Rosary Interrupted

You'd think the heatwave would've been my biggest concern that day, with all of Ireland roasting like a potato in the oven. But I was stewing in a secret that, once it came out, would make that scorching summer feel like an easy breezy Caribbean day. I was driving home for my parents' anniversary—on the hottest day of the year with that powder keg of a secret sitting in my closet—about to discover how quickly one family could combust. 

My rental car groaned as it crawled up the sun-baked lane toward the farm. Our homestead appeared, shimmering out of the heat haze, a mirage of peeling white paint and tinderbox thatch, sitting amidst our lawns of withering shamrocks. Sweat was sliding down my skin and my shirt clung to it like wet papier-mâché.

I parked beside the garden where our sunflowers were wilting, just like my flagging resolve. I'd sworn this visit would be different than previous ones, but my innards were already twisting into Celtic knots. 

After I switched off the ignition, my fingers hovered over the car door handle, twitching between flight, fight and freeze.

The front door of the house crashed open, the bang slamming across our parched lawn.

"Liam! Saints preserve us, you're finally here!" Mam's voice pierced the air, sharp as a banshee wail. "Your father's half-mad with this ungodly heat. Get in before you melt!"

Oh, what fresh hell awaited me? This was a mistake. One day...Someday, I’d be telling them about that powder keg secret. That morning, when I’d set out from Dublin, I thought it might even happen that day. But when my insides started rearranging those knots, spinning and whirling into set dances and jigs, I resolved: No, no, not today. Not on their anniversary. That would be too much. No, that secret would be staying in its hiding place until…well, who knows?

"Coming, Mam.” I yelled through the car window. “Has Da tried dunking his head in the freezer yet?”

When I stepped into the house, I was enveloped in a sauna of stale air and Catholic guilt.

Da was slumped in his armchair, deflated and damp. "There's my boy!" Da wheezed, his usual boom reduced now to a rasp. "Tell your mother this heat's the devil's work. We should be praying, not throwing a blasted party!"

Before I could respond, Mam materialized, thrusting a set of damp rosary beads into my hands. "Here, love. Lead us in a decade of the rosary. That'll cool your father's temper and maybe the Good Lord will turn down the thermostat."

My throat constricted. “Right. Sure, Mam. Let's...let's gather 'round then, shall we?" My fingers clenched around the rosary beads, knuckles tightening. Those familiar prayers tasted like ash that day, each word like a betrayal of the life I'd begun to build for myself.

As I stumbled through "Hail Marys," Da interjected, his voice crackling like dry leaves. "This is what's missing in the world today. Proper values. Family. Faith. Not like those godless notions they're peddling up in Dublin."

Each word stung, raw and accusatory. My grip tightened on those beads, threatening to pop each one out of their shells while we prayed.

"Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. It’s hotter than hell out there!” The front door banged open, yielding a whirlwind of floral perfume and chatter. “Oh, are we praying? Grand, I'm parched. Liam, you great eejit, I almost didn't recognize you without Mich—"

The world tilted and my stomach plummeted down a cliff. My head snapped up, eyes locking with a suddenly wide-eyed Siobhan (my older sister).

Mam's head cocked, curious as a magpie. "Without who, dear?"

The room seemed to shrink. The air evaporated. I could bury the truth deeper than family secrets at Sunday mass, or let it explode, consequences be damned.

"It’s—” I swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “It's no one, Mam. Siobhan's addled from the heat. Now, where were we? 'Holy Mary, Mother of God...'"

The room fell silent, save for the drone of our prayers. The air crackled, electric as the moment before lightning strikes.

Later on in the kitchen, Mam wrestled with a pot roast rapidly transforming into a burnt offering. The ancient radio wheezed warnings about the heatwave while I stood by the open window, praying for a breeze that never blew.

My collar was tightening like a garrote, from the heat and sweat, each swallow becoming a Herculean task. I loosened my tie, which earned a disapproving cluck from Mam. I'd have traded my soul, then and there, for a pint and Michael's laugh.

Then the back door banged open, admitting a gust of scorching air and a figure I hadn't seen in years.

"Room for one more in this inferno?" a familiar voice lilted. My heart jumped like the diddle-diddle of a double jig. Uncle Declan? Our family's black sheep, who’d exiled himself to England after battling with the Church. I spun around, nearly toppling a stack of plates.

"Declan O'Connor, as I live and breathe!" Mam's voice could curdle milk. "What misfortune drags you back?"

"Heard there was a shindig.” Declan grinned, mischief darting through his eyes. “Thought I'd see if you lot had finally learned to loosen your collars."

A tiny flame of hope kindled in my chest. If anyone could understand my predicament, it'd be my Uncle Declan. I must secure a moment alone with him.

"Declan?” Da lumbered into the kitchen, his face thunderous. “What in God's name are you doing here? Come to mock our faith again?"

The room's temperature was spiking and I started to feel like a referee at a bar brawl, unsure which fist I’d have to dodge first. 

"Da, please.” I stepped between Da and Declan, hands raised like a priest at the altar. “It's too hot for this. Why don't we all just—"

"Too hot?" Da's laugh rasped. "I'll tell you what's too hot, boy. The fires of hell waiting for those who abandon the Church. Isn't that right, Declan?"

My innards were twisting again, doing a slip jig now. I shot Mam a pleading look, silently begging for intervention.

"Now, now. We're family.” Mam forced her brittle smile. “Declan, fetch the good china. Liam, help your uncle before he breaks something precious."

Relief washed over me and I herded my uncle towards the pantry, away from the simmering tensions.

Once secluded in the pantry, Declan's voice dropped to a whisper. "I've seen corpses at wakes looking more relaxed than you. What's the craic?"

My heart was thundering like a bodhran. I was torn. I could confide in Declan and find an ally in this suffocating house. I knew keeping my secret locked away would slowly poison me like cheap poitín. This was my chance. 

I took a deep breath. “Uncle Declan…” I squared my shoulders like a prizefighter before the bell. “I…I'm gay. And I don't know how to tell Mam and Da.”

Declan's eyebrows arched, then settled into a smile that would outfox a leprechaun.

"Jaysus, that's a doozy. No wonder you're sweating bullets. Good thing you've got the black sheep on your side, eh?"

l leaned closer, eager for Declan's wisdom.

"Listen, lad.” Declan's voice lowered conspiratorially. “This family's like a pot of potatoes—boil 'em too long, they turn to mush. Take 'em off too soon, they're hard as rocks. You've got to time it just right."

What in God's name was Declan on about? "I don't understand. Should I tell them or not?"

Declan clapped my shoulder. "I'm saying, boy, that you need to—"

"What's taking so long?” The pantry door flew open, flooding the space with light and Mam's imposing silhouette. “The good china doesn't require a treasure map!"

I fumbled with a tower of plates, nearly knocking them over.

"Liam Joseph O'Connor.” Mam's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you two whispering about?"

"Nothing, Mam.” My mouth dried up. I needed an excuse, any excuse. “Uncle Declan was just...telling me about his work in England."

"Aye, fascinating stuff,” Declan smoothly interjected. “Export regulations. You'd love it, Maureen."

Another lie. Another secret. How long could I keep up this charade?

As we filed out of the pantry, the kitchen was erupting into chaos—Siobhan frantically fanning smoke away from the oven and Da bellowing on about the heat and impending apocalypse.

Even with the kitchen crisis barely averted but behind us, Mam's fingers worried the frayed edges of the lace tablecloth, her eyes now darting between the clock and me. That ancient grandfather clock in the dining room, was ticking relentlessly—each second bringing us closer to serving their anniversary dinner (bordering now on disaster) and the inevitable arrival of our parish priest, the man who married Mam and Da, Father McCarthy.

"Liam, love.” Mam's voice sliced through the tension. “Father McCarthy will be here any minute. He's keen to discuss your...future."

Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. "Mam, please. I've told you, I'm content with my work in Dublin."

"Content?” Da's fist crashed down on his armchair. “Writing gossip about degenerates and sodomites? It's time you considered your immortal soul, boy."

Something snapped inside me, my dam of pent-up frustration finally burst. I whirled to face Da, hands trembling.

"Da, stop it.” Siobhan stepped between us, her voice going low and urgent. “Liam's work matters. He's not some—"

"Hush, Siobhan," Mam interrupted. "This is about Liam's calling."

Calling? My one true calling—my love, my angel Michael—was two hundred kilometers away sitting in our Dublin flat, working on his project deadline due on Monday.

As if summoned by my thoughts, my phone buzzed. Michael's name illuminated the screen: "Surprise! I'm outside. Ready to meet the family?"

My insides were doing the treble reel now. Michael was here? Now? Was this divine intervention? Or the cruelest cosmic joke ever played?

I could end this farce now, bring Michael in and let the chips fall. Or I could send him away, burying my truth so deep it might never surface.

"Liam?" Mam's voice sharpened. "Who's texting you? You look like you've seen a ghost."

A lifetime of indecision had crystallized into this very moment. I tell you, standing there was like striking a match in a room full of gas. The truth hung in the air, noxious and volatile. Ready to explode. 

“Mam…” I took a steadying breath, shoulders back, “It's Michael." My eyes met hers, theirs, one by one, silently declaring my stand before I said, "He's my boyfriend and he's outside...and I'm inviting him to dinner."

The stunned silence that followed was so complete you could hear dust motes settling on our family Bible. Da's face cycled through an impressive array of colors, finally settling on a dangerous purple that would make any beetroot jealous. Mam's rosary beads clattered to the floor, scattering amongst her shattered expectations.

"Well, I'll be damned.” Uncle Declan smashed the silence completely. “When you decide to come out of the closet, lad, you don't just open the door. You blow the whole damn thing to kingdom come."

A dizzying cocktail of terror and liberation surged through me. There was no going back now. The truth was out, raw and undeniable as a newborn's first cry. I stood my ground, meeting each shocked face in turn, challenging them to speak first.

"Liam Joseph O'Connor,” Mam's voice quavered, barely audible. “What in God's name have you done?"

Da lurched to his feet, his face a thundercloud about to unleash his own tempest. "You'll not bring that...that sin into this house!" he roared, spittle flying.

Something snapped again, more layers of pent-up frustration finally breaking free. Enough was enough. No more hiding. No more shame. I couldn't—wouldn't—back down now.

"Sin?" I drew myself up to full height, my voice ringing out clear and strong—in stark contrast to my usual hesitant tone. "The only sin here is denying the truth, Da. And I won't do it anymore."

"Liam, please.” Mam lurched forward, her face ashen, the fallen rosary beads forgotten at her feet. “Think about what you're saying. Think of your immortal soul. The Church—"

I glanced between Mam, clutching at air where her rosary should have been, and Da's rigid stance. They were trapped in their own kind of closet, weren't they?

"My soul is fine, Mam. It's been suffocating under these lies, but it's breathing free now."

"Now, let's not do anything rash.” Uncle Declan stepped forward and wedged himself between me and my parents, hands raised. “Liam's still Liam, for Christ's sake. Nothing's changed except—"

"Everything's changed!" Da roared, face mottled with fury.

"Liam?” The front door creaked open, and Michael's concerned voice drifted in. “Liam? I heard shouting. Are you alright?"

A welcome calm settled over me, like when the eye of an August hurricane passed over Tampa during Michael's and my vacation last year. Standing in that clear defined calm, smack dab in the center of that torrent, I knew that: This was it; No turning back now. Knew that the winds would shift and the rest of the storm, the back half, was about to begin. There I was, at the epicenter, finally free and utterly terrified.

I crossed to the door, took Michael's hand in mine, and led him into the fray. My world had honed down to this singular, pivotal moment. I could still fabricate an excuse, preserve the fragile peace. Or, I could stand my ground and face whatever came. My grip on Michael's hand tightened, his warmth anchoring me in the midst of the emotional maelstrom swirling about that room. 

"Everyone," my voice steadier than I felt, "this is Michael…my boyfriend. Michael...this is my family."

Then, the back half of the storm came through and the room exploded like a category five. Mam burst into tears and a cry of a banshee, clutching at the empty space where her rosary should have been. Da's face turned an even more alarming shade of purple as he sputtered about incoherently, veins throbbing at his temples. Siobhan, God love her, darted to my side and, with Michael at my other side, formed a phalanx against the onslaught.

"Well, Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph.” Uncle Declan's voice cut through the din. "I'd say this calls for the good whiskey. Or ten." He strode to the liquor cabinet and retrieved the dusty bottle of Bushmills that only saw daylight at funerals and shotgun weddings. "Welcome to the family, Michael. God help you."

A laugh bubbled up in my throat, half crazed, half relieved. This wasn't the homecoming, nor the coming out, I'd imagined, but it was real. Raw. Honest. Finally, honest.

"I...I don't understand.” Mam's voice quavered, barely audible above the chaos. “You're my son. My little boy."

“I still am, Mam. And I’m a man too. A gay man.”

Da, his rage now spent, could only open and close his mouth like a landed fish, skewering me with his eyes. Then he stormed out the back door, slamming it like a gunshot.

Our O'Connor living room, once a bastion of Catholic propriety, now roiled with the aftershocks of my confession. The ancient grandfather clock struck seven, each chime striking like a nail in the coffin of my old life.

Michael and I slipped outside. I told everyone it was to watch the sunset. But really it was to get some fresh air—though it was hardly any cooler than the charged atmosphere inside.

“Michael…” A question had been nagging at me, nagging like a pebble in my shoe. "I thought you were working on your deadline for the Galway project?"

“I finished early. Couldn't bear the thought of you facing this alone.” Michael's eyes sparkled and a grin tugged at his lips. “Besides, I've always wanted to see where my lovely Liam O'Connor was born."

He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it.

Oh, how my innards started jigging and jogging. More than ever before.

Michael and I stood hand-in-hand, facing down that sunset and the fury of years of Catholic guilt and Irish stubbornness. I had done the unthinkable that hottest day of the year—traded the sweltering closet for the scorching spotlight of truth.

The sun was descending, painting the sky in deep purples and fierce reds. In the distance, Father McCarthy's ancient Fiesta wheezed up the lane, kicking up dust in the fading light.