There’s a long fence blocking the way to the hospital, which forces me to decide whether I’ll take the Parkway entrance in or walk further down to Morris Park Avenue. The scenic route ain’t so scenic, so I go with Pelham. I hurry down the block past a few old folks filing into an Access-a-Ride ambulette. Two methadone zombies shuffle on by—dead-eyed shells of what they used to be. I spot a fella in a wheelchair with both arms in casts trying to smoke a cigarette that a severely disinterested nurse is holding for him. The blare of an ambulance siren grows louder as I get closer. Something awful is always happening at this hospital. Who am I kidding? Something awful is always happening in the Bronx.
“I got an inside track…little girl…” Charlie’s right on my ass again.
He’s hooking those words together. Not sure if that’s part of how this goes, but the amount of times this has happened—I ignore the details. All I know is he’ll be gone soon; I can take a quick break, and then take another job in a month or two. Vicious cycle, but hospital bills have a habit of growing a new head once you’ve cut one off.
“You sound worried, Charlie.” I don’t know why I give them the time of day, but it feels weird to let them babble like that. It’s potentially all me. I don’t talk to many people outside of my handler and my brother. Only one of those guys talks back, so anything else to interact with is better than nothing—even if it’s all in my wonky head. I realize that makes me a hypocrite. I wait for these things to fade away but jump at the chance to have a sounding board whenever they’re around. If I gave it more thought, I’m pretty sure I’d be completely freaked out about my motivations to run contracts.
“Please…” Charlie chokes that one out.
I turn around and puff smoke in his face. “You asked for this. You gambled your money and dignity down the toilet and put yourself right in my goddamn path. Get that in your head already. I’m tired of the denial shit. Skip ahead to acceptance and go away.”
He grunts.
They’re always such clueless assholes. “Let’s move. She’s probably gone by now.” I quicken my pace and replace my spent cigarette with a new one.
Charlie shuffles along behind me. “Little girl…”
“I wish.” I’m not in the mood to explain the relationship I have with my dear mother. I’ve grown to believe she was hatched the way she is—an awful, manipulative monster. We’ve got less of a relationship and more of an open feud—she wanted the plug pulled on Liam, said she couldn’t bear to see him waste away. Me, I didn’t agree. With Liam leaving the call to me—his only brother—I decided it would be best he stuck around in case he decided to do something like wake up. Last we spoke—was it three years ago? Yeah, three—she said a bunch of crap that a parent don’t say unless they truly mean it. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t stop to spit on me if she saw me on fire. Shit, she’d probably light the fire if she had the chance. It hurts still, but I know I’m doing right by my brother. That was what we were taught: to stand by our kin no matter what.
There’s a black Nissan pulling out the hospital entrance up ahead and I spot the crown of her silver head from twenty feet. I spin on a heel and duck into a bus stop alcove for a few seconds until I’m sure she’s gone. Curse my coward ass for not strutting on down the street giving a fuck-all as to whether she sees me. I take the opportunity to chain smoke another cigarette. As elite a smoker as I am, this many in such a short time has my head swimming. I debate on staying past visiting hours. The staff doesn’t normally promote that, but the only visitors Liam gets are his mother—our mother—and me. She’s not half as charming as I am, so I get leeway and a lot of love—even the occasional extra dinner.
Charlie’s trying to sit on the bus stop bench. He rubs his bullet wound again and taps his foot impatiently. The gash over his nose is weeping as if it were fresh.
“You got an appointment?”
He narrows his eyes and fades away.
Good. If I have to interact with my mom, all my crazy must take a back seat to all her crazy. That’s the kind of fire nobody needs today and any argument we’d have would probably require a minimum of two squad cars called in. What with my morning activities, that’s a situation I need to avoid.
I peek out from my hiding space. She’s gone. “All righty, back to it.” I break out into a lazy jog until I’m past the front gate and into one of the hospital entrances. No need to stop by a front desk. I take one of the service elevators to the seventh floor and skip out with a smile. A few orderlies I see from time to time pass by and give a wave. I’m here enough for the smell of antiseptic cleaner and alcohol pads to be familiar—almost homey. It’s a wonder I don’t douse my apartment in rubbing alcohol or iodine, so I don’t get homesick.
4
The Critical Care Unit is down the hall and to my right. A double door and three regular doors in—room 732—with a label that reads L. Walsh in sloppy handwriting. There’s a fresh bunch of flowers on a table to my left. Also, a photo of Liam in his service green. I always enjoyed busting his balls for “settling” with the Army. He had a face for the armed forces. Brave. Cold steel in his eyes. Not at all how I looked during my time with the Corps. Doesn’t matter. We both saw our fair share of bullshit overseas. We both messed up—now I’m pretending to be his husband and he’s ineligible to stay at the VA in Kingsbridge.
Last I heard the officer who got a taste of Liam’s anger still walks funny. Details weren’t divulged, but whatever the officer said or did was enough for Liam to give him the beating of a lifetime. I can’t even imagine what the guy could’ve said to get that kind of reaction. I spent years harassing Liam and the most I got was the occasional shove or punch. This guy must have touched a deep nerve. End of the day, it doesn’t matter what happened. Liam was dishonorably discharged and lost all the benefits that normally come with time served in the Army.
I’d laugh about it if we couldn’t have used the assistance. One of us should have gotten something for shipping out to the asshole of the world. At least Liam’s in this country legally; it’s a better state than what I’m in, and well, that’s not entirely true.
This is the sum of the Walsh brothers. One is an aging, cold-blooded bastard who kills to keep the other one barely alive.
My favorite nurse, Grace, is stretching Liam’s legs out in a bicycle motion. First the left, then the right. “Mr. Shea, how are you?” Her voice is as warm as a wool blanket. She’s the matronly type—heart as wide as her hips.
“Feeling fantastic. How’s the old lay-about today?” I give her a genuine smile. Watch Charlie move to the window and stare outside at nothing. Good—not in the mood to listen to him. Should have stopped at my apartment before coming here and left him with the rest.
“Well, he was jumping around and dancing. Then he heard you were headed over and zonked right back out.” Her laugh is warm—sincere. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t like you.”
I wave a fist at Liam, mockingly. “I knew this was a long con.” Make my way to the foot of the bed. “Need me to help?”
I don’t wait for an answer. I grab Liam’s free leg. It’s as light as a feather. He looks so very small in that hospital bed. Been near two years since he up and had a diabetic stroke right on the George Washington Bridge. The worst of it happened to him. The ten-car pileup he caused luckily didn’t take a single life. That’s one bit I’m sure he’d be happy to know if he were to wake up. Liam wasn’t anything near a pacifist, but he was the type to worry about whether anyone else was affected by the things he did. Pretty sure I know where he picked that up from, but it kills me that none of the reasons behind it are good. He ended up a good one merely because he had no other choice. My mother, my father, hell, even me—we hung Liam out to dry more times than I can count.
I talked to doctors for a while about Liam’s general health—to maybe find a reason why this came out of nowhere. They said it ran in the family, maybe from the father’s side. Nothing like having an absentee dad to dona
te a disease or two to complicate your adult life. There was a part of me that hopes it caught our father at the least opportune moment like it did Liam. It’s a dark wish to have, but one the man deserved.
Grace sets Liam’s leg back down and rechecks all the needles and sensors stuck in and onto him. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Shea, we’re all done.” She slowly brings his covers back over his legs and tucks him back in.
“Ah, well. He lucked out this time. I’m rougher than you are.”
“I’m sure he’s thanking his lucky stars. Is there anything else you boys need before I head out?”
“No, thank you so much, Grace. I’ll buzz if he jumps up and starts tapping away.”
“You do that.” She saunters out with a smile.
I take the three steps to the head of the bed and comb Liam’s hair to the right the way he likes it. Something about him like this makes me dote like a bitch that just had her litter. Check his vitals, his IV, and his breathing tube. There’s nothing out of place or wrong—and I know it—but it’s become a ritual. These motions lock me up if I can’t follow them—it’s OCD. I turn and open the shades to let the light in. He’s paper white, could use a tan—could use consciousness.
“So, how are ya, rat bastard?” I give Liam’s face a gentle smack, more of a touch. His skin’s got the give of an embalmed corpse.
Charlie appears on the opposite side of the bed. He sounds like he’s sobbing, but his face doesn’t match the audio. He watches Liam with an unsettling interest. Jaw goes slack a moment. Eyes roll back in his head. Then he’s gone again.
There’s a fancy rocking chair behind me that converts into a thin bed. I plunk my ass down and keep a hand over Liam’s. “He ain’t joining you anytime soon, Charlie,” I say.
There’s a remote attached to Liam’s bed. I turn the TV mounted to the ceiling in front of us on and channel surf. No clear desire to see a damn thing, but I need a distraction. Lord knows, I love my brother, but these visits are mind-numbing. There’s something worse on each channel—shrill harpies complaining about money, bullshit melodramas. Don’t get me started on the commercials.
Charlie paces in front of Liam’s bed. If he were actually here, I’d run interference. Reminds me of a cat about to pounce.
I cut the television off—wasted effort. “I said, leave him alone.”
“I don’t know…” Charlie sets himself down on the chair opposite me. Crosses his arms over his chest and shifts his attention to me. That, I’m okay with.
I notice the sound of the machines for the first time since I got here. The beeping and hissing. I’ve grown so accustomed to all this shit being a part of Liam; I can barely imagine him without it. Try to think hard about what he looked like before the accident and I draw a blank. Fuck me, it’s only been over a year, but you’d think Liam had been like this all thirty-three years of his time on God’s green earth.
I watch Liam for a while. Screwed up, I know, but it makes me feel better. Don’t know why. Give my attention back to Charlie. “Shit, look at this. One partially dead guy and a fully dead guy. You’re all I got right now and one of you is on his way out.”
Charlie’s form flickers.
“See?” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. My back aches. “If you were real—a genuine spirit—my advice would be to go wherever you need to. No use haunting someone like me.” I shrug. “You know, maybe.” Lean back in the faux leather chair. “Maybe I’ll haunt the son of a bitch who puts a slug between my eyes one day.” I mime a gun with my fingers. Pretend it goes off and hang my head slack for effect.
Charlie looks out the window behind him. “Little girl…”
We stay silent for a few minutes. Liam’s robot parts fill the gap in conversation with soft hisses and sporadic beeps.
I slap my thighs and smile. “Story time.” Straighten up and lean over Liam. I adjust his sheets. Smooth out the wrinkles.
I gently punch Liam’s arm. “How about the pig story? Been a while since we heard that, no?” Liam wasn’t as fond of that story as I am, but it’s one of the few he’d suffer through. Besides, like all stories about our past, it made him look better than me.
I fight the urge to fish a cigarette from my pocket. Pull my chair a little closer to Liam’s bed and lean toward his ear. “No complaints? Great, so…the pig story then.”
My Heart is in Ireland—1985
5
Any asshole can tell a story.
Folks are perfectly content in hearing the summarized bits of our lives without the need to commit. It serves as a break to the monotone hum of the mundane. Some people seek those stories out on purpose. Thrive on the idea that maybe that nobody in the cubicle next to theirs drew an even shorter straw. We crave the distraction and a quick story never hurts.
Example? The pig story.
Back in the mid-eighties, our grandfather took us back to Ireland to visit family and work on a house he planned to retire in. One night he got drunk with his half-brothers and they challenged him to slaughter a pig since he was a big muck-a-muck from New York City proper. Slaughtering a pig was beyond the likes of him. So he drank some whiskey and chased after a poor pig for nearly forty-five minutes. Caught it. Stuck it in the neck. It got loose and led him on another chase. About a half hour later, he finished the deed. We laughed. Days after, I informed my four-year-old brother the pork pies and black sausage we were enjoying were the very same pig. He cried for two days.
That’s not how you tell a proper story.
Why?
Because what’s the use in telling a story if the listener isn’t going to become a part of it—become completely engrossed in the single time and place you’re bringing them? Without that, you’re a rambling asshole most folks are entertaining out of pity or obligation. I can’t think of a sadder position to be in.
I’m going off the rails now.
To properly tell the pig story, I need to explain who my grandfather was—the incomparable Mairsial Walsh II. Born in Killarney, Ireland, to Jane Powers and Mairsial Walsh. By the time he was a month old, his father was dead—burned alive in a barn fire. Poor kid was only nineteen. My great grandmother—now sixteen with a son and no husband—then married one Edmund Shea. Stories told painted him as a right bastard of a man. A member of the original Irish Republican Army—rabidly devoted to Irish independence. He was a head’s height taller than my great grandfather and ginger like my great grandma. My grandfather, unfortunately, was the spitting image of his father—dark hair, dark eyes, dark mood.
Mairsial did not have a good childhood.
He was beyond latchkey. Owned the same pair of ratty shoes until his toes burst through them. Half his right ear lobe was lost by the age of five from an especially irate—drunk—Edmund. His palms and the pads of his feet were calloused over by the time he was eight. By the age of ten, Mairsial was sent across the Atlantic to live with an “aunt.” His mother had five new mouths to feed and Edmund had enough of this cuckoo taking up space and causing chaos.
Mairsial landed in New York and was told to do his part if he wanted to keep a roof over his head. In days, he found a job sweeping floors in the print shops all over lower Manhattan. A few years passed, and he convinced someone to teach him how to run the printers. Broke his ass for more than fifty years printing and binding books. Always brought proofs home to my brother and me. My mom—his daughter—wasn’t always agreeable to some of the material, but our dad disappeared after Liam mistaked his way into the world when I was nine; so she kept her mouth shut. She knew we needed a strong, honest man in our lives.
Our grandfather introduced us to Clint Eastwood, Bruce Lee, and Hulk Hogan—everything two boys growing up in a hard world ever needed. We were half-wit snots, but he taught us right and wrong and when to throw the first punch. I always knew he had a fondness for Liam—his double—but being older gave me first dibs on the receiving end of his wisdom. Whether that was words of advice or the business end of a be
lt was up to me.
Our grandma passed early. She had a bad heart. Our mom was his only child, so he clung to us and us to him. Over time, he became smart enough to realize my brother and I were severely cut off from our history. We were Bronx micks, didn’t care about our history or the country so many of our own called home.
That was why he dragged us to Ireland. The first time Liam and I had ever gone—1985—and we were excited to run through all the places our mother described to us from her own childhood. I was almost thirteen and had to keep a precocious four-year-old Liam occupied. I still remember the Kilmacoliver Walk—the views from the summit were amazing. The stuff you read about in story books.
By this point my great grandparents were long gone. My great aunts were in the states, but the three boys, Edmund, Sean, and James, all stayed behind to care for the Shea farmlands. Livestock and grass stretching to the end of the world. All the time my grandpa was away, his stepfather flourished. Never let my great grandma mail a single cent stateside. My mother never thought that was fair, but Grandpa figured he didn’t deserve what he wasn’t there to earn. While I was young, I agreed with my mother. It would take a long time to realize how wrong she was.
One night, the subject of my grandfather’s exile came up. The Sheas were proud members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. They were pretty involved with the Troubles—the war between the Provisional Irish Republican Army and Britain—and were probably a little resentful of the prodigal son who did his best to keep his nose out of affairs he truly didn’t care about. Which Uncle Sean made it known to my grandpa whenever he could.
Sean would tap his gimpy left leg and growl, “You never lost blood for your home—never wounded in the name of freedom.”
Hell Chose Me Page 3