. Again the bell sounded. She waited, arms and legs tense and immobile. It rang a third time. Stubbornly she tightened her lips and closed her eyes. She would not answer the door.

The windowpane rattled. She opened her eyes. Framed by the moldings were a man's head and shoulders. Another stranger. The last one brought disaster. At least this one wasn't wearing a police uniform. He beckoned her to the window. Annoyed and more than a little embarrassed, Kellie rose from the table, walked to the door and opened it. “May I help you?” she asked icily.

He walked back to the door, pulled his wallet from his pocket and flipped it open. It was something official. A license of some sort.

“Perhaps you remember me,” he began. “I'm John Griffith. We spoke at the funeral.”

She looked at him blankly.

He stepped into the kitchen. “I worked with your brother at the station. He was investigating a special assignment. We were hoping to look through some of his files.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“There isn't anything on the computer at the office. We've checked it thoroughly. We're in a bit of a bind here or we wouldn't ask. We need to see his home computer.” He glanced around. “You wouldn't by chance be storing anything for him here?”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“We don't know really, names, references.”

She had the typical Irish suspicion of the British police. “There's nothing of his here. I'll be cleaning out the house tomorrow. You can come around there if you like. I'm not really comfortable having you take the computer. There are personal items on it. I hope you understand.”

“Of course.”

“If you could be more specific, I might be able to help you if I find anything.”

He hesitated. “I'll let you know.” He smiled. “When shall I meet you?”

“Ten o'clock.”

“I'll be there.”

Kellie locked the door behind him. The wine no longer appealed to her, nor did the unopened mail. She was edgy with an anxious, unsettled feeling that tied her stomach into uncomfortable knots.

Where was the fairness? Not that Kellie had been raised to believe life was fair or even supposed to be. She could still hear her mother's voice explaining that life wasn't meant to be enjoyed. Fun was superfluous. People were put on this earth to create more people, to serve God, to withstand hardship, to endure. Catholic women, Irish Catholic women, were raised on the principle of endurance. The more one endured, the shorter one's time in purgatory. The rewards of heaven came to those who endured.

Kellie had resolved that Catholicism was not for her. She hadn't the strength or the conviction for it. Let women like Mary Delaney bear the burden of the church on shoulders frail from too much childbearing, too few vitamins, too little of everything except perpetual poverty.

Kellie had known from the time of her first communion when she was seven years old that something wasn't quite right with the church's stand on women. Lizzie Delaney's early death was proof enough. If her sister-in-law had agreed to an abortion and gone through the prescribed radiation and chemotherapy she would be alive today. Danny wouldn't have survived but there might have been other children. Perhaps Connor would never have driven the Coast Road the day his car veered off the cliff. Perhaps he and Lizzie would have vacationed elsewhere. Perhaps they would be waiting for her at a cozy pub near the Thames and she wouldn't be sitting here wishing she had the stomach to get thoroughly, painlessly drunk.

Kellie grabbed her jacket. She needed answers. With the exception of the funeral, it had been a very long time since she'd been inside a church. Perhaps the Anglo-Saxons had a different interpretation of mortal sin than the Celts.

Saint Paul's was a relatively modern building without personality. An English priest manned the confessional.
English priest
. The two words together were outrageous, never to be heard in Belfast. The door clicked shut enclosing her in semidarkness. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Kellie whispered into the grate. “It has been three years since my last confession.”

“What brings you here, my child?”

She hesitated.

The priest waited.

She spoke again. “My family has been taken from me.”

“Go on.”

Kellie wet her lips. “First it was my sister-in-law. She carried her child to term when she had cancer. She was advised to do so. To kill her baby was a sin. She died instead.”

The silence was long and serious. Finally the priest spoke again. “She was a brave woman. The child must be a comfort to you.”

“He was, Father,” Kellie said bitterly, “until he, too, was killed nearly two weeks ago. He and my brother were traveling through Wales. Their car went off a cliff.”

“You've suffered a great deal. How can I help you?”

“By explaining to me why a young woman died to save her child only to have that child's life cut cruelly short.”

“Perhaps God had a need for them.”

Her voice cracked. “I needed them, too, Father.”

“You are troubled. I hear your pain.”

She swallowed the steel-wool feeling in her throat. “I don't know what I'm going to do without them.”

He was well trained in the art of interpretation. “You've been away from your church for three years. Now you want assurance that God didn't take them from you because you turned your back on your religion.”

“Yes.”

“God doesn't exact revenge, my child. Nothing you did caused their deaths.”

She rested her head against the wooden wall. Her hands shook. “Sometimes, I don't believe I can go on.”

“God gives us only what we can manage.”

“Does he ever make a mistake?”

“No.” His reply was immediate, unequivocal. She bowed her head for his blessing. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Come again and now go in peace.” He lifted his head. “I will pray that you find solace in your religion. God will lead you.”

Her meeting was over, the connection broken. She felt the same. Nothing had been accomplished. Why was she surprised? Her relationship with the Church had never been particularly beneficial. “Thank you, Father.” She stepped out of the confessional box into the cool English night. There were twelve hours to go until morning. Somehow she would get through. She would go home and take a Xanax. She hadn't taken one in a while. Surely tonight deserved one. Until last week she had never spent a night in Oxford without Connor. Every day since she'd left Ireland she'd slept with the knowledge that Connor was here with her in the same city. Now she was alone.

The phone rang the minute she stepped through her door. Gillian was worried. “Where have you been?” she asked.

“I went for a walk.” The subject of confession would generate too many questions.

Gillian sighed. “You sound odd. Is everything all right? Do you want me to come over?”