Iris Avenue

by Pamela Grandstaff

  “You made it much better,” she said, and started picking burrs off Wally’s matted coat.

  “I guess the deed’s done,” he said, looking at the empty kennels.

  “Yeah, got it over with early, which I always prefer. They worked with the dogs a little beforehand, and agreed with me that they weren’t ever going to be anyone’s pets. Gene always brings them steak for their last meal.”

  Hannah teared up then, and Patrick cleared his throat as well.

  “Where’s Maggie? I thought she was going to stay with you.”

  “She’s only called every five minutes,” Hannah said. “I prefer to do these days by myself. I’ve got a tazer in one coat pocket and my cell phone in the other. Nobody’s gonna get the jump on me.”

  “Can I help you clean up the kennels?”

  “No, but thanks. You’ve done your good deed for the day. You better get going to the gas station before Dad calls around looking for you.”

  Patrick said goodbye and he and Banjo left.

  “Now, as for you rotten delinquents,” Hannah told the grinning dogs dancing around her. “We’re gonna have us some burr picking, some brushing, a warm bath, and then big treats in the house. I’m so glad you’re back.”

  Maggie left the bookstore by the front door and decided on the spur of the moment to go check on her dad. She was avoiding the bakery because of her fight with her mother, but didn’t want to neglect her father. She knew Patrick was giving him lunch today, but Fitz liked to see his only daughter Maggie, and Maggie liked to see her Grandpa Tim, who slept most of the day and night in a recliner in the same front room as her father. Maggie walked toward the college and then down the narrow alley on the other side of the Bijou Theater known as Daisy Lane. It was a single lane gravel road that ran alongside a brick wall with ornamental iron fencing set in the top that served as the boundary of the Eldridge College campus, all the way from Lilac Avenue down to the river.

  When she got to her parents’ house she saw that Grandpa Tim was sound asleep in his recliner and her father was watching a twenty-four-hour news channel. The Irish setter everyone referred to as “Lazy Ass Laddie” was sprawled out in his usual place in front of the gas fire.

  Maggie bent down to kiss her father’s scratchy cheek and smelled whiskey on his breath. There was a cup of coffee on the TV tray next to his chair that she bet had more whiskey than coffee in it. She said nothing about it because there was no point. The drunker he got, the more Irish her father sounded, and then he fell asleep. He might be pickling his liver, but at least he wasn’t operating any machinery heavier than a recliner.

  Fitz Fitzpatrick had been a tall, strong, handsome man in his youth, looking much like her brothers Sean and Patrick did now. Fitz fell off a ladder and broke some vertebrae in his back when Maggie was still in elementary school. It was a miracle he could walk at all, and he was in constant pain. Doc Machalvie kept him supplied with pain medication and Patrick kept him supplied with whiskey. It was one of those situations that everyone was aware of and no one agreed with, but no one knew what to do about it so they did nothing.

  “Would you get me an oatmeal pie out of the cupboard over the fridge, there, Maggie? That’s a good girl. Your mother thinks they’re hidden up there, but Patrick keeps filling the box so she doesn’t know I’m eating them. Bring me two. I’m fair addicted to those things. They must be filled with the crack cocaine or something.”

  Maggie brought him two cellophane wrapped pies and refilled his coffee cup with coffee. He knew better than to ask her to tip some more whiskey in. She was her mother’s daughter in many ways.

  “Grandpa Tim’s sleeping mighty deep this morning,” she said, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth she wished them back in. Grandpa Tim was too still. She didn’t want to, but she walked over to his chair, and knelt there.

  “He had a rough night of it,” her father said. “He’s been having an awful pain in his throat where they zapped it to get all the cancer. He won’t go back to the specialist and I don’t blame him one bit. They poke you and prod you, and charge you a fortune, but they’re just guessing what’s wrong with a body because they don’t really know. He took a couple of my pain pills in the night and he’s been sleeping like a baby every since. Don’t wake him, Maggie, there’s a good girl. Let the poor man sleep in peace.”

  Maggie lifted her fingers off her grandfather’s cool wrist, and took a deep breath before she turned.

  “Da,” she said.

  “You haven’t called me that in ages,” her father said, “not since you were a little girl.”

  “Dad,” Maggie said.

  “Look at that rotten bastard on the TV, Maggie. He lied and cheated and stole from good, honest people in order to line his own pockets, only now he says he’s found the Lord and he’s sorry. You wait until the Lord finds him. He’ll find out what sorry is.”

  Maggie went to the kitchen and swung the door closed behind her. She dialed the bakery first. When her Aunt Delia answered, Maggie breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t her mother. She quietly told Delia that Grandpa Tim had passed away. Delia said that she would bring Bonnie home right away.

  Maggie dialed the service station and told her Uncle Curtis, who said he would call her Uncle Ian. He also said he would tell Patrick, and they would come right over. Maggie dialed Hannah, but she didn’t answer. Maggie remembered again that this was the day the inmates were to be executed, so she left a message. Then she called her brother Sean at the bank where he worked in Pittsburgh, and he said he would leave right away.

  “I had planned to come today, anyway. I’ll run home and pack a bag,” he said. “I should be there in a few hours.”

  “That’s everyone,” she breathed into the telephone as soon as Sean hung up.

  She’d called every person she knew would say, “I’m on my way” rather than ask, “Should I come?” She thought of calling Ava but didn’t. She no longer knew into which category her sister-in-law fell. Back in the front room her father was arguing with a politician on the television.

  “You’re not representing the common man, you lying, thieving sack of horse manure. You’re representing the lobbyist you sold your soul to,” he said. “You wouldn’t know a day of honest labor if it jumped up and bit you in the arse.”

  “Dad,” Maggie said, as she stooped next to him.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” he said, but he was still looking at the television.

  “Grandpa Tim has died,” she said. “He’s passed away.”

  Her father looked at her with a frown and then looked over at his father-in-law.

  “You’re quite sure,” he said.

  “I’m sure. He must have died in his sleep.”

  “You’ll need to call your mother.”

  “I just did.”

  “That’s good,” he said, patting her arm. “She’ll take care of everything.”

  He took a deep swig of his coffee cocktail and considered the still body of the man who had been his friend, mentor, and companion for many years.

  “If you’re going to go,” he said, “that’s the way to do it.”

  He raised his cup in a salute and said, “May God rest your soul, Timothy Brian MacGregor. You were a good man, a good husband, and a good father to your daughter.”

  Her father drained what was left in the coffee cup and wiped his mouth.

  “Cover him up, Maggie, do,” he said. “You don’t want your poor mother to see him all at once like that. It will give her a shock.”

  Fitz went back to watching his program. Maggie closed her eyes briefly, sighed, and then took an afghan and covered Grandpa Tim. She called to Lazy Ass Laddie and made him go outside in the backyard, then filled two tea kettles and put them both on to boil. She got out the canister of tea and filled the sugar bowl. She took out a new filter and made a full pot of coffee. She found her father’s whisky (behind the toilet paper rolls in the bathroom cupboard) and poured herself a shot.

  “God re
st your soul, Grandpa Tim,” she said, and swallowed the burning liquid.

  By noon Grandpa Tim’s body was at Machalvie’s Funeral Home and Doc Machalvie was pouring shots of Jameson’s in the front room of the house. All the women who came to pay their respects brought food and crowded in the kitchen, drinking tea or coffee. All the men who showed up brought whiskey or beer, and were lounging in the living room, singing old songs while getting drunk. Sean alternated between the two rooms, although he kept offering to go get anything that was needed in order to get out of the house.

  Maggie didn’t think she could bear the crowd in the house for one more minute. She was sitting on the glider in the sunroom at the back of the house, drinking coffee with a fair amount of whiskey in it. She rarely drank, but felt this was one occasion that warranted it.

  “Where’s your drink?’ she asked Hannah.

  “Tea’s fine,” Hannah said.

  “My father would say why don’t you have a wee drop?”

  “No thanks,” Hannah said.

  “You won’t drink, you quit smoking, and you claim you’re going back to church. What happened to you? Did you fall and hit your head? Did you lose a bet?”

  “No,” Hannah said. “I just feel like it’s time to make a change.”

  “You’ll be eating tofu and taking dance aerobics next.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “I heard you got your dogs back.”

  “Patrick tracked them down and brought them home. They’re at my mom’s house, getting spoiled rotten.”

  Lazy Ass Laddie was sleeping at Hannah’s feet, next to the beagle Banjo, who was pining for Patrick. The sunroom was chilly, but Patrick had brought out a space heater for them to use, so that their fronts were warm and only their backsides were frozen.

  “My brother Patrick is a fine man,” Maggie said. “Sean and Patrick are both very fine, very good brothers.”

  “You’re drunk,” Hannah said. “Do yourself a favor and don’t start kissing everyone and telling them how much you love them. As much as I’d enjoy watching you do it, you’d hate yourself in the morning.”

  Scott came in the back door onto the porch and Hannah excused herself after greeting him with a peck on the cheek.

  “She’s drunk,” she whispered in his ear.

  Scott shook off his coat and sat down in the wicker rocker Hannah had just vacated, looking at Maggie with sincere sympathy.

  “I’m so sorry about your Grandpa Tim,” he said. “I know how fond he was of you, and how much you loved him.”

  Maggie nodded in an exaggerated way and then wiped her eyes.

  “I’ve had a little whiskey,” she said. “You’ll have to excuse me.”

  “I do,” Scott said. “It’s completely understandable given the events of the recent days and weeks.”

  “Not to mention months and years,” Maggie said.

  “That too, yes.”

  “It all started when Cousin Liam died. We were all just kids.”

  “That was very sad.”

  “Then Dad fell off the ladder.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then I didn’t go to college.”

  “You could always go back.”

  “No,” she shook her head. “Way too late, in all regards. Don’t argue with me.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Then Grandma Rose died.”

  “I was scared to death of her.”

  “We all were. She hated my mother.”

  “They fought, that’s true.”

  “Then Sam got his legs blown off outside Kuwait.”

  “That was awful.”

  “Then Gabe left,” she said. “But you know all about that.”

  Scott just nodded.

  “Then my house burned down.”

  “That was terrible,” Scott said.

  “Then Brian left Ava.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Oh wait,” she said. “Eve left Ed on Valentine’s Day. Gabe left me right before Easter. Then you and whatsername broke up. When did that happen?”

  “It was May of the same year. Seven years ago.”

  “That whole year sucked.”

  “It did.”

  “So where was I?”

  “Brian left Ava.”

  “Oh, and Brad drowned. Don’t forget Brad.”

  “That was when we were in high school.”

  “Sean loved him, you know.”

  “I know; it was sad for everyone.”

  “Sean left home because Theo blackmailed him. He lives in Pittsburgh. He’ll be here soon.”

  “I just saw him. He’s in the kitchen.”

  “Sean’s a good brother.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Theo was a rotten bastard.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  “Yep.”

  “Why does everyone keep leaving or dying?” she asked him. “You’re the police, do something.”

  “Grandpa Tim was old and sick, so he was going to have to die sometime.”

  “But why today? Hannah’s pit bulls got killed today. Caroline broke Drew’s heart yesterday. Sam keeps breaking Hannah’s heart over and over and over. Ava broke Patrick’s heart. You and I are barely speaking. Brian’s such a bastard. Now Grandpa Tim’s dead. Why can’t God spread it all out a little more?”

  “People are choosing to do most of those things, Maggie, not God.”

  “But God is supposed to send angels to intervene. Why do they show up for some things but not others? Is there a seven-year curse on us or something? Did we forget to invite some bad fairy to a christening?”

  “I don’t know, Maggie. It’s definitely been a rollercoaster this year.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Maggie said. “You said a true, right thing, right there, you just did.”

  “I think it’s time for some plain coffee, Maggie, what do you say?”

  “Alright, I’ve had enough,” she said, but took another sip of her whiskey-laced coffee.

  “You let me have that and I’ll go make you a fresh one without whiskey in it.”

  “You always take good care of me,” Maggie said. “You’re a good man, Scott, a fine man.”

  “I think I like her better drunk,” Scott said to Hannah in the kitchen.

  The crowd had thinned out somewhat. Father Stephen had gone, and Bonnie was upstairs lying down. Hannah was washing coffee cups and Sean was drying.

  “I’m getting her some plain coffee,” Scott said.

  “She never gets drunk,” Hannah told Sean. “Never.”

  “She doesn’t like to lose control,” Sean said, “in contrast to our role model in there.”

  Fitz could be heard in the front room singing a sad Irish folksong, although you couldn’t understand a single word. Patrick, on the other hand, had a beautiful voice, and wasn’t quite as drunk. He was playing an old upright piano in desperate need of tuning.

  When Scott got back to the sunroom, Maggie was lying down on the glider’s cushions, snoring. He set the coffee cup down, covered Maggie with his coat, and then sat in the wicker rocker.

  She woke up startled and asked, “Where is everybody?”

  “I’m right here,” he told her, and covered her up as she lay back down.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said.

  “I won’t, I promise,” he said.

  Scott made himself comfortable, put his feet up on the wicker coffee table, and sipped the coffee he’d brought out for Maggie. Lazy Ass Laddie groaned and rolled over to expose his other side to the small heater. Banjo moaned a little and looked longingly at the door to the kitchen. Patrick had told him to stay, and while he lived to please Patrick, he wasn’t happy about it.

  Hannah stuck her head out the back door of the kitchen.

  “You want me to sit with her?”

  “No,” Scott said. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  Hannah went back in the kitchen and lea
ned down close to Sean, who was sitting at the table eating some rolled up cold cuts impaled on toothpicks.

  “Ava may not have won the battle after all,” she said.

  She’d been filling Sean in on every subject.

  “Good,” said Sean.

  Hannah sat down, speared some olives, and ate them.

  “I can’t seem to get enough olives lately,” she said. “Black ones, green ones, with pits or pimentos.”

  “The food is the only good part about these things.”

  “I’ve been wearing your ear off telling you all the Rose Hill gossip, and you haven’t said a thing about you. How’s Pittsburgh?”

  “It’s fine, I guess. I’m getting to that place in my job where I know how to do everything, I’ve done it all a million times, and I’m bored to death.”

  “So do something else.”

  “I make too much money to just walk away. A few more years and I can retire.”

  “What is it you do, again? I know it’s in a bank so there’s money involved.”

  “The official answer is that I manage people’s money by helping them invest it wisely; by setting up trusts for their heirs, and by finding the lowest cost way to distribute the earnings.”

  “What’s the truth?”

  “I manage people’s greed, vindictiveness, and unreasonable expectations.”

  “Uh oh, you’re using your powers for evil. Jesus hates that, you know.”

  “I do encourage people to donate to charity, for the write-off, of course.”

  “Come back from the dark side, Sean. The force is strong with you.”

  “I get six weeks of vacation every year and I can’t take any of it. I have to be available every moment of every day to hold hands with jumpy clients. I work at home for two hours in the morning before I even go into work at the bank. I stay until eight or nine every night, and I take work home on weekends. I work for a bunch of conservative backslapping pinheads who love nothing more than to provide each other with alibis so they can cheat on their wives. Then there are the board meetings, committee meetings, and management meetings where no one actually says anything, they sling around phrases like, ‘value-added,’ ‘core competencies,’ and ‘performance indicators.’”