I nodded, moved by my son’s sentiment and blinking back hot tears that brimmed in my eyes. But, although touched, I also felt as if someone had just twisted a dull knife in my heart. I knew that Jamie would assume my tears were for Hal, because I missed him. And that was partially true. I was extremely sad that Hal was gone, and I did miss him. Every single day. There was no denying that. But in that moment, I felt like a complete hypocrite, and my heart ached with an old festering guilt—a guilt I could never seem to completely shake off. And that was because I still faulted myself with the fact that I had never been “over the moon” for Hal.
Oh, I had tried my hardest, I’d put on a good show, I’d been the best wife I knew how to be, and yet, in my mind, it was never enough. Never equal to what Hal poured out over me. His love for me was so natural, so easy. Sometimes it reminded me of a dance. He knew all the steps, he moved gracefully, effortlessly . . . and I sort of stumbled along. I never felt equal to him when it came to loving. And with him gone now, I felt even more like a failure—a phony. And I feared this shroud of guilt would follow me to my grave and perhaps even haunt me thereafter.
“Dad was a good guy, Mom,” Jamie continued as if to comfort me, still misunderstanding my emotions. “I mean, I probably took him for granted more than anyone, and I really do regret that. But I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately . . . especially since President Kennedy was killed. I’ve been thinking about a lot of stuff. Like what it takes to become a really good man, you know, someone like Dad or JFK. And I think about what a good example Dad gave me—he was honest and hardworking and really kind. He was a great husband to you. I couldn’t have asked for a better dad. Man, I still remember how he’d close up the shoe store early just so he could come see me at a ball game.”
“He loved watching you play sports, Jamie. He’d never been very good at them himself. You brought a lot of joy into his life.”
“And I want to make him proud, I really do.”
“I know you do.”
“And I think he’d be proud if I joined the Air Force. Like maybe I’d be fulfilling his dream somehow. You know?”
I swallowed hard, then nodded. This was a battlefield I wasn’t ready for.
“Anyway, I realize how lucky I was to have him. We were both lucky.”
“Or as your dad would say, we were blessed.”
“Yeah, blessed.”
A hot tear escaped, sliding down my cheek now. Using the cocktail napkin, I dabbed at it. “You’re right, your dad was a good man. And he loved us both dearly.”
“And, even though I acted like a jerk sometimes and I know I hurt him about the shoe business and everything, I really did love him.” His eyes got a little moist too. “Do you think he really knew that?”
I nodded. “He knew.” I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, trying to contain the tears that threatened to flood. Jamie’s words felt like iodine being poured into a deep wound—they burned like fire, but hopefully there was healing in them too. Still, this wasn’t going to make it any easier to tell him the truth—the timing seemed all wrong just now. Maybe once we were in Ireland it would be easier. God, give me strength!
6
Jamie
I thought flying was fun when we started out on this trip. But by the time we landed in Dublin, I didn’t think I’d be wanting to get on a plane anytime soon. “I’m glad that’s over with,” I told Mom as we gathered our bags. “I’m sick of planes.”
“I am too,” she said. “I never breathed so much cigarette smoke in my life, not even on our trip to Paris, which I’d thought was bad enough. But I think most of the passengers must’ve been smokers on this flight.”
“Well, at least we don’t have to fly again for a couple of weeks.”
“Actually, that’s not the plan,” she said as we waited for a cab. We were trying to stay close to the building to avoid the rain that seemed to be coming down in buckets just now. “We do have another short flight on Tuesday.”
“Where to?”
“Galway.”
“What’s in Galway?”
She shrugged and waved to an oncoming cab. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Then suddenly we were loading our bags in the trunk and jumping into the back of the cab. We were both dripping wet as the cabby drove us into the city, and Mom was getting more and more frustrated as she tried to make herself clear to the driver, who appeared to be a bit deaf. Mom was using far too many words and actually trying to give the cabby directions, which seemed a bit crazy, plus I could tell the poor guy was ready to toss us out, fare or no fare. It didn’t help matters that his thick accent was impossible for Mom to decipher, although the more they bantered, the more I seemed to be getting it. That was when I realized that Mom’s ear was not too clever when it came to accents and decided to jump in.
“Why don’t you let me translate for you?” I teased.
She scowled at me, but handed me the paper with the name of the hotel and other details written on it.
“The Fitzwilliam Hotel,” I said as clearly as possible, even trying to sound a bit Irish myself.
He nodded. “Aye, ’at’s on Sain’ Stephens Green, i’tiz.”
“Yes,” I said eagerly. “I mean aye! That’s it!”
Then he laughed and drove on through the dark and damp city, and soon we were pulling up to a well-lit hotel. At that point, I decided to take charge of matters. I’d already exchanged a couple of twenties at the airport, and after a quick inventory of the strange-looking Irish bills and coins, I managed to pay and tip the cabby. It was possible I over-tipped him, because he seemed pretty happy, but at least we were safely at the hotel and the guy was very helpful in getting our bags into the lobby.
Mom smiled at me as she removed and shook out her trench coat. “I’ll have to remember to take you on all my foreign travels.”
“You planning on doing a lot of this?” I asked as I removed my soggy suede jacket and laid it over a suitcase.
“You never know.” Then she glanced up to the registration desk. “Would you like to help check us in too?”
“Sure.”
Then she handed me a confirmation slip. “Tell them we have a reservation for three nights, adjoining rooms.”
Mom listened as I spoke to the man at the desk. This guy was a little easier to understand, and I suspect that she could’ve handled it just fine. But it was sort of fun taking charge, and I could tell she was getting a kick out of it too.
“I know I should be exhausted,” I told Mom as we rode up the elevator, which they call a lift, “but I think I’ve gotten my second wind. I wouldn’t mind taking a little stroll and checking out the nightlife.”
She frowned. “In the rain?”
“Sure. Isn’t that what Ireland is all about?”
She sort of laughed. “Well, count me out. All I want is a hot bath and a soft bed and maybe a little room service.” “See you in the morning then?” I said, after I got her bags and things into her room, which actually looked pretty nice. Mom was doing this thing first class.
“You be careful out there, Jamie,” she warned as she hung up her trench coat. “I know you’re twenty-one and think you’re all grown up, but you’re also a stranger in a foreign country and—”
“I know”—I held up my hand—“don’t be taking any wooden nickels.”
She sort of smiled. “Just be careful.”
I gave her a slight salute. “Will do.”
I dumped my stuff on the floor of my room, which was also pretty ritzy, then dug a dry shirt out of my big suitcase and found a slightly wrinkled sports jacket, and then I took off. I didn’t know much about Dublin, but something about the look of the city as the cabby drove us here pulled me right in. I couldn’t wait to do a little exploring.
I walked around for about half an hour, just enjoying the opportunity to stretch my legs and get the lead out. I passed by numerous pubs and considered going into several, but it wasn’t until I heard lively music coming out o
f Flannery’s that I decided to go in. Now, I’d never heard Irish music before, not that I could recall anyway, but something about the sound of this band felt familiar. And something about the music just drew me in. I bought myself a pint of Guinness, took a seat near the band, and just listened.
It wasn’t long before I was conversing with the three guys in the band, just talking about regular stuff between songs—music talk. They thought it was cool that I was an American and a musician, and I thought it was cool that they were Irish. Sure, that made no sense to them since they were, obviously, in Ireland. But it was as if I was getting pulled into this country—and its music. Something about the whole place just seemed right to me. After about an hour, I offered to buy the guys in the band a Guinness, and they gladly agreed. It seems musicians didn’t get rich in this country either.
Sean, the outgoing redhead, played the fiddle. Galen, the short, quiet guy, played the drum. In fact he played several drums, but only one at a time. And Galen’s drums were nothing like the trap set that Steve had used for Jamie and the Muskrats. These Irish drums resembled oversized tambourines, but without the jingles on the sides. And Galen played them with a collection of sticks, resulting in a variety of cool sounds. Last but not least was Mick, the leader. He played both the guitar and a flutelike instrument that he called a penny whistle
We talked about music while drinking our Guinness, and to my surprise, we were all pretty interested in a new British group, The Beatles. Mick had even heard them play once in Germany.
“’Twas afore they got their new drummer,” he told me with a thick Irish accent.
“Wha’ is the name of the drummer?” Galen asked. “’Twas a strange un, I recall.”
“Ringo?” Mick offered.
“That’s right,” Galen said. “Ringo! Now, where’d they come up with that?”
We were so engrossed in our conversation that the pub owner had to remind them it was time to play again. So I sat and listened some more. And they finally wrapped it up a little before midnight. By then I was actually starting to get a little sleepy, probably jet-lagged, or maybe it was that third pint of Guinness. But since the guys offered me a ride, I didn’t mind waiting for them to pack it up. I couldn’t help but wonder what Mom would think of my new group of friends—not that she’d still be up to see them—but I felt sure she’d think they were a little strange with their long hair and sideburns. But then Mom wasn’t used to musicians either.
As we rode in their van back to my hotel, Sean and I got to talking about the recent assassination of President Kennedy. It seemed the Irish had been almost as upset by this as the Americans. Then Sean told me about his hometown.
“I grew up in ta very same place where John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s ancestors come from,” he said proudly.
“Really?” I was impressed. “What’s it called?”
“New Ross in Wexford.”
“Where’s that?” I asked, wishing I’d brought my map of Ireland along.
“Near a city called Waterford,” Sean said as he lit a cigarette. “Not far from Dublin. Ya take the train, an’ ’tis only a day trip.”
“There ya go now,” Galen called from the driver’s seat, which was oddly on the right side of the cab. “The Fitzwil-liam ’otel.”
Sean whistled. “Quite posh.You must be rich.”
I laughed and confessed I was traveling with my mom. That made them laugh. But they all slapped me on the back and told me to come back to Flannery’s and see them again.
“We’re featured for a fortnight,” Galen said as I hopped out.
“Big New Year’s Eve bash,” Sean called out.
“I’ll be back,” I promised. “Count on it!”
Then I ran through the rain up to the hotel, rode up the lift, and let myself into my room. I considered checking on
Mom, but figured she’d be dead asleep by now. Hopefully she hadn’t stayed up and worried about me, but just in case she was still awake and listening, I tried not to be too quiet in my room. That should set her mind at ease.
By the time I hit the sack, I was so exhausted that my eyes couldn’t even stay open. It’d been an unexpectedly groovy evening, my first night in Ireland, and already I’d met some fun musicians. But what surprised me most was how much I liked Ireland, when I hadn’t even wanted to come here in the first place. I don’t think I could begin to explain what was going on in me, not even to myself—but something about this country felt comfortable, familiar even. It was weird but cool.
I replayed some of our conversations from tonight, thinking that if I really worked on it, I might be able to get down that Irish accent a little before we headed back home. In a way there was something almost musical about their language, and something about the sound of it—or perhaps it was the rhythm, it was hard to understand . . . but it made my fingers just itch to get to a piano. Maybe it was a combination of the music I’d heard tonight, the guys I’d talked to, and the country itself, but somehow I knew this experience was changing me as a musician, and it might even change the way I played piano. In fact, I was so jazzed that, although I was totally beat, I didn’t know if I could even go to sleep.
7
Colleen
It took me a few minutes to get my bearings and remember where I was, but then it hit me—Ireland! I was really here. I glanced at the little alarm clock to see it was past ten and felt surprised that I slept so long. Then I remembered how I woke in the middle of the night, how I worried that Jamie might not have made it back to the hotel safely. But I’d been unwilling to knock on his door and disturb him in case I was wrong, so I just sat and watched the hands slowly moving around the clock, and then I paced back and forth in the room and asking myself, why had I come here? I finally forced myself back to bed again. But I still felt anxious and uneasy, fretting that it had been a big mistake to take this expensive trip, fearing that nothing was going to help me tell Jamie the news that I felt certain he would never want to hear.
But with morning here and the Irish sun shining through the heavy lace curtains, I began to feel better. Perhaps it wasn’t a mistake after all. Funny how the nighttime turns challenges into monsters. I did a few stretches and tried to calculate what time it was in Pasadena right now, but then decided, why bother? This was Ireland and I was on Irish time, might as well get used to it.
As I slipped on my quilted satin robe, I noticed a white piece of paper by my door, as if someone had slipped it under from the hallway. I went over to pick it up, seeing the word “Mom” penned across the front. Obviously it was from Jamie. I hoped nothing was wrong.
Dear Mom,
I had a fantastic time last night. I met some musicians and they told me about the town where John F. Kennedy’s family came from. I got up early so that I could look into taking the train there.I think I’ll be back sometime tonight. I hope you don’t mind.
Love, Jamie
I reread the note and wondered what kind of wild-goose chase my son had taken off on today, and who on earth were these “musicians” and how had he met them so quickly? Young people these days—it almost made my head spin. But then I reminded myself that Jamie was an adult, and if he was old enough to join the Air Force, which I hoped I’d be able to dissuade him from doing, then he was certainly old enough to hop on an Irish train and see the sites. Besides, I told myself, as I leisurely bathed and dressed, a quiet day to myself wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps I would explore a bit of Dublin. Maybe even do some shopping. I’d promised Sally to look for some fisherman knit sweaters, and I’d heard there was beautiful crystal to be found in this country. Then, by evening, Jamie would return and we could have a nice dinner somewhere. I’d ask the concierge downstairs to recommend a good place.
After a light breakfast of a soft-boiled egg, served in a fragile porcelain eggcup, which was a new experience for me, along with toast and delicious jam and some nice Irish tea, I decided it was time to see a bit of Dublin. Dressed warmly and armed with my umbrella and trench coat, since it had
just started to rain again, I inquired at the concierge desk. Fortunately, this man’s accent was easier for me to understand. Plus, I knew it was good practice.
“I’ve heard Dublin has some good museums.”
“Aye, we do. All sorts of museums. History and art. What sort of things are you interested in?”
“I like art,” I said. “Not that I’m much of an expert. But I did enjoy seeing the Louvre in Paris.” I remembered how Hal had patiently accompanied me that day. The poor man really didn’t care much for art, although he appreciated the architecture.
“Do you like modern art?” he asked hopefully. “We have a wonderful place.”
I wasn’t terribly fond of modern styles like cubism or Picasso, but his enthusiasm caught me off guard. “Sure,” I said.
Then he told me the name, which was quite a mouthful. “But you’ll need a cab,” he said as he pulled out a city map and pointed out some other sites as well as the better shopping areas that I might be interested in. Then he had one of the bellboys call a cab for me, and I set out for what I hoped would be a delightful adventure.
Unfortunately, within minutes I began to wish I had Jamie along to help “translate.” The cabby, like the one last night, had a heavy Irish accent, and it seemed the harder I tried to understand him, the worse it got. Finally, I pulled out a fountain pen and a piece of notepaper from the hotel and wrote down exactly where I wished to go, The Hugh Lane Municipal Gallery of Modern Art. The note did just the trick, and before long I was dropped off by an old but impressive-looking building. And to my delight, the “modern art” in this museum featured some of my all-time favorite artists, including Monet, Degas, and Manet. I suddenly began to appreciate Ireland’s history, realizing that the interpretation for “modern” was all a matter of perspective. To Ireland, an old country, these impressionist painters were considered “modern.”
An Irish Christmas Page 5
