I figured eco-warriors, do-gooders of all hue were among the throng.
A huge banner proclaimed,
SAVE THE AMAZON RAIN FOREST.
A smaller one behind near whispered,
LET’S SAVE THE CHURCH ROOF FIRST!
I asked myself,
How the fuck do I find Sara in there, if she’s there?
Then I reassured myself.
She is drawn to crowds, needs a miracle, is fatally attracted to the glitz of a show, has the supreme arrogance of a predator who has never been stopped.
I went down to the church, managed to get past the crowds, saw the statue of Saint Patrick. The infamous crook was indeed ancient and the years had whittled away the tip so it resembled a spear more than anything else.
I thought I should maybe say a prayer but instead
I swore,
“Let’s see about that bitch.”
Most of the day I mingled among the ever increasing throngs of people.
Spotted two men.
I figured they were Monsignor Rael’s goons/priests/hatchet guys. Near the fall of evening, as time for the Mass drew near, I saw Rael directing his team to spread out. He barked orders to the poor old parish priest, who seemed bewildered by so many people.
Then I saw a woman with a young boy in tow. I managed to get near her without her seeing me. She now had blonde hair, was dressed in some type of kaftan with dark jeans. She flicked her hair and I saw it.
The image of a cross burned into her neck below her left jaw and, shining in the late afternoon sun, a glint of gold — my daughter’s miraculous medal.
The Mass was beginning and she hurried to the church, pulling the boy.
She entered the church. I was close behind. At the stairs, a sign warned:
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MOUNT HERE. ROOF UNSAFE.
She flung the sign aside, hurried up, dragging the boy.
On the roof, she bent down, checked that the sky was dark, began to assemble her Guatemalan trick: blue light, cheap theatrics. She was intent on that, the boy near dozing at her side; doped, I figured.
I said,
“The show has been canceled.”
She leaped back, stunned to be caught, drew in a breath, pulled out the serrated blade, spat,
“You.”
I moved forward and she ran at me, spittle running from her mouth. The roof cracked, shuddered, and for a brief moment she was suspended in air where the portion of roof had been, then she fell, emitting a howl like all the anguished rage of hell.
I stood stock-still for a moment, then went to the boy, took his hand, gently, carefully took him down the stairs. He asked,
“Is she gone?”
I said,
“Yes.”
His eyes sunk in his small head for a moment, then he said,
“Good.”
The fall through the roof she might have perhaps survived but she’d landed on Saint Patrick, or rather his crook, been impaled. Her head was thrown back, her face almost gentle in death.
I handed the boy off to Rael’s men, went back to Sara’s body, Rael beside me. I reached over, snapped the gold medal from around her neck. Rael cautioned,
“That might be evidence.”
I said,
“No, it’s my daughter’s.”
He stared at the statue of Saint Patrick, then at Sara’s left arm, which was thrown out from her. The cobra in that position seemed to have shriveled. Rael looked back at the saint, the saint who’d rid us of serpents, said,
“That’s some irony.”
I said,
“More like an epiphany.”
I was drinking from my flask, watched as Rael summoned a car to take the boy away. He caught my look, said,
“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”
Like a boy handed over to the clergy was in any way fine.
Rael saw my doubt, said,
“He’ll be given a good home. I’ll even send you the address when he’s settled.”
I accepted that bogus lie. Where could I take him?
Rael asked,
“You couldn’t have taken her alive?”
I looked him straight in the eye, said,
“No.”
As they were about to put the boy in the car I took off the green bracelet, handed it to him. He dropped it, spat on it, crushed it under his foot, said something I didn’t understand. Rael looked to one of his men, who translated,
“He says magic is shit.”
Back home, exhausted; if I’d been more sensitive I’d have cried me a river.
Instead I poured a large Jameson, downed a Valium, chased it with a Xanax (yeah, utter madness, but after the day of Sara what was sanity anymore?), then I lit a cig, read a poem by Kevin Higgins,
“The Reckoning.”
Marked this:
My lungs are two talentless divas
Competing with each other for newspaper headlines
May everyone be arrested without warrant?
And made plead
Because my bill for life is on the mat
My lungs are rooms in which the yellow wallpaper is slowly falling down
My hates have come to get me
How apt would be “my hates have come to get me”?
The combination of speed, dope, booze didn’t knock me out. Rather it took me out, out my front door and into town. I felt the desperate need of human contact.
What I got was Hayden.
The Hayden Epiphany
Hayden the crime writer.
“The mid-list guy.”
As he so often said,
“Which means,
“I don’t sell but do get some decent reviews and what they call honorable mention. If you see a collection of crime stories edited by a big name, they’ll put the famous ones on the cover and add ‘including others,’ like the fluff tracks you find on an album with two big hits and eight duds.”
He was, in most ways, an enigma. I’d said that to him and he near laughed, said,
“Right, I’m a half-arsed fact disguised as a dark rumor.”
If I liked him, he tolerated me, like you would the last decade of a rosary you have to recite or get your knuckles walloped.
I met him outside Garavan’s. He was dressed in his customary battered leather jacket, boot-cut jeans, trainers, and a T-shirt that was faded but still legible.
It read,
“Sorry
Me
Hole”
Have to be Irish to get the full lash/flavor of that.
Refers to a heroic man who confronted a fly tipper, videoed him dumping a rotten mattress, and the guy, realizing he was being filmed, said, Sorry.
Our hero answered with the above logo. It went on a T-shirt and went viral.
Hayden said,
“Lemme buy you that drink I keep promising.”
We grabbed the snug in the pub, ordered boilermakers, and, as the young guns say,
“Chilled.”
He began after we knocked the heads off perfect creamy pints.
“I’ve been reading like a reconnaissance fighter, reading
Joan Didion.
Marianne Moore.
Eudora Welty.
Charlie Byrne’s is my vital support system.
Vinny, the star, gave me The Enneagram, a method of understanding your own self.”
He paused, took a shot of the Jay, continued,
“Turns out I’m ‘the Mediator.’ The opening paragraph described how this type of child who, ignored by all, shuts down, falls asleep, knowing he matters little to others, especially in their family. They numb themselves.”