by Greg Fields
Conor took great satisfaction in the provisions his parents made for him. To be sure, he acknowledged a warm emotional surge in seeing them again. They were a receptive audience for what he wanted to share. While he was home, the doubts, the insecurities that had begun to rise up, Gorgonlike, to freeze him into stone during the latter part of the first term seemed so far away as to be unreal. He was slightly embarrassed that his boundless self-confidence had ever been challenged. Now that he was back again in the most familiar, most comfortable surroundings, he felt invincible once more.
Conor managed as well to see a great many old friends. He went to two parties while he was home, each packed with people he knew and who knew him. To them he recounted the exhilaration of being away, the magic of the mythical and distant East. They in turn seemed anxious to hear, for Conor in going so far afield had defied custom. He had always been popular—so strong, so versatile and quick. Had he changed? Would he? Finnegan held forth with warmth and wit, glad to be with his old friends. They knew him in ways no one at college ever could. It is the old friendships that are best.
One afternoon Finnegan got together with several of his former teammates to play basketball at the high school gymnasium. One of them had called the coach, who had invited them to watch the current team practice. Afterward they would have run of the floor.
Finnegan sat in the bleachers with his friends and watched the team go through its paces. The gym itself brought back a rush of familiarity. He loved the shiny hardwood, so bright that it gave back clear reflections. He loved the pungent wood-and-sweat smell, the echo of the ball through a near-empty cavernous building, While his friends bantered among themselves and made comparisons with the current team, always to their own enhancement, Finnegan sat quietly, looking carefully at all aspects, all corners of the gym.
He looked at center-court with its black circle ringing a script ’S’, the initial of the team name, and recalled his coiled nervousness each time he walked onto the court for the opening tip. He looked at the bench area and recalled the flippant offhand remarks between teammates near the end of a game already won. He looked across at the empty bleachers and recalled the cheering which he had never noticed until he came out of a game. He looked, too, at the thick rope attached to a disk a few feet below the high ceiling and recalled his fear at having to climb it as a freshman in physical education class, one more fear eventually overcome through a strong will.
In due course the team’s practice ended, the sweaty bodies walking off the court, breathing hard, glassy-eyed and anxious to shower, leave and get on with their own vacations. The coach waved the others onto the floor. After a few minutes of shooting around to loosen up, they chose sides. The coach, a tall, scholarly gentleman who taught English (unlike most of the other coaches, who comprised the departments of physical education and vocational arts) called to them from the end of the court.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, gentlemen. I have to go instruct my team, which needs it badly. If you need me or if anyone gets hurt, I’ll be in the usual place.”
“You gonna come back and watch your old boys, Coach?” asked one of the old boys.
“Of course. I want to see if you people remember anything,” and with a smile he ducked into the hallway leading to the lockers.
With the coach’s departure the game began. Finnegan, to his delight, had been teamed with his old friend, Jim Koscielski. Finnegan had learned that day that Kos was the leading freshman scorer at the University of Oregon. They had always worked well together, both on and off the court. Finnegan relished the chance to relive some of their old magic, to communicate wordlessly amid a swirl of running bodies and know in advance how it would all work out.
And so it was. As the game progressed Finnegan found himself running up and down the court with no strain, not winded, pushing the ball quickly before him when he had it, cutting to open areas when he didn’t, playing tough, tight defense. This is still a boy’s game, he thought. His shots dropped, one after another, through a very kind hoop. He passed the ball with flicks of the wrist, firmly, to open teammates. He drove the lane, whisking by his defender, either to score or to flip the ball to a free man underneath. Basketball was joyous again, a fleet exercise that confirmed his youth, an exercise at which, on this day, he excelled.
Resurgent, he took his dares, lunging for balls at which he had only remote chances but coming up with them anyway, taking twisting, spinning, mid-air shots, throwing passes between several defenders to an open man. He took his dares, and did not fail. Still his breath came easily; he did not feel the knifelike pain that often dug under his ribs when he had pushed himself too hard.
What finer confirmation of youth than this? What nobler way to spend an afternoon, or a lifetime, sporting at a game in which one’s true vitality might be found? Finnegan felt an exhilarative joy pulse through every vein—a joy of sprinting, crouching, leaping, stretching, even falling. His body had come alive once more, and with it his mind, his heart, his very spirit.
The game was to fifty baskets. With his team leading comfortably and one basket away from victory, Finnegan watched his man dribble up court. He crouched defensively, knees bent, feet shuffling, palms upward, looking for one last opportunity to impress himself. His man took his eye off Finnegan momentarily to look underneath the basket. When he did so, Conor shot out his right hand, a serpent’s tongue. Before his man could cover up, Finnegan flicked the ball away, then stepped around him quickly, picked up the loose ball and was off in the opposite direction. No one would catch him, and his layup sealed the game.
Conor Finnegan looked to the bleachers, as was his habit. He had not seen the coach come back in and sit down, so he did not know how long he had been there or how much he had seen. But in looking over he had caught the man’s eye, and the coach, in acknowledgement of the final basket at least, gave a slight thin-lipped smile and nodded his head. After that, Finnegan met his friends.
They walked to the bleachers to grab towels, dry off and rest before pulling on their sweatshirts to go home. The coach walked over to them. “You fellas still look respectable. Conor, you scored more today than you did all last year.”
Finnegan laughed, “A man’s got to take his shots, coach. I’ve got a lot of points in this arm that have yet to come out.”
His friends jeered and hooted.
After a few minutes the coach returned to his office and the players filtered out of the gym. Where most of his friends had cars, Finnegan had walked. Now he felt so good that he thought he would run home. It was only a couple of miles. He paid his respects to his compadres with typical boyish jests.
“Listen, we’ll get together this summer. I’ll be back home.”
“Yeah, good luck, Conor. Give us a call when you get back.”
“Show those eastern guys how to do it.”
“And those eastern girls, too.”
Finnegan did not start at once for home. He stood in front of the gym and let his gaze sweep the campus once, slowly. He was no longer a part of this place, despite illusions. Whatever he conjured this afternoon had been transitory. Odd it was, to be here and not belong, to be flesh transmuted. His limbs were a bit numb, and the dried perspiration on his forehead grew cold. No longer a part of this place. How odd. How very odd. And how strangely sad.
Before leaving, Finnegan thought to have a word with his coach as well. He went into the locker room, down the short corridor and turned right. The dank, sweaty, slatey smell hung in every corner and every hallway. He found the coach at his desk going over a practice schedule. The older man looked up as Conor swung around the open doorway to the office.
“Coach, I just wanted to wish you well before I head back.” Finnegan extended his hand. “Good luck.” The coach rose and shook it firmly.
“To you, too, Conor. You’ve got a heck of an opportunity. You’re at a fine school. I know you’ll do great things with it.”
“I’ve got a good background, sir. Good coaching. I’ve b
een well prepared.”
“You know, Conor, I always considered you to be one of the smartest players I ever coached. You were the best shooter on the squad, but you never cared if you scored. You were always ready to pass the ball off and make sure that everyone else looked good. A lot of players end up doing that, but I never had to force you. I never had to correct you for not running the offense or for taking a shot when you should have passed. It seemed to me that that quality would serve you well the rest of your life, in whatever you do. “
Conor smiled. “I’m still doing my best, Coach. There’s no other way.”
“Give me a call when you get home again. I’ll fill you in on how this year’s group turns out. I think they’ll be quite good, actually, if we can find a point guard to run things.”
“I’ll do that, Coach. Thanks for everything.”
Finnegan went back down the short corridor and, as he came out of the locker room into the campus quad, he took three or four deep breaths to rid himself of the stale odor. The late afternoon sun hung low and the air was crisp, the campus now totally vacant. Finnegan heard the floppy, rubbery footsteps of his sneakers echo to the empty buildings. He turned in the direction of home and started to run, slowly at first until he caught a rhythm, then faster. The campus disappeared behind him. He was alone, running down the deserted sidewalks.
On the mantel the old clock ticked and clucked, its innards rusty but regular, a pattern of movement worn into it that no shock could alter. Books flanked it on either side. Above the entire mantel hung a wide mirror, mysteriously foggy around its perimeter. The fireplace had been blocked off for years. Its dirty gray border, once considered somewhat ornate, was now cracked on both sides. Along one crack the gap in the slate was so wide that a man could insert his index finger. If he were to do so, he would most likely encounter small insects crawling back and forth there. From the base of the old fireplace ran a threadbare carpet with a floral design that was once off-white. Now it had become so soiled that it blended into the bleached-out red that formed its backdrop. A few feet in front of the fireplace sat an old wooden coffee table, one leg broken and perched on bits of newspaper to level the table. The top of the table was ringed with stains of cups and glasses, its varnish long eaten away. Magazines, some months old, littered its surface between the stain-rings. Before it sat an old, deep easy chair, its once-green leather faded now to a mucusy hue. Each arm had a narrow split running its width where a man could rest his elbows.
In the chair, reclining as far back as it would let him go, an aged, brittle man sat humbly in flannel shirt and baggy workpants. His eyes stared across the small living room at the mantel. In an adjacent corner on a kitchen table, there was an ancient RCA radio. From it came a series of Christmas carols which the old man recognized, his mind tracing over nearly forgotten lyrics. Usually he watched the television on the other side of the room, but this was Christmas Eve and he felt it more appropriate tonight to listen at least a little to the holy carols. Near the television, perched in his cage, a canary chirped mindlessly along.
The old man took his eyes from the mantel, which had been only a vacant target for him anyway, and looked around the room. He sighed deeply, his thin, worn lungs bringing in then throwing out bundles of air. His eyes lit upon the kitchen table next to the radio where he had displayed, to no one of course, for he had no visitors, the Christmas cards he received this year. There were three: one from his son, one from his grandson, and one from his landlady.
Behind him, a window looked out from his second floor rooms. Earlier this week it had snowed, and the snow had not yet cleared. The traffic had ground it down to a gritty sludge lining both sides of the street. There was no traffic below, either on the sidewalk or the street itself. On a Christmas Eve, that was perhaps most appropriate.
The old man’s mind punched through the radio’s Christmas music. They became a draping for his wanderings. He returned his eyes to the mantel and tuned out whatever it was they saw.
It was not always like this on Christmases. He saw himself as a young boy, helping his soon-to-pass mother prepare a pudding. He was tending the fire in the stove while his mother stirred the thick contents of a heavy black kettle. He remembered the wrinkles in her face as she smiled down at him. He would receive no present this year, nor for several years. The richly sumptuous Christmas dinner, the best meal of the year, was gift enough for all of them. The small boy did not mind, for he had no concept of anything else. Once done with the stirring and the feeding of the fire, he pulled up a stool in a corner of the kitchen to watch his mother at work. She sang Christmas carols, ancient ones the lyrics of which he could no longer recall, some in Gaelic, and, as she sang to him, he sat smiling back at her, wishing he knew enough to sing along with her.
His mother, and father too, dead these many, many years, lying now behind the parish church, thousands of miles away.
Molly, ah, my sweet and beautiful Molly. She would fairly glow at Christmastime, a childlike excitement in her leaping eyes. Once he got on his feet here, he was able to afford some things—a tree and some simple gifts—and he remembered now clearly the thrill with which he offered them. She would decorate the tree simply, yet with the greatest care, hanging delicate gingerbread figures which she had baked and placing them near the striped candy canes. Later, after their first son was born, they would bring his crib into the living room so he could be a part of their gentle ritual.
Molly would bake then, endlessly it seemed—cookies and cakes and candies—and what they could not eat themselves she would take around the neighborhood. She would invite people to stop by. She invited their friends, who arrived in laughing, bundled couples, and she invited people they knew only remotely but wanted to know better, and they would come, too, for no one could resist Molly’s invitations. Here, in this living room, they would serve the traditional drinks and the products of Molly’s baking. They would sing then, too, producing a sound the old man remembered as surprisingly harmonic and truly inspirational.
Later, on Christmas Eve, he and Molly would exchange presents, usually simple items, but he occasionally could surprise her with something so obviously beyond their means that she would be stunned. He bought her one year a dainty necklace, with a real pearl tucked into a nest of gold filigree. Molly cried when she opened it, knowing the sacrifices it must have wrought in their fragile lifestyle. She wore it only at the most special of times. When she died, her grieving husband asked that she be buried with the necklace in place, and so he took comfort knowing it was with her even now.
Once their first son was born, Christmas focused itself on his boyish excitements, which in turn excited his parents to new levels. The baby added a rich dimension to the holiday, but the old man thought back to his Christmases with Molly alone and knew that, as much as he loved all his sons, those early years were the most precious.
And so the old man heard the voice inside him say, Molly, Molly, my one true and final love. You were light enough to clear any gloom, and at no time did your loving heart shine brighter than during these most holy days. I have known no happiness since your passing, my dearest love, none at all, and I look for none. My soul is with you now, as ever it has been. I wait only for my body to follow.
The old man sat in his bleakness, a tear running down each cheek. He did not feel them. His remembrances of holidays past ran no further than his last with his wife. What followed was hard, just him and the boys. Then his boys went off and never came back. The father was left to share his holidays with his friends, who became less frequent as age and death claimed them, too. His sons would call, send gifts, suggest trips to visit, but none of that could work. The old man presumed he would pass from this mortal realm alone without ever wrapping his once-strong arms in loving embrace around another human being.
He had chosen his course, from restlessness, from pride, from desperation, from deep unknown wells of commitment. Whatever Finnegans were left in Ireland he could not know, for he had lost his
family the day he stole passage.
The old man sat in his easy chair and continued to review past holidays throughout the evening. And, although he was saddened, he could not be disappointed. He had shaped himself alone, and now, even in age and solitude, he could recognize that few men ever accomplish what he had done so thoroughly so many years ago.
Let sleep come when it will, the long, cold, dreamless sleep of all mortals, for it would truly be a reward. Yet Liam Finnegan was not a bitter man. He wore the cloak of sorrowful age as fully as any other guise of his long life, and he knew that these bleak, haunted rooms were the logical conclusion of what he had set about as a brash, discontented young man decades ago.
The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease. The happy man inevitably confines himself within ancient limits.
—Hawthorne
CHAPTER VIII
In tragic life, God wot,
No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: