by L. J. Greene
As Jamie drove, I could see a dozen scenarios playing out behind his eyes. Every muscle in his body was tense.
I didn’t know a lot about Jamie’s family, or their relocation to the U.S., only that his uncle had had a plumbing company here in the Bay Area, and that his father had moved the family from Ireland when his uncle became terminally ill. Jamie’s father had taken over the business and the small family home in which they lived. The business had at one time been lucrative, and would have continued on reasonably well, but alcoholism and depression sabotaged much of his father’s success here in the States, as it had back in Ireland. They got by, but it was never a peaceful existence.
Over time, the family had scattered, leaving Jamie and Cara largely to fend for themselves.
As for Jamie’s mother, I knew even less about her. He loved her, that was obvious, but it was a conflicted relationship and he rarely spoke of it.
We exited the 101 Freeway, and weaved our way through a very middle class neighborhood. Most of the houses were non-descript boxes of mid-century construction. They weren’t large or fancy, but they all appeared carefully maintained. All except one.
As we approached the house by car, I knew almost instantly that it belonged to the Callahans. If its ill repair wasn’t clue enough, the small gathering of neighbors rubbernecking from their lawns was all the confirmation necessary. I also noticed a plumbing van in the driveway, and something about it struck me as odd, but I didn’t have time to consider it.
Jamie threw the car in park on the street outside the one story home, and bound up the walkway towards the front door. As I leaped out myself, I could instantly hear the sounds of shouting coming from the open kitchen window.
Jamie wouldn’t have had time to notice the looks on the neighbors’ faces, and I was glad for that small mercy. A few seemed to have at least some compassion for the situation, but most looked towards the house with blatant disdain, as though its occupants had long been the bane of the neighborhood. Jamie had spent many years in this house, amongst these people, and I wondered how he must have felt, as he grew old enough to become aware of their opinions.
Still, my immediate concern was the unfolding drama inside. I ran up the walkway and just through the open door in time to hear a soft, but unquestionably threatening, Irish burr.
“Let it go, or you can take it up with me.”
A chill crept up my spine at the sound of Jamie’s voice, pitched low and tight with anger. I stopped short in the doorway a few feet behind him, and could see that his muscular back and shoulders were straight, and clearly stretching to their full height and breadth. His fists were clenched at his sides, and if he heard me come in, he did not visibly acknowledge it. His focus, instead, was laser trained on the man standing in front of him.
That man was Ronan Callahan. The stories that Jamie had told me of him had left an impression in my head that was somewhat Stalinesque. To see him in person was sort of a shock. He was so badly weathered that it was impossible to tell his age with any degree of specificity. But he had clearly once been tall and solid like Jamie, though now the muscles had atrophied and his clothes were ill fitting and shabby. His facial features were sunken behind a bone structure that I plainly recognized, and his skin had taken on that unhealthy gray hue of alcoholism.
But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. They were Jamie’s eyes exactly, that beautiful, light hazel shade, fringed in long auburn lashes–except that where Jamie’s eyes were vibrant and warm, these were flat and lifeless. And if he had any affection for his youngest son, there was nothing evident in his countenance to suggest it. It was an odd and disquieting thing to see these two men together, so similar in make and build, and yet they looked like different species entirely.
Ronan’s eyes narrowed, and I saw his jaw set tightly, but he didn’t move.
“You think you can come into my house and tell me somethin’ about my wife? Get the fuck out before I throw ye out myself.”
The cadence of his speech and the clear effort it took to expel the words made it obvious that Jamie’s father was intoxicated, and very likely more volatile in that state. Even from my vantage point, I could almost feel the rage radiating from Jamie’s body, but he seemed to be consciously aware of the necessity of keeping it under control.
“I’ll gladly leave, but I’m taking her with me.”
I watched Ronan’s face transform into a malicious toothy expression that could not, by any stretch, be considered a smile, and he glanced briefly to his left.
“She’s not going anywhere.”
That was the first time I became aware that ‘she’ was also in the room. I had been so intent on the tense scene before me, that I hadn’t noticed her. And it was an effort to peel my gaze from the two men, like the way you feel almost compelled to watch a grenade whose explosion is imminent. But there, sitting straight and stiff at the kitchen table, was Jamie’s mother.
My first impression of Fiona Callahan was that she was small. She wore a conservative green dress that was aging, but attractive on her, nonetheless. Like Jamie, she had the most gorgeous dark auburn hair, thick and long, I thought, judging by the stylish French twist she was able to achieve with it. What woman wouldn’t give anything for hair like that? She wore almost no make-up to bring out her pretty blue eyes. And when she turned, she seemed to be clutching a tiny gold cross on a chain around her neck.
“She’ll come with me and you’ll have nothin’ to say about it.” Jamie’s voice was remarkably calm, but his accent was growing noticeably more pronounced, which I knew to be a sign of his growing vehemence. “Mum?” he said, now addressing his mother firmly, though his gaze remained trained on his father. “Let’s go.”
Jamie stepped forward and held out a hand, and I thought for a moment Fiona would take it. But before she had a chance to, Ronan startled us all by yanking Fiona out of her chair by her wrist and holding her possessively to him. It was a jarring motion that broke the chain around her neck and caused the twist in her hair to be knocked loose.
“Let her go!” Jamie shouted, as all evidence of calm evaporated in a flash.
His voice was so forceful that I flinched at the suddenness of it. A shock of fear gripped every muscle in my body. His fists were clenched tight at his sides and his chest cavity heaved with vehemence.
As I watched the situation unfold, I had a very strong notion that I shouldn’t be there, should not be witnessing something so appalling and so personal to this family. This was a dark part of Jamie’s life, one he would never readily acknowledge to anyone outside of that house. Still, I would not leave him to face this alone. I thought of the stories he’d told me; there weren’t many he’d shared, but they were awful, and just the tip of the iceberg, I was sure. And they would certainly explain how a lonely child could easily grow into an angry young man. To Jamie’s overwhelming credit, he had not given in to those feelings, and instead, had turned to music.
Music gave me a voice when I didn’t have one. It was my emancipation.
I could see now what music had meant to him. It wasn’t a hobby or a fascination; it was a lifeboat. Without it, he might have become any number of things. Suddenly, I understood with absolute clarity why he had felt the need to turn down the record contract–to preserve his right to say what he wanted to say, or needed to say. Music was his way out of the darkness, and he could not let it be contaminated by the greed of others or the temptation of fame for fame’s sake alone.
“Jamie, please, I’m fine. You should go.” Fiona would not look Jamie in the eye, nor could she keep the tremor from her voice.
And it was then that I realized, seeing her on her feet between the two men, that she wasn’t small. In fact she was taller than I, with long limbs and a shapely figure. She had the aura of someone small, though, the way she seemed to fold into herself and speak softly.
“You’re not fine, Mum! None of this is fine! And you don’t have to stay with him. I can take care of you. Please come. Pl
ease.”
Ronan’s hand on her wrist relaxed, and she sank back down into the chair. And what made me absolutely sick to my stomach was the self-satisfied grin that crawled onto his face. He had Jamie’s dimples, too, but on him they looked cruel. He didn’t speak a word; he didn’t have to. Ronan knew that Fiona would never go with Jamie.
Jamie knew it, too, before she ever shook her head in negation. And I thought, in that moment, that his heart had been broken beyond all repair.
“This is my place,” she answered quietly.
“God, Mum.”
“Get out of my house.” Ronan’s voice was sharp and sinister, underscored by his cold, unfeeling eyes.
“What is wrong with you, Da? Have you no shame? Do ye feel like more of a man because you can bully a woman? Because you can beat her down to nothing? Is that what gives ye back your pride? The whole neighborhood is out there talkin’ about ye, about what a louse and drunk ye are.”
Ronan made a humorless sound that impersonated a laugh, but most certainly wasn’t one. “Do you think I care? About any of them?” No, from his tone, it was a matter of complete indifference. “About you and your judgment? You who paints up your arm and parades around on stage for money? Singing all yer songs about how mistreated ye were as a boy. How your mean ol’ da didn’t love ye. Have you no shame? What kind of a way is that to make a living?”
“An honest one,” Jamie answered through clenched teeth. He didn’t change expression; the only clue to his emotion was the slow creep of flush that rose on his neck. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
“Ah, there he is, mister high and mighty. Mister so much better than the rest of us. You think you can shame me? You’re just like me, Séamus,” he said, using the Irish Gaelic form of Jamie’s name like an insult. “Not wanting to be tied down, always feeling restless, letting your cock lead ye around like a dog. You think your life will be any different from mine? I tell you what; I’ll do ye the favor of telling you how it will go. One day, you’re happy, screwin’ around, making a little coin, thinkin’ who the fuck ye are. Next day, you wake up with seven more mouths to feed and nothin’ in yer life but responsibility. Every day, the same,” he added quietly.
Behind the combative demeanor, there was a shadow of disillusionment. And, incredibly, he looked at Jamie almost as though he was seeking understanding.
And then his gaze drifted to Fiona and the flicker of baldness was gone.
“Now, I got a wife that goes about doing herself up like a common whore,” he said, speaking directly to Fiona. “Who is it you’re trying to impress?”
“I wasn’t trying to impress anyone,” Fiona pleaded, placing her face in her hands.
“Then why the whore’s hair?” He grabbed her mane sharply in one hand.
“I’ll take it out!” she cried, and reached up to begin removing the pins of her twist. But he wouldn’t let it go.
“You’re right, you will!” he said, tugging her head back brusquely.
Jamie lunged forward, but not fast enough to prevent Ronan’s barbaric intent. Ronan pulled a knife from his pocket–popping it open in a blink of metal–and sheared the twist clean off Fiona’s head.
For one stunning moment, everything stopped.
It felt as though even time had stopped. Ronan opened his hand, and the gleaming strands of auburn hair, a perfect match for Jamie’s own, wafted to the floor. Certain pieces appeared to float, catching the sunlight coming in from the kitchen window in a rainbow of copper and gold. Three jaws hung open; three hearts arrested in shock. And none of us could take our eyes off of that twist of hair that now lay lifeless and ruined at Ronan’s feet.
Fiona’s hands shot to the back of her head in horrified disbelief. Mine covered my mouth in absolute incomprehension. I could not detach my eyes from the jagged, hideous cut of her hair. I shrank back in a sudden wave of nausea.
“There! Next time you think about–”
Jamie’s fist hit Ronan’s face in a neat, crushing blow. Ronan stumbled back, tripping and crashing into a small side table, and falling back hard against the wall behind him. The force of the impact knocked a picture of the Virgin Mary askew on its nail.
Ronan looked stunned for a moment and then wiped a gush of blood from his nose with the back of his sleeve, leaving a dark red streak down his forearm. He seemed to be gathering himself, eyeing the man standing in front of him with cool dispassion.
I could see Jamie in profile, his chest heaving with apparent adrenaline, and his fists clenched at his sides. But his face was stony, the wariness in his eyes frozen into a look as cold as ice.
“Get up,” he ordered, with a chilling threat in his voice that I hadn’t heard before.
Ronan didn’t respond, but heaved himself up slowly on all fours with the knife still clutched in his left hand. His nose flared in angry breath like a baited bull.
“Please stop!” Fiona cried, her sobs ragged with terror and dismay.
But there could be no stop; this was a conflict more than a decade in the making, and I knew in my heart that it would be settled here and now.
Jamie took two large strides forward, picked Ronan up by the collars of his shirt, and slammed him into wall with a thud, evacuating all of the breath from Ronan’s lungs. The older man made a thin wheezy noise, attempting to say something that was indiscernible, but clear in its contemptible intent.
“You are a vile man,” Jamie breathed, barely an inch from his face. Cold hazel eyes held Jamie’s, unblinking and unmoved. And in that space of a breath, Ronan recovered his wind and drove his fist viciously into Jamie’s kidney.
Jamie let out a tortured grunt and was forced to let go. He drew back, steadying himself. But he had no more than a second before Ronan found his opening. Shifting on his feet like a boxer, Ronan brandished the knife in his hand.
“Get out of my house,” he repeated.
“Drop the knife.”
“Why don’t you take it from me?” Ronan goaded.
Jamie had youth and agility on his side–I was eternally grateful for that–but I knew he was hindered by the internal restraint of his conscience. By contrast, Ronan approached the conflict with the same callousness of an anonymous bar fight–as if no blood were shared, no history existed between them, no love at all. I was terrified for Jamie. Not just for the physical outcome, but also for the emotional toll that such a confrontation would have.
I had never seen anything like this in my life.
Jamie lunged for the knife with startling speed, grabbing Ronan’s wrist, and pulling him off balance. Ronan tumbled forward, only regaining his footing as Jamie shoved him back against the couch where he had no leverage.
Jamie knew how to fight.
He squeezed Ronan’s wrist so hard I thought it might break, and angled his body in close so that there was no way for Ronan to get enough momentum for a punch. Instead, the two locked together in a struggle of brute force–both grunting, one with effort, the other with pain. And all around us, the room was cast with the smell of sweat and fury.
There was tight strain in both of their faces, matching crimson shades highlighted by the shine of perspiration. It went on for several minutes, but the conclusion became more and more obvious. Ronan was no match for Jamie’s strength and endurance, his failing body worn away by years and years of abuse. All at once, he let the knife fall to the floor, clattering across the wooden planks.
“Give up,” Jamie growled, finally relaxing his vice grip and letting go of the wrist, but keeping his formidable frame pressed against Ronan’s weaker one.
Ronan rubbed the abused limb with his other hand and, for a moment, seemed to acquiesce. But suddenly, he brought his knee up between Jamie’s thighs in an attempt on Jamie’s manhood. Jamie leaped back and to the right, avoiding the blow. Ronan, seeing an opening, lunged forward in what appeared to be a final attempt to maintain his pride. He may have realized that he would have to accept defeat at the hands of his son, but he would not
do it graciously.
For his part, Jamie seemed to have grown tired of the fight. He was the stronger of the two by far, and must have known that it would be up to him to end this before any real damage was done. He reacted quickly and efficiently, as though he had no stomach for the confrontation. With a decisive blow to the jaw, he knocked Ronan against the wall with a force of impact that dislodged the Virgin Mary from her nail and sent the picture crashing to the floor. Ronan’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the ground in a loss of consciousness, piled like a heap of dirty laundry on the floor.
The room fell suddenly silent, except for the sound of Jamie’s heavy breath. The reality of what Jamie had done seemed to hit him squarely, and he hung his head in exhaustion and regret. There were no winners here, no joy in prevailing, and the look on Jamie’s face was neither satisfaction nor relief. He’d done what he had to, but he was not proud of it.
Solemnly, he bent to pick the knife up off the floor, folded it closed, and tucked it into his pocket.
It was then that I realized I could breathe again. My heart was pounding furiously in my chest, and I ran a hand through my hair as shock and sickness began to drain away. Distantly, I registered the sound of Fiona’s high-pitched sobs.
Jamie suddenly noticed it too, and crossed the room in a few long strides to gather her in his arms.
“Ah, God, Mum.” His large, gentle hand stroked her butchered hair. She collapsed into him, weeping uncontrollably. He held her to him, his strong arms carrying all of her weight, while clumps of auburn hair began to scatter on the floor.
“Shhh,” he cooed. “Don’t cry. I’ll take you somewhere right now, if you like, and we can get this fixed. You are so beautiful, Mum. It doesn’t matter.”
Tears ran into the corners of my mouth, though I didn’t remember starting to cry. I could see the pain expressed in every feature of Jamie’s face, and my heart broke for both of them.
Then, he pulled back and looked Fiona directly in the eye.
