Jimmy looked up to see Keith Finnegan making the
Wrap it up!
Signal.
Said to Rourke,
“Thank you for coming in, and safe travel.”
Rourke stood, slightly flummoxed, asked,
“Can you validate parking?”
Michael Whelan had been a classmate of mine, back when corporal punishment was a daily reality.
Patrician Brothers were the outfit/teachers.
Semireligious in that, as they weren’t priests, they simmered with massive chips on their collective dandruffy cassocks.
I went on to become a failure in many fields while Michael came first in college in chemistry, no mean feat.
He was the envy of all the kids on our street as he owned a red rocket.
Not the Branson mode but a toy that you actually lit and it fired into the sky and our wistful imaginations.
He was the first person I ran into at the funeral of Jess.
Her blend of
Fame
Infamy
Notoriety
Suicide/murder
Ensured a mega-attendance
From the great, the glorious Galwegians.
Michael said,
“She has drawn a bigger crowd than St. Thérèse will.”
The remains of the saint were due to be processioned through the streets in a few days.
You outdraw a saint in Galway, you’re really something.
I said,
“She was really something.”
I think he thought I meant the saint.
Pat, the young priest who walked point for Malachy, came rushing over.
“Nice,”
I thought.
“He’s going to welcome me.”
If welcome is the apt term for a funeral.
He was red in the face, glared at Michael Whelan, then almost shouted at me,
“You’re barred.”
I gasped,
“From a funeral?”
He did look a little ashamed but not much, said,
“His preeminence says he’ll call the Guards.”
I have been barred from the best
Pubs
Clubs
Weddings
Rotary club
Legion of Mary.
But this...
A new low in a life slowly but with indefinite purpose crawling toward the pit.
Worse, I had the book I bought for Jess in my Garda jacket.
In some mad romantic notion, I’d seen my own self gently toss the book in after the coffin.
I offered the book to Pat, asked,
“Will you hand this to Malachy, with my deepest sympathy?”
He stared with utter scorn at me, said,
“In words his preem might use...”
Pause...
“Shove it up your arse.”
So,
What to do with a book you can’t literally bury.
Give it to a nun.
Sister Maeve. Had been too long since I saw her.
The American term regifting was pretty much my intention and I have to say it’s a neat notion.
You take your unwanted gift / no longer a use for gift, etc. Pass it on.
A. You get rid of the bloody thing.
B. You get gratitude for it.
Pretty much
Win
Win
Or so I believed.
She was delighted to see me, gave me a megahug and, trust me, you get a hug from a nun it’s unlike any other hug,
Ever.
She looked, as always, in her late thirties and I knew her to be nunning toward mid-fifties.
I have used this term before as it kind of belongs in Lives of the Saints.
She had a beatific smile.
Made you feel better than you were or you’d ever be.
Being hugged by a nun is, oddly, both sacred and profane.
Ushered me into the small apartment she used as outrider for the Poor Clares.
I said,
“I brought you a gift, you know, to...”
(Lie, quick.)
“Celebrate the pope’s visit.”
The pope’s visit had the country in a tizzy.
Forty million it was to cost.
Mind you, various sources quoted forty million or at least thirty million, but either way a lot.
Papal merchandise was hot.
In Lidl you could buy lolli-popes.
So, in the U.S., would there be pope-cicles?
The pope’s face was on the front of the lollipop but if you sucked all the way it didn’t sustain; his image evaporated.
I know, there is a blasphemous joke in there somewhere but I’m not seeking it.
The pope would be in the country for twenty-four hours, culminating in Mass at Croke Park.
Now here’s where it gets weird:
Temporary morgues were being arranged as so many pilgrims were expected but—
Big but—
Due to security, snipers on rooftops (I shit thee not), no vehicles were allowed within a ten-mile radius.
Ten!
So elderly folks, along with the other poor bastards, had to walk ten miles just to reach the venue. They might just get there to hear Nathan Carter sing.
More contention:
The most popular priest in the whole country was Father Ray Kelly, whose impromptu singing of “Hallelujah” at a wedding, to the delight and amazement of the congregation and a swooning bride, went viral, over two million hits on YouTube. He appeared on England’s Got Talent with a version of “Everybody Hurts.”
That shook you to your very hurt soul.
He was doing nigh the impossible — restoring people’s faith in a priest.
Would they let him sing for the pope?
Like fuck.
Let’s have the mediocre Carter,
Who mainly tortured “Proud Mary.”
A PR flunkey hired by the Church told the pilgrims to
Train
Plan
Get fit,
As if to climb Croagh Patrick.
It’s our mini-Everest, with religious bonus points, spiritual air miles in a fashion.
Forty or so million for the dignitaries but no buses for the faithful.
Maeve’s apartment was Zen, clean, fresh, and warm, and she produced a bottle of Jack Daniel’s — my fault, as I’d introduced her to Jameson.
So she got the wrong stuff; sue me.
She poured two walloping measures into Galway crystal glasses and then looked oh, so sad, said,
“My father gave me these. He said they would be a great start when I met the right man and got married.”
Fuck, a tiny tear escaped, rolled slowly down one wind-tanned cheek. I rushed,
“But you did.”
Her head snapped up.
“Who?”
I said, as seriously as possible (this was vital),
“The man Himself, Our Lord.”
Good heavens, I sounded like Johnny Cash.
Went with the bourbon, I guess.
She loved that.
“And I got you a gift.”
She handed over a package, a very large bag. I opened it and pulled out what appeared to be a wax jacket.
She purred,
“It’s Barbour. The convent was given a shipment that the stores couldn’t sell.”
A whole other branch of regifting?
The devil was in me, so I said,
“But I have my Garda coat.”
Thick as fuck, right?
She looked crushed, said.
“But that ould coat is falling apart.”
Like my own self.
Others grow old with their husbands/wives.
Me, with a Guard’s coat.
She asked,
“Will you try it?”
I said,
“To tell the truth (always a precursor to a lie) I kind of associate wax jackets with the royal family and toffs massacring pheasants.”
She began to laugh, said,
“You’re a holy terror.”