“I didn’t mean...”
I took her hand in my right one, said,
“I know you didn’t. Where is he? What happened?”
“It was a hit and run. They say he died instantaneously.”
“How do they know?”
On the third floor a doctor and two gardai. The doctor asked,
“Are you family?”
“I dunno.”
The gardai exchanged a look. I asked,
“Can I see him?”
The doctor looked at Ann, said,
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Do I know you?”
He shook his head and I continued,
“That’s what I thought, so how the hell would you know?”
One of the gardai said,
“Hey.”
The doctor said,
“Come with me.”
He led me down the corridor, stopped in a doorway, said,
“Prepare yourself. We haven’t had a chance to really clean him up.”
I didn’t answer.
Curtains had been pulled round a bed. The doctor gave me one final glance then pulled the curtain, said,
“I’ll leave you alone.”
Sean was lying on his back, heavy bruising covered his forehead. Gashes ran along his face. His trousers were torn and a bony knee protruded. He was wearing a navy sweater I’d given him for Christmas. It was soiled.
I leant over him and to my horror, my tears fell on his forehead. I tried to brush them off. Then I kissed his brow and said,
“I’m not drinking, isn’t that great?”
You live your life
of cold hellos
and I
being poorer
live for nothing, nothing at all.
Ann persuaded me to have my hand seen to. I got a fresh plaster and a bolloking. The nurse snapped,
“Stop breaking those fingers.”
Which was definitely cutting to the chase. Ann wanted to come home with me, but I persuaded her I needed some time alone. I said,
“I’m not going to drink.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“I owe it to Sean.”
“You owe it to yourself.”
Argue that. I didn’t.
I’d wrangled some painkillers. Strict instructions to only take two daily. When I got home, I popped three. In jig time I was floating. A feeling of mellow detachment. I got into bed with a working smile. Whatever I was dreaming, I was liking it.
A tugging at my shoulder dragged me reluctantly awake. Sutton stood over the bed, saying,
“Man, you were gone.”
“Sutton, what the... how the hell did you get in?”
Even in the darkness, I could decipher the smile. He said,
“You know me, Jack, I can get in anywhere. Here, I made us some coffee.”
I sat up and he pushed a mug at me. Raised it to lips and smelt the brandy. I shouted,
“What the hell is this? You’ve spiked it.”
“Just to help the shock. I am so sorry about Sean.”
I pushed the coffee away, got out of bed and pulled jeans on. Sutton said,
“I’ll wait in the other room.”
In the bathroom, I checked the mirror. My pupils were pin points. Shuddered as I thought, “What if I’d lashed brandy down on that?”
Put my head under the cold tap and let the water gush. It helped, the grogginess eased. Went out to Sutton, asked,
“When did you hear?”
“Only a little while ago. I found a place to live and was preoccupied with moving in. Sorry, Jack, I’d have been here sooner.”
“Where’s your place?”
“You know the hills above the Sky Road?”
“Vaguely.”
“An American had a huge warehouse of a thing there. But the weather got to him. I took a year’s lease. You want to come share?”
“What? No... I mean... no, thanks... I’m a city boy.”
I noticed a stone bottle on my press, asked,
“What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s mine. It’s Genever, Dutch gin. I’ll bring it with me when I go. I just wanted to check you were OK. I know what Sean meant to you.”
“Means!”
“Whatever.”
We talked for a while about Sean. Sutton said,
“You really loved... love that old codger.”
Then he stood up, said,
“I better head. If there’s anything I can do, you got it... understand? I’m here for you, buddy.” I nodded.
A few minutes later, I could hear him pull away. I stayed sitting for the next half hour. My head down, my mind near blank. Slowly, I turned round and focused on the stone bottle. I could swear it moved. Moved towards me. I said aloud,
“Thank Christ, I don’t need that.”
Began to wonder what it smelled like. Went over and picked up the bottle. Heavy. Unscrewed the top and took a whiff. Wow, like grain alcohol. Put the bottle back down, without the cap, said,
“Let it breath... or is that wine?’
Went into the kitchen, figured a tea with tons of sugar would be good. A voice in the back of my mind tried to say,
“You’re in the zone.”
I shut it down. Opened the cupboard and there was the Roches glass. I said,
“No way, José,” and let it crash into the sink. Didn’t break, and I said, “You stubborn bastard.”
Got a hammer and pounded it to smithereens. A piece of flying glass cut my left eyebrow. I threw the hammer in the sink and went back to the other room. Walked over, took the gin and drank from the neck.
“Top of the world, Ma!”
James Cagney, White Heat
To keep the account balanced, I should mention my mother, Ann had said,
“You talk about your father a lot. I know you think about him all the time, but you never say anything about your mother.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
Terse.
My father highly rated Henry James. It was an unlikely choice. A man, working on the railway in the West of Ireland reading an American from a totally different world. He said,
“James seems so polished and stylish, but beneath there lurks...”
He didn’t finish. That “lurks” was enticement enough to a child of darkness.
In What Maisie Knew, the nine-year-old child says,
“I don’t think my mother cares much for me.”
I knew my mother didn’t have a lot of grá... for anyone. Least of all me. She is the very worst of things, a snob, and she’s from Leitrim! Nothing and nobody ever measured up. Probably not even herself. Deep down, I might understand she’s a desperately unhappy person, but I could care less.
A mouth on her.
Not a nag, a demolition expert.
Chip
Chip
Chip
away at you. Slowly eroding confidence and esteem. Her rant to me,
“You’ll come to nothing like your father.”
“How the mighty have fallen.”
This! From Leitrim.
No wonder I drank.
“Your father’s a small man, in a small uniform, with a small job.”
As a child, I was afraid of her. Later, I hated her. In my twenties I despised her and now, I ignore her.
Over the past five years, I’d seen her maybe twice. Both disasters.
At some stage, she fell over Valium, and for a time she simply fell over. Took the edge offa that mouth. After that, it was a tonic wine. Mugs of the stuff. So, she’d always a buzz going.
She loved priests.
I’m going to put it on her headstone. Tells all you’d need to know. Nuns, of course, also like priests but it’s mandatory. Built into their contract.
My mother always had a tame cleric in tow. Word was, the most current was Fr Malachy. He, of the Major cigarettes. She was, too, a regular churchgoer, sodality supporter, novena groupie. Times I’d seen her wear a brown scapular outside a blouse. A heavy hitter.