She backed off.
I took out a bottle of Jay, muttered,
“The power of positive drinking.”
The week went way too fast. I read, drank, chilled on Valium, and focused on Sara. Her preoccupation with the small village of Ballyfin. The plea from the parish priest there, for a miracle.
The village had tried to find an American politician to discover that his great-grandparents had once set foot in their village. Any politician; they weren’t fussy.
Obama’s visit to Moneygall made a fortune for that hitherto unknown place.
Trump’s visit had revitalized Doonbeg.
Kennedy in his time had put the whole country on the map.
Reagan’s visit had put another tiny village on the world stage.
Nixon, hmm, not so much.
Ballyfin would even have accepted Boris Johnson.
What they did get were refugees.
The government was facing strong opposition by proposing to plant refugees on unsuspecting towns and it had not gone well.
Ballyfin, so anxious for notice, had accepted a refugee camp on its doorstep without protest. The small village was suddenly packed.
A day of prayer to welcome them was proposed for September 1. The Church hoped to raise funds to restore the roof that was in grave danger of collapsing.
It sounded like a day to have a miracle.
It sounded like a day for a blue light trick from Guatemala.
It sounded like the perfect place for Sara to reinvent herself.
Ballyfin did have one rather odd claim to fame.
An ancient statue of Saint Patrick, not of great note itself, but his shepherd’s crook they claimed was possibly the actual one he had used to drive the snakes out of Ireland. Fairly desperate, you’d think, but they did need that roof repaired.
I examined, recalled, every word Sara had said. She was a maestro at reinvention, and blending into a crowd was her modus operandi.
Refugees, a small village, a population desperate for a miracle. She would be in her element. But dangerous.
Always lethal.
At Haven I tried to take as much exercise as my body could endure. Long walks, sit-ups, push-ups, the plank exercise to stave off a beer belly.
I delayed drinking until the sun set, then eased into slow shots of Jay.
Control.
Control.
Control.
Read like a demented would-be writer.
Sister Martha left an envelope outside my room in the mornings with my daily dose of Valium, a pot of coffee. The meds kept the death of Malachy, Keefer, Ceola, my beautiful falcon at an artificial distance.
There was Mass each morning but I skipped that. I did eat in the dining room in the evenings. The other five “guests” kept their distance and I could hear their low conversation as if from a tunnel.
Like vague annoyance.
I caught one of the men sneaking furtive looks at me, curiosity without malice.
He was tall, with a lined face, as if he’d lived in the sun too long.
A missionary?
I was sitting outside, smoking.
My third day there, just counting the minutes until I went to my room, had the first of five Jamesons. He approached, asked,
“Mind if I borrow a cig?”
I looked at him, asked,
“When might you pay it back?”
He hesitated, considered, then,
“Tomorrow my stipend arrives.”
I gave him a cigarette, fired him up, indicated it was okay for him to sit. He did so, carefully, as if all his joints hurt. I asked,
“They give you, like, an allowance?”
He nodded, shame hitting his body like a whip.
I said,
“Fuck that.”
He gave me a long look, said,
“You’re not one of us?”
I wanted to say,
You mean a pedo?
But he seemed in enough torment, and something about him was kind of okay in a very wounded, fucked-up fashion, as if he’d been decent once.
Was I judging?
You betcha.
I said,
“No, I’m not.”
Meaning I’m not whatever “one of us” implied. He put out his hand, said,
“I’m Vincent.”
I took it. Solid grip. I said,
“Jack.”
He smoked awhile. I was not uncomfortable with that. I could do silence. He said,
“No offense but you have an aura of violence about you.”
I laughed, not amused but in there, said,
“Unwise comment to make to a man you think is violent.”
He mulled that for a time, then,
“I’m not a child molester.”
Time to stop the polite shite. I snarled,
“Isn’t that what they all plead?”
He literally sank within himself, let out a soft breath, said,
“Only two of the five here are that...”
Pause.
“That terrible term thing you’re thinking.”
I really could give a fuck. Few more days and I’d be on my merry way to kill a girl-child. He asked,
“Might I share some of that fine whiskey you have stashed?”
I thought about it, then stood up, went to my room, brought the bottle and a glass, one mug with Snoopy on it, sat, poured strong clerical measures, said,
“Sláinte.”
We drank. I asked,
“Won’t Nurse Ratched be on your case for this?”
A thin smile, then,
“She’s a nun. Nuns don’t really chastise priests, least not openly.”
I said,
“She’s a nasty bit of work.”
He laughed a little, said,
“Spite is her business.”
I indicated the bottle and he nodded gratefully, said,
“I’m not sure I can recompense you.”
Hah.
I said,
“When did priests ever recompense?”
Low blow.
Very.
He noticed my marble bracelet, asked,
“What’s going on there?”
I told him about Brigit, her prophecy/foretelling of my impending doom. He was intrigued, asked,
“You seem an unlikely type to believe in pishogs.”
I felt a flash of anger, a priest telling me not to believe in the very stuff his church relied on, even if they disguised it with Latin and pomp. I snapped,
“Did I say I believed it? Did I say that?”
He reeled back, the ferocity taking him from left field, tried,
“Whoa, sorr-y, obviously hit a nerve there.”
The shithead.
“Sorry” was said in that passive aggressive tone that means sorry is the last thing they are. I was close to walloping him and he sensed that.
He was staring now at my recent tattoo, asked,
“Is that a dove?”
I dialed down the rage, said tightly,
“Yes, that’s me, all about peace.”
Sister Martha appeared like a banshee, like the worst of news. You didn’t hear or see her coming. She glared at the Jameson bottle, ignored me, said to Vincent.
“Your meds and milk are waiting.”
I held up the bottle, said,
“If you’re expecting a shot of this, baby, you need to bring your own glass.”
Fair dues, she didn’t blink. Vincent stood, said,
“You shouldn’t rile her.”
I waved that nonsense away, asked,
“Your story, you owe me for the drinks, so spill.”
He looked longingly back at the house, as if escape might still be open, but no, I’d stood up, so he sighed, asked,
“A last drink for the road, perhaps?”
I poured, was a wee bit shocked to see how the level of the Jameson had fallen, lit us the remaining cigs, waited.
He said,
“I listen to Joan Armatrading. Dates me, I guess, but her song ‘Guilt’ is the tune of my life. There was one of my parishioners...”