The day came when he was finally released and he had to face the warden for the obligatory pep talk.
He had his bag of meager possessions, the grand sum of twenty euros from his brief stint working in the mail room.
The warden, sitting behind a massive pine desk, said,
“So, you’re to be a free man.”
Stewart toyed with the Zen idea of saying,
“No man is free who thinks thus.”
But thought,
“Fuck it.”
Said,
“Yes, I am.”
He knew he was supposed to utter,
“Sir.”
But he’d served every day of his time so he didn’t have to do shit.
The warden didn’t like it, asked,
“You passed up every chance of a parole hearing, time off for good behavior. You want to share with me why that was?”
Stewart said,
“No, not really.”
The warden was close to apoplexy, said,
“I could have you here for some more time if I wished. You are aware of that?”
Stewart said,
“Of course, and if you do, I’ll be obliged to divulge the young kids you personally entertain.”
The warden, on his feet, his face red and bulging from temper, shouted,
“You’ll be back and trust me, I’ll see to it that you have my personal attention next time.”
Stewart gave what was to become his personal trademark, a languid smile, said,
“I very much doubt that and I’d like to give you something to remember me by.”
The warden was again perplexed, said,
“I think I’ll remember you.”
Stewart turned to leave. He was now free. Threw a tiny package on the pine desk, said,
“Relish.”
It was much later in the evening, a few Jamesons to the wind, when the warden finally opened the package, his hands trembling slightly, and out tumbled a scrap of toilet paper, with these words: “What you don’t see with your eyes, don’t witness with your mouth.”
Ridge was sobbing. Stewart moved to her, put his arm round her, said,
“I know some people, I’ll have them keep watch on Anthony.” Stewart wasn’t much of a drinker but he kept booze in the house. Never knew, Jack might arrive. He went to the kitchen, poured a sizable glass of Jameson and added sugar, for the shock, brought it back to her, and literally held it to her lips and waited till a sizable dent had been put in it.
Waited.
He had, of course, every drug known to man but he needed her to have the trauma eased and fast.
Finally, she composed herself, said,
“I’m not as tough as I thought.”
He smiled, said,
“None of us are.”
Then added,
“It’s not about toughness, it’s about strength.”
She asked,
“Zen?”
“No, just the truth.”
She averted her eyes from the carnage on the table, said,
“They’re like ghosts in the wind. We’ll never find them.”
Stewart, fighting like a dervish not to let his simmering anger show, said,
“They’ve made two major mistakes. The first was setting down a pattern that we can trace.”
She waited, then had to ask,
“The second?”
“Not killing Jack when they had the chance.”
From the place
Term
Vulnerable.
– Romanian saying
I had the usual professionals come and, as the Americans say, visit. They had the obligatory psychologist who, I shit thee not, said,
“This will require a period of readjustment.”
I was like a bastard, they’d cut back on my painkillers. I asked,
“For us both?”
He’d obviously been clued in as to what I was like, gave that tolerant smile, said,
“Anger is part of the process.”
So I said,
“Then you won’t be surprised at my next line.”
He continued with that emphatic smile, asked,
“Yes?”
“Fuck off.”
Was he delighted?
Yeah, I think so.
He continued in that soothing tone they use for Musak interludes,
“You’ve been through a traumatic experience and time is needed.. .”
I cut him off, asked,
“How would you know?”
He had doe eyes, and a mop of hair that he continually flicked back, annoying the hell out of me. He said,
“Believe me, Mr. Taylor, I’ve worked in this field for many years.” I asked,
“They’ve a field for Stanley knives?”
Lost him for a sec but he rallied,
“We have many modules for coming to terms with such events.”
I said,
“Cutting your balls off, which module would that come under?”
He stared at me. I continued,
“That’s what I thought they were going to do.”
He stood up, said,
“Perhaps another day when you’re less…”
He reached for the euphemistic adjective, settled for,
“Stressed.”
I sat up in the bed, asked,
“What’s your name again?”
Like I could give a flying fuck.
He said,
“Dr. Ryan.”
I held up my bandaged right hand, said,
“See this? They sliced off my fingers. How many days you figure for me to de-stress every time I look at it?”
He fucked off.
Next up was the woman who spoke about the wonderful strides in artificial aids. I let her yammer on and she took my silence for interest, finally wound down, asked,
“Which appendage do you think you might most be interested in?”
I said,
“The one that allows me to swing a hurley.”
Threw her. She said,
“I don’t follow?”
But I felt she was truly trying to help, so I went easy.
Well, easier, said,
“I’ll get back to you.”
The nurses liked me.
Actually that’s a lie.
One did.
She enjoyed the runaround I gave the highfalutin consultants, said,
“You’re a terrible man.”
I agreed.
She had some edge so I liked her, anything to get away from the freaking platitudes I’d been listening to. She said,
“You’re fierce cranky.”
I said,
“Give me a few shots of Jameson, I’m a teddy bear.”
She had a great laugh. I love women who laugh with their whole body, not worried if their mascara will run. She said,
“From the look of you, I’d say you’ve had your fair share of that devil.”
Any mention of the devil tended to quiet me: too many bad memories of an individual who might/might not have been the Antichrist in person.
Any further discussion was deferred when she said,
“You have a visitor.”
Caz, a Romanian who managed to avoid the periodic roundup of nonnationals for deportation. Ten years he’d been in Galway and had learned, as Louis MacNeice wrote,
“…all the sly cunning of our race.”
And I figure he was no slouch to begin with. He’d even acquired a passable Galway accent and was more native than a Claddagh ring. I never knew if we were friends. He was too elusive but we’d known each other a long time and had an arrangement: I’d give, he’d take.
But he was one of the most reliable sources of gossip in a city that thrived on stories. Add to that, he worked with the Garda as an interpreter for the Romanian community, so he had the ear of the powers that be, sort of. True, he was as trustworthy as the eels that swam in the canal, but I liked him.
Mostly.
He was dressed in a Boss leather jacket. I know that item as my surrogate son had once given me one. Both were gone.
A white sweatshirt with the logo
“Don’t Sweat It.”
He said,
“I’m sorry about what happened to you Jack.”
“Thanks.”
He reached in the fine jacket, said,
“I brought you something.”
Now I sat up, this was a first, said,
“If it’s fucking grapes, I’ll strangle you with the fingers I’ve left.”
He produced a half bottle of Jay, checked the door, handed it to me, and to my left hand. I said,