And
Sidney Sheldon, The Other Side of Midnight.
He’d never admit it, his arrogance and intellectual contempt would not allow it, but he did once sneak a peek at the Sheldon, muttered,
“A precursor to the era of Kardashians.”
His mantra was simple:
Burn everything.
What did burn was his intelligence. And with it rode contempt. He learned early to adopt a facade of acceptance so he could blend in.
He was fascinated by the concept of love.
He heard mutterings,
I love you
Love to
Love always
And was truly baffled.
Now hate, it felt real, set you afire, and even the very expression
I hate you
Shocked in its simplicity.
He had a twisted sense of the absurd, liked to say,
“Ah, love, what’s not to hate?”
His favorite expression, the one that really got him, was
“I love you to death.”
Ah, bliss.
He could nearly grasp it.
Nearly.
He’d studied to become an accountant. Figures were feelings-free, no emotion attached. Then he met Alison. She was no beauty but she gave him camouflage, until,
Until,
She said, after a few short weeks,
“We’re done.”
Instant rage, brimming under a tight icy politeness as he asked,
“Why?”
She smoked the odd cigarette, especially when she was nervous, and had the habit of using long matches, as if she had to keep the flame at a distance.
She said,
“You don’t set me alight.”
Three weeks later, the dorm she lived in was burned to the ground. Alison and two other girls didn’t survive.
Benjamin bought a box of long matches after the funerals.
Nonsafety brand.
There was once in the country of Alifay.
A sad city.
The saddest of cities.
A city so ruinously sad.
It had forgotten its name.
I was finally leaving the hospital. All the tests had been done and the doctor continued to express his astonishment.
He advised me to
Take things easy.
I looked at him, asked,
“You ever hear of the singer Iris DeMent?”
He hadn’t.
I said,
“She has a song that says, easy’s gettin’ harder every day.”
He considered that, said,
“I actually think I understand.”
The nurse looked in, said,
“There’s a priest here to see you.”
Even the doctor smiled as I said,
“Tell him he’s too late, I didn’t die.”
Malachy burst into the room, looking tired, irritable, and very unholy.
He accused,
“You’re all right?”
The doctor wisely slipped away. I said,
“Sorry to disappoint.”
He was genuinely puzzled, went,
“But a Mack truck hit you.”
I asked,
“You haven’t heard about my miracle?”
Not impressed, he said,
“The luck of the very devil.”
I asked,
“Are you the bishop yet?”
He looked like a child whose toy has been stolen, said,
“They’re going with some other bollix.”
I tried not to smile, said,
“Least you’ve accepted the decision with grace.”
He didn’t seem to hear, said,
“I wanted that gig.”
Then, snapping back to his usual surliness, said,
“They’ve sent a hatchet guy from Rome.”
Now I was amused, asked,
“To silence you?”
He stared at me, said,
“The reason I’m here, I was sent to arrange a meeting with him for you.”
“No,”
I said.
He was kind of delighted but said,
“He’s from Rome.”
I said,
“Look at me. Do I look like I give a fuck.”
He was seriously glad, offered,
“They don’t take no as an answer, it’s not Church policy.”
In there was a hint of fear. I said,
“If they make you bishop, I’ll maybe meet him.”
He stood for a moment, said,
“This is the first time I think I’ve ever liked you.”
My apartment had that forlorn look that a place gets when no one has been there for months.
It had the look of a sad place in a sad city at a sad time.
I had brought the essentials on my way.
Bottle of Jay.
Twelve-pack.
I opened all the windows, let the wind of Galway Bay shoo out the bad memories, though it would need to be a ferocious one to accomplish that.
My body was weak from six weeks in hospital so I’d resolved on fierce long walks to rebuild. I looked round and the whole atmosphere was forlorn, a fitting epithet for my life. I shook myself, made a strong black coffee, added a hint of Jay, muttered,
“Get a grip.”
In a moment of industry I sat down, dealt with the bills, and even had some money left when they were done. The one thing I had always held on to, my Garda all-weather coat, had been left at the home of Maeve the nun, only a few hours before she was murdered.
She had given me the gift of a navy wax Barbour coat. It had disappeared after the truck ran me over. I wasn’t too sorry, but how could I wear it when it was a constant reminder of Maeve?
There was an old pea jacket I could use for the time being. I put that on over an Aran sweater, a Galway United scarf and watch cap, then headed out to begin my rehabilitation.
The end of January, it was bitter cold but I killed it, walked from the diving boards at Blackrock, along the prom, down Grattan Road.
It was a comfort to have the ocean on my right during the walk: I have always found a deep yearning from the sea, but yearning for what?
Fuck knows.
The locals I met seemed to sing from the same hymn sheet, like this:
“You’re alive!”
Or
“You’re a miracle.”
Halfway along Grattan Road I stopped in utter dismay.
The famine memorial, where the supposed miracle occurred, was surrounded by tents, not just a few scattered around but hundreds, stretching to the Claddagh, like a mini city.
Banners were proclaiming THE MIRACLE OF GALWAY.
I kept my head down and tried to move past quickly but heard shouts of,
“It’s him.”
Oh, fuck.
People began streaming toward me, wanting to touch me, and I think I heard, I hope to Christ not, “Heal me.”
I was going to be crushed by hysterical piety.
A car pulled up, door thrown open, and a voice urging,
“Get in, for fuck’s sake.”
Owen Daglish, the only remaining friend I had in the Guards. I was barely in when he hit the gas, blew out of there.
He glanced at me, accused,
“You must be out of your mind coming here.”
Indeed.
He drove on past the golf club, found a hotel toward Spiddal, turned in, pulled up, said,
“Let’s get a drink.”
No argument there.
The hotel was quiet; in the bar was a lone female bartender who smiled, said,
“Welcome, gentlemen.”
Owen grunted, not accustomed to civility, ordered,
“Two pints, two Jameson chasers.”
Looked at me, asked,