bringing up things that are of no concern to you—
—I’m only saying what he told—
—I don’t want to hear another word about that, he said.
—Fine with me, I said.
—Well, if you want to know, after the few pints you couldn’t stop Eddie from wailing that he would be a happier man if he’d stayed, and God forgive me now for saying this, but Eddie never told one word of the truth for one day in his life, not a word, lies for no rhyme or reason, that’s the kind Eddie is, and sure what could you expect, because that’s the way Eddie’s father was, who was likewise faithful to John Powers. When Eddie’s father died they found the empty bottles in every nook and cranny. They opened the wardrobe and the empty whiskey bottles poured out like the sands of time, and paper bags filled with whiskey bottles, hidden in the weeds, at the bottom of the haggard, empty bottles shoved into the rafters of the cow house and the henhouse. Of course,the father was on his own and Eddie was away in Dublin, starting his union for himself, and Eddie’s mother dead since Eddie was a youngster.
He coughed loudly then took his hand from his mouth. He looked right at me.
—Born and raised in Brooklyn, John Garfield was, but you being the plucky young fella that you are, you’d know that.
—Of course, I know that, I said.
But I didn’t.
—Brooklyn’s not so close to Boston. Boston is a ways north of there, he said.
• • •
At the kitchen sink I gulped down two cups of water and stared out. No mountains and no fields. Only my dark reflection on that windowpane. Hannah’s dark reflection appeared to the right of mine. She was a few steps behind me.
—It went all right, Jimmy, she said.
—Like you’d expect, Hannah.
—He still misses Mam so much. He talks about her all the time. He worries about us. He worries about you going. He doesn’t want you to go. He is so sad over your going.
—He doesn’t have an ounce of sadness.
—That’s a very mean thing to say, Jimmy.
—If I call him the small, bitter, perishing patriarch, would that be mean, too, Hannah?
—You’re trying to be smart now, Jimmy.
—What if I am, Hannah?
—I’d give anything to see Mam again, Jimmy.
I turned from our reflections. Hannah stared at the floor.
—It will be easier when you marry and have your children, I said.
And I said it in such a cold way. Said it the way he’d say it.
• • •
Less than a week later, Brendan and I were staying in a motel room not far from Logan Airport. During the day we rode the T and got off atstations along the way and wandered the streets. At night we lay on the motel beds and studied maps of the city, read the Boston-Irish newspapers, watched television, and drank duty-free rum from plastic cups. When the rum bottles were empty we rented space in a flat off Highland Avenue in Somerville through an ad in one of those newspapers.
The Davis Square T stop was a fifteen-minute walk from the flat, which was on the middle floor of a narrow three-story. The house next door looked the same. The houses had decks. And a deck was magic to us. The apartment was a one-bedroom. A carpenter from Cork lived there. He was illegal, and had been living out here a few years. Brendan and I rolled out our sleeping bags on the paint-splattered wooden floor in the sitting room. We bought a clock alarm and pillows. With regard to finding jobs, the Corkman told us to visit this bar on Central Square. Sure to find a lead there. And he kept telling us how lucky we were to have papers.
We visited that bar on Central Square. That was a place we’d come to love. We met people there from home. We met Americans, Europeans, Mexicans, and South Americans, and one Saturday night, I ran into a man from Dublin. Eamon was his name. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket with a skull and crossbones on its back. He and I chatted while pissing, and while I was drying my hands, he offered me a job painting
—I’m only saying what he told—
—I don’t want to hear another word about that, he said.
—Fine with me, I said.
—Well, if you want to know, after the few pints you couldn’t stop Eddie from wailing that he would be a happier man if he’d stayed, and God forgive me now for saying this, but Eddie never told one word of the truth for one day in his life, not a word, lies for no rhyme or reason, that’s the kind Eddie is, and sure what could you expect, because that’s the way Eddie’s father was, who was likewise faithful to John Powers. When Eddie’s father died they found the empty bottles in every nook and cranny. They opened the wardrobe and the empty whiskey bottles poured out like the sands of time, and paper bags filled with whiskey bottles, hidden in the weeds, at the bottom of the haggard, empty bottles shoved into the rafters of the cow house and the henhouse. Of course,the father was on his own and Eddie was away in Dublin, starting his union for himself, and Eddie’s mother dead since Eddie was a youngster.
He coughed loudly then took his hand from his mouth. He looked right at me.
—Born and raised in Brooklyn, John Garfield was, but you being the plucky young fella that you are, you’d know that.
—Of course, I know that, I said.
But I didn’t.
—Brooklyn’s not so close to Boston. Boston is a ways north of there, he said.
• • •
At the kitchen sink I gulped down two cups of water and stared out. No mountains and no fields. Only my dark reflection on that windowpane. Hannah’s dark reflection appeared to the right of mine. She was a few steps behind me.
—It went all right, Jimmy, she said.
—Like you’d expect, Hannah.
—He still misses Mam so much. He talks about her all the time. He worries about us. He worries about you going. He doesn’t want you to go. He is so sad over your going.
—He doesn’t have an ounce of sadness.
—That’s a very mean thing to say, Jimmy.
—If I call him the small, bitter, perishing patriarch, would that be mean, too, Hannah?
—You’re trying to be smart now, Jimmy.
—What if I am, Hannah?
—I’d give anything to see Mam again, Jimmy.
I turned from our reflections. Hannah stared at the floor.
—It will be easier when you marry and have your children, I said.
And I said it in such a cold way. Said it the way he’d say it.
• • •
Less than a week later, Brendan and I were staying in a motel room not far from Logan Airport. During the day we rode the T and got off atstations along the way and wandered the streets. At night we lay on the motel beds and studied maps of the city, read the Boston-Irish newspapers, watched television, and drank duty-free rum from plastic cups. When the rum bottles were empty we rented space in a flat off Highland Avenue in Somerville through an ad in one of those newspapers.
The Davis Square T stop was a fifteen-minute walk from the flat, which was on the middle floor of a narrow three-story. The house next door looked the same. The houses had decks. And a deck was magic to us. The apartment was a one-bedroom. A carpenter from Cork lived there. He was illegal, and had been living out here a few years. Brendan and I rolled out our sleeping bags on the paint-splattered wooden floor in the sitting room. We bought a clock alarm and pillows. With regard to finding jobs, the Corkman told us to visit this bar on Central Square. Sure to find a lead there. And he kept telling us how lucky we were to have papers.
We visited that bar on Central Square. That was a place we’d come to love. We met people there from home. We met Americans, Europeans, Mexicans, and South Americans, and one Saturday night, I ran into a man from Dublin. Eamon was his name. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket with a skull and crossbones on its back. He and I chatted while pissing, and while I was drying my hands, he offered me a job painting
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