A Galway Epiphany Read online

  And Keefer.

  He was the kind of friend to cherish if you had the dark demons such as I did.

  His past appeared to be as troubled and ferocious as mine.

  Added bonus, he grew weed and kept a stock of bourbon that would see us through a siege. Without ever actually agreeing to it, we’d come to a tenacious arrangement.

  I spent weekends at his farm; he came to town if he felt the urge for society.

  He rarely felt sociable, said,

  “You tour for twenty years with the Stones, you lose any illusions about people.”

  I was having coffee in Keefer’s cabin when he strode in, carrying neatly chopped wood, sweat running down his Jerry Garcia T-shirt. He was of burly build, with a face you might have called ruined save for the sheer vivacity in his eyes. He was dressed in faded jeans, work boots, and was wiping his face with a Willie Nelson bandanna.

  Knowing some of the life he’d led, I wouldn’t be surprised if Willie had actually given it to him. He poured coffee, lit a joint, sighed, said,

  “Hits the spot.”

  The falcon was in the corner, hooded and making contented sounds. I was learning to distinguish her vocabulary. Keefer listened, then said,

  “There’s been an offer to buy Maeve.”

  I’d named her after a nun, a loved wonderful friend who died on my watch.

  I asked,

  “How much?”

  “Three grand.”

  As Keefer did most of the bird’s care, I went,

  “Up to you.”

  He laughed, said,

  “Not a fucking chance.”

  I was well pleased.

  I stood up, said,

  “I have to head for town, see to my apartment.”

  He nodded, said,

  “Take the jeep, make a statement.”

  I gave him a look, asked,

  “What would that be?”

  He thought about it, then,

  “Bite me.”

  State of the nation:

  A hundred thousand patients were on trolleys/chairs in hospitals all over the country. The minister for health said, maybe borrowing from Game of Thrones,

  “Winter is coming.”

  Brexit continued to limp on, every day bringing new terms to the vocabulary.

  Backstop.

  Soft border.

  Hard border.

  The Irish rugby team defeated the All Blacks at the Aviva.

  Mick McCarthy took over management of the Irish soccer team.

  A small soccer club in Dublin had a fixture postponed due to the death of its star Spanish player; clubs nationwide wore black armbands, tributes poured in.

  Two days later the Spanish player was alive and well, working in Galway.

  The Blasphemy Act was repealed and, yes, that does sound as surreal as it is.

  I parked off Eyre Square, and as I moved away, a car parking guy came running, demanding,

  “How long do you intend to remain there?”

  He was that lover-of-uniform type, a peaked official cap pulled at what he deemed a menacing angle. He was right up in my face. I asked,

  “Is that a metaphysical question as in ‘on this earth’, or simply a can’t-mind-your-own-fucking-business one?”

  Rocked him, but he rallied, said,

  “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  I gave him my best smile, said,

  “I just did.”

  He pulled out a notebook, the last refuge of the inadequate, said,

  “I’ll report you.”

  I looked at him, then wearied of the farce, said,

  “Trust me, no one cares, no one.”

  I went into Garavan’s and, thank Christ, nothing had changed. The barman said,

  “Been a while.”

  I nodded, ordered a pint and Jay, went into the snug. Was on the best side of both when a tall distinguished man entered. I say distinguished as he was wearing what used to be described as a frock coat, like a gunslinger, had a gleaming white shirt, red tie, and a mop of expensively groomed gray hair. He was in his fifties with narrow mean eyes.

  He sat opposite me, declared,

  “I am Benjamin J. Cullen.”

  What was there to say? So I said nothing.

  Didn’t faze him. He reached in his jacket, produced a long match with a red sulfur top, said,

  “This is not a safety match.”

  I said,

  “Fascinating.”

  This amused him. He said,

  “I have followed your colorful exploits down the years and, no offense, but I think you have been fortunate rather than deductive.”

  I thought that was mildly amusing, so went,

  “Better lucky than smart.”

  He was shaking his head, said,

  “Oh, I don’t underestimate your, how should I put it . . .”

  Pause.

  “Sheer tenacity.”

  I thought there were worse things and asked,

  “Is all this meandering eventually going to reach a conclusion?”

  He seemed to be weighing this, then said,

  “Supposedly a miracle has occurred in our lovely city and I don’t want that sideshow to detract from the main event.”

  His tone was completely serious, so I said,

  “Lemme guess, you’re going to be the main attraction with whatever lunatic waves that brings.”

  A flicker of rage in his eyes but brief. He composed himself, said,

  “This is really a courtesy. I don’t seriously think of you as an adversary but I felt it was simply a touch of etiquette.”

  He rolled the match in his fingers then placed it in front of me.

  I said,

  “I don’t want your damn match.”

  He stood up, fixed his hair, said,

  “No, keep it. Believe me, I have a whole lot more.”

  The

  First

  Time

  He

  Hit

  Me

  He

  Only

  Broke

  My

  Nose

  (victim impact statement)

  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,

  Jack

  Don’t panic, it’s a safety match.

  Think of the painter L. S. Lowry.

  You and I are angels in fire.

  Think Rilke, a favorite of yours if Google is to be believed, and his line,

  “Each angel is terrible.”

  We will set the city alight.

  I am the match, you are the sulfur.

  It seems awesomely fitting; you are currently the miracle man,

  I am the matchstick man.

  Together we will engulf them all.

  Yours in flames,

  B.

  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.”