Blood of Cain

70

The trailer seemed hot. I said nothing. There was nothing I could say. I could feel the blood surging through my temples, the drone of the mourning dove coming in the open window.

She said, “I used to think the little birthmark was painted on you in my womb by the very hand of God. One leaf for the Father. One for the Son, and one for the Holy Spirit. The fourth, representing temptation, to remind you always how important the first three are in your life.”

“How could you be my mother?”

She lifted the framed picture of the woman and man standing by the sea and handed it to me. “That’s my husband, the year we were married in Ireland. He’s your father.”

“What?” I stared at the man in the picture. There was no denying that I bore a strong resemblance to him. “This isn’t possible.”

“Yes, it is. His name was Peter Flanagan. You were born Sean Flanagan. My married name was Kate Flanagan. What seems impossible is that I have found you after all of these years. I had to give you up when you were a baby. And I’ve regretted it every day of my life. Please, come, sit beside me.”

I moved to the couch and sat next to her. She lifted up another picture, the one of the two babies. She handed it to me and said, “This is you, Sean … the baby on the right. You were less than a year old. I’d left Ireland soon after your father died. The Catholic Church paid for my transportation. I came to South Boston because I had an aunt there. I had three little children at the time, you, your younger sister and your older brother. We lived from hand-to-mouth … poverty. It was only a matter of time before the county would take my babies from me and place them in foster homes. I couldn’t afford to raise you by myself.” She paused, her eyes welling with tears, voice cracking.

“It’s okay. Take your time. I need to hear this.”

She nodded. “You were the child I chose to be raised outside of there and here, Murphy Village. I felt in my heart you had such promise, and that’s why I gave you up for adoption when you were a baby. I came to South Carolina with my aunt and her husband. Her husband was born an Irish traveler. Later on, he taught your brother, Dillon, the ways of the travelers. Taught him no good, evil ways. I eventually remarried to a man named James O’Sullivan. He was part of the clan here — it’s something you marry into if you’re not from here. One summer my husband, James, left with rest of them, but he never came home. That’s been more than twenty years. He was shot by police in a robbery.”

“What happened to Dillon?”

“He left home, the first time when he was seventeen. Then he’d come back, looking for money. He’d work a summer on the road with the other men, and he’d drift away again. He worked carnivals and county fairs, always conning people. He got into drugs, pills and alcohol. One summer he came back. The drugs brought out the core of evil in him. On a Sunday night, during an awful thunderstorm, he strangled your sister and stabbed her husband with an ice pick. Police say Sarah had been raped. Poor little Courtney had seen it all, but she’d been too traumatized to tell anyone, even me, until a few years later. Dillon was long gone.”

“Why did the Catholic Church pay your way over here?”

“Because I was raped by one of their priests.” She lifted the photograph of the other baby boy. “This is your brother, Dillon. I became pregnant with him after the rape. I’d kept if from your father until after your sister was born. All three of you were a year apart between your births.”

“How did the man in the picture die?”

She was silent for a few seconds, staring at the smiling and strong image of her husband. “He was shot in the back. He’d gone to confront the priest. I’d begged him not to go.”

“How’d he find out the baby wasn’t his?”

“Dillon was so different in appearance and personality — very moody and prone to viciousness. And he had a striking resemblance to the priest. I finally told your father. I had to. I loved him too much to continue hiding it from him. Your father was a quiet man until someone threatened his family.”

“Did this priest kill him?”

“Police couldn’t prove it. Father Garvey was an important figure in the County Kerry. He was very charismatic, had lots of friends, and the church was very powerful at the time. When I told the bishop what had happened to me, he tried to make it seem like I was at fault and it may have happened at a weak time in Father Garvey’s life. All they did was transfer him to another parish.” She coughed into a napkin, a wet, rasping hack coming from her lungs.

“Are you sick?”

She managed a slight smile. “I’m okay. Right now, I’m better than I’ve been in years. I’ve found my son. You’re so handsome. Please, tell me about your life. Are you married? Do I have other grandchildren?” She smiled and brushed a strand of white hair behind her ear.

“I was married. Almost thirteen years. Sherri, my wife, died three years ago from ovarian cancer. When she became ill, we didn’t talk about having children anymore. And that hurt her maybe more than the cancer. She really wanted kids. I have a dog.”

“I am so very sorry to hear about your wife’s death.” She paused and asked, “What kind of dog do you have?”

“A little dachshund. Her name’s Maxine. Max for short.”

“I bet she’s precious. Courtney said you stay on an old boat sometimes. Is that your home?”

“I have a cabin on the St. Johns River in Florida. I used to be a police detective. I did that after I left the military. Now I teach some criminology courses at a local college and do an occasional charter fishing job.”

“Are you happy, Sean?”

“I’m content.”

She nodded and lowered her eyes. I could tell she was in pain. She touched my hand. “I want you to know you were never not loved, Sean. It was because of my love, a mother’s love so deep, so unconditional, that I did what I thought was best for you. I knew you’d receive a good education, have a good upbringing, and be loved in Celeste and Michael’s home. And you were. I’m so grateful and blessed that they lived long enough to see what a fine young man you turned out to be under their loving guidance.”

“They were good parents … but I wish they’d told me about you. All the missing birthdays, Mother’s Days, the times we never had together.”

“I believe in my heart-of-hearts it was better for you to have one set of parents. And this Irish traveler’s life is no place to raise a child. Look what happened to your sister, to your niece Courtney … and to your brother.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I’d heard he left the carnival work and formed some kind of cult following, acting like he was a prophet. There are some people here in the village who know where he is. They follow him. They talk with him. But they don’t give details. Even before you knocked on my door, I know one of them let Dillon know I had a visitor. Through the years, I discovered he stays in touch with only one person.”

“Who?”

“His father, the man who raped me … Father Thomas Garvey.”