“Me neither... you wanna get yourself a mug and a bottle of somethin...”
“I’ll have whatever you’re sailing with.”
“No you won’t... this personal... ’tween Jack D. and me. There’s vodka...”
She handed me a gaily wrapped parcel and got the vodka. I had some coordination problems but got there. An Aran sweater. I gave her the Kazankatakis. Silence. She was dressed in a heavy black sweater. Black cords... black boots. The pale face looked luminous. The clothes were fitting on every level. Black as my attitude... levels indeed. The vodka took her onslaught stoically. Julie wasn’t big on verbal gratitude but mebbe there was a smile in there when she opened the books.
“How’s the romance, Dillon?”
“Do you care...”
“A whole lot... no! But we can open a conversation on any point?”
“I haven’t been to a funeral for... phew... three weeks.”
“Congratulations... welcome to the land of the half-alive... any withdrawal symptoms or side effects—”
“On your terms, no, life is hunky dory. How’s Robbie?”
“Not too fond of you, Dillon. In fact, he’s on the town with Powl or Rowell... your wan’s brother.”
“He’s going to be meeting his obligations real soon...”
Julie was massacrin’ the vodka. I felt a deep disturbance within and around her. I didn’t know if there was friendship left enough to address it.
“I saw your father...”
“Screw him...”
And that closed that line of inquiry. The Jack Daniels had thrown the care-not switch, but I went again. She was hunched over on the floor. As near as rain and as distant as contentment.
“Julie, what’s eating you... you’re like a bag of cats...”
The smile. Oh, a bitter one, but you took the appearances.
Let’s go Jack.
“Is it on meself but have you trouble in rising even to civility with me.”
“Well, Dillon, you piss me off... but then everything and everybody does. I want out... and I’ve even got that... they want me to return to Greece. Lemme read you a bit of Cavafy.”
Out came the black book. She lit two cigarettes and pushed one at me. She drew on it as if it also was irritating the hell outa her. Perhaps it was... why should cigarettes get exemptions. The piece was from Cavafy’s The City.
“You said, ‘I will go to another land, I will go to another sea.
Another city will be found, better than this... ’”
She gave me the look. Did I want to comment. No. I drank and felt the inner cold. Someone didn’t walk on my grave, they were having a full-blown jig on it. The vodka seemed to have no effect on her. She gritted her teeth and read the next piece in smart-ass American tone.
“New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.
The city will follow you. You will roam the same
streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods;
in these same houses you will grow gray.
Always you will arrive in this city. To another land –
do not hope –
there is no ship for you, there is no road.”
I’ll be honest... I enjoyed the American twang... it blended nicely with the Jack Daniels. I poured the vodka. A tremor had laid hold of her voice. No amount of smart-ass-ness could disguise it.
“And here’s the kicker,” she said.
“As you have destroyed your life here in this little corner you have ruined it in the entire world.”
A conversation killer full. They said Julie cared and felt for nowt... ’cept Carlo. A dog. Three years before, we’d been standing on the Square after closing time. There’s time and there’s pub time. Rely on the latter. A dog was weaving back and forth across the road, bewildered by the traffic. A cross between a fox and a tinker’s greyhound. “That ejit will be killed,” Julie had said and called him. Coaxing and cursing, she’d lured him to her... and he’d moved into her life. The dog’s eyes were brown. Pure affection... and it was all for Julie. “Someone forfeited love itself,” she said, and she believed he had the appearance of an abandoned dog. “A crowd from Carlow dumped him here,” she reckoned. To keep his imagined roots, he’d retained the county’s name. That her father hailed from there wasn’t mentioned.
“You’d have to leave Carlo if you go to Greece.”
“I’m afraid... I think... afraid to go back... but am I more afraid not to. How does that sound to you, Dillon?”
It sounded confused. She wouldn’t want to hear that.
“It sounds confused.”
She asked if I wanted to take her to bed. I didn’t. The Jack Daniels did. I guess we hit a compromise. I took her to bed but I don’t remember it. I may have asked at one interval what she was thinking about.
“I’m thinking dearly... of you.”
It probably wasn’t like that but lacking a clear recollection, it’s sufficient. I woke to bells. Christmas bells... loud. I was not a well man. Julie had left a note on the Jack Daniels bottle...
“Dillon,
I knew the first thing you’d want was Jack here... yeah. There’s a drop in it... if you want feedin’, call round this evening. I suppose I should wish you a happy Christmas... so some of that but primarily... a gentle-d hangover and a cure that takes. This explains everything, sheds light on... nothing.
Men with big hammers were whacking the be-damns outa my head. “I don’t need that last bit of sour mash.” As my mind played rationalisations, I drank — a shower cleaned me... a cure would take heavier consideration. I wore Julie’s sweater and sneaked a mirror glance. The clothes looked new. The face wasn’t lived in, no! Something very sick had died there, crawled in there and just died.
Not a soul on the street... save “Bad Weather.” A fellah as old as the town, he was a drunkard who no longer needed drink. His brain was stewed in poison, and he was perpetually drunk. Without drinking. A final solution. To all greetings he said, “bad weather.” He said this to me as I palmed him a few quid. I didn’t want to examine too closely the fact he was wearing an Aran sweater and dirty jeans. Heading for the hospital, I kept repeating “Your jeans are clean... are cleanish... are...”
It had crossed my mind that ten months of the year, Bad Weather was correct in his forecast. I had Nurse Allison Brown paged. She displayed no surprise. “You look fierce”... an Irish adjective. Applied equally as in “fierce good”... or “fierce bad.” I’d guess she’d opted for the latter. I passed on the happy Christmas bit. “What happens to Padraig now?”
She explained that if no one claimed him, he’d be buried by the State. The hospital would act for them. He’d get a funeral and be buried. If I were to go for it and claim him, I’d be buying myself a heap of bureaucracy. I’d have to claim a medical card for him, to prove he existed. That he no longer did was irrelevant. The relevant forms and claims were massive. It crossed my hung-over state that I could have a spree on his medical card. I felt Padraig would have cheered me on that. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to drink.
“I dunno what to do, Allison.”
“Let the State bury him.”
“I feel that I’m copping out.”
“You are but I think you should.”
I thought I shouldn’t, so I said, “Okay.”
“If you go down to our chapel now, the priest will be saying mass, you could ask him to mention Padraig.”
“Thanks, Allison... I’ll be seeing you.”
She smiled and left. Wasn’t I too ill to notice how brown these eyes were. Course I was. I tried to shelve how devastatingly attractive the uniform was. So... so mebbe I could take the uniform itself for a night out. I’ll... she’s got a lovely face.