“Dr. Ryan.”
I held up my bandaged right hand, said,
“See this? They sliced off my fingers. How many days you figure for me to de-stress every time I look at it?”
He fucked off.
Next up was the woman who spoke about the wonderful strides in artificial aids. I let her yammer on and she took my silence for interest, finally wound down, asked,
“Which appendage do you think you might most be interested in?”
I said,
“The one that allows me to swing a hurley.”
Threw her. She said,
“I don’t follow?”
But I felt she was truly trying to help, so I went easy.
Well, easier, said,
“I’ll get back to you.”
The nurses liked me.
Actually that’s a lie.
One did.
She enjoyed the runaround I gave the highfalutin consultants, said,
“You’re a terrible man.”
I agreed.
She had some edge so I liked her, anything to get away from the freaking platitudes I’d been listening to. She said,
“You’re fierce cranky.”
I said,
“Give me a few shots of Jameson, I’m a teddy bear.”
She had a great laugh. I love women who laugh with their whole body, not worried if their mascara will run. She said,
“From the look of you, I’d say you’ve had your fair share of that devil.”
Any mention of the devil tended to quiet me: too many bad memories of an individual who might/might not have been the Antichrist in person.
Any further discussion was deferred when she said,
“You have a visitor.”
Caz, a Romanian who managed to avoid the periodic roundup of nonnationals for deportation. Ten years he’d been in Galway and had learned, as Louis MacNeice wrote,
“…all the sly cunning of our race.”
And I figure he was no slouch to begin with. He’d even acquired a passable Galway accent and was more native than a Claddagh ring. I never knew if we were friends. He was too elusive but we’d known each other a long time and had an arrangement: I’d give, he’d take.
But he was one of the most reliable sources of gossip in a city that thrived on stories. Add to that, he worked with the Garda as an interpreter for the Romanian community, so he had the ear of the powers that be, sort of. True, he was as trustworthy as the eels that swam in the canal, but I liked him.
Mostly.
He was dressed in a Boss leather jacket. I know that item as my surrogate son had once given me one. Both were gone.
A white sweatshirt with the logo
“Don’t Sweat It.”
He said,
“I’m sorry about what happened to you Jack.”
“Thanks.”
He reached in the fine jacket, said,
“I brought you something.”
Now I sat up, this was a first, said,
“If it’s fucking grapes, I’ll strangle you with the fingers I’ve left.”
He produced a half bottle of Jay, checked the door, handed it to me, and to my left hand. I said,
“Take the seal off.”
He did.
I drank deep and gratefully, handed the bottle to him. He still had the moves, didn’t wipe the neck; that’s class. He took a fairly decent wallop himself, grimaced, said,
“Slainte.”
We waited a few minutes to let the Jay do its biz, warm the stomach, promise false hope, and then he asked,
“How bad is it?”
“Two fingers.”
He nodded. He’d literally escaped from a country that was awash in every atrocity known, so “two fingers” wasn’t as stunning to him as it was to your average citizen. We had another drink like two settled friends, the bottle going back and forth. I gave him a brief outline of the Headstone outfit and he pledged to ask around. The Jay and an earlier shot of morphine were taking their toll and he stood, said,
“It pains me to see you hurt, my friend.”
I think he actually meant it.
I hoped I said thanks.
I do remember he squeezed my shoulder and said,
“For now, rest. Later, we’ll extract the vengeance of the Romanian.”
And I did-rest that is.
Till I came to, a single night-light burning near my bed. I’d dreamt, of my dad and Laura.
The kind of awful dream that’s so real you can taste it. Everything is OK till you wake and… it ain’t.
My dad was holding my hand, looking at my fingers, soothing, saying,
“They’ll heal son, don’t worry.”
And Laura, she was in the distance, her hand held out, saying softly,
“But Jack, you have no fingers I can hold.”
Yeah, like that.
Jesus wept and then some. I think, I don’t know, but there were tears on my face. Loss is sometimes so palpable. You can almost touch it.
Almost.
The single night-light threw an eerie glow across the room. I struggled to sit up, still half caught in the wish desire of the dream, phantom pain in my destroyed hand, and my heart did a jig as I saw a dark figure rise from the chair in the corner. Maybe the light-bringer was back to claim his own. He stood, moved into the dim radiance, and I thought,
“Yeah, the devil all right.”
Being afraid is natural.
Being afraid to do something about it is an insult to life.
– C
Father Gabriel.
Looking immaculate as usual. If the pope can wear Gucci slippers, then no reason why Gabe shouldn’t have his clerical suit made by Armani; it had that cut. His white collar seemed to gleam in the half-light, matching his perfect teeth and discreet tan. He moved like an athlete. He leaned over me, asked,
“How are you, Jack?”
Like he gave a good fuck.
I said,
