A Galway Epiphany

I was on the good side of the drink, the world isn’t so bad illusion. Of course, I knew it would fade and I’d be

A broken man in a broken country.

But for now, enjoy.

A woman approached, asked,

“Mr. Taylor?”

Lots of descriptions but mister, never.

The booze still clicking, I said in a soft tone,

“Whatever it is, whatever you need help with, I can’t, I won’t.”

Maybe a little harsher than intended.

She was in her early thirties, clothes that were clean but modest, her face with a defeated look — perhaps she’d once been pretty but life had demolished that piece by piece. I’d never like to say a woman was haggard.

She was.

She put an envelope on the table, said,

“It’s not much.”

I took a deep breath but before I could start, she went,

“I can tolerate my husband beating me but now he’s at my daughter. She’s six.”

The words,

“He’s at my daughter.”

Phew, the implications, I really, really didn’t want to hear this.

I said,

“Shoot him.”

Took her by storm, she muttered,

“Shoot?”

I needed another drink and fast. I emphasized,

“Kill the fucker. He won’t stop. The Guards, if they can be bothered, will issue a caution but he won’t stop. They never do.”

She pushed a thin envelope toward me, said,

“’Tis all the money I have.”

Her name was on the envelope, written in a beautiful style, almost Gothic script.

Renee Garvey.

I sighed. The child had nailed me. I said,

“I need only one thing.”

She perked up a little, hope rising, asked,

“What?”

“A hurley.”

I took a walk round the city, feeling off balance from my sojourn in the country. Bizarrely, I missed the falcon on my arm, the sound as she dived from the heights to hit my arm with that almighty thud.

Christ, that felt like life.

In the city, everyone glued to mobile phones, stress etched large, I felt suffocated. I went into Starbucks — shows my state of mind — ordered a double espresso, having run the obstacle course of the barista barraging me with questions, as to

Flavor.

Size, and, worse, asked my name.

Fuck.

I snapped, snarled,

“Look, a plain double espresso. I’m not here to freaking bond with you. Just the coffee and, you know, before Tuesday.”

He didn’t spit in the cup but he sure looked like he wanted to.

There was a cup for tips and I put the change in there and was he grateful?

Was he fuck?

The chatter of the city was the miracle.

I was asked more than once,

“Jack, do you believe in miracles?”

I said,

“Take a wild guess.”

Adding to the mystery, if mystery there was, was that the children had disappeared.

I said aloud,

“Not my problem.”

Five minutes later I was hit by a truck.

A big one.

The expression

I felt like I was hit by a truck.

Let me tell you, actually being hit by a truck is a whole other feeling.

It’s a blend of deep shock, terror, ferocious pain, then unconsciousness.

I came to in a hospital bed, not feeling anything save panic and the realization that my daughter’s miraculous medal was no longer round my neck. In moments of terror I instinctively reached for it.

A nurse said,

“Don’t move, I’ll get the doctor.”

Don’t move!

Was she kidding? I couldn’t raise my head, a sound in my mind of crushing metal and grinding gears overridden by utter fear.

What I most wanted to do was scream.

Very, very loudly.

And at length

The doctor arrived, with the inevitable chart — your future, or lack of it.

He said,

“Mr. Taylor.”

Then paused, a momentary loss, until

“You’re a miracle.”

I managed to say,

“Seems to be the season for them.”

He asked,

“What do you remember?”

“That Mourinho was sacked from Man United.”

He gave me a thorough examination with many

Uh-huts, mms, bumphs,

The kind of noises that scare the shite out of you, that imply,

“You’re fucked.”

He stood back, looked out at me over his glasses, said,

“It’s baffling, you were hit full on by a massive truck. Though you’ve been unconscious for weeks, basically, there’s not a scratch on you.”

I had no reply to this; I was simply astounded.

I said,

“My miraculous medal is gone.”

He added with the hint of a smile,

“No wonder they’re calling you the first miracle of the memorial.”

Oh, shit, no, no.

I croaked,

“Calling me what?”

He seemed perplexed at my ignorance, said,

“The famine memorial, where the children saw the lady of light. You’re the first miracle. It’s all over the media: you’re a bona fide event.”

This was insane. I tried to sit up, near screamed, but my throat hurt, managed,

“The memorial, what in God’s name has that to do with a truck blindsiding me?”

He was now concerned, got some water, and handed it to me with two pills, said,

“Easy, you need to stay calm. Take these, they’ll help.”

Me, I’ll always take the pills but I continued to stare at him, waiting for the explanation.

He sighed, said,

“The children, the ones from the memorial that they’ve been searching for, they tended to you, waited with you until first responders came, then they...”

He clicked his fingers,

“Vanished.”

He left me to ponder and, fuck, pondering was no help.

A nurse stuck her head round the door, said,

“You up for another visitor?”

I echoed,

“Another?”

She gave that Galway girl smile, part devilment, pure attitude, said,

“We’ve had to fight off your public.”

Saw my face, said quickly,

“I’ll get the visitor.”

While I awaited the visitor I noticed a ton of flowers, cards, and, uh-huh,

Rosary beads, relics of many saints, even the glove of Padre Pio.

Phew-oh.

Alongside this bounty of well wishes was a long black box, like you would find enclosing a fountain pen, tied with a bright red ribbon.

I felt a shiver, recalling Truman Capote’s sinister story in Music for Chameleons.

Titled “Handcarved Coffins.”

Fuck. I shook my head, enough with the dread. I was, after all, a bona fide miracle. What could harm me?

Even without my daughter’s medal.

Right?

Opened it and took out a long single match, with a note.

I read,

A woman appeared in the doorway, a nun?

My heart jumped.

Maeve?

Impossible.

For years, one of my odd friendships had been with Sister Maeve, a lovely, warmhearted soul, who had been literally torn to pieces by two knife-wielding psychos who killed her as part of a vendetta against me.

Both were buried deep, the bad fuckers.

I named the falcon Maeve in her memory.

The woman before me was only kind of a nun.

In her appearance: She had a discreet nun’s headgear owing more to Gucci than to the Lord, navy tunic with stylish navy pants, white silk shirt with a hint of red at the collar.

Mostly, she had the rugged blonde hair of a California divorcée and the complexion that spoke of serious cash in its care, her age thus anywhere from forty-five to fifty-eight.

Too, even before she spoke, she radiated that fantastic energy and charisma that people from that state exude. They might not have invented vitamin D but they were a walking testament to the benefit of it.

She said,

“Jack, oh, Jack Taylor.”

Yup, definitely American but a British undertone that suggested a Swiss finishing school. She uttered my name in a tone that was rare in my experience. Usually, someone said my name, chaos lurked behind.

But this, this was delight tinged with a type of wonder.

Fuck, I felt better already.

Then — I know this sounds highly unlikely — she blushed. Certainly a red hue appeared in her healthy face. She gasped,

“Where are my manners? I’m Sister Consuela of the Sisters of Solace, but most people call me Connie.”

I echoed,

“Like S.O.S.”

She didn’t get it, looked askance, so I said,

“Like the emergency code.”

Then she got it and smiled in delight, said,

“Oh, I heard you were whip smart, sharp as a scalpel.”

I was still holding the match and she looked at it, in question mode, so I asked,

“Do you smoke?”

Idiotic question. Finding a Californian who smoked would be like finding a priest who wasn’t nervous in the present climate of scandals.

She said,

“No, but I used to.”

Then tittered, I mean actually tittered, as if she’d escaped from a chick-lit scene, admitted,

“In my wild days, oh sweet Lord, I was a rock chick.”

Keefer would be a match (no pun much intended) for her.

I asked,

“What kind of nun are you? I mean, what order: Carmelites, Poor Clares, you get the gist.”

This both amused and vaguely embarrassed her. She said,

“Hmm, my husband left me for the ubiquitous younger model, and a bunch of gal pals and I used to meet regularly to read scripture and” — giggled a little — “okay, some of Fifty Shades of Whatever. Due to a series of blessed events we decided to become nuns but not with any formal rules or obedience to some old bitch who was bitter and frigid.”

A nice edge of hard leaked over the last part and she got me even more interested. I said,

“Rebels without a veil.”

She said, with a tiny hint of offense,

“We take our calling very seriously.”

I had managed to sit up, even sip some water, said,

“Like L. Ron Hubbard.”

Now she did snarl.

“We are nothing like Scientology.”

I gave a tight smile, no relation to humor, said,

“You have a problem with your comprehension, much like any church, really. What I meant was the saying by him, If you want to make a million, found a religion.”

Before she could answer, I asked,

“Do you pay taxes?”

A moment before she answered, then,

“I didn’t come here to discuss financial issues.”

I laughed, said,

“That would be a no: No, you don’t pay taxes so, tell me, why did you come?”

She was well rattled but took a moment to compose herself, then the cheery Californian resumed.

“We had been looking at Ireland as a base for our sisterhood and then we heard of the miracle, looked up Galway, and just knew it was divine providence.”

I had no reply to this nonsense so said nothing.

She was on a roll so continued, said,

“The miracle of Jack Taylor. It is perfect. A former lost soul, an alcoholic, a drug addict, prone to extreme violence, the cause of grief to so many, and God chose you, the most wretched of his creatures, to bestow his grace upon.”

Fuck.

I said,

“Flattery won’t work on me.”

She looked at me with that blend of pity and condescension that pharmacists reserve for some poor bastard who tries to buy meds with codeine in them.

She said,

“We’ve set up our convent near the shrine of the memorial and already hundreds of people are camping out there. Imagine what your appearance would mean.”

I was choking with rage, tried,

“What is it exactly you think I am supposed to do?”

She got that look of bliss that fundamentalists have when they are at their craziest, said,

“Saint Jack, that’s what they’re calling you. We can make Galway a city of global pilgrimage.”

The nurse came in. Trish, I think she was called. I told her,

“This woman thinks I’m a saint.”

Trish suppressed a burst of laughter, said,

“She should try nursing you.”

Connie rounded on her, spittle at the corner of her fading botoxed lips, near spat,

“Respect please: This is a man of deep spirituality.”

Trish gave her a long look, said,

“You need your head examined.”

Then turned to me, said,

“There’s some kind of Hells Angel being held by security. He claims to live with you.”

Keefer.

Exactly what this shindig needed.

I said,

“Let him in.”

He arrived looking like a cross between a biker and an outlaw, his hair in a ponytail, that Willie Nelson bandanna, leather jacket with a denim vest over it, combat pants, motorcycle boots, a battered rucksack on his shoulder. He stood, exclaimed,

“Taylor, you’re back.”

He nodded at Connie, noncommittal, who just gaped, said to her,

“Be a good gal, shut the door.”

She didn’t like it, echoed,

“I beg your pardon?”

He smiled, said,

“It’s not complicated: Shut the bloody door, on your way out, preferably.”

He plonked the rucksack on the bed, took out a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, two mugs, poured liberally, handed me one, said,

“Stay away from Mack trucks, buddy.”

Connie was horrified, shrieked,

“What if a doctor comes by?”

He looked at her as if she were a simpleton, said,

“Why I asked you to shut the door.”

Then adding heresy to blasphemy, he lit up a joint, drew deep, handed it to me. I was in heaven, reeling from the hit of neat booze, the rawness of the joint.

Connie near screamed,

“Do you know who I am?”

Indignation writ huge.

He shrugged.

“Sure, the broad running the Sisters of Something scam.”

She turned to me, said,

“Say something.”

I raised the mug, tried,

“Sláinte.”

Connie considered her options, which were few, decided on flight, said,

“I shall withdraw for now. But Jack, we’ll be seeing each other: We have important work to do.”

Then to Keefer,

“The Sisters of Solace will not be mocked.”

And she was gone.

Keefer said,

“I could be wrong but I think she took a bit of a shine to me.”

Then he added,

“Reminds me of Joan Didion, who was described as having cool bitch chic.”

I said,

“You’d make quite the pair.”

He laughed, then,

“You missed Christmas.”

I nodded gravely as if some losses must just be endured.

Asked,

“How is our falcon?”

His face shone, he said,

“She hunts like a thing of beauty.”

I showed him the match and the note from the matchstick man. He read it with a worried frown, said,

“We’ll have to find this lunatic.”

I said,

“Not too hard. Let’s see how many fires there’ve been.”