She laughed, said,
“More like these days, it’s shooting clerical fish in the barrel.”
I’d been spending more and more time with her and, I don’t know about love, but it had certainly moved into an area of need. We had grappa with the after-dinner coffee and she smiled, said,
“Lucky you.”
Being with her, having found her, I felt way more than lucky but I asked,
“Why?”
That malicious twinkle in her eye, she said,
“I know for a fact you’re getting laid.”
Notes from Boru’s Papers
The days slipped by,
the hate remains.
(Jens Lapidus,
Easy Money)
Amen
To that, Jack thought.
He had spoken again to Sister Maeve. One of the girls allegedly attacked by de Burgo had killed herself. Left a note for Sister Maeve.
It read:
I feel so dirty, so defiled.
My priest says I am a liar.
Please pray for my tainted soul.
Like a haiku of bitter acid. Etched in utter despair.
Jack pledged,
“If it’s my last act, I’ll make that bastard burn.”
Took me a time to track down Ann Henderson. She was, according to most sources, the “love of Jack’s life.”
She had some colorful, varied history her ownself. After Jack, she had married a Guard. This same individual for various motives decided Jack needed
“the lesson of the hurly.”
A very Galway practice. Involving three ingredients:
(1) A knee
(2) A hurly
(3) Rage
Took out Jack in one lethal swoosh, leaving him with a permanent limp. As stories go, this would be sufficiently dark, adequately noir for the most jaded palate. But in Taylorland, half measures availed them nothing. A vigilante group, named the Pikemen, in a misguided attempt to recruit Jack, took out the hurler.
Ann blamed Jack.
It wasn’t then that they had simply history, it was open brutal wafare.
Jack lost. . as always.
I met Ann at the Meryck Hotel. On the phone she said,
“Let’s pretend we have some class.”
Irishwomen had this lock on non sequiturs. Did they always have the last word? According to Jack, they most certainly always had the last laugh, regardless of how bitter. I’m not sure what I was expecting. An aging woman, gray and broken from grief and her legacy of men, downtrodden?
I think that was the description I was anticipating.
Quelle surprise. . which Jack had Irish-translated as
“Fuck me sideways!”
She was well groomed, finely preserved, indeterminate forty-through-fifty range. An immaculate tailored navy coat, strong face, with that melancholic slant that attracted rather than repelled. Her hair was shot through with blond highlights. The eyes, intense blue with a light that spoke of deep reserves. She welcomed me warmly, said,
“But you’re little more than a gasun.”
The pat-your-head, kick-your-ass sandwich her nation specialized in.
We ordered tea. Yeah, I was trying to go native. Was even managing to swear without consciously thinking about it. She asked,
“So, how can I help you?”
I launched. Gave her most of my Taylor narrative. She was a good listener. Took a time but eventually I was done. Not sure what responses I was anticipating but laughter wasn’t among them. She said,
“You need to watch that.”
“What?”
I’d deliberately avoided cusswords. She gave me a warm smile, and how it lit up her face. I could see how Jack would have cherished its glow. She said,
“I could be listening to Jack.”
She had to be kidding. I tried,
“You have to be kidding.”
She reached over, touched my arm, said,
“You have taken on his speech patterns. Next you’ll be making lists.”
Clumsily, I tried to cover the current list with my teacup. She continued,
“Jack has a dark, very dark magnetism. Alas, it obliterates those who stay drawn to it. Look at his closest friends. . Stewart,”
Pause.
Dead.
Then,
“Ridge. . just out of hospital. Not to mention a long line of casual acquaintances, bartenders, street people, so-called snitches, even an innocent child. All Taylor-tainted and all dead or wounded. My own husband and, God forgive me, my own lost heart.”
Fuck!
I noticed she still wore the Irish wedding band, the Claddagh ring. The heart turned inward-for whom, Jack or her husband?
I didn’t ask.
Did ask,
“Do you hate him?”
She seemed quite astonished, took a moment to regroup, then,
“Not so long ago it seemed as if Jack might be on the verge of happiness.”
We both laughed nervously at such a notion. She continued,
“An American he met on a weekend in London. The affair apparently burned bright and rapidly. The high point was her impending visit to Galway. . Jack was aglow.”
I went,
“Wow, hold the phones. She knew about his drinking, right?”
She rolled her eyes, said,
“Mother of God, everybody and his sister knows that! There was another woman, hell-bent on destroying every aspect of Jack’s life and had somehow gotten hold of his mobile. The American arrived, no one to meet her at the airport, so. .”
She took a deep breath.
“She answered Jack’s phone, said,
‘Jack can’t come to the phone,
he’s about to come in me.’”
I went Irish,
“Holy fuck!”
I ventured,
“Do you still have some. . um. . residual feelings for Jack?”
She laughed but not with any warmth, said,
“Residual! Jesus, sounds like a TV repeat. How deeply fucked is the ordinary art of conversation by political correctness.”
Her use of obscenity gave her words a blunt trauma and also affirmed that this line of questioning was done. She gathered her coat, asked,
“What happened to your friendship with the bold Jack?”
Taken aback, I considered some answers that might put me in a better light. This woman’s approval seemed necessary. I said simply,
“I betrayed him.”
She took a sharp breath, then,
“Phew, that’s bad, no return there.”
I asked,
“He doesn’t forgive betrayal?”
“Jack doesn’t forgive anything or anyone.”
I reverted to American, said,
“Hard-core, eh?”
She gave me a look, savored that, said,
“There is one person he can never forgive.”
I wanted to guess, “Your husband,” but some discretion held my tongue. She had such a look of profound sadness, so I asked,
“Who might that be?”
“Himself.”
Those who actually work say
“I get wages.”
Those who just think they work say
“I’m on a salary.”
(Jack Taylor)
Jack had recently resumed drinking in the River Inn. He hung there as NUIG staff like to unwind near the university. After a grueling day of between one and two lectures. One guy dressed in a worn cord jacket with, and I kid thee not, patches on the elbows, was a regular. A man who’d read his John Cheever or watched one too many episodes of University Challenge. He liked to drink large Jamesons, no ice, no water. A dedicated souse. Jack knew him slightly from Charley Byrne’s bookshop, where he spent hours loitering in the Literary Crit section.
Jack began to join him at the counter, freely buying him rounds, creating an artificial camaraderie through drink. The guy liked to talk a lot.
A few sessions in, Jack slipped de Burgo into the chat, began,
“Professor de Burgo seems to be highly respected.”
No one pisses on academics like their colleagues. The guy didn’t disappoint, muttered,