Craving Resurrection

  I just had to do more, I thought, my movements jerky. I just had to help out more, and then when I started my job the next week, I could help with the bills, too. I didn’t want to be a burden. Did Peg feel that way, too? Oh, God. I was so fucking embarrassed. It was humiliating.

  I glommed onto his words about my lack of contribution, completely disregarding the rest of our conversation. That was my fear—that I was taking advantage of someone that was spectacularly good to me, and eventually, they’d realize that I wasn’t worth the time or energy.

  I didn’t even realize that he’d manipulated me in order to turn the conversation in a different direction. I don’t think he’d anticipated my reaction though, because soon he was talking to me, trying to get my attention, but I couldn’t hear him over the words in my own head.

  I stuffed the dirty laundry into the hamper near our bedroom door as I strode out into the kitchen and began to clean up the plates and silverware on the table. I could get that cleaned up before Peg came out of her room, then she wouldn’t have to do it. I turned on the sink and began to fill it with water for washing, and opened up the small fridge to see what Peg had planned for dinner. Some sort of casserole sat along the bottom shelf, and I felt a pang of anxiety that it was already prepared, but pushed through it. I could put it in the oven for her. That would help.

  As I stuffed the dirty dishes into the sink and began to wash them, I heard Patrick come into the room behind me and I stiffened. I didn’t want to talk to him. I was embarrassed and angry and ashamed that he thought I was taking advantage of them. I just wanted to be alone, so I could finish those dishes and then maybe dust the front room. Peg had a ton of little figurines and things that she rarely had time to dust—I could do that.

  “Amy,” he called quietly, and I remembered a different time that he’d come to me while my hands were in the kitchen sink.

  “I need to finish these dishes,” I answered. “Peg’s already made a casserole, so I’ll just put that in for dinner. No use wasting money.”

  “It’s not a waste of money to take me wife out for dinner.”

  I laughed nervously. “Peg already went to the trouble. Plus, I have some things I need to do around here tonight.”

  “Yer almost done wit’ dose dishes. Come on, put on a pretty dress and I’ll take ye out.”

  His hand came out to squeeze my shoulder, and I pulled away roughly, my hands never pausing on the dishes. “I have other things to do, Patrick.”

  “More important den spendin’ time wit’ de husband ye haven’t seen in a mont’?” he asked incredulously.

  I wanted to go with him. I wanted that so badly. But his words had pushed some sort of trigger, and the thought of taking a night for fun made me feel crazy with anxiety. I needed to clean the house. I needed to contribute, to be better.

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “No, get dressed. We’re goin’ now.”

  “Tomorrow, Patrick.”

  “Now, Amy.”

  I shook my head, refusing to argue with him anymore, and then suddenly I was pulled away from the sink and flipped over his shoulder. He carried me into the bedroom while I pinched at his back, too conscious of Peg and Robbie in the next room to yell at him like I wanted to.

  “I told you I don’t want to go to dinner!” I said after he’d put me down in our room and closed the door behind him. “I told you I have things to do!”

  “Dey can’t wait until tomorrow?” he asked calmly, watching me closely.

  “As you so eloquently put it, I’m not contributing. I’m dead weight, right? So, no, I don’t want to go out to dinner and waste more money.”

  “Dat wasn’t what I meant!”

  “It’s what you said.”

  “Mot’er of God! Yer de t’ickest woman I’ve ever met!”

  “Then go back to your other life if I’m so stupid!”

  My words fell like an anvil between us and the room went silent. We were staring at each other, and I was wondering how the hell everything had gone so lopsided when Patrick’s hand began to clench at his side. Over and over again, it clenched and relaxed as I watched.

  “You’re clenching your fist,” I said quietly.

  “I’m not goin’ to hit ye.” He sounded disgusted at the thought.

  “No, I know that.” I shook my head. “You do it when you’re upset.”

  His hand instantly went limp at his side.

  “Yer not dead weight.” My head was nodding before he’d finished his sentence and he became frustrated at the placating movement. “No! I didn’t mean it dat way… but, fuck Amy!”

  He moved to the bed and fell heavily onto it, sitting with his elbows on his knees. He looked so exhausted that way, so weary. I wanted to hold him, but I wasn’t sure that he’d even let me, so instead I sat down next to him, and the few inches between us felt like a mile.

  “Ye’ve been so bloody oblivious,” he said quietly, turning his head to look at me out of the corner of his eye. “I shouldn’t have brought ye into dis.”

  He was beginning to scare me. “Tell me what’s going on, Patrick.”

  “I tried to stay away from it. I swear it,” he said lifting his hands, palm up in supplication. “I wanted to make a better life for us. A different life.”

  “I like our life,” I assured him almost pleadingly. Was he going to leave me? I didn’t think I could bear it if he did.

  He shook his head, looking down at the floor again before he started to speak.

  “Me da wasn’t always a part of t’ings,” he began. “When he and Mum got toget’er, he was workin’ odd jobs in Scotland. But a while after dey were married, me nan got sick and me da brought Mum down here to live wit’ her until she’d passed. Mum says dat de plan was for dem to stay just until Gran didn’t need dem anymore, but after a while, dey’d built a life here. Da was workin’ at a factory and Mum was home wit’ me, and dey’d made friends and dey were comfortable. Out of nowhere, Da began comin’ home talkin’ about how t’ings were goin’ to change. Makin’ radical statements dat she’d known had come from someone else.”

  I laid my hand on his back as he took a deep breath, and that was all it took before he was pulling me into his lap and scooting toward the wall so he could lean against it.

  “Me da fell in wit’ some men dat me mum didn’t approve of. Dangerous men who were willin’ to go to any length to get what dey wanted. De worst t’ing about dose men was de power dey held. Generations of men who believed de same t’ing, who used dere money and connections to fight a silent war against dere enemies.”

  He was silent for a while, lost in his own thoughts. “I still don’t understand,” I whispered, feeling like an idiot.

  “He’s IRA, Amy.”

  “What?” the word was a breath, with no sound behind it.

  “Me fadder has supported and worked toward a united Ireland for as long as I can remember.”

  “But—”

  “Look around ye. Every person ye’ve met, every person ye’ve passed on de street and have seen at de grocery store—dey all have clear ideas about de situation here. Ye may not know dem, and dey may not broadcast dem, but dat doesn’t mean dat dey aren’t givin’ every last bit of pocket change to support de cause dey’re behind.”

  “Okay, so it’s not a big deal then, right? I mean if everyone is supporting one side or the other, than why is it such a huge deal that your dad supports the IRA?”

  Patrick grabbed my chin in a harsh grip and pulled my face toward his until we were practically nose-to-nose. It didn’t hurt, but the meaning behind the motion was clear. He wanted me to pay attention.

  “Me fadder is not a ‘supporter.’ Me fadder is IRA. He makes t’ings happen. T’ings ye’ll never know about unless ye see dem in de newspaper.”

  The realization came in small increments as he stared into my eyes, until all at once I realized why Peg had lost it in the kitchen.

  “You’re IRA,” I whispered in horror. “You’re doing those thi
ngs.”

  “Until de day dey put me into de ground,” he confirmed with a slight nod.

  Chapter 27

  Amy

  I stared at Patrick for a long time, cataloguing the freckles and the scruff of his five o’clock shadow and the blue eyes that saw everything. All things that I’d fallen in love with, and all things that didn’t mean a single thing when it came down to real life.

  Real life was hard. It wasn’t only the actions that you followed through with, but also the ones you didn’t. Real life was finding a small glimmer of hope when the world seemed to be falling around you. Real life was bills and housing and food on the table. Real life was knowing that the person you love and crave beyond all others had gotten himself into a situation there was no way out of, and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

  “Lie wit’ me,” Patrick said quietly, pushing me off his lap.

  We were silent as we undressed each other slowly, leaving on nothing but our underwear before climbing into bed. His hands were gentle as they pulled me against him and dragged the blankets up to our shoulders.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked quietly after a few minutes.

  “Continue on as we have been,” he answered, rubbing his thumb over my anchor tattoo.

  “Are you going to finish school?”

  He didn’t reply right away, and I slid my cheek against his body until my chin rested on his sternum. His eyes were sad as they met mine.

  “I’ve already quit.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them no?” I asked in frustration. He’d been so proud to be almost finished with school. He’d worked so hard for it, and then suddenly, all that work had been for nothing.

  “Dese aren’t men ye say no to,” he replied calmly.

  “But they left you alone before—”

  “Dey must have been waitin’ for de right moment.”

  “Let’s just leave. We’ll go to the US.”

  “Wit’ what money? Dis is our life, Amy. Dis is our home.”

  “But what if—” His head jerked hard to the side, cutting off my words. That subject was closed.

  “Are you going to get in trouble?”

  “Only if I get caught.”

  “What have you done?” Panic was rising in my belly as different scenarios ran through my head. My Patrick wasn’t a criminal. He was smart and kind and funny. He had a passion for the written word that astounded me, but was adamant that he had no talent of his own. He had a temper, but I’d never seen him become violent. He took care of his mother. He had more confidence than any man I’d ever met, and was so sure of himself that it translated into an acceptance of others.

  “Do not ask me dat,” he replied, cupping my head to turn it toward his face. “Not ever.”

  “Patrick?” I whispered.

  “Not ever, Amy,” he insisted. “Don’t look for answers, ye’ll not like what ye find.”

  My eyes filled with tears, and I tried to blink them away. “I’m scared.”

  “Ye don’t ever have to be scared again,” he replied instantly. “I’ll not let anyt’in’ happen to ye.”

  “I’m scared for you.”

  He sighed, and looked away from me, his eyes landing on the ceiling above us. “I’ll be alright,” he stated quietly. His hands began to clench and unclench in my hair.

  “You’re clenching your fists again, Mr. Gallagher,” I said, leaning heavily into his body.

  “I’ve tried to stop doin’ it.” His hand softened on my hair. “I don’t even realize I am, half de time.”

  “Maybe you should try to do something else. Something less noticeable.” I crawled up his chest until we were nose to nose, my arms bent and resting on top of him. “Like this.” I tapped my fingers softly against his breastbone.

  “I don’t realize I’m makin’ a fist, how de hell am I goin’ to stop it?”

  “Any time you think you might be getting anxious, tap your fingers.” I tapped mine again in a short pattern. “Eventually, you’ll do it automatically, and the fist thing will be gone.”

  “Oh, yeah? How do ye know dat?”

  “Because I used to suck my thumb,” I told him with a small smile. “I did it for a long time, until finally my parents started punishing me for it. So I figured out that any time I was worried, if I tucked my thumb into my palm I wouldn’t put it in my mouth by accident.”

  “I’ve seen ye do dat.” He said with a grin.

  “Not very often anymore. But, it worked back then.”

  “I’ll try it out.”

  “It’ll work.”

  “We’ll see.” He cupped my cheeks in his palms and tugged me gently until my face was close to his. “I’ll figure dis out,” he told me seriously. “It won’t be dis way forever.”

  “Will you have to leave again soon?” I ran my fingers over his eyebrows and down the sides of his face, soothing both of us with the repetitive movement.

  “Not if I can help it. I have to take small trips back, but I t’ink I can spend most of me time here.”

  “That’s a relief, at least. What’s happening with your dad?”

  “I’ve no idea. If Mum forgives him, he might stay here. If she doesn’t, I guess he’ll go back to his flat.”

  “This was what she was so afraid of all these years, isn’t it? She didn’t want him pulling you in with him.”

  “Yes.” He settled me more comfortably over him, my legs on the outside of each of his and our torsos pressed together from hips to chest. “Dough, I t’ink it wasn’t for nuttin’. If she’d have let him stay, I wouldn’t be de man I am. Ye see? I wouldn’t have de clear sight dat comes from watchin’ somet’in’ from de outside. I’d be full of zeal, ready to take on anyt’in’ dey gave me wit’ a sort of blind obedience dat dey’ll never get from me now. She protected me de best way she knew how, and I’d like to t’ink dat it gave me somet’in’ of a chance to keep me head around dose men.”

  “Why is life so freaking hard all the time?”

  “It just is, me love. But it makes times like dis—wit’ yer sweet body on top of mine while we talk and de sun goin’ down outside shadin’ de room—it makes dose times all de sweeter for it.”

  “I thought you weren’t a poet?” I asked, tilting my face until our mouths were barely touching.

  “I’m not. I’ve probably stolen it from someone and I just cannot remember.” He pulled me deeper into the kiss as his hand slid down to cover one of my ass cheeks.

  “I’ll try not to be afraid,” I told him quietly, as the room became darker with the setting of the sun. “I love you.”

  “I’ll protect ye always,” he said back, rolling slightly, switching positions so I was beneath him. “Dis is just a bump, me love. We’ve plenty of smoot’ road ahead, I promise ye.”

  He leaned down to give me a soft kiss while I reveled in the weight of his body above mine, and before long the heat between us grew. My husband was home. No matter what life had in store for us in the future, no matter what he had to do to survive or what I had to live with—that was what mattered. The weight of him above me, the feel of his arms surrounding me, the wetness of his kiss as his tongue slid against mine, and the feeling of absolute joy I felt whenever he was near... those were the things I would focus on.

  We were quiet as we pulled off our remaining clothes and Patrick took one of my nipples into his mouth. He made love to me slowly, with soft touches and smooth movements that made my eyes grow heavy and my skin break out in goose bumps.

  Peg never made dinner that night. I’m not even sure if she and Robbie ever left her room. I think we all just wanted that night to hold our lovers close in the calm of the storm.

  I had no idea then the lengths the men Patrick worked with would go if they felt the need. I was naïve. My biggest fear was that Patrick would somehow be taken from me, that he’d be picked up by the police or killed fighting a war that I didn’t understand.

  I didn’t realize that the big bad wolf was closer th
an I could imagine.

  Not even when Patrick turned from me as I fell asleep, pulling me in against his back as he lay facing the doorway to our room, a pistol in easy reach next to him on the floor.

  Chapter 28

  Patrick

  I’d always thought my da was an idiot, but I couldn’t help but respect the man. He knew everything about everyone, and he never forgot a face. We were on a job that was taking days instead of minutes, and I swear the man had the patience of a saint. I guess that had worked well for him in the years before I’d taken over his job.

  They called him The Executioner. At first, it had been hard to reconcile the fact that the man who loved my mother so fiercely and had taught me to tie my shoes was a cold-blooded killer—but it hadn’t taken long before I understood it to some degree.

  He’d learned how to separate the two different lives in a way that was still a struggle for me after two months. It was as if he shut off one part of his brain when he was at home, and the other part while he was working—though I knew he’d struggled with that when I’d been brought in. In his mind, the two lives were completely different. He was two different men.

  I wasn’t able to compartmentalize my life that way.

  Sometimes, it took all I had to wrap my arms around Amy when she raced to meet me the moment I got home. She couldn’t see the blood on my hands, but I could. I felt like a monster… and those were on the good days.

  I woke her in the middle of the night just to lose myself in her body. I sat at the pub where she worked just to watch her move around the room. I couldn’t stand to be at home without her. I shook like a man with palsy when she left for school in the mornings, and found myself sitting on a bench across the street more often than not, waiting for her to finish for the day.

  It was finally the day of her commencement ceremony, and I knew without a doubt that I was going to miss it. The man we’d been watching was moving around his house as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and there wasn’t anything I could do to speed things up and give him a dose of reality. His wife and three kids showed occasionally in the first floor windows, and we couldn’t move until they were gone. It was bloody frustrating in the extreme.