Hammered

Chapter 12

There are certain encounters that one knows will never be repeated so long as one lives. The firstborn child can’t be born twice; one’s virginity, once lost, can never be found again; the sheer awe one feels when laying hands on a giant sequoia cannot be rivaled. Other times escape our notice, slipping by while we are preoccupied, and we do not appreciate their enormity until it’s too late to do anything but regret that we had not paid more attention in the present.

For me, the times I always regret are missed opportunities to say farewell to good people, to wish them long life and say to them in all sincerity, “You build and do not destroy; you sow goodwill and reap it; smiles bloom in the wake of your passing, and I will keep your kindness in trust and share it as occasion arises, so that your life will be a quenching draught of calm in a land of drought and stress.” Too often I never get to say that when it should be said. Instead, I leave them with the equivalent of a “Later, dude!” only to discover some time afterward that there would never be a later for us. I did not intend to let that happen with the widow MacDonagh.

But as I walked up to her house, I saw that a moment had already passed me by. The widow wasn’t on her porch, sipping whiskey and greeting me with a smile. For all that it was painted bright yellow, the house seemed a little forlorn for her absence. A ring of the doorbell and then a knock at the door brought me no welcome. No lights were on in the house—she usually had them on, even at midday—so I told myself that she must be out. Worried that I might have missed my chance to wish her well, I pulled out the lawn mower from the side yard and trimmed her front lawn while I waited for her return. When that was finished and I was still alone, I grabbed a pair of shears and groomed her grapefruit tree, fretting all the while that if she didn’t return by nightfall, I’d have to leave and might never see her again. That would mean my last words to her would be “See you soon,” which I’d said on Wednesday when I dropped Oberon off at her house. That phrase was such an inadequate farewell that I cringed inside to think I might have to let it stand.

She arrived after four, dropped off by Mrs. Murphy in a ponderous minivan. Mrs. Murphy, a neighbor of the widow’s who thought I was nothing more than a punk college kid, seemed relieved to see me waiting on the driveway. She looked a bit harried because her four kids were making plenty of noise in the back, and she might have feared leaving them alone for the brief span it would take to help the widow out of the van.

“Thank you,” she gushed as I opened the door and offered my hand to the widow. She backed up and drove off before we could take three steps away; I deduced from this that somebody in the van must have an urgent need to visit the restroom.

“Thank the Lord yer here, Atticus,” the widow said weakly. She looked frail and stooped, her cheeks sunken in and her eyes weighted with fatigue. “That Murphy lass is a decent soul, but she’s raisin’ a right pack o’ brats, if ye ask me.”

“Well, at least they’re Irish brats,” I observed. “They could be British.”

“Aye, we need to count our blessings, don’t we?” She chuckled softly, and the laugh seemed to restore her somewhat. “I see ye mowed me lawn an’ trimmed the tree. Yer a dear lad.” She patted my shoulder. “Thank ye.”

“You’re very welcome, Mrs. MacDonagh.”

She put her hand on my shoulder for support. “Would ye mind givin’ an’ old lady a hand up to the porch? I’m not as spry as I used t’be.”

“Sure, Mrs. MacDonagh.” She favored her left leg as we slowly made our way to her customary chair. “Where have you been? Haven’t seen you since I left.”

“I’ve been to the bloody doctor for days on end. He’s been stabbin’ me with this and scannin’ me with that and chargin’ me a fortune to tell me I’m not well, which I already bloody knew before I walked through his door.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m older’n Methuselah is what’s wrong. Me body’s breakin’ down, Atticus. It’s tellin’ me it’s tired of bein’ so sexy all the time, hee hee.”

“Seriously, Mrs. MacDonagh, what’s the matter?”

“ ’Tis no matter at all.” She groaned a little as I eased her into her chair and relieved the weight on her legs. “I’ll not trouble ye with it. The list o’ me plagues an’ agues is a fair mile long, an’ the best medicine for me right now is to talk of somethin’ else. Will ye be havin’ a glass o’ the Irish with me?”

“Sure, I have a little bit of time to spend, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather spend it.”

The widow beamed at me and her eyes glistened with gratitude. “Attaboy. I’ll give ye me keys.” She fished them out of her purse and handed them to me, and I went inside to pour two glasses of Tullamore Dew on the rocks.

“Ah, that’s grand,” she said, taking the proffered glass from my fingers. She took a sip and sighed, her peace of mind restored. “Atticus, I need t’tell ye something. I don’t think I’m long for this world. Soon I’ll finally be with me Sean, God rest his merry soul. Every third thought is of the grave.” She peered at me over her whiskey glass. “That Shakespeare bloke wrote that, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. You’re paraphrasing Prospero from The Tempest.”

“Hmph. I think he might have been the only Brit to have ever been worth the milk he sucked from his mother’s tit. Wise man.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I agreed.

“Right, well, what I’m tryin’ to say is that ye’ve been a blessing to me in my dotage. I thank the Lord for ye and pray for ye, even though ye don’t believe in our savior.”

“Oh, I believe in him,” I corrected her. “I know he works miracles too.” I thought of my healed wounds, the multiplying fish and chips, and the guitar case full of dollar bills. “I simply don’t worship him.”

The widow stared at me, bemused. “Yer an odd duck, lad. I don’t know what to think sometimes.”

“You know everything you need to know. Jesus was real and still is. Hold on to that and don’t let go.”

“I’ve been holdin’ on to it for me whole life, Atticus. I’m not going to let it go now.”

“Good.”

“Me children ought to be comin’ to visit soon, figurin’ if they can get in one last good suck-up, I’ll change me will in their favor. I’m in for a world o’ coddlin’ and pamperin’ if ever I live that long. But if I bugger off before they get here, will ye let ’em know? I’ll leave their numbers posted on me fridge.”

“Oh.” I looked down at my feet. “Mrs. MacDonagh, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that. I’ve actually come here to say good-bye.”

She set down her glass and looked at me sharply. “Good-bye?”

“I’m buggering off, I guess,” I said. “I plan on coming back, but there’s a chance I might not, so I wanted to say a couple of things first.”

“Where ye goin’ to, lad? Didn’t ye jest come back from somewhere?”

“Aye, but I have to return for another job, and it’s more dangerous than the first one. Granuaile’s got Oberon with her right now and they’ll be gone for a few days, but when she returns she’ll leave Oberon with you, if that’s all right.”

“Well, how long d’ye think ye’ll be gone?”

“At least a week, but up to three months. If I’m not back after that, I’m not coming back.”

“Oh, now I’ll be worryin’ about ye,” she fretted. “I’ll be watching me Wheel of Fortune and some daft man will buy a vowel, and it’ll be an A, and then I’ll wonder where that mad boy Atticus is and what frightful things he’s up to now.”

“You didn’t used to think I was mad,” I said.

“Well, that was before ye went around losin’ yer ears and growin’ ’em back again, growin’ so fast it’s like one o’ those bloody Chia Pet commercials.”

“Heh!” I grinned.

“Oh, aye, did ye think that I didn’t notice? I might have a gamy leg, but there’s nothing wrong with me eyes.”

“Nothing wrong with you at all, Mrs. MacDonagh,” I said, and my smile was bittersweet. “You’re a rare girl.”

“Tish, I’m hardly a girl anymore.”

“At heart you are. You have a soul as light as a flower petal and a conscience as clear as crystal.”

“Oooh, you’re spreadin’ it on thick, me boy,” the widow chuckled.

“Perhaps,” I admitted, tilting my head from side to side in an expression of equivocation. We listened to mourning doves cooing in the grapefruit tree for the space of a few heartbeats, and then I turned to her in all seriousness. “But it’s been an honor knowing you. That’s no lie, not even the white kind. I’ve known many people, you understand? Untold thousands in my long life. And you … well. The world is better for you having lived in it. I wanted you to know.”

The widow reached over and patted my hand. “Oh, Atticus, that’s awfully sweet of ye t’say.”

I covered her hand with mine and squeezed it gently. Then I sighed, relaxed, and enjoyed the cool burn of whiskey on the rocks tumbling down my throat.

Saying good-bye properly afforded me a measure of peace. It was a binding of a different sort, absent of the earth’s power, but still hard proof that there is magic yet in the world.