Chapter 39
Today was supposed to be Claire's day with her da. That was never going easy, she knew that. Then the scene in the library's garden with Amos, that wore her to a dull nub.
Even so, at this evening's meal, she would force her say with her father. This would be her day to get it done and make her announcement. She would say, "I am engaged to marry Major Amos Burke as soon as that is possible. With your blessing or not, I regret to convey."
Tonight would be that day. It would predictably devastate Claire and her parents. What had President Roosevelt called it? "A date which would live in infamy," the radio crackled. A day like that. She'd watch her pig-headed da summon his inconsolable wrath. Then he would of course cast her like some soiled rag into the deepest pit of Protestant hell.
Even so, she'd stick to the schedule. It wasn't his life to live. Her announcement was just a chore; when she finished, she'd move on. Because Amos awaited. Their future together, woman and husband, man and wife; it awaited. And from the perspective of grim, damp, insular Belfast, that future looked glorious! Take me to another world. I am willing. I am ready. I am worthy. A child, then a daughter, then an aging maid, Claire had made up her mind. You had to, as an adult? Do something. See what happens. Live with the consequences.
It would be easy, too; after tonight. Da would thunder of course; like a conductor's downbeat; like some train rumbling by.
She'd wait for it to pass. It might be awhile.
He'd condemn her for eternity, all eternity (like all was different from eternity) ... to some vague Protestant hell ... because she intended to marry a Yank; the man was bad enough as an outlander. And worse? The whole neighborhood would know he was Catholic ... an old widower from Boston and beyond the pale; so second-hand goods and so much less than you, Claire, deserved. Do you understand, my love? Burke was one of them. Not one of us. They'd left. They'd abandoned Mother Ireland when the food got thin: yet stayed by foul and hidden oath sworn to their puppet-master in Rome.
Oh, spare me your views, Father. Maybe Claire could enlist her ma as ally. Sure, if you could fight a war with feather dusters, Ma would definitely be the soldier for it.
She didn't smile. Claire knew dismissal was unfair. Her ma had made plenty of ways and means with Jack Stiles, the silly old prig. Martha Stiles had got on in life reasonably fine and dandy.
Maybe not this one time, Claire wondered. Da would protect Claire, his maiden daughter, as he saw it. He'd protect his blood line, because you kept it pure as you could; blood and lineage mattered.
Just saying: Claire was on her own, glad in fact to be just that. She knew verbatim what her da would say: I'll be damned if you'll cross me, daughter! He knew that if he rose to a certain volume, she would quit. That was the game: her heart's choice versus da's loud faith; so far. This time she rooted for herself. She rooted for him, too: there was plenty of love and understanding from her. She adored her da, stiff-necked and all. Respected him for his steadfastness and that special calm that comes from convictions. For all that and more, Claire honored and admired Jack and Martha.
But she was here, in her future. And they were not.