by Tim McGregor
Earlier in the day, he couldn’t imagine who would have trashed his pickup with such viciousness. Now shunned on all sides, they all looked guilty.
“Persona non grata. That’s what you are, Jim.”
He turned. Old Martin Gallagher sat at the end of the bar, alone. Watching Jim’s plight. The Dublin House was packed and yet there was an empty stool next to Gallagher. Seemed even the tourists knew better than to fraternize with the old rubby.
He shouted from where he stood. “So why are you talking to me?”
“Even the outcast hate to drink alone.” The old man nudged out the empty barstool. “Come. Sit.”
He trudged over slow, the condemned walking the plank, and set down. “I’ve always wondered what it was like to be publicly shunned.”
“You get used to it,” Gallagher said. “Cheers.” The last thing Jim wanted was to touch his glass to the toothless old man’s but he obliged nonetheless.
The AC blasted full but couldn’t keep the soupy air from creeping in every time the door swung open. Jim peeled off the T-shirt taped to his back. Hitchens passed by without so much as a look. “It’s like high school all over again.”
“You ought not to complain, Jimmy.” The old man wiped the Guinness from his lips. “You brought this on yourself.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t go crying, son. You broke ground on that Godforsaken land, the Corrigan’s. You woke the sleeping ghosts.”
Here it comes, he thought. “Spare me the crazy talk, huh?”
“Used to be a time when just uttering that name was chancing bad luck,” Gallagher croaked on, happy for an audience. “That’s why no one spoke of it, see? Why would they? Damn awful business.”
Jim watched the room. Fraser and McFarlane bellowed sloppily at one another, arguing the merits of the country’s obligations in Afghanistan. Damn near coming to blows over staying the course or leaving the obstinate bastards to their medieval doom. Five minutes earlier, they’d been talking hockey. The two men were now on their feet, teetering and barking, waking their mate Atkinson who warned them to shut their yaps before he glassed them both with the pitcher. A bottle shattered on the north end of the bar and two knotheads at the pool table went at it, going to the floor in a blur of fists and elbows. They were hustled out the door to finish it in the parking lot.
“Nothing changes, does it?” Gallagher watched the fights with rheumy eyes. “How we managed to survive this long without nuking the world into a cinder is beyond me.”
The old man was waxing. Time to split. Jim drained his glass when the old guy leaned in close. “Do you want to know a secret, Jimmy?”
“Nope.”
“You know his story’s true, don’t you? Our forefathers murdered the Corrigans. Mine, yours.” He nodded at the drunken louts before them. “All of them.”
He should have left then and there. Jim looked at the old man. “You’re drunk.”
“There’s proof,” Gallagher whispered. “The worst kind.”
Jim gripped the man’s arm. Skeletal under the sleeve of rancid tweed. “What proof?”
“You sure you want to know?”
First instinct, damn straight. But Jim wavered and kept his mouth shut. Something in his gut held him back. Fear, reluctance? Some loosed genie that would not go back in the bottle?
“Hey!” A holler cracking over the bar. Berryhill swaggered in from the patio, elbowing bodies aside as he strode right up on Jim. “Who you calling an idiot?”
Jim despised Bill at the best of times but always remained wary. Belligerent and red-eyed, Berryhill was downright scary. Jim bluffed up. “That was one stupid stunt you pulled.”
“I dunno what you’re talking about.” Lager breath blowing hot on Jim’s face.
“What the hell were you thinking torching Corrigan’s sign?”
The best defence, no matter how damning the evidence, is always a flat out, unshakeable denial. Even fools know this. Bill swayed, eyes glassy. “Wasn’t me.”
“The wind changes direction and that fire sweeps directly my way. You could have burnt my house down, you idiot.”
Berryhill struck out, slamming the heel of his hand into Jim’s breastplate. “Told you. Wasn’t me.”
Faces turned, eager to see another brawl brew up. Jim felt his face burn hot. Goddamn high school all over again. His guts ordering him to back off but the pressure from the gawkers egging him on. No way in hell he could win. Bill would stomp his guts in. “Grow the fuck up.”
The big man leaned in, jutting his chin forward. “Take a shot, you pussy. On the house.”
Combat Kyle chittered and giggled like some ape, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jim knew that if he went down, the little rat bastard would jump in, boots first. He’d seen it before. Jim felt his fist whiteknuckle. It would almost be worth the punishment if he got one clean shot to this troll’s ugly face.
“BILL!”
Stuey McGuire pushed through the onlookers, gangly and panting. “Bill! Your truck’s on fire!”
~
The black crewcab was already an inferno. Flames licking into the sky, threatening to melt the power lines above. Greasy black smoke choked the parking lot. The acrid stank of melting plastic and burning rubber.
Puddycombe dashed out with a fire extinguisher and emptied the whole canister. A chemical fog roiling over everyone but the flames roared up angrier. Patrons jumped into their cars and pulled away from the burning pickup. Instant gridlock inside the lot as every driver honked and cursed to save their vehicle from the same scorched fate.
Bill’s jaw worked up and down but no sounds came, eyes bugging at the sight of his truck burning to cinders. It was paid for. The sound system he installed, the blower and bodywork, all of it going up like a campfire. All he could do was watch his beloved ride give up the ghost.
The signal from brain to lips finally clicked over and Bill sputtered. “Son of a bitch.”
Jim watched the gates of hell open and swallow Bill’s truck. Puddy tossed away his dead extinguisher, looked at Jim. “What the hell happened?”
Jim had a good guess but kept it to himself, shrugging instead. God knows.
Bill knew. “Corrigan! That motherfucking Corrigan!”
Jim cleared everyone from the lot, hollering and shoving them away. Atkinson and McFarlane pitched in. No one knew how much fuel was in Berrhyill’s truck. Puddy reeled out his garden hose, spraying down the wall of his bar. Half the crowd was drenched by the time the volunteer fire crew screeched in, lights whirling. The tang of wet charcoal stung every nose and Bill, still cursing, had to be dragged away.
Jim jostled through the gawkers pushed to the far side of the alleyway, choking up a hairball of soot. He pushed through the slackjawed faces, looking for the old man. Asking if anyone had seen Gallagher. Someone said he’d stayed inside the pub the whole time.
The fire crew were a blur, unloading gear and barking orders. Jim slipped the barrier and darted back inside the pub.
Puddy had snuck inside moments before. He stood in a puddle of beer, looking over the empty room. Close to tears. “Christ almighty,” he said, seeing Jim. “I was a hair away from losing it all.”
Jim patted the man’s shoulder, told him everything was fine. No one got hurt. “What happened to Gallagher?”
“Dunno. He must have legged it.”
20
7:00 AM, Saturday morning, a five man crew met at the municipal yard over on Mersey Avenue. All of them griping about working the Saturday. Most had planned on being at the fair grounds for the festival, or at least sleeping off Friday night’s drunk. The griping ended when Joe Keefe pulled into the yard with coffee and a box of donuts. Handing out the cups, Keefe thanked his crew for working the day and told them he’d be providing lunch. The mood of the bleary-eyed men lifted and they asked what this ‘special job’ was all about.
Keefe told them it was an emergency road resurfacing and got the crew moving. He told Davie to bring around the
dumptruck, the old Mac, not the big tri-axle. Hook up the small trailer and load up the small backhoe. He tossed keys at Reggie, said they’d swing by Third Line Road to pick the grader where they’d left it at the last jobsite.
Tools were loaded into the pickup and, as always, no one could locate the orange vests they were required to wear on all jobs. Keefe loaded two coolers of chipped ice and bottled water into the box. The day’s forecast was hot and sticky with a chance of thunderstorms on towards evening. It was going to get worse before it got better.
The convoy rolled out of the yard onto Harvester Road and then north on the Orange Line Road. The yellow crewcab eating dust from Keefe’s shiny F10. The dumptruck rumbling after them, hauling the backhoe on a float. Reggie hopped out on 3rd Line and fired up the grader. The convoy continued on up 3rd Line road and swung west on the next road. Keefe pulled over at the intersection while the crew rumbled on. Once the grader had followed the turn, Keefe pulled pylons from the box and planted three of them at the entrance to the road, blocking access to the old Roman Line.
~
The festival began at noon. Constable Ray Bauer, along with a handful of volunteers from the fire department and Knights of Columbus, closed down Galway Road for the parade route. Melissa and Charles did a quick head count of the gathered masses. Almost seventy people turned out to the official start here at the war memorial west of the river. The air was already steaming and the Black Guard Pipers wilted in their kilts waiting for their cue.
Kate gave a short speech about celebrating their community and how a proud sense of history and accomplishments of the past built a foundation to move boldly into the future. Rather than cutting a ribbon, Kate produced a bottle of champagne to break over the corner of the granite war memorial. That honour was given to old Johnny Dinsmore, Pennyluck’s oldest war veteran. Johnny Reb to his friends. A permanent, if foul-mouthed, fixture of the Legion Hall, branch 540. Johnny had fought his way through Italy as an infantryman in the 48th Highlanders, losing two fingers in the bloodbath of Ortona. Weighed under by his medals, the champagne bottle slipped from Johnny’s grip on the first try and rolled in the grass. He muttered something about ‘fucking Fritz’ and then smashed the bottle good and proper on the second attempt. A cheer went up. Pipe Major Bob Wills mistook the cheer for his cue and ordered his pipers to fire up and roll out. A small bit of confusion as Kate’s wrap up speech was culled under the blast of the band and old Johnny was almost trampled under the juggernaut of marching kilts.
Charles and Melissa scrambled as the proceedings went to hell, brandishing their timetables at the marching bagpipers. Kate told them to just run with it and to get Johnny out of the way before he was run over by the tartan marchers.
The miscue in the itinerary threw off the volunteers on the parade route. Jake Walton, pissed at the blocked access to the main drag, drove down one alley and then another to sneak back onto Galway. Slipping past the volunteers, Walton swung east and came bumper to knee with the pipers.
“Holy Jesus,” he said.
Pipe Major Bob shot him a dirty look and swung around the vehicle. Walton sat cowed and shamefaced behind the wheel as the parade flowed around him like a current against a rock, the cacophony of the pipes splitting his ears.
The pipers paraded smartly down Galway and snaked down Newcastle to the fair grounds. Pennyluckers lined the sidewalks, waving. They laughed and jeered at the idiot Walton caught in the middle of the marchers. Kate, the few councilmen in attendance and the rest of the crowd fell in line behind the marching band.
Travis straddled his bike at the corner of Galway and Blackthorn, watching the pipers. Given the day off from his chores, he’d been allowed to pedal into town to see the parade. Not an easy thing given his condition. His parents would meet him later that afternoon. His friends, Owen and Felix, said they’d show up later to cruise the fair grounds on their bikes. With any luck, Brenna would be there too. Travis leaned over the handle bars as the band blasted away. A flash of colour caught his eyes on the other side of the parade and his balls shrivelled up. Brant Coogan sat atop a mail box, huffing a cigarette and sneering at the pipers. He flicked his smoke at the marchers, slipped down and disappeared.
Travis’s knees went numb but his fingers dug into a pocket and slipped free the object hidden there. He slid the brass knuckles on and made a fist and then hid the tooth-smasher away again. God willing, he’d get a chance to try them out on that dickless bastard.
~
Marching rearguard of the pipers, Kate waved at the droll mugs on the sidewalk. She fanned her face with a program, the heat of the day already coming on and the humidity rising. It was going to be a gorgeous day. A reception awaited them at the bandstand with coffee and donuts provided by the Murdy family’s bakery. A full day of events and ceremonies were planned for the fair grounds and here along Pennyluck’s main drag. It was going to be glorious.
Rounding the turn at Newcastle, Kate caught sight of the only fly in the ointment. He stood on a flower box, plastering one of his damn flyers to the brick side of Fisher’s Pro Sports shop. As if psychic, Corrigan turned and narrowed his gaze directly at her. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted something at her that she could not make out. She ignored him, waving to people on the other side of the street. When she turned back, he was gone.
~
Will Corrigan held no love for the bagpipes. No swelling of the heart at their music, no tug of nostalgic reverie at their blast. An instrument fit for devils and sloe-eyed dullards by his reckoning. Scots, in fact.
Once the cacophony of evil had passed, he steered his FJ over to the farmers co-op and pinned up one last flyer to the community corkboard. It wouldn’t last long up there. Some halfwit would tear it down and crush it into a ball in moral outrage. Ah well.
He loaded groceries into the back, along with seven bags of ice and a new cooler. One last stop at the Beer Store, then back home. Today he’d go all out. When the tourists arrived for the Corrigan Horrorshow, he’d treat them to a barbecue under the shade of the willow trees. Burgers and corn on the cob. Ice tubs of beer and soda. Popsicles for the kids. Best of all were the little Canadian flags he’d bought. A hundred of them, planted into the ground on little sticks, marking out the path from the house out to the graves. It was almost perverse and the thought of it made him laugh.
Travelling back up Clapton towards home, he saw the dust cloud rising over the tree line. Then the yellow pickup parked on his road, a skinny kid snoozing on the tailgate. Three orange pylons blocking access to the Roman Line.
“Jesus on a pogo stick, what now.”
Corrigan turned onto his road and took out as many pylons as he could, knocking one into the ditch and crushing the others under his tires. The kid in the truck snapped awake and hopped down, swinging his little stop sign.
Corrigan climbed out. Further up the road, he could see the grader skimming off the road surface, the beeping dumptruck as it reversed. The kid was hollering at him, something about the road being closed for maintenance. No one in or out.
Corrigan wanted to know why he wasn’t notified and who ordered this bullshit. The kid didn’t know, he was just the flagman. Corrigan clocked the crew truck and the company logo on the door. Keefe’s Konstruction.
Crafty, he had to admit. They had pulled out the big guns and choked off his entire road to prevent anyone from coming to the day’s tour. A sly play, trotting out all this heavy equipment to close him down.
The kid was still yammering on, telling him he’d have to turn back and, Jesus, look at those crushed pylons. What was he gonna tell his boss? Corrigan snatched the little stop sign from the boy’s hand and hurled it into the weeds. “You tell your boss,” he said, “to get the fuck off my road.”
Back into his vehicle, Corrigan bombed up the road towards the crew. Laying on the horn, forcing the grader to stop, weaving past it. The crew cursed him blue, barking at the stupid bastard to turn around. Corrigan stuck his hand out the window an
d rather than flip the bird, he waved cheerfully at the men like they were old friends and drove on. Laughing and watching them in the rearview, he wondered if they’d park the grader and the backhoe overnight. If they did, then there would be one hell of a bonfire on the Roman Line tonight.
~
It was almost dusk before Jim and Emma drove into town. The parking lot at the fair grounds was full, cars banked along the grass all the way back to the road. “It’s a tailgate party,” Jim said. Emma spotted a car pulling out and Jim swung in, backing his dusty pickup between an immaculately restored ‘56 Thunderbird and a tricked out chopper.
Emma listed off the out-of-province plates as they walked through the lot. New York, Quebec, Michigan, Manitoba. “All these people, all the way to our little town.”
They stopped at the grass to take it all in. A Ferris Wheel spun slowly above them. Not a huge one, but an honest to God Ferris Wheel. A Tilt-a-Whirl and a Crazy Octopus ride clanged and spun, all twinkly lights and giggling teenagers. Larmet’s barbecue pit threw up woodsmoke, mixing with the cloying aroma of cotton candy and homemade baking. Puddycombe had set up a beer garden and another tent offered wine from Ontario and Quebec. There were midway games and a shooting gallery. A bouncy castle jostled and teetered with squealing tots. Patio lights were strung along the pathway and stitched from tree to tree. Set against the twilight of a burnt orange sky, it was pure magic.
They strolled the path, pointing at everything and couldn’t decide what to do first. Jim felt her hand slip into his. The afternoon had been a rough one. Him fessing up what he’d done and her furious for putting them all at risk in a fight that wasn’t theirs. The argument back and forth, a tug of war push and pull until they’d met somewhere in the middle. The ride into town was quiet, emotions still scraped raw but here in the dewy grass that rawness lifted, dissipating under the lights and tinny music.
