Pacing behind a hawthorn hedge, he imagined a conversation with Janet Woolf, one of his brightest graduate students—3000 miles away in Boston—if she were to come to him with this kind of dilemma. “Tell me, Janet, what are your rational categories of action here? What place does linguistic theory have? What would Romsky—his favorite American linguist—suggest? How about the pragmatists, like Lucas Makoff and Katherine Duhring? Good. I see you’ve covered the range.”
Enough theory. Who was he kidding? This was not a problem anthropology could solve for him; not today, not ever. It was time to reframe this whole mission, and not just to fit into some abstract, academic framework.
Donovan reminded himself of his dexterity and fame as a reframer of just about any practical situation. Language and its connotation—semiotics— was his specialty in anthropology. Challenge vs. weakness; opportunity vs. barrier; justice vs. charity; civil right vs. welfare entitlement. His popular weekly column, “The Art of Reframing,” in the liberal Boston Commons, was well known as fodder for right-wing talk-radio jocks. They joked incessantly about the poor and handicapped being faced with “insurmountable opportunities,” and the “character-challenged” nature of moochers and homeless people.
So how to reframe this one? He’d pondered this question ad nauseum over the years, but always dismissed it as absurd. He’d just be lying to himself. Why engage in a conscious act of self-deception? There was no reframing of rape. Rape was rape: always brutal, vicious, and dehumanizing. There was no sugar-coating, no euphemism, that was ever going to change the hideous reality. That was the only thing Donovan was absolutely sure about over all these years.
Now, standing by the roadside as the sun burned through the morning fog, he wasn’t so sure of that anymore. The facts would forever remain unchanged, of course, but this homecoming mission was not chipped in stone. “How about this for a reframe?” Donovan asked the question out loud to the open field, just to hear how it sounded, “I’m not here to avenge a rape, but to reclaim my life, the one that was stolen from that fresh-faced, 11-year-old altar boy in Killgarson vestry 25 years ago!”
Hearing the words felt good, as if they came from someone else—someone less involved. And wiser. This framing felt more doable, less violent, more in harmony with Donovan’s cross-cultural training, discipline, and self-image.
Heading back to the Vauxhall, with the Galtee Mountains looming on the horizon, he still had no idea of how he might take practical action on this new idea of reclamation. As a professor, he was not accustomed to being concerned with practical applications.
The memory of that distant morning in the vestry now rolled in, crashing through his practiced defenses, like a hurricane breaching a sturdy levy. Donovan fought off the urge to submit once more to panic. Instead, he smiled, took another deep breath and got back in the Vauxhall, remembering his mantras: “Stay focused. Affirm. Visualize success. I can do this; I deserve better than this; I will do this. Yes, I can and I will do this!” With that little pep talk, Donovan calmly, almost cheerfully, eased the car back on to the eastbound N24.
He tuned in Radio Television Eireann—RTE—on the car radio to catch the local news. Instead, a DJ was playing a medley of Irish ballads. Jimmy McCracken and Nora White were singing a haunting duet of “Boolavogue.” It was Donovan’s favorite ballad of all time, sung by his favorite singers, and he marveled at his good fortune at finding it. He turned up the volume and sang the chorus at the top of his lungs:
At Boolavogue, as the sun was setting,
O’er the bright May meadows of Shelmalier
a rebel hand set the heather blazing
and brought the neighbors
from far and near.
Then Father Murphy from old Kilcormack
Spurred up the rocks with a warning cry: 'Arm! Arm!' he cried,
For I've come to lead you;
For Ireland's freedom we'll fight or die!'
Brilliant! Sheer genius, Donovan reflected, as he wiped away tears of joy and appreciation. The song was about a village just over the mountain from his home, a reminder of his tragic, colonial history and the price his ancestors paid for their nation’s freedom.
A few ballads later, the tears still flowing freely down his face, Donovan realized, with some surprise, how much he’d missed this music and the anguish it evoked, something he never felt for even his favorite American songs. He spotted the sign for Kilkenny, and his thoughts turned back to the ordeal awaiting him across the island in that sleepy little village.
Waiting to buy petrol in Clonmel, the last town before the Kilkenny border, Donovan retraced how it all began—with a dispute over a cheap penknife. Billy D., as he was known in school—had paid Mylie Doran, one of his pals in the third grade, a shilling for the knife—which Mylie had “knicked” from a contractor’s toolbox. Though Billy hadn’t taken the knife, he suspected that Mylie had, and bought it anyway, convincing himself at the time it was okay. After all, he didn’t steal it, or participate in the theft. In fact, he’d paid Mylie a full week’s allowance for it.
A few weeks later, his mother noticed the knife, which had disappeared from the toolbox of Mick Cash, a contractor who planted the wheat for local farmers. Cash had asked her earlier if she’d seen the pen knife—“a single blade with a red handle”—and she’d vividly recalled the conversation. “No, Mick, I can’t say I’ve seen it. I’ll keep an eye out for it, though. Maybe Billy was playing with it. You know how boys are...”
Mylie, she recalled vaguely, had been around the yard that day, too. He’d actually filched the knife, then sold it to Billy, hinting it was “hot,” but not how it came to be so. The secret was supposed to be theirs, and it remained so until Molly Donovan saw her son carving a hazel whistle with the red-handled blade.
“Where did you get that knife, Billy?” she asked abruptly, clearly angry. “I found it in the yard,” Billy replied, blushing and looking at his shoes. “Don’t you lie to me,” his mother screamed. “What did I teach you about lying? And stealing? Is this the kind of boy I’m raising? I’m going to give you one more chance to confess before I turn you over to the garda.”
At that, Billy started sobbing and decided to come clean. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, Mammie. Honest. I’d never steal, you know that. But I promised Mylie I wouldn’t tell on ‘im. He’ll kill me if ya let on ya know. An’ I don’t even know for sure where he got it.” Molly Donovan, relieved to find that she wasn’t raising a thief, just a right eejit, relented. “That’s fine, Billy,” she said softly, “I have no need to tell the Dorans about this. What Mylie does is their business; what you do is ours. But you have to promise me you’ll confess this sin to the priest next time you go to confession. You’re just as guilty as the thief in the eyes of God. He doesn’t like “fences”—that’s what they call lads who buy stolen goods—any more than thieves.”
“Yes Mammie,” Billy had assured her, “I promise I won’t be a fence anymore; I’ll confess it next time I go to confession.”
The following Friday evening he had his chance. Father McKenzie—the new curate in Killgarson—had pulled back the screen in the confessional, and Billy began as usual. “Bless me Father for I hav’ sinned, in de name a de Father an’ of de Son an’ of de Holy Spirit.”
Billy was immediately startled to see the priest peering at him through the tiny screen. The confessor was supposed to be anonymous, although this was pure fiction. His anxiety was exacerbated by the high-pitched register of the curate’s voice:
“Now, tell me son, how long since your last confession?”
“A month, Father.”
“And what do you have to confess?”
“Well Father, I lied ta me Mammie about stealing a penknife. Actually, I didn’t steal it, but I was a fence for it—dat’s what Mammie says dey’re called—an’ she says I hav’ ta confess it.”
“A fence, is it? No, my son, your mother is wrong. You are not a fence; you’re a thief, which God forgives only if you are prepared to take full responsibility for your sin—a mortal sin—and promise to never do it again.”
“But I didn’t steal it. I never would, Father. I paid for it wid me own allowance. But now I know it was wrong an’ I’m doing what I promised Mammie—confess ta being a fence, is what I promised her ta do.”
“God will decide what it’s called. He calls it theft. Do you understand? Barefaced theft!”
“Yes, but Father…”
McKenzie, fighting to control his temper, began to stammer.
“No more ifs, ands, or buts. If you continue this attitude of defiance, I will have no choice but to deny you absolution. Is that what you want?”
“No Father, I was just…,” Billy never finished his sentence.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Father McKenzie’s shouted, in his high-pitched voice. It resounded the length of the chapel, turning all heads. “Yes, Father. Sorry Father.” Billy whispered, embarrassed and shaken by the curate’s outburst.
“Is there anything else you wish to confess today?”
“No, Father. Dat’s all dere is.”
“Good. Now, for your penance says 10 Our Fathers and 10 Hail Marys. Go in peace.” McKenzie crossed himself, glared at Billy for a split second, and slammed the screen shut before turning to the next confessor.
Billy stumbled out to a gaping audience, crimson-faced, aware that the whole village would be buzzing with speculation on what he’d done to incur McKenzie’s wrath, though the word was already out that the new priest had a short fuse. Billy crept into the closest pew and tried to focus on his penance, but all he could think of was that angry shout and the violence in McKenzie’s voice.
Why couldn’t he be allowed to explain? His mother had listened to him. Why couldn’t Father McKenzie show the same courtesy? And why was he so sure God wouldn’t know what a fence was? If his mother knew about these things, surely God knew, too.
McKenzie had been transferred to Killgarson after some trouble in his former parish; Billy had overheard the adults whispering about it one night when they thought he was asleep. Since his arrival—just a month before the knife incident—there was something about Father McKenzie that Billy had never liked. This had been true for all the altar boys. Paddy Nolan, the oldest at 14, spoke for all of them: “I hate it when McKenzie comes out here. He’s a right prick, if ya ask me. I t’ink he has it in for every wan o’ us. He hates country lads; fucken Dub!”
That was the shorthand for urban priests—generic “Dubliners.” In fact, all the altar boys were scared stiff of angering McKenzie—which was often over the slightest slip-up serving mass.
This was in sharp contrast to the other two priests—Father Carey and Father Costigan, the parish priest—both older men and long-standing pillars of the community. They were always kind and courteous with the boys, praising them for the smallest accomplishments, fully aware that most came from fatherless homes, poverty, or both.
But for Billy, fear of ridicule didn’t quite capture the feeling. There was something else—something sinister he’d sensed behind the thin lips, the stern, disapproving stare, the way McKenzie spoke in commands, the way he’d massage their shoulders with his soft, clammy hands as they lined up in the hallway before going out on the altar. Donovan didn’t have a name for it; he just knew it felt creepy.
Like the other boys, he’d dreaded serving Mass when it was Father McKenzie’s Sunday, which was only every third week, so it was bearable. Besides, he had no choice. On the bright side, he’d told himself, it had been a major honor to be selected for the altar boys as a 9-year-old, the older boys had accepted him as an equal, and he’d made some pocket money on tips from the families at the weddings and funerals. All told, except for McKenzie, being an altar boy was great craic (fun), and he was resolved not to let one bad-tempered priest ruin it.
It was three weeks after his confession when McKenzie’s turn came around again. It was May Day, 1977, a day of celebration and high mass in the parish. Billy was not serving mass that Sunday and was looking forward to slipping out after the lengthy benediction to join his pals for a football game. He’d worn a new suit sent to him for his 11th birthday—April 25th—by his older sister from London; he felt very posh when his mother put a white handkerchief in the left-side pocket. A regular, fresh-faced toff!
That Sunday morning was a special, May Day Mass, which meant benediction, which was always more uplifting than the regular ritual. Walking into the ancient, stone chapel, with its scenes from the crucifixion, statues of the blessed virgin, massive granite urns, and stained glass windows in the vestry, Billy felt a sense of pride and belonging. This was his chapel, where he’d been baptized and where he was now serving Mass. Later, he would sing in the choir and perhaps be a priest here himself someday—if his mother had her wish.
In the hallway before Mass, Father McKenzie performed the usual, creepy shoulder massages, whispering to Billy as he passed: “Wait in the vestry for me after Mass! We need a word.” Billy froze with fear. What now? What else had he done wrong? All through the Mass, it was all he could think of, missing the litanies and many of the responses—lapses noted with glares from Father McKenzie.
At last, the benediction came around—which seemed in itself a week long—ending in a haze of incense and off-key hymns. The tasks of the altar boys were quickly done, everyone sprinting for the exit, as if fleeing a prison. No one even noticed Billy sitting alone, pale faced, awaiting the verdict of Father Desmond McKenzie.
(to be continued next Friday)