A Galway Epiphany

I was finally leaving the hospital. All the tests had been done and the doctor continued to express his astonishment.

He advised me to

Take things easy.

I looked at him, asked,

“You ever hear of the singer Iris DeMent?”

He hadn’t.

I said,

“She has a song that says, easy’s gettin’ harder every day.”

He considered that, said,

“I actually think I understand.”

The nurse looked in, said,

“There’s a priest here to see you.”

Even the doctor smiled as I said,

“Tell him he’s too late, I didn’t die.”

Malachy burst into the room, looking tired, irritable, and very unholy.

He accused,

“You’re all right?”

The doctor wisely slipped away. I said,

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He was genuinely puzzled, went,

“But a Mack truck hit you.”

I asked,

“You haven’t heard about my miracle?”

Not impressed, he said,

“The luck of the very devil.”

I asked,

“Are you the bishop yet?”

He looked like a child whose toy has been stolen, said,

“They’re going with some other bollix.”

I tried not to smile, said,

“Least you’ve accepted the decision with grace.”

He didn’t seem to hear, said,

“I wanted that gig.”

Then, snapping back to his usual surliness, said,

“They’ve sent a hatchet guy from Rome.”

Now I was amused, asked,

“To silence you?”

He stared at me, said,

“The reason I’m here, I was sent to arrange a meeting with him for you.”

“No,”

I said.

He was kind of delighted but said,

“He’s from Rome.”

I said,

“Look at me. Do I look like I give a fuck.”

He was seriously glad, offered,

“They don’t take no as an answer, it’s not Church policy.”

In there was a hint of fear. I said,

“If they make you bishop, I’ll maybe meet him.”

He stood for a moment, said,

“This is the first time I think I’ve ever liked you.”

My apartment had that forlorn look that a place gets when no one has been there for months.

It had the look of a sad place in a sad city at a sad time.

I had brought the essentials on my way.

Bottle of Jay.

Twelve-pack.

I opened all the windows, let the wind of Galway Bay shoo out the bad memories, though it would need to be a ferocious one to accomplish that.

My body was weak from six weeks in hospital so I’d resolved on fierce long walks to rebuild. I looked round and the whole atmosphere was forlorn, a fitting epithet for my life. I shook myself, made a strong black coffee, added a hint of Jay, muttered,

“Get a grip.”

In a moment of industry I sat down, dealt with the bills, and even had some money left when they were done. The one thing I had always held on to, my Garda all-weather coat, had been left at the home of Maeve the nun, only a few hours before she was murdered.

She had given me the gift of a navy wax Barbour coat. It had disappeared after the truck ran me over. I wasn’t too sorry, but how could I wear it when it was a constant reminder of Maeve?

There was an old pea jacket I could use for the time being. I put that on over an Aran sweater, a Galway United scarf and watch cap, then headed out to begin my rehabilitation.

The end of January, it was bitter cold but I killed it, walked from the diving boards at Blackrock, along the prom, down Grattan Road.

It was a comfort to have the ocean on my right during the walk: I have always found a deep yearning from the sea, but yearning for what?

Fuck knows.

The locals I met seemed to sing from the same hymn sheet, like this:

“You’re alive!”

Or

“You’re a miracle.”

Halfway along Grattan Road I stopped in utter dismay.

The famine memorial, where the supposed miracle occurred, was surrounded by tents, not just a few scattered around but hundreds, stretching to the Claddagh, like a mini city.

Banners were proclaiming THE MIRACLE OF GALWAY.

I kept my head down and tried to move past quickly but heard shouts of,

“It’s him.”

Oh, fuck.

People began streaming toward me, wanting to touch me, and I think I heard, I hope to Christ not, “Heal me.”

I was going to be crushed by hysterical piety.

A car pulled up, door thrown open, and a voice urging,

“Get in, for fuck’s sake.”

Owen Daglish, the only remaining friend I had in the Guards. I was barely in when he hit the gas, blew out of there.

He glanced at me, accused,

“You must be out of your mind coming here.”

Indeed.

He drove on past the golf club, found a hotel toward Spiddal, turned in, pulled up, said,

“Let’s get a drink.”

No argument there.

The hotel was quiet; in the bar was a lone female bartender who smiled, said,

“Welcome, gentlemen.”

Owen grunted, not accustomed to civility, ordered,

“Two pints, two Jameson chasers.”

Looked at me, asked,

“For you?”

I stared at him before he said,

“Jeez, lighten up. I’m kidding.”

He handed over a fistful of notes, said to the woman,

“We’ll be at the corner table. Try not to fuck up the pints.”

We sat, in silence, needing the drinks.

When they came, Owen examined the heads of the pints, said,

“Not bad.”

I said to the woman.

“Thanks a lot.”

The woman moved away. Owen asked,

“The fuck is with you? Thank you? You trying to make me look bad?”

I took a sip of the Jay, said,

“No, you need no help there. You manage to bollix all by your lonesome.”

He downed the pint in almost one go, burped, said,

“Ah, better.”

Then to me,

“This fucking miracle business is some mad shite. Half the city is delighted at the incoming business, the other half is worried about controlling the chaos.”

He thought about that, asked,

“You think there was anything in that first event? I mean, you and the truck is just blind luck...”

Did I believe there had been miracle/miracles?

No.

I said,

“I think the world is so fucked. Trump has America literally shut down, Brexit is a mess beyond belief, Venezuela is becoming the new Syria in the worst way, so people are desperate for something miraculous. There was never really a better time to provide a miracle.”

He ordered another round. I said,

“Not for me. I’m supposed to take it easy.”

He laughed, snorted,

“That’ll be the day.”

Indeed.

He worked on the fresh drinks, then,

“Your name came up in another case.”

I said,

“I have the perfect alibi: a coma.”

He asked,

“You ever meet... wait, I’ll check my notes.

Took out a battered Garda notebook. I felt the familiar pang of regret at having been thrown out of the force. He double-checked, then continued.

“Renee Garvey?”

It sort of rang a bell but elusive. I said,

“Why?”

He said,

“She has a young daughter who is obviously a victim of abuse but is in some sort of shock and not talking. The mother, Renee, was apparently thrown through a third-floor window, worse, a closed window.”

I asked,

“Did she survive?”

He gave me a withering look, said,

“No miracle for her, she’s dead as dirt.”

I felt terrible. Now I remembered her desperation and how flippant I had been.

More points on the guilt sheet. I said,

“I failed her.”

He looked at me, interested, asked,

“What’d you say to her?”

I could recall the words clearly. I said,

“I told her to get a hurley.”

He shook his head, said,

“You’re a cold fuck, Taylor.”

And he was my friend?

I asked,

“Where is the husband?”

“He has a solid alibi but we’re fairly sure it’s him. He is one vicious bastard and only last week collected the insurance on her, which he is now drinking big-time.”

I asked,

“Where does he hang?”

He shook his head, ordered,

“No, no way, stay out of this.”

I tried,

“If only to offer my condolences.”

He stood up, said,

“Condolences, like fuck. You can walk back, see it as penance.”

I sat there, looking at an empty glass, as empty as my soul.

It was a long walk back to town but the power of the wind, the unaccustomed pints after my hospital sojourn, helped me walk, if not briskly, at least determinedly.

In town, on a whim, I went to the Protestant church, St. Nicholas, seven hundred years old. A man inside the door, guiding visitors, welcomed me. Said his name was Andrew. He had warmth that I no longer felt in my own churches.

Best of all, the candles were not the electronic ones littering my usual churches. Real candles, with a long taper to light them. It was reassuring in the old way. There was no slot for money; that seriously impressed me.

A German couple stopped, asked me,

“Do you know the Crane Bar?”

I did.

A TV series was currently filming there. I gave them directions and they said,

“We love Galway.”

What do you say to that? I said,

“And Galway loves you.”