Headstone (12 page)

Which is one way of seeing it, I suppose.

I might have phrased it a little more heatedly.

I kept hoping, praying, that somehow, in some wild

flight of a miracle, Laura would write to me, and I

could then try, try to explain to her what happened.

No letter.

I wasn’t to know, she did write.

Her letter lay, among the pizza offers,

announcements of mega wins on the Spanish

Lottery, and bills from the telephone company and

other utilities.

There are lines from the insane prose poem

“Literary Heroine,” that go

“I swear I’d have read your letter dying,

But alas, it was lost, among the debris of the slow

and lying.

It’s the reason why your letter and my life, so

softly

Slip away

Un-noticed least by me.”

After he was gone, as my eyes closed, the nurse

asked,

“Is he your son?”

Ah, for fuck’s sake.

Before I could rise to indignation, she said,

“Good-looking lad.”

Then in that blunt way that Irishwomen have, she

asked,

“Is he married?”

I was messed up enough to lie that he was gay, or

say he was married, but I went with,

“I’ll put in the word for you.”

She beamed, said,

“And I’ll get you a sleeping pill this evening.”

Trade-off?

I’m not afraid of dying, but I’m

absolutely

terrified of dying with a pink teddy

bear.

—Barbara Ehrenreich,
Smile or Die

Ridge was sick to her soul at what had happened to

Jack. Stewart had told her as gently as he could but

there isn’t really a way to soften the severance of

fingers. He told her, too, about Laura, and Ridge

wept. She had so thought that, just maybe, Jack

might be happy. Recently, she’d had a checkup and

mammogram to see how she was doing after the

radical mastectomy. She loved the book by

Barbara Ehrenreich on positive thinking and the

so-called PC brigade who waxed fucking lyrical

about the positive aspects of cancer. The do-

gooders who saw cancer as a makeover

opportunity. Barbara was her new hero. Anyone

who could write that being down, being angry

about your illness, meant instant pariah status.

All the pink ribbons, pink freaking badges, made

her so furious. Now at last, here was a writer who

could say that those who preached cancer sufferers

could be cured by developing the right attitude, as

they peddled shitloads of pink garbage, books,

DVDs, T-shirts, added insult to life-threatening

injury.

She fingered her gold miraculous medal round her

neck, given to her by her late mother. God, she had

adored her mother. A strong woman who, as she

lay dying, said,

“Alanna, don’t put me in a hospice.”

She didn’t.

Allowed her the dignity of dying at home. Her

mother had fought alcoholism and every other

battle in a poor family’s life.

She had, as they say,

“A hard death.”

Near the end, she had gripped Ridge’s hand,

whispered,

“Be beholden to no man.”

In light of Ridge’s sexual orientation, this seemed

unlikely but, working as a Ban Garda, she had to

eat a shit sandwich every day from men. Despite

Jack’s numerous flaws, faults, Ridge felt her

mother would have liked him, would have said

perhaps,

“He has a good heart.”

As for Ridge’s marriage, she didn’t want to think

what her mother would make of that.

Not much.

And Ridge knew for certain she would have

described Anthony as “A poor excuse of a man.”

She read on. Stewart was upstairs, doing Zen

exercises, no doubt. He was just finishing up his

regimen as it happened. Took a moment to dwell

on Ridge. He was quite stunned at how well they

lived together. He’d been so long on his own, he

was, as the old people say,

“Set in his ways.”

But she blended right in. Was fine company, knew

when to talk and when silence was the best

communication. He finally had an eager student of

Zen and, in return, she was demonstrating her

kickboxing routines to him. He admired her

litheness and her ferocious passion to heal her

body and make it strong again. He didn’t ask how

long she intended to stay as he really didn’t care.

He’d miss her if she suddenly left, that he knew.

He’d met her husband a few times and found him to

b e
an empty vessel
. Stewart, like Jack, didn’t

really do friends, but he would put his life on the

line for either one and had. He was selecting some

casual gear. His casual gear was all top of the

range. He opted for Japanese jeans—read, small

fortune—his Ked trainers, and a silk T-shirt. He

heard the post come through the letter box. Ridge

shouted,

“I got it.”

He was dressed, ready to move, when he heard her

scream. He rushed down the stairs. Ridge, sitting

on the couch, was ashen. The remnants of an open

parcel before her. A small wooden box in the

center of the package. He picked it up and

recoiled.

Two severed fingers.

Ridge stared at him, her eyes wide from shock.

Then she indicated a pristine white card. He

picked it up, read,

Garda Ni Iomaire

A touch of Taylor for you so you can, dare we

say, finger yourself.

Nice display of the martial arts the other

evening. Perhaps we can sever your legs

when we take you next time. Send a leg to

your husband, let him have a piece of meat,

too.

Oh, what a gay delight.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Headstone.

Ridge buried her head in her hands.

Stewart, for the first time since the awful day he’d

been sent to prison, wanted to bury his head in the

sand.

He’d been about as ill prepared for jail as is

possible. Who is prepared?

But some adapt fast and learn the basic rule of

survival.

Eat or be eaten.

That day in the prison van, the paddy wagon they

called it, manacled to some thug who’d raped a

young girl, the judge’s sentence ringing in his ears:

“Six years.”

Stewart had been a designer dope dealer,

believing, well, kind of believing, that he was a

different sort of entrepreneur.

Yeah.

Had bought his own scummy act, just supplying

what the people wanted and had his rules.

Jesus.

Like that made it different.

He didn’t deal in heroin. As if all the other shite he

peddled wasn’t lethal. How he met Jack Taylor,

one of his regulars. He knew he was in deep and

deepest shit when during process, the guard said,

“Pretty boy, I give you a week before you top

yourself.”

And the thug he’d been manacled to, giggling,

“They’ll run the train on you, nancy boy.”

He learnt fast that the train was serial rape and the

train ran all the long day. He took some severe

beatings, which in a bizarre way stopped him from

suicide.

Who had the time?

They’re kicking the living hell out of you at every

moment, who had the energy to kill themselves?

He’d have gone under, no doubt, just wrapped his

neck in those wet sheets and let it swing. Then, his

sister was murdered.

And everything changed.

Stewart didn’t know then about love but he did

know he adored his sister. It was like a click in his

head, the warden telling him,

“Your sister killed herself, probably so ashamed

of you.”

He didn’t go after the warden. He went to the yard,

walked up to the train head honcho, said,

“Any last words?”

The guy and his crew laughed, laughed a lot. Here

was this yuppie, wannabe player, giving them

cheek. The guy spat on Stewart’s prison-issue

sneakers, said,

“You going to off me, that it, yah little queer?”

Stewart wondered why they not only aped

American gangsters but spoke like them, too.

Stewart glanced around at this guy’s crew, said in

a calm level voice,

“I’m going to kill him now, then, day by day, I’m

going to kill each and every one of you.”

The laughter had eased a bit, this wasn’t your

everyday occurrence, a nerd not only called out the

most dangerous guy on the yard but threatened his

whole team.

The guy, his smirk less smirksome, asked,

“What you got homie, beside your head up your

arse?”

Stewart used the palm of his right hand to slam the

guy’s nose all the way to his brain. Killed him

stone dead, turned, said,

“One down……….”

No recriminations, no payback. The warden

figured if the worst guy in the prison got taken care

of,

good.

Then he waited in his cell for hell or Armageddon.

He was the most lethal kind of man now. He just

didn’t care, and that vibe leaked its way to the

crew who were clamoring for his head.

Day One………..threats.

Day Two…………silence.

The third day, a guy appeared in his cell, said,

“Enough.”

Stewart, working on marine exercises he’d found

on the Internet, paused, asked,

“Is it?”

The guy was nervous, they’d never come across

such a case. How do you deal with a man who

truly doesn’t care? He tried,

“We want to call a truce, nobody will bother you

and, if you like, we’d be glad to have your back.”

Stewart wanted to shout,

“Stop with the pseudo-American. You fucks tried

to have my back all right.”

He said,

“I’ll give it some thought.”

And so began his Zen education.

He devoured everything he could on the subject

and then got in touch with Jack Taylor. The

broken-down PI solved his sister’s murder. For

that, Stewart would always be in his debt. In a

hugely overpopulated prison system, Stewart

remained solo. No one, not one con, would cell

with him. He got a makeshift desk, hung above it

the following:

“………………..In the hour of adversity

be not afraid

for

Crystal Rain falls

from

Black Clouds.”

He worked out every day.

Hard.

Till his body screamed,

“Enough.”

Then he worked it some more.

Devouring Zen like a famished peasant, he no

longer thought in terms of the six years he’d serve.

He thought only of discipline.

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.”