Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

A hearing aid,

Dodgy health prognosis,

Recent wanna-be suicide.

Who wouldn’t want to climb the highest mountain with me? He had in his time summited

K2.

Annapurna.

McKinley.

Kilimanjaro.

Failed to reach the top of the North Face of the Eiger. I asked,

“You picked your team yet for the climb?”

He looked fit after a few difficult months and the mountain enterprise seemed to have rejuvenated him. He said,

“My old sergeant was first choice but he got a job as security consultant in Iraq so he’s out.”

Then he added,

“You are tied on a short rope to a guy on the most dangerous terrain on the planet, you need to know he’s the guy.”

I nearly said,

Better than a short fuse.

But for once my smart mouth did the right thing and shut the fuck up. I ventured,

“You know if you need a person to keep track of the provisions, like a manager at base camp, I could handle that.”

He stared at me for a moment then burst out laughing, managed,

“You!”

He was truly shocked, said,

“You can hardly climb the stairs.”

I was now late to meet with my boss and a rage was beginning to leak all over my being. I said,

“I don’t think I’m that bad.”

He nodded, said,

“You’re right. In fact you are way worse.”

Now he was shaking his head with the sheer incredulity of it. I said,

“You know what? Go fuck yourself.”

I strode off, the pup in tow, and he shouted,

“Jack, don’t you want to leave the dog with me?”

I threw back,

“I’d rather drown him.”

So, okay, a tad petulant, not to mention... the drama .

Sister Maeve, one of my few remaining friends. A nun as scarce ally, go figure. I had helped her in a small way many years before but she seemed to place a huge debt of gratitude to me. Was I going to dissuade her?

Was I fuck?

She was like the point man for her convent. She lived in the outside world and managed the lines of communication between the enclosed community and life. They chose the right front person. She exuded a warmth that was as natural as it was rare. She dressed in gray and one touch of color, a silk scarf I had given her. She lived in a small house on St. Frances Lane. But a decade of the rosary from the Abbey Church. I didn’t go empty-handed, stopped off at McCambridge’s to get goodies. She opened the door, greeted me with a tight hug, and the pup was delighted to see her. I handed over the clutch of goodies and she said,

“Oh, you didn’t need to do that, Mr. Taylor.”

“Jack.”

I left the pup with her and, several hours late, headed off to report to

Alexander

    Knox

      -

       Keaton.

Yet again I marveled at the sheer impressiveness of that name. Name like that, it was preordained you’d be CEO material. Dish washing wasn’t really in the cards.

I was ushered into his office with no fanfare, just glares of cold hostility from his bodyguards. I was anticipating him being

Angry

Aggressive

Sarcastic

But

Scared?

   Never.

He was scared now.

Very.

His type, they do the scaring. Being scared is not ever on their radar. He had a haunted look, and he kept darting his eyes toward the window. He barely acknowledged me, reached in his desk, tossed an envelope on the counter, said,

“Your severance pay.”

I decided to play dumb,

Asked,

“For which job? The security or The Red Book ?”

Fuck, did I hit a nerve. He literally jumped, said,

“Take your money and go, Mr. Taylor, I don’t expect to be seeing you again.”

And on cue one of the bouncers/bodyguard appeared behind me.

Of all the troubles in my troubling life, I have never been troubled with minding my own business.

Never.

I asked,

“The poor bastard Miller? With pages of a book rammed down his clerical throat? Do I just forget about him?”

My arm was grabbed and I feinted to the left, came down hard on the instep of the guy’s foot with my Doc Marten, then swirled ’round and sucker punched him in the throat with an open flat hand.

He went down like the proverbial sack of spuds. A.K.K. Sighed, said,

“You are buying in to a world of hurt.”

Sounding not unlike a cut-rate Schwarzenegger and reached for his phone. I turned to leave and threw,

“Be seeing you, buddy.”

And got out of there fast before the rest of the crew arrived.

I stopped up the road and bent over, gasping for breath, muttered,

“Went well, all in all.”

“Did you put sugar in?”

He liked two spoons.

She had. Then, as we sat, she said,

“Mr. Taylor.”

I mentally said,

Jack!

She continued.

“I think you have many times in your life wished to travel the high road but circumstances led you to the lower plain.”

No argument there. Then,

“I think you have a good strong heart but life seems more acceptable if you adopt a shell of, um...”

She searched for a word that wouldn’t cause offense, then,

“Hardness.”

She poured the tea and then buttered the bread. I said,

“Out there” — and vaguely indicated the window — “there is precious little softness and any sign of weakness... they will annihilate you.”

She blessed herself which is, I suppose, answer enough.

She gave me a deep searching look, then asked,

“Do you believe in forgiveness?”

Aw, fuck.

I near snarled.

“I believe in retribution.”

She was upset, tried,

“The most difficult act of all is to forgive oneself.”

I tried not to snigger, said,

“Isn’t that God’s job description?”

She was flustered, torn between trying to explain and giving me some scant comfort.

A fool’s errand.

I mentioned the horrendous massacre of concertgoers by terrorists in Paris. Then added for pure maliciousness,

“Never thought I would quote Putin but he said if the terrorists see their mission is to get into heaven, it’s my mission to send them there.”

Horrified her, as was meant.

The pup sunk under a chair; tension freaked him. She made one last valiant attempt, said that old hackneyed justification

“God’s ways are mysterious to behold.”

I stood up, gave a low whistle for the pup, attached the leash, gave her a brief hug, parted with

“Oh, there is no mystery, sister. He likes to mind fuck.”

I regret the f-word but, fuck, I do not regret the sentiment.

Not one fucking bit.

I had read enough of James Lee Burke to nearly see his

Ghosts

     in

       the

         Confederate

               Mist .

Those days as I trudged through the streets of the city, on corners, at the tips of alleys, on the canal waterways, on bridges in the slight distance, around the cornices of churches, amidst crowds lining up for early shopping bargains at T.J. Maxx, slipping through the back doors of back street pubs, in the young people who gathered on the grass at Eyre Square, I saw

My

  Very

     Own

      Ghosts

         of

          Galway.

My parents, one loved and one despised.

Oh, so many of my friends:

Stewart, the most decent person I’d ever encountered.

A treacherous close friend whom I lured to his death in the Claddagh Basin and never regretted it for one moment. He was evil behind a smirk.

And, weird as it sounds, more priests than a minor scandal.