Rites of Passage
Thomas J. Rice
Six hours on a cramped red-eye from Boston had Donovan in a foul mood—jumpy and irritable. He’d resisted this journey for 18 years; never thought he’d find himself back in Ireland with this mission. Still, he reasoned, if things worked out, this would be the first and last time he’d have to make the dreadful trek. For a man who hated to travel, once was plenty. All the more reason to make this one count.
He’d been jerked from a semi slumber by the screech of the landing gear on the Aer Lingus jumbo jet, slicing through the dense fog over Shannon airport. His wristwatch—which he’d set five hours ahead—showed “5:45 a.m., February 3, 2005,” as he vaguely tuned in to the faux-British accent of the young stewardess prepping the passengers for landing.
Strapped pertly in her seat outside the cockpit, her short, green skirt showing off a pair of long, sexy legs, the stewardess rotely issued a litany of commands: “Please secure your tray tables and be sure your seats are in the upright position for landing. Check the seat pockets for personal….” Donovan tuned her out, reflecting on the pitiful irony of native social climbers still trying—and failing—to mimic the upper-class accent of their former British colonizer, fifty years after independence.
From his window seat near the front, Donovan smiled grimly at the familiar mosaic of green fields, brown fences, and silver streams decorating the luscious landscape of the Limerick dawn. As they came in for landing and taxied down the runway, he retraced—for the umpteenth time—the chain of events that led him to this ‘homecoming’ moment.
It was the image of Archbishop Flaherty on national television, prostrating himself on the altar at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, that gave him the first cosmic nudge. He never thought he’d live to see a member of the Catholic hierarchy come forward like this—admitting the truth: “Today I stand before you as a sinner to take responsibility for the abusers in our midst, to offer an apology to all who’ve suffered as a result, and to commit to making amends.”
Tears welled up in the anguished gray eyes as the Archbishop raised his open palms toward the crucifix, struggling to gain control, before going on: “The abuses happened on my watch, in our chapels, in our diocese. I make no excuse, for I have none; I should have known. It was my responsibility to know, to protect the innocent. In that I failed. I failed myself, and I failed all of you. I am guilty of willful ignorance, at best. No less a sin, no less abhorrent in the eyes of God. So today, I beg your forgiveness and ask Almighty God’s forgiveness, as I pledge to do better, to be a more worthy servant, not just for today, or for a year, but for the rest of what time God grants me on this earth.”
With that, the old man fell on his knees, bowed his head, and prostrated himself fully on the altar, arms extended toward the granite crucifix above his head.
When Donovan saw the news coverage of what was dubbed “The Spectacle at St. Patrick’s” by the media, it was as though he was being offered a new lease on life, one without t shame, panic attacks, and loneliness—the hallmarks of his existence since that awful May morning so long ago.
He still remembered—as if it were yesterday—the stained-glass ovals and the crucifix lurching up and down through the fog of pain and terror.
Now here was the Archbishop of Dublin, one of the most powerful men in the Catholic hierarchy, offering a genuine, contrite apology. This, after everyone, from the Boston Archdiocese to the College of Cardinals in Rome, had closed ranks in ferocious defense of their pedophile brethren.
Donovan’s next-door neighbor, Jimmy Brennan, put it best: “Jesus, Billy, those sonsabitches weren’t only guilty of harboring known child molesters in their ranks, they were feeding ‘em fresh meat, rotatin’ ‘em around to new, plum posts, keepin’ ‘em one step ahead of the posse.” Jimmy was just giving salty voice to what was now common knowledge in every Catholic community from Ballydehob to Buenos Aires. Donovan had not responded. He didn’t trust what he might have said, or how it might have landed.
That was before the rage took hold, propelling him across the Atlantic like a guided missile, only to find himself once again moving at a snail’s pace through the customs queue.
A suspicious official pulled him out of line for a pat-down. Donovan groaned at the thought of another delay and the tedium of answering yet another set of questions designed for terrorists. He was tempted to blurt out, “What the hell is this! Do you think I’m the freakin’ IRA?” Instead, he stood mutely, watching the old man—his hands arthritic and shaking—rifling through Donovan’s faded shirts, slacks, underwear, and shaving kit.
After closely inspecting every nook and cranny of the luggage, the official finally turned to Donovan’s passport. He stared at the photo taken almost ten years earlier and, with a slight stammer, asked, “How long have you been away?” Donovan, in no mood for civility, snapped, “Well, as you can see, it’s been 18 years.” “Right, I see that Mr. Donovan,” the official replied evenly, “And what brings you home at this time of year, business or pleasure?”
“Oh, pleasure for sure,” Donovan said flatly. “Pleasure it is. Isn’t that what Ireland’s famous for? Can’t wait to get out of here to get started on the pleasure.” The sarcasm was not wasted on the customs agent, who nodded and decided to let it go. “Well, Mr. Donovan, I hope you have a grand time of it, and welcome home. Don’t leave it so long next time.” With that he smiled warmly, exposing a mouthful of blackened, rotting teeth, and Donovan suddenly felt ashamed of his own rudeness.
Following the green “AMAC” (EXIT) sign, Donovan was struck by how few things had changed in a quarter of a century. The white, three–leafed shamrock on the tails of the Aer Lingus fleet lined up on the runway; the leggy flight attendants, in their tight-fitting Kelly-green uniforms, rolling their travel bags, as if on a catwalk, flirting with the co-pilots as they headed for a bit of R & R; and the pungent smell of sausages and blood pudding in the airport cafe as he paused to consider indulging in a full Irish breakfast. All just as he’d left it back in 1987.
Even the brown bread and fried tomatoes—which Donovan had always found disgusting—were the same pulpy mess as ever. As was the sloppy service, which he’d forgotten until he waited in line for 15 minutes, before finally catching the eye of the tattooed short-order cook.
“Are ye alright there?” came the distracted greeting. Blood sugar in his shoes, Donovan almost blurted, “Oh, I’m splendid; I love waiting in this stupid fucking food line at 6 o’clock on a wet, miserable, Irish morning. Why wouldn’t I be alright?” Instead he smiled politely and said, “Right, I’d like a full Irish breakfast and a cup of coffee, white. Please!”
Another thing that hadn’t changed—the coffee. Still Nestle’s instant; still undrinkable, even with milk and sugar. To think he once used to love this swill! He grabbed the tray of overcooked food and found a plastic table out in the hallway, near the exit, away from the chattering masses—all dug in on their cell phones and laptops.
On that score, the change was beyond recognition. He might have been on another planet. Revenge of the nerds, the chronic introverts who hate people, Donovan reflected.
He’d reserved a rental car with Curry’s and he headed over the flyway to pick it up. The overbearing clerk—a dead ringer for Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest—was all business, overdoing every detail to impress her wide-eyed trainee, a pale, acne-faced youth who looked not a day over fourteen.
Ratched was specially skilled in all the sleazy little sales traps designed to pad the bill. Aware that these were SOP for the industry, Donovan took great pride in frustrating her practiced efforts.
“Good morning, Sir, how are we today?” she began.
Tempted to challenge the use of “we” with his usual response—“What is this, the assisted living wing?”—Donovan restrained himself, again, determined to keep his mission in mind. “I’ve reserved a mid-range car for a week. William P. Donovan is the name.” He pushed the confirmation number and driver’s license forward without being asked. Ratched asked anyway, still focused on impressing the trainee with her awesome sales prowess.
“May I have your confirmation number and driver’s license, please. Right. Brilliant. All in order, I see. Now, Mr. Donovan, would you like an upgrade? Practically free of charge; how would you like a new Audi or BMW? Say but the word. These are all elite, executive cars that Americans of taste love to drive.” She glanced at Donovan to see if he’d taken the bait.
“How much extra?” He asked, casually.
“It’s practically nothing, I can look it up, but for you, we could do it for just 30 euro,” she smiled in assurance.
“A week?” Donovan asked, knowing he had her.
“Sorry, that’s per day. But as I say, these are elite cars for people like yourself who, ah, know…cars.” Her reply trailed off, knowing the ruse had failed.
“No thanks. If you have a Vauxhall Astra, I’ll take it.” Donovan smiled at his success and winked at the blushing trainee, but Ratched was not done. “Yes, of course, we can do that. Now, how about insurance? Irish drivers are a holy terror, you know, driving on the wrong side of the road and what have you. You wouldn’t believe the cases we see here; fender benders almost every day. For an extra 10 euro you can have full collision and …”
“No thanks,” Donovan interrupted, “I already have my own insurance.”
“Now, Mr. Donovan,” Ratched insisted, “I doubt that your American insurance covers a rental here in Ireland. Are you sure of that? I’d hate to see you paying the full value of the car over a few extra euro. It could come to thousands, even for a side-swipe.”
“I’m happy to live with the risk,” Donovan said, his voice almost a shout. “Now may I have the keys, please!”
“Absolutely, Mr. Donovan. Just one last thing. Do you want to prepay the petrol? One less thing to worry about.”
“How much will it cost me a gallon?” Donovan inquired, knowing the answer.
“Well, actually, it’s 9 euro a liter for whatever we have to add to fill the tank,” Ratched conceded, again.
“No thanks. I’ll bring it back full then. Are we done now?” Donovan asked this in a tone of exhaustion, which he was not faking. “Yes, Mr. Donovan, just initial all the places you’ve declined our service offerings and sign at the bottom. There you go! Have a nice holiday. Welcome to Ireland.” She smiled fleetingly, glanced at the trainee, and turned to the next customer.
Distracted by his battle with Nurse Ratched, Donovan made the wrong turn on the way out and had to backtrack by the rental counter to get to the remote parking lot. The trainee spotted him walking by, and blushed again, making his pale face a fiery red mass.
After a long search in the ghostly, fog-bound enclosure, he finally found space B-22 in Curry’s lot; a red Vauxhall Astra was waiting for him, parked between two sleek Mercedes. The Astra looked puny and forlorn by comparison, and Donovan felt a brief pang of regret as he squeezed his 6’1” frame into the right side driver’s seat.
After a brief scan of the gearing and miniature dashboard, Donovan nosed the Astra into the foggy darkness of the brand-new, 4-lane Limerick motorway. Within minutes of driving precariously in the breakdown lane, Donovan sharply revised his impression that nothing had changed in Ireland. Sleek new cars of all makes and models swished past, doing over 100 kilometers—another change, used to be miles—an hour.
He spotted a few road signs, but they were impossible to read in the fog. All he knew was that he was headed for Kilkenny—so he was relieved to finally see a large, green “N24,” pointing due east, toward Waterford. Close enough, he thought. All he needed to do was get in and out of Killgarson village, without drawing attention to himself.
At the sight of his home village, where it all began, Donovan was filled with dread. It suddenly dawned on him that he’d given no thought to any practical plan of action. He’d simply acted on impulse, driven by the archbishop’s confession and his own cathartic reaction. But now what? Now that he was actually here and about to confront his molester, face-to-face? After all this time, he might not even be alive. Or if he was, he would almost certainly no longer be a curate in the village.
The thought of a confrontation brought sweat to Donovan’s palms. His hands began to tremble violently on the steering wheel, so he slowed the Vauxhall in the breakdown lane, emergency flashers blinking. Then came the familiar nausea, the tightening in his gut, the blinding dizziness. He pulled over to the first lay-by till the tremors passed and he could regain his composure.
It was time to make a plan, one that went beyond his eternal urge for revenge. “After all,” he admonished himself, “You make a living as an anthropologist, teaching linguistics at St. Dominic’s in Boston. Surely you can do better than this. Maybe you can even put some of that therapy to work, the stuff that never worked before.” He recalled the well-rehearsed Steinberg’s four stages—the four Rs: remove, relax, reframe, recommit. Calmed by these reminders, Donovan stepped out of the car and took a generous lung-full of pristine country air.
(to be continued next Friday)