John Kearns

Death of Seamus Logan

An excerpt from the novel, Worlds

 

 

When Seamus Logan, founder of the Logan construction company, passed away, people gathered from all around the Delaware Valley, and his son, the Reverend Sarsfield Logan, S.J., traveled from New York to mourn with his siblings James, Catherine, Michael, and Anna and to celebrate the funeral mass.  Friends Seamus had made over the many years he had spent in the Philadelphia area since coming to this country from his native Ireland streamed to the McConaghy Funeral Home in Ardmore for the viewing and to Saint Colman’s Church for the Mass of Christian Burial.  These were joined by many of his former employees who had fond memories and sincere gratitude toward their generous benefactor for his munificence and by a good number of his customers who never forgot that it was the Logan Construction Company with the local savings and loans that erected the first homes they ever owned.  Seamus Logan was also remembered for his generosity to his church, to Saint Joseph's Preparatory School, to famine relief in India and Africa, and to the cause of Irish freedom.  Officers from Philadelphia Clan na Gael paid their respects at the viewing, as Mr. Logan was a great supporter of Ireland’s War of Independence.  There was some talk of notifying his relatives in Ireland but no one knew how to reach them or, indeed, if there was anyone to be contacted.  He talked so little about his childhood and his homeland that the only thing people knew was that he had been born in County Mayo and that he had fond memories of Connemara.  The obituary stated simply, “James Logan was born in Ireland.  He left his native country as a young man and never returned.”  However, he kept it always in his heart contributing to many Irish charities and organizations, causes, and, of course, The Cause. 

 

When James Logan’s eldest son, the Reverend Sarsfield Logan, S.J., arrived at the family home in Ardmore, he noticed that, in addition to the grief he had expected, there was an air of tension and secrecy in the old house.  He wasn’t sure what could be the cause of it and his brothers and sisters took pains to conceal whatever the issue was.  There were times when he heard murmuring and whispering that stopped immediately when he entered the room.  

 

One morning, when he was breakfasting at the head of the dining room table and reading his Lauds from the Divine Office, his sister, Catherine, came in and took a seat.  Waiting for him to finish, she began to pray herself, whispering “Hail Mary” after “Hail Mary” and running her thumb and forefinger over the old, black rosary beads she always carried.  When Sarsfield concluded his Lauds, she placed the beads down on the table and, just after her Jesuit brother did, made the sign of the cross. 

 

“Good morning, Kit.  Sorry to keep you waiting.  Going to join me?”

 

“No, Sarsfield, thank you.  I had a nibble earlier.  You know I never eat much in the morning.  I don’t want to disturb you but there’s something I need to discuss.” 

 

 “No problem at all.  Why don’t you at least have a cup of tea?”

 

Sarsfield did not mind being disturbed by his youngest sister.  Catherine had always been a pet of his: she was so gentle and sweet.  When they had been children, he had always feared that she would get trampled on in the schoolyard of Saint Colman’s, and later, he worried about how she would make out in the schoolyard of life.  When he could, he tried to protect her from his more assertive siblings, whom he always thought would run roughshod over her, given half a chance.

  

“No, thank you,” said Kitty.  “You enjoy your breakfast.  I just want to talk.”

 

Sarsfield lifted his china cup from its saucer and sipped a few drops of the hot tea, slurping just a little.  He placed the cup back in its saucer and shot his sister a sidelong glance.  Kit had not taken the opportunity he had given her to speak.  

 

“What is it?” he asked.  

 

“It has to do with Father’s passing and his will.”

 

He sipped his tea.  Something about the way he did it made her want to smile. 

 

“It is very sad for all of us — and a very difficult time,” Father Logan sighed.  “I keep having this irrational impulse to climb the stairs and tell Father about all of his friends that I have seen.  As if he had just been unable to attend the party.”

 

It was true.  Some part of his mind repeatedly forgot that old Seamus was not just absent from the gatherings but truly gone. 

 

“But we all must die, as Our Lord did, so that we can enter fully and truly into His kingdom.”

 

 “Yes, that is true.  I’m sure Father died in Faith and has gone to his eternal rest.”

 

He held the teacup in front of his lips, pausing before a second sip.  Remarkable, thought Kit: the mannerisms were Father’s.  Father Sarsfield picked up his butter knife and reached for the butter dish.  

 

“It’s buttered, Sars.”

 

“What?”

 

“The toast.  It’s already buttered.”

 

“Oh.  Oh, I see.  Thank you!”

 

Sarsfield squinted at his sister.  He couldn’t make her out.  She seemed at once determined and hesitant to get to her point.

 

“What I have to tell you is very difficult, even perhaps … a little shameful,” she suddenly stated.  “I’m not sure if you are aware of all that has gone on … You’ve been away and your life- the life you lead with your community is very different, very removed from our day-to-day struggles…”

 

“There is nothing you can tell me that will be shocking or unfamiliar to me.  It is my duty to understand the virtues and the sins of human nature.  I have spent years studying them, and counseling people.”  

 

Father Logan picked up his toast and thought he'd inject a little joviality. 

 

“Besides, I spend my days teaching teenage boys!  What could surprise me?”  

 

His sister laughed quietly and didn’t know where to look.  Sarsfield dipped his toast into the yolk of his fried egg, took a bite, and started to break off and scoop up bits of the egg white with his fork.  

 

“Well, maybe I should just get right to the point.  Father has left a great deal behind.  He was a very successful man.  It is incredible what he accomplished, and the wealth and collection of treasures he accumulated.”

 

“He was quite a success.  To think that he came to this country as a penniless-”

 

Afraid her brother would take the conversation off track, Catherine blurted what had been worrying her.  

 

“Our brothers and sisters have been going through Father’s room!  His attic, the basement … Taking some things for themselves …” 

 

“That’s understandable,” Sarsfield replied, taking up his cup of tea.  “I suppose it is natural for people to want to take mementoes of Father, now that he is gone.”

 

“But that is just the problem!”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Taking another triangular piece of buttered toast from his plate, Sarsfield paused.  

 

“Well, they started before you came home!”  

 

He took a bite of the toast and laid it on his plate.  

 

“That is a little unseemly, but I don’t mind, really.  I have no desire for anything for myself.”

 

“But not only before you got here, but before Father-”

 

“Do you mean-?!”

 

He put the tea cup down.

 

“Yes, it shames me to say it but they started going though Father’s things before he passed away.  I urged them to wait for you so that you could give us some moral guidance.  I urged them to have some decency, to let Father live out the rest of his life before they started to ransack through his worldly goods.  I believe, and I am convinced that you believe, that this is immoral.”  

 

“I do.  I think it is shocking!  Not only indecent and ungrateful but …  heartless!”  

 

Sarsfield glared at the mess of eggs on his plate.  

 

“The man — their father who sacrificed everything for them — was lying suffering on his death bed and they are more concerned for what they could get for themselves than for the poor dying man?!”

 

He reached for the tea cup again.

 

“That’s what I thought — and tried to warn them about — but I am not as eloquent or as strong as you are.  I was really appalled by their behavior.”  

 

“I don’t blame you.  I am appalled to hear about it.  I only wish I had been here to prevent it.” 

 

“Yes, but you are here now, thank God!” 

 

Father Logan sipped, paused, sipped again, before replacing the cup in its saucer.

 

 “I am.  I can prevent any further disrespect to Father’s memory.”

 

With his fork, he swept a few more small pieces of egg white into his mouth.  

 

“True.  That is very good of you.”

 

“Don’t mention it.  It’s the least I could do to protect Father’s good name.”

 

“But what are you going to do about the damage that has already been done?” 

 

He dipped his toast into the egg yolk and cleaned up the rest of it.  

 

“There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do.  I mean, what’s done is done — isn’t it?  I have no intention of squabbling over who took what and what meaningless object should not have been taken.”

 

“Oh, but I thought you would do more … you know … to help to return things as they should have been at the beginning.”

 

“But I don’t see what I can do, Kit.  What do you have in mind?”

 

“It’s just that it is all so brazen … I thought you would want to rectify the situation ... You could tell them to give everything back so that we could start again.”  

 

“They can go to their confessors about that.  I don’t want to set myself up as some kind of estate judge.”

 

He picked up his cup of tea, took a sip, and then held it before his lips.  Her son, now that she thought of it, drank his morning coffee the exact same way. 

 

“It just seems that what they have done is so immoral … so ungrateful, as you say … But not only immoral.  It’s also … I don’t know …”

 

“What?  What is it?”

 

“It’s also … well … unfair!”

 

Father Sarsfield Logan, S.J., placed his teacup down into its saucer and let go of its handle.  His eyes grew wide as he realized what his youngest sister intended.  

 

 

 

John Kearns is the author of the short-story collection, Dreams and Dull Realities and the novel, The World and playwright of dramas including Sons of Molly Maguire and In the Wilderness.  His novel-in-progress, Worlds, was a finalist in the 2018 William Faulkner – William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition and the 2002 New Century Writers’ Awards.  John’s fiction has appeared in The Medulla Review and Danse Macabre.  His poems have appeared in such journals as North American Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, and The Razor’s Wine.  John is the Treasurer and Salon Producer for Irish American Writers and Artists.  He has a Master’s Degree in Irish Literature from the Catholic University of America.