The Dramatist (9 page)

“Jack?”

My heart was pierced, I wanted to weep. Guilt, rage and remorse tore through my stomach. I felt bile in my throat and the taste of actual vomit along my gums. I said,

“How are you doing?”

Not my finest moment. She lifted her hand, the arm as thin as paper, asked,

“Will you bring me home?”

Home. We had no home, never had. We’d lived in a house of seething hostility, all created by her. I said,

“Sure I will.”

Her eyes were wild and moved furiously. She said,

“Move closer, Jack, they’ll hear us. They’ll say I’m not being a good girl.”

I stayed twenty minutes, seemed twenty years. I kept repeating I’d rescue her. She was close to being what the Irish call
seafóid
, meaning a person soft in the head or, in modern terms, having lost it. When I was leaving, she said,

“Pray to Herself to save me.”

The matron was unlocking the door. I said,

“An old man over there, he said this was a kip. He was seriously understating it.”

She slammed the door behind me.

Sin scéal eile
.

(That’s another story.)

Back at Bailey’s, I thought about Jeff’s friend and decided there
wasn’t a whole lot I could do. I rationalised, if he was innocent, then he’d be OK. I didn’t buy that shit for a minute but figured my involvement wouldn’t help, so I did nothing. As for my mother, the only solution was another nursing home. I knew a decent one would be expensive, and I couldn’t afford it. So again, I did nothing.

The phone rang and I leaped at the distraction. It was the ban garda. She opened,

“I got the book.”

“Terrific. Can you drop it off here?”

No reply and I had to go,

“Ridge, you there?”

When she answered, her indignation was evident.

“What do you think, I’m your messenger boy?”

“No…I…”

“You always lay down the times, terms and locations of our meetings.”

Did I?

I asked,

“Do I?”

She didn’t bother to answer, said,

“It’s my birthday. Margaret is treating me to dinner at the Connemara Coast Hotel. We’ll be in the lounge after for coffee…say 9
P.M.
?”

“But that’s…”

“In Connemara, yes. You’ll remember it’s my home.”

“It’s miles out. How am I supposed to get there?”

I swear she was laughing. With relish she suggested,

“Take a bus. When they see the cane, you’ll probably get half fare.”

Click.

I’d lost that round hands down. There’d been a time when Ridge was deferential, nigh submissive. I’d definitely intimidated her. Like all the women I knew, time took care of any shaky power I had. I rang Bus Éireann, and after thirty minutes of numbing frustration, I got the timetable. I’d gone through that rigmarole of “for information push 1, for bookings push 2, for prepaid holidays push 3.” There didn’t seem to be a button for civility.

A song had been going round in my head that I couldn’t identify. Put the radio on and, by one of those weird coincidences, here it was. By Pink, titled “Like a Pill”. What it did was make me feel old. I’d no business listening to the “antidote” to Britney. Sometimes, you can have too much information. The news kicked in and the guards said a man had been helping with their inquiries on the attack on the young girl. He had been released without charge. I rang Jeff and he confirmed it was Pat and, yes, he’d been released. I said,

“No worries then.”

He didn’t answer and I asked,

“Jeff?”

He sounded strained, said,

“It’s not the guards I’m worried about.”

And hung up. I considered calling him back but let it go. That was one item I could cross off my list. The post came, delivered to my room by Janet, who said,

“Isn’t it a miracle?”

“The post?”

“Aw, don’t be pulling my leg. I mean about your drinking.”

“Oh, right.”

She gave me a warm smile, affection oozing from her, asked,

“Do you say your prayers, Mr Taylor?”

“Um, yes, of course, in Irish, too.”

This wasn’t a complete lie. When I’d said them, a long time ago, I had said them in Irish.

She handed me a leaflet, said,

“It’s the November Dead List.”

For a surreal moment, I thought she was telling me who was due to die, then I realised it was outlining the dates for “Cemetery Sunday” and the list of special masses during the month. She said,

“So you can visit your loved ones. I know you miss them.”

She had that right, then,

“ ’Tis fierce weather.”

And she was gone. I folded the leaflet, rolled it tight and lobbed it, forgot my bad knee and attempted a kick.

Bad idea.

Pain coursed along my thigh and I had to rest. If I was superstitious, and being Irish it comes with the territory, I’d have said it was punishment for mockery. I looked at the post—two letters. One saying I could avail of the opportunity to have a free meal at the Radisson if I filled in a loyalty card. The second was from a solicitor acting on behalf of Stewart and enclosing a substantial cheque. The tone of the letter suggested that if I wasn’t satisfied, more funds were readily available. I was satisfied.

Settled my head on the pillow and tried not to think about my mother.

Focused on my new plan. Once it had been a flat near Hyde Park. That had gone down the toilet. Nelson Algren had long been one of my favourite writers. At the end of his life, after poverty, literary neglect, heartache, he finally settled in Sag Harbor. An old whaling town, he could get around on his bicycle, and New York was just a train ride away. The house he finally rented appealed greatly to me. Near the ocean, it was $375 a month. It had a small backyard, a fireplace and room to display all the items he’d kept in storage for years. E.L. Doctorow lived nearby, Betty Friedan across the street, Kurt Vonnegut in the next town.

I had a yearly diary on my bookcase. Used it to keep a vague track of money and phone numbers. The rest of the pages were blank. I got a black felt pen, wrote:

“SAG HARBOR OR BUST.”

Mad as the dream was, it made me feel good, as if I had a future.

The Sacred Heart calendar said:

“Be humble before the Lord.”

I didn’t know much about humility but I was well versed in humiliation.

I figured I’d buy a present for Ridge’s birthday. What do you buy for a gay ban garda who dislikes you with intensity?

Barbed wire?

There’s a corner shop close to the hotel. Despite its proximity, I’d avoided it for years. In my days as a guard, I’d had to caution the owner for overcharging. He hadn’t responded well. He said,

“You pup, I gave your oul wan tick when she hadn’t a pot to piss in.”

Like that.

I fully expected he was still running the shop, but his carbon copy, the son, was behind the counter. I think we’d gone to school together. I said,

“Seamus.”

He held up his hand to silence me. A gesture I’m not wild about. A news item that a young man had been found crucified in Belfast. He’d been so badly beaten that his own father didn’t recognise him. Seamus reached over, turned the radio off, said,

“Jack Taylor, we don’t usually get your business.”

Already the bitter word. I wanted to say,

“What a surprise and you reeking in charisma.”

Went with,

“How’s your dad?”

“Dead, thanks.”

Before I could rise to this reply, a non-national entered and Seamus was instantly on alert. As if a button had been pressed, his eyes narrowed and he snapped,

“Help you?”

The man was intimidated; he recognised the tone. Keeping his eyes down, he said,

“Some sugar, please?”

“Bottom shelf, next to the tea and coffee.”

Seamus never took his eyes off him. When the man came with the sugar, Seamus barked the price. I don’t know the cost of things, unless it’s drink, which always costs more than I can ever afford and not just financially. But even I knew this was through the roof. I was going to ask,

“What? The Budget came early?”

I doubt he’d have heard me, so intent was he on the man. After he’d gone, Seamus said,

“Bloody thieves.”

“You know him?”

“No, never saw him before.”

“Then how…?”

He glared at me, venom jumping in his eyes, said,

“They’re all thieves and liars, and God knows what diseases they bring in.”

I was too stunned to reply. His eyes cleared and he switched to friendly mode, asked,

“So, what can I do you for, Jack?”

I bought a box of Black Magic and a birthday card. He told me a joke that involved a priest and Irish stew. Thank God, I have no recollection of it. It was lewd and certainly not funny; he enjoyed it immensely. I do remember him calling as I left,

“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”

“We are the graceless and dumbfounded, insane with our own insatiable desire for another time and place.”

David Means,
Assorted Fire Events

The rain came hammering down. One of those showers that seems
personal, as if it really wants to drench you.

It did.

I remember what Billy Connolly said, that there isn’t bad weather, only wrong clothes. Give him six months in Galway, see what he’d say then. I got on the bus and barely found a seat, it was so crowded. Sat by a window and tried to figure what was different. Irish. Everybody was speaking it. I heard a flurry of,

“An bhfuil tú go maith?”

“Cén chaoi bhfuil tú?”

“Tá an aimsir go dona.”

My favourite was from a young man who answered one of the above with,

“Tá scéilín agam.”

He’d a story to tell. The translation doesn’t do justice to the emphasis he laid on “
scéilín
.” Combining intrigue, pleasure, excitement and the low cunning of renown. I’d like to have heard that story. Just before the bus moved off, a young girl, late teens, rushed on board wearing a sky blue windbreaker. Looked round at the full bus, asked me,

“Is that seat, like, taken?”

American.

I smiled, said,

“Work away.”

She sat, went,

“I love the way you guys talk.”

As the bus pulled off, from old habit, I blessed myself and she was thrilled, said,

“Gee, that is, like, so cute.”

I didn’t have a reply to this. She continued to stare at me. I noticed a ring in her left eyebrow and a stud beneath her lower lip. That shit has got to hurt.

To break the stare, I asked,

“Are you on holidays?”

“That’s like vacation, right? Yeah, you could say that, but it’s, like, a drag, you hear what I’m saying?”

“Why?”

She rolled her eyes and I sensed it was her party piece, something she did a lot. She answered,

“My dad, he’s like this old guy, fifty-two, and he wants me to learn about my roots. Like, hello?”

I like Americans, their vitality amazes me, and the fresh energy they carry, it’s downright mysterious. Me, I was born tired. I decided to make the effort, asked,

“Your father’s people are from Connemara?”

“Yeah, right, like he doesn’t mention it a zillion times. So, I’m staying with his sister and she’s so, like…anxious. Like, worries all the time. She needs, like, you know, to chill.”

It wasn’t the easiest thing to follow her speech; if she said “like” one more time, I’d scream. I asked,

“What does she worry about?”

“Like stuff, you know?”

That was all the insight she had. We were coming into Salthill and I wanted to watch the bay. Lest she mar the pleasure of it, I asked,

“How do you fill your time?”

“Fill?”

“What do you do all day?”

“Oh, I got you. Mostly I hang…like, around the mall, watch the guys.”

Mall!

I was still keeping one eye on the bay, waves crashing in over the rocks, went,

“You enjoy that?”

“It sucks.”

I spotted the hotel and moved to signal the driver. The girl asked,

“What’s the deal with the stick?”

“I hurt my knee.”

“Bummer.”

I wasn’t heartbroken to be leaving her but tried,

“Take care.”

“Yeah. Like, whatever.”

When I got off the bus, the wind nearly blew me over. The girl was staring out the window, so I gave what I thought was a friendly wave. She gave me the finger.

The Connemara Coast Hotel looks like a motel, long and sleek
and strung out along the very edge of the land. I got inside and felt grateful for the warmth. Located the lounge, and there were Ridge and Margaret. I approached and said,

“Happy birthday.”

Ridge grimaced, said to Margaret,

“This is him.”

Not the most effusive welcome. Margaret put out her hand, said,

“I’m Margaret, nice to meet you.”

I don’t know what I’d expected. A bull dyke if I was honest. She was in her late forties, with ash blond hair, cut in a pageboy. Brown wide eyes, a too large nose and great mouth: those lips that you want to reach out and touch. Dressed in a black polo and jeans, her body seemed strong, in shape. I was conscious of my cane, my age, and straightened my back. Ridge, observing me, smiled. Margaret said,

“You look frozen. Will you have a drink?”

And got the look from Ridge. I knew she’d cautioned Margaret about the alky, who had the grace to look confused, so I said,

“Some coffee would be good.”

She rose, headed off. I said to Ridge,

“She’s not what I expected.”

This amused her and she asked,

“What were you expecting?”

How to answer that? I tried a half truth, said,

“Hostility.”

“It’s early yet.”

Margaret returned with a tray, bearing sandwiches and a pot of coffee, said,

“Milk.”

And went off again. I surveyed the tray and said,

“I’m warming to her already.”