Galway

by Matthew Thayer

  Who head-butts their own kid? Pop was the champ when it came to punching out kids. He wasn’t around much, but when he was, we all knew to keep our heads down. When times were flush and they had money for drugs and booze, he’d take me out on the sailboat to run the ship while he and mom went below decks to la-la land. They might not come out for days, or more than a week. I didn’t care, I’d sail us around Lanai and Molokai, sometimes even over to the Big Island, trolling for fish the whole time. Every once in a while, I’d catch something worth eating. I lived on food pellets and raw fish. Sometimes, when the waves were up, we would anchor offshore and paddle our boards in to surf the inside reef. Some spots, we had all to ourselves. I guess I did have a few good times with my father.

  Hard to gloss over the shit he pulled when the drugs were gone and he was feeling mean. For an average-sized guy, Pop had the strongest hands and forearms you ever saw. If the stakes were right he could tear antique coins in half with his fingers. He used those same fingers to give us “the pinchers.” If Pop thought we had done wrong, needed to be taught a lesson, or just wanted to blow off a little steam, he’d snap out his arm like a cobra and give us a good, long pinch. He knew all the pressure points, from the neck and shoulders, down to the kidneys and thighs.

  Compared to his other kids and stepkids, I hardly ever caused trouble. Maybe I was caught poaching fish a couple times, got in a few fights at school, but nothing major. Pop could always find something to bitch about though, and every once in a while he’d give me a smack in the head or haul out the pinchers when I wasn’t expecting them. The last time he tried that shit was the last time I saw him.

  It was after I had won my second national high school judo title and my coaches were hosting a juice and cookies party at school. My head coach was a cop and so were his two assistants. Those guys had been dealing with mom and dad’s crap for years, and didn’t seem too surprised when they showed up wasted. One of the coaches headed them off at the door and ended up driving them home in his air car.

  My coaches were no-nonsense guys who showed me through example what a man can accomplish by living life sober and fully self-aware. “Sweat plus sacrifice equals success.” I must have heard them say it a million times.

  Anyway, I was feeling good when I got home that night, thinking I’m just gonna grab my stuff and go crash on the beach. Pop was waiting for me as I came through the door. “Think you’re too good for your old man and old lady, huh? Rather suck the dicks of your fucking cop friends than be with your family? I had a gift for you.”

  “Keep it.”

  “Already traded it for a bottle.”

  Pop was so slippery, even if you knew one was coming, even if he was piss-drunk, his lightning attacks were almost impossible to stop. Harbor brawlers from London to Honolulu to Tahiti had learned this fact the hard way. Paralyzed by a pinch, then dropped to the ground, hundreds had been stomped beneath Pop’s boots. He called it the “old one, two, three.” None of those dudes had grown up studying his every move, or was in the shape I was in.

  Seeing him shift his feet slightly, I knew there would be a diversionary glance to the side as if someone was coming, the slide of his feet and bend of his knees as he slipped inside to grab me somewhere that was going to hurt bad. The pinchers closed on thin air as I shifted and delivered a backhanded chop to the side of his neck. The illegal blow would’ve gotten me kicked out of the judo tournament, but it served here. Pop dropped so fast, I thought I killed him. I guess it says plenty that nobody in the house rushed over to see if he was OK. My brothers and I moved out of reach and talked story for a while as he moaned and cursed me from the floor.

  “He’s gonna get you for this,” my brother D.J. warned.

  “Let him try.”

  I already had a hover ticket for Oahu in my pocket. I left Maui the next day and never went back, not even for his funeral, which I paid for. Community college, pro surfing, traveling the world making adventure movies, I had no idea all the stuff I had ahead of me. One thing’s for sure, I did not expect to go backwards in time 32,000 years to find the love of my life and adopt the child of my dreams. Oh yeah, I’ve got it bad too.

  This is a strange kind of love though, pure and intense, but shadowed by constant fears of what if? If something were to happen to him, I don’t know if I could take it. That makes me ask a couple simple questions. Why go on the ice? Could we be taking him on a more dangerous trip in the middle of winter? Gray Beard says winter, with its frozen-river highways and sleeping bears, is the best season to travel long distances. Last night, he gave Rhino a Cro-Magnon check-up–stared into his baby eyes, got him to stick out his tongue, felt the meat on his arms. In hand sign, he claimed the baby has as good a chance at surviving as the rest of us.

  “If you make it across the ice alive, he probably will too.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “I just changed him, so you shouldn’t need to worry about that.”

  Jones: “Good to know.”

  Duarte: “Spare diapers are right there in the corner.”

  Jones: “I see ‘em.”

  Duarte: “We’ve minced more than enough food for while we’re gone.”

  Jones: “Got it.”

  Duarte: “We really appreciate this. I need to stretch my legs.”

  Jones: “Be sure to pick up any mammoth pies ya see laying around. Gettin’ hard to find.”

  Kaikane: “Roger that.”

  Jones: “There ya are Kaikane. Writin’ a novel or something?”

  Kaikane: “Memories of home.”

  Jones: “Happy?”

  Kaikane: “Not really. Thinking about the last time I saw my Pop. We had a fight and I left without saying goodbye. He was dead within a couple years.”

  Jones: “How’d he go?”

  Kaikane: “Idiot drowned when his piece-of-shit boat capsized in a storm.”

  Jones: “Ya couldn’t have predicted that.”

  Kaikane: “I’m not so sure.”

  Jones: “Where was he sailing?”

  Kaikane: “Nowhere. His boat was tied off to the top floor of a sunken hotel when it rolled. Hurricane was coming and the Coast Guard had evacuated everybody. Pop snuck back out on a stolen surfboard to get drunk and weather this storm the way he did all the others. He loved to brag about how brave he was, call guys who played it safe “pussies.” This time the pussies had the right of it. Remember Hurricane Andrea?”

  Jones: “Oh yeah, that was a bad one.”

  Duarte: “Paul, honey, if you did have an opportunity to speak with your father one last time, what would you have said?”

  Kaikane: “Nothing.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Babysitting’s not that hard. Kid cried himself out in 10 noisy minutes and has been asleep ever since. He fidgets every once in a while to let me know he hasn’t frozen to death in this damn tent. Once the crowd thins out, it cools down quick in here. Ceiling’s covered with frost from our breath that looks like a cross between spider webs and snowflakes. We used to thump it with our fingers to make it drop away like dust, but lately folks have been leaving it alone. It’s kinda pretty. Better than staring at pink hides.

  Kaikane said a few things about his old man, and now I’m thinking about mine. At least he knew his dad. Joe “Big Rig” Jones had moved on down the lake by the time I was four years old. Don’t remember a lick about the man. He was always working, driving that big rig.

  Dad was lead engineer on the Erie River Reclaimer Factory–a million-ton earth-gobbler on tracks that was supposed to rid the bottomlands of the Lake Erie Basin of toxic shit like mercury and lead. They were trying to make the place safe to farm. Scooping dried muck 20 feet deep and a quarter mile wide, that factory was expected to take more than 100 years to circle the lake and clear all the plots the government hoped to farm. Folks said dad was one of the only guys who could keep the giant machine running. Half the time the factory was busted or was stuc
k and couldn’t move. Dad had been part of the crew that converted the machine to human use after it sat outside Cleveland gathering rust for 80 years following the UberMind’s defeat.

  He was a “necessary” dude, and that must have given him enough clout with the company to get away with having four different wives and families. “Camp Wives” is what they called them. He had two down along the Erie River, and two inland, up above the rim of the former lake.

  Lake Erie had been pumped dry by the machine government and never recovered. The machines used the water to grow food as far away as Nebraska and to replenish supplies for workers on the moon. The plan was to turn the rich lakebed into farms, timber forests and cities. History books say the machines knew there would be problems with cancers and other fucked-up diseases, but I heard different at West Point. My teachers said the UberMind was surprised and disappointed when millions of settlers died from overexposure to bad stuff. The old joke went: As long as you don’t eat anything grown in the ground, drink the water or breathe the air, the Reclaimed Lake Erie Basin is a great place to live.

  Dad stayed in Erie long enough for mom to pop out three boys, me being the oldest. As the story goes, they had been arguing and he was getting ready for a long grind back down to the river–the factory was a bitch to turn so they would run it 20 miles in a straight line before turning and heading back. A round trip to the river and back might take eight months or two years, depending on the number of breakdowns.

  Grandma said mom walked over to the factory on the day dad was leaving and threatened to shoot him for “cheatin’ and lyin’.” He knew every inch of that giant machine. It was nothing for him to run and hide where she couldn’t find him. She fried two guards with a stunner and was sent to prison for life. At the end of his round trip, Dad moved on to a new woman in Westfield, N.Y. If he ever came back to Erie I never heard about it.

  Grandma raised me and I turned out all right–unlike my two numbskull brothers. One out of three ain’t too bad for a 70-year-old woman with a bum hip and no way to pay for a new one, or anything else. Somehow, she got me through school and into West Point. How did a poor black woman from Erie, PA pull that off?

  Duarte and Kaikane may be breaking every rule in the book taking in this kid, but their hearts are in the right place. Old Rhino could do a helluva lot worse than them for parents. It’ll be interesting to see if either Bolzano or the Hunter calls bullshit on the arrangement. I imagine Uncle Sal will jump in with both feet. Man’s never been overly concerned about rules. Hunter is another story. Bet it won’t be a minute before he recognizes an opportunity to turn this to his favor. Ethics Specialist my ass.

  That’s one of the reasons I’m with Gray Beard about leaving tomorrow. Fuck that guy. In the morning, with or without Sal and his daddy, we’re starting across the ice. They’ll do fine without us. Storyteller has timing of the full moons planned out and says we can’t wait another day. Fine by me.

  Well, it’s time to log off. Rhino’s crawling this way with a hungry look on his face. Don’t need Duarte saying I starved him.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Are we crazy?”

  Kaikane: “It’s a different world.”

  Duarte: “So vast.”

  Kaikane: “Better save your breath, babe. Let’s catch up to Lucy and Pearl.”

  Duarte: “They won’t carry him.”

  Kaikane: “I know.”

  From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  I must be quick. The clan is making one last ice harvest so we can fill our guts like camels before setting off across the ice. We woke to a hazy day, with warmer winds blowing in from the south. It’s probably well above zero. My nose hairs don’t freeze when I breathe in. I could log an exact temperature if I put my helmet on, but I’m not wearing it around the baby. There’s moisture in the air and it feels good. If I didn’t know better, I would be calling for snow. Not here, not this close to the ice. There’s probably a big dump happening down south. I wonder if it will impact Cpl. Bolzano and his father.

  We have given up waiting for them. I believe there is at least a 50-50 chance those two have already leapfrogged us. Our journey north took much longer than expected without the Sons serving as guides and porters as promised. Instead, we faced outright interference and attack from the hybrids. Was that Mitch Simmons’ plan from the beginning? I have a strong feeling there are things in Galway he does not want us to see.

  The Turtles are returning. I hear laughter. Somebody must have told a good joke. I don’t know how long it will be before I write again, if ever. Another premonition? Maybe. All I know is, I do not feel good about this trip.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “What rubbish are you listening to?”

  Bolzano: “As if you do not know.”

  Hunter: “Indulge me.”

  Bolzano: “Why, it is Rondo alla Turca, from the third movement of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in A Major. You must remember.”

  Hunter: “Played by whom?”

  Bolzano: “The Dutchman, Koehler.”

  Hunter: “Why have you always been so bloody preoccupied with the oldies? How many times can you listen to the same song?”

  Bolzano: “Once per year? This is only the second or third time I have indulged in this particular recording since the jump. My computer boasts an extensive audio library. I could listen nonstop for a decade before reaching the end of my catalog.”

  Hunter: “Why this song now?”

  Bolzano: “I entertained vague hopes it might warm my toes.”

  Hunter: “Wouldn’t Tchaikovsky be more apropos? Winter’s snow and all that rot.”

  Bolzano: “I am not in a Russian frame of mind.”

  Hunter: “A little ballet dancing might be good for those toes.”

  Bolzano: “I fear they would snap like icicles.”

  Hunter: “Even as a child, you preferred the old stuff. Why?”

  Bolzano: “So did Mother. Maybe I inherited her love of the classics.”

  Hunter: “When you’ve lived as long as I have, and listened to those ‘classics’ as many times as I have, they begin to make one’s stomach turn. They’re just bloody worn out.”

  From the log of The Hunter

  (aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  I pushed Salvatore as long as I dared before halting for the night. My intention was to overnight in this region’s one decent cave. With any luck, we’ll find some of my Sons in residence. Salvatore was not up to the task. If the blockhead hadn’t destroyed his suit, we’d have already rounded up all the Sons and be headed north by now.

  At least Salvatore gave it a game effort, I’ll grant him that. Poor devil was weaving through the snow like a drunken man by the time we ducked into the pine forest and I made a spot for him in the needles. I considered constructing a rude shelter and starting a fire, but it sounded like too much work. Instead, I brought Salvatore inside my force field. Eight boring, wasted hours later, his body temperature had returned to allowable levels and his clothes and boots were once again dry. Unlucky bugger may lose a couple toes, but there’s nothing more to be done about that.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “This is not living.”

  Hunter: “I wholeheartedly disagree. My field is the only thing between you and freezing to death.”

  Bolzano: “I am speaking about you.”

  Hunter: “What about me?”

  Bolzano: “Your soul.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Happy day! Sensation has returned to my toes and, better yet, they are no longer cobalt blue. It appears my little piggies may survive. Warmed by the fire in my small sandstone cave, they are currently plump, pink and no longer throbbing as if punctured by a million needles.

  The problem was my wardrobe. Temperatures on the morning Father and
I first broke camp hovered around freezing, but the clear, sunny skies promised a comfortable march. At his suggestion, I dressed for late fall while he added my heavy garments to the gear his Sons schlep. Less than an hour later, I was stuffed into a jumpsuit and taken on a forced run.

  My maneuver with the pack may have scored a victory over the tyranny of mechanical oppression, but the jacket and boots I was wearing at the time were neither thick enough nor waterproof enough to withstand Father’s trials. By the end of each day’s march, they were soaked through with sweat. As long as I was moving and generating body heat, it was not so bad. Thank goodness for my helmet. At least my head was warm. My poor feet, though, whenever we halted they quickly turned to blocks of ice.

  We departed the volcano in stony silence. The only words Father spoke that day were commands to “hurry up” and “try harder!” I was not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me yield. Like a fool, I plodded through the snow until I began to hallucinate and stagger. That night, Father kept me alive with his force field. The next day, he harvested several skins for me to wrap around myself.

  Again, memories are a blur. I have no recollection of entering his field that first night. I could not say how long I was unconscious. At some point, however, I became aware that I was toasty and comfortable. I drowsed and dreamed the strangest dreams. This may sound odd, but I do not believe they were mine. These nightmares were told third person as seen through Father’s eyes. It was real enough to touch–attacks on our ancestral home, the deaths by plague of billions, including the entire Bolzano family, sans Father and me.

  Forcing my eyes wide to escape the carnage, I found myself resting shoulder to shoulder alongside my pasty-white Father. He was dressed only in his belt and guns, nothing else. Though the force field held me in place as if encased by polymers, I was able to turn my head a bit and move my eyes to observe him in his slumber. If anything, Father looked younger and healthier than the persona he projects to the world. Only his fingernails and toenails, yellowed and cracked as they were, gave any indication of his advanced age.