40
I called Michael with my travel plans and to see if he’d swap a trip to Logan’s international terminal for dinner at the Border Café. I would gladly pay you Tuesday for an airport run today.
“You’re going back to the Great White North, then, are ye Finn?” Michael spoke over the top of his paper coffee cup, steering with one hand on Route 1.
“I thought I would, but there’s no need now, Mikie. Besides, Nova Scotia really isn’t any farther north than most of Maine. Yarmouth is nearly due east of Portland, in fact. So its on to Belfast, I think.”
“Really, Belfast? Are you feeling, oh I don’t know now, torn? Conflicted?”
“What? Hell no. No, not even a little.”
“Hmm.”
“Whatever bad blood might still exist among some of the Irish is someone else’s bad blood. Christ, both sides of my family, the O’Keefes and the Milnes, have been in North America for generations. I’m more concerned about the bad-tempered Croats wandering the bogs than I am any son or daughter of William of Orange.”
“Just the same, I’ll be sayin’ a rosary for ye. ”
“Yeah?” Michael Devlin was returning a favor. “Can’t hurt I guess.”
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