Galway Girl

Headline in the papers:

Fuck, the papers went wild with the death of Jess.

Speculation as to whether her über-loyal fans had helped her stage a grand exit,

Or if they’d killed her.

The obvious suspect was Jericho.

But

She’d a solid alibi.

The air of mystery/mystique in Jess’s death was fueled, too, by the now heavily publicized fact that she was—

Shock, horror, delight—

The bishop’s sister.

That he wasn’t yet bishop didn’t matter.

The lurid ingredients were there:

The bishop,

The actress,

A lesbian?

And

Siblings.

More than enough to sell a ton of papers.

And they sold.

Malachy sent me a short terse text:

This is your fault,

You bollix.

Now, if I showed that to the papers, I could have named my price.

(They could have added this headline.)

The American who’d first spotted the body became a minor celebrity

And enjoyed it.

Sure beat fighting fires.

The Galway Advertiser had this:

“Exclusive with Danny Rourke”

By Kernan Andrews.

Jimmy Norman on his hugely popular radio show had him as his guest.

Jimmy asked,

“So, Danny, your initial impression on seeing the body hanging underneath the arch?”

Danny had developed a deeper voice since his brush with fame, felt gravitas was necessary, and also made sure to wait a few beats before answering.

This implied:

Solemnity

Sorrow

Thoughtfulness

Or he was just a thick fuck.

He said,

“James” — always use the interviewer’s name, a lot — “I thought first it was like a prank.”

His tone rising at the end to suggest a question.

Jimmy didn’t know.

Which is why he was asking him, but he nodded carefully, which is always dicey on radio but Jimmy had been at this game a while.

Danny, getting into it, said,

“Me and the missus” — he spoke thus as he was told it impressed the ordinary listener — “we’d been to the Druid...”

Paused.

“Like, you know, the Druid, the theater?”

As if.

Jimmy sighed, said patiently,

“We are familiar with our world-famous theater.”

Sarcasm alas is lost on visiting Americans as they still believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that we are well-wishing folk.

Rourke, taking this as encouragement, if not exactly as approval, warmed to his narrative.

Like this:

“So Deb and I...”

Pause.

“She’s my better half. We had been to see Playboy of the Western World.”

Jimmy interrupted fast lest Rourke explain that play.

“We know it.”

Rourke, thrown a wee bit, wondering did he detect a hint of impatience?

Faltered, then cautiously proceeded.

“Peg’s costume was remarked on many times by Deb and when I saw the, um,

Body, Jesus H, it was the same outfit.”

Caught himself, corrected this,

“Well, not the exact one, of course, but, buddy, it was a ringer.”

Jimmy looked up to see Keith Finnegan making the

Wrap it up!

Signal.

Said to Rourke,

“Thank you for coming in, and safe travel.”

Rourke stood, slightly flummoxed, asked,

“Can you validate parking?”

Michael Whelan had been a classmate of mine, back when corporal punishment was a daily reality.

Patrician Brothers were the outfit/teachers.

Semireligious in that, as they weren’t priests, they simmered with massive chips on their collective dandruffy cassocks.

I went on to become a failure in many fields while Michael came first in college in chemistry, no mean feat.

He was the envy of all the kids on our street as he owned a red rocket.

Not the Branson mode but a toy that you actually lit and it fired into the sky and our wistful imaginations.

He was the first person I ran into at the funeral of Jess.

Her blend of

Fame

Infamy

Notoriety

Suicide/murder

Ensured a mega-attendance

From the great, the glorious Galwegians.

Michael said,

“She has drawn a bigger crowd than St. Thérèse will.”

The remains of the saint were due to be processioned through the streets in a few days.

You outdraw a saint in Galway, you’re really something.

I said,

“She was really something.”

I think he thought I meant the saint.

Pat, the young priest who walked point for Malachy, came rushing over.

“Nice,”

I thought.

“He’s going to welcome me.”

If welcome is the apt term for a funeral.

He was red in the face, glared at Michael Whelan, then almost shouted at me,

“You’re barred.”

I gasped,

“From a funeral?”

He did look a little ashamed but not much, said,

“His preeminence says he’ll call the Guards.”

I have been barred from the best

Pubs

Clubs

Weddings

Rotary club

Legion of Mary.

But this...

A new low in a life slowly but with indefinite purpose crawling toward the pit.

Worse, I had the book I bought for Jess in my Garda jacket.

In some mad romantic notion, I’d seen my own self gently toss the book in after the coffin.

I offered the book to Pat, asked,

“Will you hand this to Malachy, with my deepest sympathy?”

He stared with utter scorn at me, said,

“In words his preem might use...”

Pause...

“Shove it up your arse.”

         So,

What to do with a book you can’t literally bury.

Give it to a nun.

Sister Maeve. Had been too long since I saw her.

The American term regifting was pretty much my intention and I have to say it’s a neat notion.

You take your unwanted gift / no longer a use for gift, etc. Pass it on.

A. You get rid of the bloody thing.

B. You get gratitude for it.

Pretty much

      Win

        Win

Or so I believed.

She was delighted to see me, gave me a megahug and, trust me, you get a hug from a nun it’s unlike any other hug,

Ever.

She looked, as always, in her late thirties and I knew her to be nunning toward mid-fifties.

I have used this term before as it kind of belongs in Lives of the Saints.

She had a beatific smile.

Made you feel better than you were or you’d ever be.

Being hugged by a nun is, oddly, both sacred and profane.

Ushered me into the small apartment she used as outrider for the Poor Clares.

I said,

“I brought you a gift, you know, to...”

(Lie, quick.)

“Celebrate the pope’s visit.”

The pope’s visit had the country in a tizzy.

Forty million it was to cost.

Mind you, various sources quoted forty million or at least thirty million, but either way a lot.

Papal merchandise was hot.

In Lidl you could buy lolli-popes.

So, in the U.S., would there be pope-cicles?

The pope’s face was on the front of the lollipop but if you sucked all the way it didn’t sustain; his image evaporated.

I know, there is a blasphemous joke in there somewhere but I’m not seeking it.

The pope would be in the country for twenty-four hours, culminating in Mass at Croke Park.

Now here’s where it gets weird:

Temporary morgues were being arranged as so many pilgrims were expected but—

Big but—

Due to security, snipers on rooftops (I shit thee not), no vehicles were allowed within a ten-mile radius.

Ten!

So elderly folks, along with the other poor bastards, had to walk ten miles just to reach the venue. They might just get there to hear Nathan Carter sing.

More contention:

The most popular priest in the whole country was Father Ray Kelly, whose impromptu singing of “Hallelujah” at a wedding, to the delight and amazement of the congregation and a swooning bride, went viral, over two million hits on YouTube. He appeared on England’s Got Talent with a version of “Everybody Hurts.”

That shook you to your very hurt soul.

He was doing nigh the impossible — restoring people’s faith in a priest.

Would they let him sing for the pope?

Like fuck.

Let’s have the mediocre Carter,

Who mainly tortured “Proud Mary.”

A PR flunkey hired by the Church told the pilgrims to

Train

Plan

Get fit,

As if to climb Croagh Patrick.

It’s our mini-Everest, with religious bonus points, spiritual air miles in a fashion.

Forty or so million for the dignitaries but no buses for the faithful.

Maeve’s apartment was Zen, clean, fresh, and warm, and she produced a bottle of Jack Daniel’s — my fault, as I’d introduced her to Jameson.

So she got the wrong stuff; sue me.

She poured two walloping measures into Galway crystal glasses and then looked oh, so sad, said,

“My father gave me these. He said they would be a great start when I met the right man and got married.”

Fuck, a tiny tear escaped, rolled slowly down one wind-tanned cheek. I rushed,

“But you did.”

Her head snapped up.

“Who?”

I said, as seriously as possible (this was vital),

“The man Himself, Our Lord.”

Good heavens, I sounded like Johnny Cash.

Went with the bourbon, I guess.

She loved that.

“And I got you a gift.”

She handed over a package, a very large bag. I opened it and pulled out what appeared to be a wax jacket.

She purred,

“It’s Barbour. The convent was given a shipment that the stores couldn’t sell.”

A whole other branch of regifting?

The devil was in me, so I said,

“But I have my Garda coat.”

Thick as fuck, right?

She looked crushed, said.

“But that ould coat is falling apart.”

Like my own self.

Others grow old with their husbands/wives.

Me, with a Guard’s coat.

She asked,

“Will you try it?”

I said,

“To tell the truth (always a precursor to a lie) I kind of associate wax jackets with the royal family and toffs massacring pheasants.”

She began to laugh, said,

“You’re a holy terror.”

I wore the damn jacket, black it was, as my heart, but it did have a lot of pockets so there’s that.

She stood back to admire it, said,

“You look like the gentry.”

I said,

“I’m elected.”

She then opened the gift I brought her, made a breath of admiration when she saw the cover, then opened it and read in bewilderment

Oh, fuck.

I tried, said,

“I mean you act like, um, life is simple.”

She put the book aside with a sigh and, shortly afterward, I left in my new coat.

Outside, on the small wall, sat,

Jericho,

Who sneered,

“Fucking a nun.”

I said,

“The bloody wall of Jericho.”

We stared at each other for a long Galway minute, hostility dancing on the very air.

She asked,

“How much do I remind you of Emerald?”

I told the whole truth.

“You’re a piss-poor copycat, you have no style, no wit, and you’re almost English, killing a defenseless old woman. That’s who you are.”

And for the very first and only time in my life I spat. Literally.

Continued,

“That’s what I think of you.”

It landed on her much-scuffed Doc Martens boot. She was dressed in faux combat gear, all too big for her, and she resembled a petulant child in her dad’s clothes.

Her face went through a range of emotions.

Part shock Rage

A hint of fear

And then the defiance.

She snarled,

“Surely you admired the street theater of the old bitch’s death. Come on, Jack, it was impressive.”

I asked,

“Who was the other scum helping you?”

A smile of malevolence. She said,

“An apprentice, an intern, if you will.”

I felt tired and said,

“Tell her she’s facing early retirement.”

She clapped her hands, said,

“Oh, goody gumdrops. You’re coming after us.”

I began to walk away, she yelled,

“The jacket makes you look like a ponce.”

I gave her the finger without breaking stride and she hollered,

“I thought you loved Galway girls.”

I snapped back,

“Only the Steve Earle version, and maybe Mundy’s.”

Jericho remembered the day she killed

her father.

She’d come home unexpectedly, bearing a bottle of Hennessy brandy,

His favorite.

He’d received her coldly,

Asked,

“What do you want?”

She purred,

“To make peace.”

Before he could answer, she headed for the drinks cabinet, poured two glasses of the brandy, said,

“Drink first, and then I have some amazing news.”

He drank,

She didn’t.

Took maybe two minutes before he began to clutch his chest, gulp furiously.

She said,

“No hurry, it will take a few agonizing minutes before it actually kills you.”

He was on his knees, she knelt, said,

“I pushed Gina into the traffic.”

Then she said,

“Oh, my God, I almost forgot to tell you my news.”

Hit her head with an open palm in mock reprimand, then,

“It’s amazing that I didn’t kill you years ago.”

His body jerked in spasms, then he was still.

Jericho stared at him for a moment, then said,

“Bye-bye, Daddy.”