He Said, He Said.

HE SAID, HE SAID.

Gerald Mackrell

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

He said, he said.

Copyright © 2008 by Gerald Mackrell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-0-595-49361-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-49222-0 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-61070-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse Rev. date 3/27/08

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

For Margaret

A young American writer returns to his ancestral home in the south of Ireland, in an attempt to put behind him a personal tragic event with which he was having difficulty coping.

He is invited to join a debating group at the local pub. His introduction to three colourful and able debaters provide the distraction needed to put the past in its place.

He soon becomes the object of scorn, when his propensity for attendance at morning mass with the old ladies of the town reached the ears of his buddies in the Neilly pub-debating group.

He is forced to defend his religious beliefs by a probing and often-aggressive group. He nevertheless challenges them to rethink their own Christian beliefs with his radical explanation and interpretation of biblical text.

CHAPTER 1

He was feeling lonely tired and far from home as he stood at the door of the O’Neil residence. The rain hadn’t stopped since his arrival in Ireland. Being completely waterlogged from the incessant rain, the water cascading from the roof bothered him not.

Tom Marshal was Sean’s literary agent in the United States; both he and his wife Betty became close personal friends of Sean and his wife Joan. They met shortly after Joan and he were married. Tom was a hard taskmaster, pushing Sean constantly to improve his writing skills, continually telling him that the reading public deserved the same quality in their reading material that they demanded in any other product they chose to purchase. Give them value for money was his rallying cry. His promptings sometimes irritated, but the intent was clear.

Four years into this relationship the unthinkable happened. Joan was killed in a road accident. The front tire on her minivan burst, and she lost control of the van. Joan and the three elderly ladies she was taking to their senior’s art class all died in the accident.

Devastated by the loss of Joan, Sean became listless. The energy he had put into his writing was not there anymore. Tom and Betty stuck by him during this low period of his life. They knew there was a time to grieve; they also knew that there were many stages of the grieving process that he had to go through on his own. They were suffering greatly too.

Where was God in all of this? He lay at night thinking about the devotion Joan had to her Christian roots. Why? Why had God allowed this to happen? She was a giving, loving, caring human being. Where is the sense in all of this? Why was she taken when others whom the world could well do without were allowed to live? Why?

Spring had always been Sean’s favourite time of year. With winter behind, and new life springing up all around, the anticipation of summer weekends at the cottage, family get-togethers. All this had lost its appeal. It was twelve months now since the accident that took Joan’s life. He wondered how long before or if ever life for him would return to some kind of normality. At Tom’s insistence he sold the house in south Dayton and rented an apartment in town. Tom felt that there was a need for Sean to now get out and meet other people; he thought that being in an apartment in the city would bring the social contact that Sean needed. After a period of three months in the apartment, it became apparent that Sean’s social and writing skills were both in trouble. Tom and Betty were coming at him from all sides with suggestions like, ‘get a big cuddly dog or join the local debating society,’ and every other group activity they thought might interest him. He knew they had his best interest at heart and began to feel that he was somehow letting them down.

He decided it was time that he took matters into his own hands, a complete change was needed to shake him out of this state of melancholy, but, what to do? A few days went by without any appealing ideas coming to mind, when the phone rang.

Sean, it’s Tom. Betty and I have been up all night trying to think of something that would bring you back to the land of the living. And I think we have the answer. A radical change is what is needed in your life.

You must have been reading my thoughts Tom, said Sean, but please don’t concern yourself with my problems, they’ll work themselves out in time. I love you guys dearly and I value your friendship too much to complicate your lives trying to deal with my present circumstance. However, I trust your judgement completely and I am very interested in what you and Betty have in mind."

Okay, try this on. We have been racking our brains trying to think of those things which you liked to talk about, things that made you laugh, things in your background that had real meaning and value for you, and we came up with---your grandparents.

Tom. Both my grandparents have been dead for a good number of years now. Just how were you planning for them to provide the help that I need at this time? He laughed, and said. I refuse to attend any sessions with a clairvoyant, soothsayer, or do any crystal ball gazing

They both laughed heartily at the thought.

You know, said Tom, I think we’ve struck the right cord here Sean. This is the first time I’ve heard you laugh in the longest time. Your grandparents might just be the key. For years now you have been telling us about their lives in Ireland, about Cobh where all the large liners docked on their way to the Americas. Endless stories about they’re life in the village of Lower Aghada, and finally their departure for America itself. Go back to your roots Sean, you might just find the peace your looking for.

This suggestion that he go and live in the land of his grandparents for a time would certainly be a move that could be described as radical. He thanked Tom and assured him that he would give it some thought.

He continued working from the flat, researching and producing material in ever increasing volume, which pleased Tom no end. Although things were improving he could not get the idea of going back to Ireland out of his mind.

For the first time since the accident he sat down with a picture of Joan in front of him, What would you advise Jo? He felt more than a little stupid sitting talking to a photograph of his dead wife, but looking at her picture somehow gave him the peace and comfort that had somehow managed to elude him since the accident. He then asked himself. What would Jo do when something was weighing heavily on her mind? Where did she go when she was looking for answers to difficult questions? Then he remembered her words, ‘all my problems are resolved at morning Mass.’ He had not seen the inside of a church since Joan’s death. Before that tragic event, they were both very active, she in the St. Vincent De Paul society and he as a reader. He began asking himself, was religion just something to cling to, a lifeline in the storms of life? Were we merely filling a gap? Is it a case of being born into a belief system in the hope that just maybe, just maybe there is something more at the end of life’s road? Why did Joan have to die? She was obedient, faithful, loving and giving. Much more Godlike than the one she gave her life to. Where were you anyway God? Is there a God? Are you real or just a figment of imagination? Sean had no answers, maybe there were none. All he new was that he was hurting and that Joan’s advice held little appeal.

The Church of The Sacred Heart was only a short walk from his apartment. It was with some reluctance that he decided to make a lunch time visit. It was an old church with dark wooden arches and narrow stained glass windows, through which very little light penetrated. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside, even though it was almost midday. He made his way down the centre aisle, taking a seat about halfway down the church. He sat there for some time, his mind a total blank. The candles flickering on the alter became the focus of his attention for a while. Slowly he was able to discern above the alter a cross with the dead Jesus hanging there.

He sat for a while contemplating the scene before him. He almost shouted out in anger. ‘Jesus. Why this, where is the rational in all of this?’ The radiance from the face of Joan had brought him into this church today, but for him the magic was gone.

As he was leaving the church he was startled by a voice from his right. "Your new here!

I’m Father John, the parish priest at The Sacred Heart."

The figure of an elderly priest came into view. Sean took his outstretched hand; he had a good strong grip for a man of his age. They talked for a while; he asked Sean why he felt the need to come to church at this time of day? He told him about Joan and about her firm belief that any and all problems were removed or at least reduced to bite size chunks at Mass.

Why don’t you take her advice and come to the eight o’clock Mass in the morning. I can promise you nothing but a life changing experience. (This with more than a hint of a smile on his face.) By the way, what’s your name?

Sean, Sean McManus Father.

A good Irish name Sean.

My grandparents were from Ireland Father.

Really, where exactly did they come from?

A place called Cobh in the county of Cork Father. Well actually the village they came from was called Aghada, there’s a river separating it from Cobh I believe.

Many years ago Sean, I attended a spiritual retreat at Mount Mellary Abbey in Waterford. I’ll never forget the day I arrived in Ireland and my journey to the abbey. We had to drive through a small village in Waterford called Cappoquin. Between the village and Mount Mellary Abbey we suddenly came across a shrine to Our Lady. There were a number of lay people and several priests kneeling in prayer, I was touched by their devotion.We joined them in prayer in that little hollow. I knew as we left that beautiful little shrine and drove on to the abbey, that my retreat could be nothing short of wonderful, and it was. So you see Sean, the area has a special significance for me too.

As Father John was leaving he stopped, and without turning said. A return to your roots may be just what the doctor ordered for your pain Sean, God bless you.

Sean had the feeling that Fr. John sensed his belief system was in jeopardy; he offered no suggestions or quick solutions for the obvious hurt. He listened, made small talk while quietly illuminating his own firm beliefs.

He took the advise of Father John and went to the eight o’clock Mass in the morning. Father became his spiritual advisor, twice a week for the next couple of months they would study scripture and its relationship to today’s living. His words of wisdom not only brought Sean through a difficult time but they left an indelible impression on his heart. His faith may be challenged in the future, that’s the nature of things in this life, but he felt ready for that challenge. During Mass the idea of returning to the land of his forefathers was never far from his mind. It seemed that the suggestion of Tom, Betty and now Father John was more than a coincidence. He decided to throw caution to the wind and start making plans for his emigration to the Emerald Isle.

The next few weeks were hectic. Making arrangements with Tom regarding the abundance of material he fully expected to receive from across the ocean. Selling off those items, which he couldn’t take with him including his old ninety-one Caddy which was showing her age, but who was still the love of his life.

Sean had to find somewhere to stay during his time in Ireland. Father John was a great help. He contacted the parish priest in Whitegate, which is a village south east of Aghada, and he in turn arranged accommodation at the home of one Mrs. O’Neil, in the village of Aghada, County Cork.

Now it was time to say his goodbyes. The first stop was to the home of his parents in south Dayton. They fully understood the reasoning behind his decision to make a temporary change to the course of his life; they also felt that a new environment coupled with the increased workload planned by Tom would take his thoughts away from the painful events of the recent past.

Back in Dayton, Tom and Betty made him promise that he would provide them with every detail of his life in Ireland. Tom also reminded Sean of his expectation that he would be producing for him as he had in the past. He assured him he would. In fact, he was now eager to get back to the keyboard.

The last person he went to visit before taking off for pastures new was Father John. He gave Sean his blessing, told him he would be in his prayers, and that he should remember where Joan found the solutions to life’s problems. As he was leaving Father John handed him a brown paper package tied with string. A prized possession, use it well Sean. God bless and have a safe journey.

He flew from Dayton to Chicago then on to New York where he picked up a flight to Shannon international airport in the Emerald Isle. Having a four-hour stopover at Shannon, before his flight to Cork, would give him an opportunity to see what was to be his new home for the next, who knows how long looked like. Unfortunately that was not to be. The rain was coming down in torrents; visibility was so bad it was difficult to see beyond the end of the terminal building. He consoled himself with, ‘its got to stop sometime.’

On the short commuter flight from Shannon to Cork City he opened the package that Father John had given him. It was an almost new bible. He had a chuckle to himself; it had been well over a year now since he had opened a bible. He had received religious instruction at St. Mark’s grade school in Dayton and again at Sunday Mass, he remembered listening to the readings, the Old and the New Testament, followed by a homily given by the priest. As a teenager he had to confess that on many occasions his mind was elsewhere. However, later, the preparation for and doing the readings at Mass, gave him greater insights into the life and times of our Christian heritage and some appreciation of the sacrifice made by God the Father and the Son. And finally, the impact of Father John bringing light into the dark.

Inside the first page of the Bible was the inscription. To Sean McManus from Father John. He had also left a separate little note saying, ‘the next time I see this bible Sean I expect to it to be dog-eared, written on, underlined and highlighted everywhere. Buy the way Sean God never left any loose ends. There are answers to all questions on the pages of the bible. Much of your doubt is brought on by the actions of man. You must remember, man is intrinsically evil; overcoming that sinful nature is his salvation. The secret to life lies in the beginning. God bless you Sean, use your bible well.’

Father John managed to get Sean to morning Mass with the promise of a life changing experience, he couldn’t deny the benefits he had derived from these daily visits, but bible study to the extent that Father was suggesting.---Well?

As the plane was coming into land at Cork airport the rains had not yet abated. Those same heavy dark clouds were here to greet him in Cork, as they had been when he first arrived at Ireland’s Shannon International airport. The walk from the small commuter plane to the terminal didn’t take long, but long enough to allow the wind driven rain to leave him soaked to the skin. The water was running down his neck, his shirt sticking to his body and pants that had absorbed so much water they felt like lead weights strapped to his legs.

I must looked ridiculous thought Sean as he stood by the carousel waiting for his luggage to be unloaded. Every time he moved he left a puddle of water behind, his shoes squelched whenever he moved his feet. His fellow travelers, who had joined him on the short commuter flight from Shannon, were in much better shape, they must have been locals expecting this inclement weather and had dressed accordingly. Raincoats, plastic Mac’s rubber boots and umbrella’s were in abundance.

A shuttle bus took him from the airport to the City of Cork, where he quickly arranged for transportation to Aghada. He felt he had been traveling forever and was glad to find himself on the last stage of his journey.

CHAPTER 2

The door opened very quickly in response to his ringing of the bell. There stood Mrs. O’Neil, small in stature and weighing in at little more than one hundred pounds.

You will be Sean McManus from America?

Yes indeed, and you are Mrs. O’Neil I assume?

That’s me. Come in, come in out of the rain.

Once inside Mrs. O’Neil immediately took charge. You’ll have to get out of those wet things Sean, I’ll show you to your room, and while you get settled in I will prepare supper.

"I’m not