"This time he wasn't nearly as talkative. Just stood there holding up the bar, downing glass after glass of cheap Irish whiskey, crying into his glass. Hard to say, isn't it, which is worse: a talkative drunk or a morose one. The only thing he told me was how he'd let his family, his mother, I think, down. He was a disgrace, really. Smelled bad, and it was not just the booze. Hadn't bathed in days. I just wanted to get rid of him.
"One minute he's got his head on the bar, then, in a flash, he's straightened his back, as if he's reached some resolution, some conclusion, and he staggers off the bar stool and out into the street. I have no idea why I did it, he was so unpleasant, a sixth sense maybe, but I followed him. He walked down to the water and stood for the longest time on the pier, brooding, staring into the water. I was about to pack it in, when suddenly, quick as a wink, he threw himself in. Even in the dim beam from the light at the end of the pier, I could see he couldn't swim. He didn't even try. Just sank like a stone. Well, what was I to do? Just stand there and watch him drown? I went after him."
"Are you saying he couldn't swim, or that he wouldn't?" I interrupted.
"Probably couldn't. A lot of sailors refuse to learn to swim. Figure if they go overboard in the North Atlantic, or somewhere like that, they might as well go straight to the bottom as struggle hopelessly on."
"But you're saying he was trying to kill himself. That it wasn't an accident."
"It was no accident, of that I am certain. It was really hard to find him in the dark, and I can't tell you how heavy he was, but I managed to haul him out. The poor sod was trying to fight me off, but he was too drunk. I dragged him back to a filthy little hotel, him cursing at me-his daughter comes by her choice of language honestly, I must say-put him to bed, and watched over him while he slept. The next day I made him wash, and we had a little chat about life, the one I had from time to time with the young lads on the ship who went somewhat astray, shall we say. We had a terrible row, actually. Somewhat comic, I'd think, in the overall scheme of things, if it wasn't so desperate. Here I was trying to think of reasons why he shouldn't kill himself, and him arguing with me.
"I told him a life was a terrible thing to waste, and he told me his wasn't worth saving. Then I told him he was a coward, doing what he did, no matter what had happened to him. He said it was his life, and up to him what he did with it. I wasn't making too much headway until I noticed he was wearing a small cross around his neck. I told him he'd roast in hell if he died by his own hand. I remember he just looked at me, then said he'd roast in hell for much worse things than that. But it seemed to do the trick. He pulled himself together. In the end, he forgave me for saving him, I guess. He said something to the effect that it wasn't my fault because a man could only go when he was called, and that he hadn't been called that day in Singapore. Nice fatalistic touch, really, the idea that your day of death is preordained. Superstitious people, the Irish, in many ways."
"No hint of what he'd done that was so terrible, then?" I asked.
"He said he'd broken something actually, although I can't recall what it was."
"Just a minute," I said. "Are you telling me he tried to kill himself because he'd knocked over the family's favorite Royal Doulton figurine, or something?"
"It would be more likely to be the Waterford crystal here in Ireland, don't you think?" Alex smiled. "No, I think it was something more like a taboo. He used a word I didn't recognize, it wasn't English. I wish I could remember it, because someone around here might be able to tell me what it was. Maybe it will come back to me. The memory isn't what it used to be, unfortunately. Old age, I'm afraid."
"It's still better than mine," I replied. "So then what? Obviously you were successful in talking him out of suicide."
"I got him a job as a deckhand, and for the next few months we sailed together. It's backbreaking work, you know, on those ships, but it was what he needed, I guess, and he was a good worker. When we got back to Europe, he took his wages, which he'd managed not to drink, and left the ship. He made me promise I'd never tell anyone about what he called his moment of weakness, and I never have until this very moment. And I don't think I'll tell his family now, quite frankly, even though it doesn't much matter, I suppose, now that he's dead.
"I can't say I really got to know him, we'd never be close friends, and we lost touch soon after. I'd never seen him again until today. If you count that video as seeing him, that is. That and his picture in one of those business magazines about five years ago: he was being touted as a big success in one of those international roundups or whatever they call them. I recognized him, although he looked a whole lot different. To be honest with you, I have no idea why he should remember me in his Will, really. I did very little for him, and I certainly wasn't expecting to be given anything when he died."
"He said you'd refused compensation before," I said.
"He sent me a letter about ten years after we'd parted company with a check for ten thousand Irish punt in it-his fortunes had clearly improved over the intervening years-but no return address. I never cashed it. There was no reason for him to do that, really."
"It makes perfect sense to me," I said. "As he said, you gave him a second chance. He even named his house and property Second Chance, didn't he? It was an important moment, a watershed of some sort in his life." Alex shrugged. "I wonder where this Rose Cottage of yours is," I added. "I hope it's nice."
At this moment Michael Davis hove into view. "I didn't find Breeta," he said. "I looked everywhere. What'll we do?"
Michael's news required a major consultation on the part of Tweedledum and Tweedledee, but in the end they opted to proceed with the reading of the Last Will and Testament of Eamon O'Neill Byrne of County Kerry, Ireland. There were no surprises, except perhaps to learn that both Deirdre and John had two names, like tne rest of us: Flood in Deirdre's case, Deirdre Flood, and Herlihy in the case of John. Michael Davis looked suitably grateful for the gift Eamon had bestowed upon him, John Herlihy surreptitiously poured himself a congratulatory drink from a crystal decanter on a side table, and even Deirdre of the Sorrows showed something akin to a small smile when she heard what she would get. They were reasonably generous sums, Deirdre's not being as large as John's, which I took to mean she had joined the staff at Second Chance rather later than he had. The lawyer for Padraig Gilhooly sat stone-faced through the whole affair, and shoulders stiffened once again when Tweedledee came to the part about Alex and Rose Cottage. The sons-in-law squirmed with pleasure when their wives' inheritance of Byrne Enterprises was confirmed and Margaret looked suitably shocked, as her husband had predicted, by the mere pittance, though plenty by most standards, that he'd left her. There were the usual puts and takes: an unbelievably complicated formula on how, if any of them died, where the remaining funds were to go, and so on. I confess I didn't pay much attention.
Then came the moment, considered unorthodox even by Byrne himself, when the two lawyers went about the room handing all those named in the Will, an envelope with their names on it scrawled in a shaky hand: Eamon Byrne's, no doubt, written with one last dying effort. Margaret got one, as did both Eithne and Fion-uala, and also, surprisingly, since this was to have been a family exercise, Alex, Michael, and Padraig Gil-hooly's lawyer. Only one envelope remained unclaimed: Breeta's, since she wasn't there to receive it. Tweedledum took that one and, with fanfare, locked it in the safe in the wall of Byrne's office.
Everyone sat looking at their envelopes, nice creamy linen ones with the initials EONB embossed on the flap, as if opening them might set off a letter bomb. All except Alex that is. He opened his immediately and stood up. "I'm not sure I approve of this," he said, "but, in the interests of getting it over with, mine says T am the sea-swell.' "