Purling Road - the Complete Second Season: Episodes 1-10 (21 page)

She refused to acknowledge his teasing, then and now. Her eyes went from him back to the gravy boat.

“I still say we should sell it.”

“No.”

“Fine,” she said, setting it off to the side. “I guess I could always use it for coffee if I run out of clean mugs.”

“We won’t run out. Someone sent us a set of eight,” he said, gesturing to another box in the corner. Muzzy opened it and pulled one out. “These are teacups,” she said, dangling it by one finger as she shifted her weight. “This won’t hold more than three gulps of coffee. Why do people think we want stuff like this? Why can’t they send practical things? Like coffee beans. And paper.”

“Well, I bought you something practical,” he said and slipped out of the room. She knew he would do something like this having overheard him talking to Grace. She writhed in anticipation, worried that her reaction would disappoint him.

He returned and held out a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“A receipt. I bought you a subscription to the New York Times and the Boston Herald. They’ll be delivered to the door. That way, you won’t have to go get them every day. It will save you time.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Peter. That was very sweet. I got you something, too,” she said and reached deep into a lower cupboard. The flat, soft package was wrapped in simple, brown paper. She set it on the table and took a step back. Peter sat down and pulled the package in front of him, making an event out of it.

“Oh, would you just open it already?”

“No, I’ll take my time. This is special. It’s the first gift from my wife.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just open it.”

He tore off the paper. Speechless, eyebrows raised as he held up the dark, blue fabric.

“You bought me an apron?” he asked.

She tried to smile. “Well, you’re always cooking and you didn’t need anything for your motorbike.”

***

Shannon paced the floor chewing on her thumb. She hated fight nights. Hated them more than anything in the world. It was worse now that she had been to one. At the time, she was glad she’d gone with her friends when they came to visit. In hindsight, it was the worst thing she could have ever done because now she had
seen
. She’d witnessed the knocks he took, seen the blood gush from his nose, and watched the spittle fly across the ring. Seen him get hit so hard he fell to his knees and struggled to get back up.

She glanced at the clock. He’d be back in that dimly lit room right now. O’Malley would have him eating honey and bananas. Why those two things, she didn’t know. But it was a ritual with O’Malley. Honey and bananas, before and after. Maybe it was superstition.

The house was quiet. She’d put Aislin and Roan to bed early. Arianna was still working her evening shift at the restaurant, and at the moment, Shannon was glad she wasn’t here. She needed this time alone to think, to pray, to pace, and worry. It was
her
ritual. She hadn’t turned on the radio yet. Every fight she swore she wouldn’t. Every fight she eventually gave in.

She glanced at the clock again. He’d be walking down that long hall right now, stretching his neck to each side, shaking out his arms, blowing out his breath, mentally preparing for what he was about to do.

It was times like this she wanted to move back to Rockport. Sure, the city got on her nerves for other reasons, but right now, she’d give anything for Patrick to have some steady job—any job—a normal job—in that little town, close to their friends. A rented house with a garden. Picnic lunches on the breezy beach. Aislin could play with Jean again. Roan would grow up around Jac and Amy. She would feel like she belonged again, instead of feeling invisible in this big city. And she wouldn’t have to go through this.

She felt so strongly about leaving, she decided yet again to talk to Patrick about going back. Leave behind the better money, the easier life and just go where they could be happy. And where he wouldn’t have to take knocks to pay the bills.

The front door and all the windows were open, but there was no breeze. She felt the stale humid air and the stink of the city closing in around her as a trickle of sweat ran down her spine. She went to the sink, turned on the faucet, and filled a glass with water. She drank it in one long tilt. Gasping, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She just wanted this over with.

She resumed pacing. Roan and Aislin were awake in their room, but quiet. They were such good kids. They knew what their father did for a living and weren’t shocked any more when he came home swollen and bruised. They also knew she worried, became short tempered and down when their father had to go away. She felt like a terrible mother, shoving a simple dinner at them early and sending them to bed without a rinse in the bathtub.

She heard a rousing cheer echoing from across the alley. Walking closer to the window in her bedroom, she heard several people chanting Patrick’s name. That meant he was in the ring now. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and said one last quick prayer. She wanted a cigarette, but didn’t want to go out on the fire escape and risk hearing the fight on the neighbor’s radio. Eventually, she would. For now, she settled for a drink.

In their room, tucked behind her undergarments and nightclothes, she kept a bottle of whiskey. She didn’t get into it every fight. In fact, she only ever drank it with Patrick, right before sending him off. They’d pour a bit, toast, and drink.

She skipped the small glass and took a hearty swig from the bottle and let the burn die down to a comforting warmth before tucking it back neatly into place.

When she went back into the living room, Arianna was walking in. Sweat matted her hair to her temples but surprisingly, she looked happy enough.

“You’re early,” Shannon said. She surprised herself, realizing she was glad she wasn’t alone any more. 

“Business got slow. Everyone’s at the fight. Are you listening to it?”

Shannon shook her head.

“I brought half a pie. They were going to throw it out, so I grabbed it. Apple. It’s a bit runny. I’ll throw it in the icebox.”

Cheers could be heard again from all directions. The fight had started.

“Don’t bother,” Shannon said. “Get two forks and bring it.”

***

Outside, Shannon sat on her bucket, a cigarette wedged between her fingers so tightly it nearly broke in half. Arianna leaned on the railing. Her feet ached from the thankless and hectic job of waiting tables, and she gave up and sat on the hot metal of the fire escape, stretching her legs out in front of her with the pie on her lap. They sweat, but at least they were shaded with the sun so low on the horizon.

They could catch a few words here and there as the radio broadcast echoed through the alley. Shannon caught every mention of Mulligan, but couldn’t tell if it were a good or bad reference. She swung one leg over the other and bounced it, wiping her forehead with a rough swipe.

“This is almost worse than watching it. I wish I never had,” she said. “My imagination is getting the best of me.”

“He’ll be fine, Shannon. He always is. He’s a hell of a fighter.”

“At least you’re counting on it, right?” Shannon tried to smile.

“That reminds me, did you—”

“Yes, I put your money on Patrick. Some of our own as well.”

From every window up and down the alley came a roar and Shannon’s leg stopped mid swing.

“See, he’s winning. You know all your neighbors bet on Patrick.”

The general hum of excitement resumed around them. They smoked, ate pie, and talked about nothing over the distant, tinny voice of the announcer until a collective “
Ohhhhh,
” rose up and then nothing. Silence.

Shannon’s hand shook as she pointed. “Go turn on the radio in my room, quick!”

Arianna turned it as loud as it would go and then hopped back out the window to join Shannon.

“
Mulligan took a hard blow, folks. He’s injured, that much is clear. There’s such a commotion around him. If he’s going to get up, he’d better do it quickly… O’Malley’s in the ring, leaning over him… I can’t hear what he’s saying… I can’t see if… is he… O’Malley’s shaking him… yelling at him… I have never seen Mulligan stay down this long… this could be the end of the fight… we’re waiting to hear from the referee… yes, yes, it’s all over, folks. Mulligan has been defeated by Troy, knocked out in round three. But he put up one hell of a fight for those three rounds, didn’t he—
”

Shannon threw her cigarette over the edge. “Watch the children,” she yelled as she jumped in the window, grabbed her bag, and ran out the door.

***

She knew enough to go to the hospital and ran nearly every step of the way. Red faced and drenched in sweat by the time she got there, she was so out of breath she could barely speak to the receptionist. The receptionist called an orderly, mistaking Shannon’s hand gestures and gasping words for her having sunstroke. They had her slapped in a wheelchair before she could protest and shoving glasses of cool water in her hands as they wheeled her down a hallway. Finally, she caught her breath enough to speak and stuck her foot out to stop the chair.

“My husband. Patrick Mulligan. Where is he?” she gasped.

“Oh, you’re the Irish Tornado's wife?” the orderly asked. “I’m sorry for the confusion. You looked like you’re having an attack.”

“I’m sure I do,” Shannon said breathlessly. “Where is he?”

“Stay put in that chair and catch your breath. I’ll take you to him.” Overheated and exhausted as she was, she relented. The orderly pushed the chair quickly and the breeze, were she in the mind to enjoy it, helped cool her off.

“It’s usually the other way around, you know. We normally treat whoever faced your husband. Hell of a fighter, he is. We were all listening to it. Soon as we heard he went down, we all got ready for him. We’re taking good care of him, don’t you worry.”

The orderly stopped in front of a door. She could hear garbled voices on the other side.

“I’ll go ask if they’ll let you in to see him.”

Before she could get out of the chair and follow, he was through the door, closing it behind him. Shannon waited with much frustration, gulping water, rubbing her hand up and down her thigh. It seemed like an hour before the orderly came back. In reality, it was minutes. He squatted down next to her chair. It was the first time Shannon had gotten a good look at him. He was much older than his voice, far older than she expected. In different attire, he’d likely be mistaken for a doctor close to retirement. She didn’t like the way he dropped his voice, gentle and quiet.

“It’s going to be just a little while, Mrs. Mulligan. They’re fixing him up right now.”

“Fixing him up?” she asked, her face stone straight in her worry.

“A few stitches on his face, and his shoulder is badly dislocated.”

She bit her lip hard. The pain kept her from crying. “Is he awake?”

The orderly shook his head. “He’s still unconscious.”

***

She paced the hall for forty-five minutes, cursing under her breath. At the heat, at the amount of time the doctor was taking, at Patrick’s stubbornness. At life.

It was always this way. You get on a good streak, things are going well, the boot is lifted off your neck just enough so you can breathe, only to have it rear back and kick you.

His winning streak had flooded him with confidence. He’d entered that space in his mind where he believed he was invincible. Shannon listened, smiled, nodded, and agreed. Deep down, she feared the fall. No winning streak lasted forever.

Her eyes were fixed on the door that refused to open. His shoulder injury, depending on how bad it was, could end it for him. Boxing careers had ended for less. Part of her hoped it would. At least, he’d be out for a few months healing. They had savings. She wasn’t worried about that. In fact, she’d saved more than he knew they had. She was frugal, always worried for something like this. He was eager to spoil his family with things they’d gone without for so long. So she saved behind his back far more than what they’d agreed to put away.

Finally, the door opened. The doctor waved her in. The curtain was drawn so she could only see his legs. A few nurses went about the room, cleaning up. One passed by her with a basin of bloody bandages.

“We managed to get the shoulder back in place,” the doctor said.

Shannon looked at him, owlishly. Finally, she nodded. “That’s good.”

“He’s stitched and cleaned. Only he hasn’t opened his eyes yet.”

“When do you think…”

“It’s impossible to tell.”

With a hard nod, she walked toward the bed and drew back the curtain. Much to her surprise, O’Malley was sitting at Patrick’s bedside, head bent in prayer.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a breath.

He jerked his head up. “I came wi’ him, Shan. Of course, I would.”

Shannon walked closer. “They let you in and not me?”

“It wasn’t a sight for a lady’s eyes,” he said. His Irish lilt was strong, his demeanor weak. As if it were he who’d been beaten to the mat.