“There was the night they saved me, you know,” she murmured. “The man they called the Shamrock Strangler was on the loose. It was a Halloween long ago, so long ago. I was young and beautiful then. I was meeting your great-grandfather in the cemetery so we could honor those gone before us and then . . . I was waiting by the great winged angel that rises over the family plot near the church. And I felt the mist and heard the whisper. I believe it was Mary Kathleen. There was a sob to her voice, a banshee cry, and she warned me to run and run fast. I turned to do as she said, and as I did, I saw him. He was twisting a tie in his hand, ready to wrap it around my neck. He was looking right at me, and I tripped, but then I heard the voice of a little leprechaun urging me up and . . . he stayed behind. He tripped the Strangler and I screamed and screamed . . . they caught him that night. You see, the banshee and the leprechaun . . . they saved me.”
I was silent.
I mean, I knew we couldn’t have banshees in the outhouse because we didn’t have an outhouse.
Was this another tall tale?
She gave herself a shake and looked at me. “Now, you go, you stick with your mum and dad.” She wagged a finger at me. “And you’ll tell me about it—and that you behaved—when you come back. And no tales! Don’t be peeing on me head and trying to tell me it’s raining!”
That was one of my favorite sayings of hers. I used it at school once—and got into a great deal of trouble.
But no tall tales? After the story she had just told me?
I promised I’d be good—and stick to my parents like glue.
Halloween in the village turned out to be fun. There were more homemade costumes in the village, and they were clever, terrifying, and charming. There was dancing, and dunk tanks, lots of food, and all manner of games. But people went to the cemetery; my folks and I were no different. Granny’s husband was buried there, along with many of my ancestors who had come before him. My mom and dad brought flowers, but I did see many people pouring libations on the ground about their graves.
I wasn’t frightened when we went, though it was a wonderfully atmospheric cemetery. Hundreds of years old and attached to an old church, it had every kind of grave you could imagine, tombs, vaults, in-ground, small mausoleums, and all kinds of angels and sheep and other memorials. Our “family” plot did have a great angel standing in the center of the area, and many names were etched into the stone at her base. I thought about Granny’s story. And I listened for banshees and looked for leprechauns. I didn’t see any. But I imagined what the place would be like on a night with the moon casting down a glow and a fog rising.
I wondered about Granny’s story.
But my parents were trying hard to make me have fun for Halloween—far from the friends I should have been with.
When we returned I told Granny excitedly about everything we did, and she listened and smiled and stroked my hair. “Ah, child, you’re a lovely lass—and I love you dearly. I’ll always be looking out for you, you know.”
We returned home when the week was over. I had to return to school and my parents had to return to work.
But I quickly learned why it had been so important to go.
Granny died before Thanksgiving. My parents had determined not to bring me to the funeral; only my dad would go.
“She loved you so much,” my dad explained. “I wanted your memories to be good. I wanted you to laugh with her. I wanted her to see you—and she was very firm as you know she could be—I wasn’t to tell you she was sick.”
“But—” I protested.
And said no more.
I could have tried harder to hold on!
There was no holding on; I knew that. As human beings, we like to try to control everything. We can’t control death.
But before my father left for the funeral, I had to speak with him. He was packing when I went to his room. He gave me a sad smile. “What’s up, Kels?” he asked.
“Granny told me a story about being saved by a banshee and a leprechaun.”
“Granny had great stories,” he said.
“But was there really someone called the Shamrock Strangler?” I asked.
He stopped packing and frowned at me. “Yes. And Granny was there the night he was caught.” He hesitated and smiled, putting his arms around me, and drawing me to sit with him at the foot of the bed. “I believe her banshee might have been a young woman running through the cemetery; he’d tried to buy her a drink, and something had warned her there wasn’t something right about him. The cemetery had been near, and she’d seen it as a place to hide because she’d known he was coming after her. And the leprechaun? One of the townspeople trying to help at the time was a midget, and he tripped the fellow before the police got there. At least, that’s what the newspaper reported. The old clipping is in the attic somewhere. Granny . . . well, she was fierce and funny and wonderful. And a great storyteller!” He winced. “She brought an entire family from Ireland, worked hard—and when she was needed back home, she returned. I loved her so dearly. And I will miss her. But she’ll always be with us, you know?”
I nodded. I had cried myself out when I’d first heard the news. I knew it was the way of things; she’d led a long and full life and had been in her early nineties. I just wished . . .
I wished I’d been able to hang on.
“I want to come with you.”
“You were with her while she was alive, Kels. That’s most important.”
“Please! I’m a good student; I won’t mess up. Please. And I’ll put my allowance toward the ticket—”
That was the first time I’d seen my father really laugh since he’d received the news that it was time to go back.
So, instead of just my dad going, my mom and I went, too. And I was glad. I’m not sure why. The ceremony was beautiful—she’d been loved by many people. And she was buried beneath the angel in the family plot next to all those she had loved.
I did not hear the cry of the banshee. Her ghost did not whisper to me. But I told her goodbye, and I would always love her, and somehow maybe love does carry on.
Years passed and I grew up—celebrating St. Patrick’s Day fiercely with my family each year in honor of those we loved who had died.
And also because my dad just loved St. Patrick’s Day, and there were plenty of people in Chicago of Irish descent—and not—who also loved St. Patrick’s Day.
I went to college and discovered I loved history and wanted to teach. I was probably influenced by another European trip, one during which I toured a concentration camp. I could never forget the saying by philosopher George Santayana over the gate—Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it.
I became a teacher and I found—even in teaching factual history—it was also fun to relate some of Granny’s stories. The kids got a kick out of them.
I was just twenty-three on the Halloween that made me realize Granny might not have spun such tall tales.
Mark and I had just gotten engaged, but he was in the military, and he was deployed soon after we celebrated the event. So on Halloween, I was with friends and we agreed we’d go to a costumed event at a local restaurant and bar. We chose to be a cast of characters from fairy tales. While I wanted to be the wicked stepmother, I was designated to be sleeping beauty. Janice already had a great costume for the stepmother, and Nan wanted to be the fairy godmother.