The Emerald Lie

I woke, the meeting between Ridge and Emily so real in my mind it was hard to credit it was but a dream.

Jesus, when did dreams have such accurate, if loaded, narrative and dialogue? I could taste the margarita on my tongue but, dream notwithstanding, I was glad that Doc got a shoe in his arse, even if wish fulfillment was all it was.

Some people are haunted by memories; me, it’s priests. Can’t seem to shake them. The day before I was released from hospital, I was sitting up in bed, reading,

A Rumor of Ghosts.

Three sisters who decide to commit suicide on the same night. Hooked me by the line,

“First thing you need to know about our family is we’re quitters.”

I was engrossed in this when a shadow fell across the bed, looked up to see a priest. He was dressed clerical casual. Black V-neck sweater, black slacks, and tiny gold cross on a chain around his neck. Discreet if not showy. He had that new humble shit-eating smile they’ve adopted since they went on the endangered list. He opened,

“Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

He wasn’t... hoping. Just trotting out the line in mock servitude. I said,

“The clergy have been disturbing us for centuries so why worry?”

He gave a tentative smile, wanted to look back to gauge the distance to the door. He said,

“You’re Catholic.”

Infuriating me. I snapped,

“What gave that away, the guilt, the fucked-up look?”

Staggered him, the venom almost tangible in the very air. He rallied, as they do, centuries of making this shit up as you go training kicking in. He said,

“The miraculous medal might have been a clue?”

I nearly smiled, said,

“Madonna has seven of them and not even her taste could be described as catholic.”

He went with,

“Touché.”

He held out his hand, said,

“I’m Paul.”

He near recoiled at the sight of my mutilated fingers. Normally I keep them well disguised but lately I was real bad at hiding anything. I shook his hand and felt a slight tremor, and thought,

“Ah, a drinker.”

Explained the high color. I said,

“Jack Taylor.”

Then I began to get out of bed, said,

“Jesus, don’t just stand there, help me.”

He didn’t, asked,

“You want to go to the bathroom?”

“Fuck no. I want to get a few pints in before they start the rigmarole of discharging me.”

Took me a time to get dressed and he asked,

“Is it wise? I mean, to leave the hospital?”

I gave my bitter laugh, more in use these days, said,

“Wise? Fuck, if I were wise I’d have bought shares in Irish Water.”

I felt a spasm of weakness and leaned on the jamb of the door to get right, said,

“I might for the first time in my life have to lean on the clergy.”

He took my arm and asked,

“You want me to assist you to a pub?”

“I want you to buy me a few drinks and tell me the nature of evil.”

I am sure we made a bizarre pair, a wounded beaten man, being aided reluctantly by a priest. Like all Irish hospitals, it was but a rosary away from the pub.

There’s a different vibe from Galway pubs. You feel they don’t want you but a sly cunning keeps them from saying so. No wonder the poet Patrick Kavanagh felt so comfortable in them. We got seated, near the back, at my choosing, the priest observing,

“You need to watch your back?”

I snarled,

“If I did I wouldn’t be with you.”

Landed.

He said,

“You are a very bitter, cynical man.”

“Thank you.”

I ordered a pint and Jay, him a Britvic orange. I said,

“Man up, have a fucking drink. You’re paying, might as well get a blast out of it.”

He took a gin and tonic and seemed relieved to have the decision made for him, judging by the way he gulped it. I didn’t comment, asked,

“So you’re on the hospital beat?”

He did the only exist to serve gig, half slit eyes and sad smile, or it could simply have been the gin. He said,

“Any small comfort we can provide.”

I drained my glass, asked,

“Where is the Church on evil these days? Still proclaiming that God’s ways are too mysterious to fathom?”

He made a show of checking his watch, a nice Tissot — not much poverty there — then,

“I see all of human weakness, foibles, cruelty, greed played out on a smaller stage every day.”

Deep.

I pushed, disbelief leaking over my words,

“In the hospital?”

He nearly smiled, said,

“Judge Judy.”

I kind of liked him a bit better for that. He checked his watch again. I said,

“Hey, don’t let me keep you from anything.”

He sighed, sounding a lot like my dead mother who had, dare I say,

... the mother of sighs.

She had that fake world-weary sucker nailed. He said,

“I have confessions and need to prepare.”

I gave him my concrete stare, said,

“I was under the impression it was now the sacrament of reconciliation, but maybe you’re not into that whole reconciliation shite?”

He took a rosary out of his pocket, a fine object, heavy silver cross, blue beads that caught the light. He said,

“This was blessed in Guadalupe.”

I sneered. Blame the fast Jay, said,

“Ah, the Madonna of the cartels.”

He shook his head, muttered,

“You really are the most trying man.”

Then he handed me the beads, I didn’t do the dance of...

Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,

I put them around my neck figuring I could use all the help I could get, Mexican or otherwise. I asked,

“I look like Bono?”

“You mean spiritual?”

“No, asshole.”