(1st rough draft)
Your man’s name was John Kelly. A good, solid name that tells ya nothing at all about him, and so tells you ever’thing. He didn’t grab my arms when we left, didn’t put his hand on my back to guide me neither. Just got up his heavy chair and hovered over his desk, moving his eyes between me and the door, willing me to move first. So I did. I stepped back and waited for him to pass me. He hadn’t made me scared, yeah, but r’member this is the man that killed my father, and anyway he had bodyguards to protect his peace of mind, an’ all I had was my wary self.
“Good man,” he said. He gave me a hard nod and smiled the way the school misses do when I do the right thing but not the correct thing, and they aren’t supposed to smile but can’t help it. Mr. Kelly moved around me like a soundwave, he kept his eye on me until he passed. I could be rabid wi’ mourning. But I wasn’t, not yet anyway. I had a job, to keep face and keep Mum’s name clear as it still could be. I kept my head held high as I followed him out, not looking at the goons sizing me up as I went through their barricade. The sun burned with an acidity I’d only feel once more in my life, years later, but Mr. Kelly seemed acutely aware of it but bluntly unphased. We walked like two blind men now. Only I’d just lost my sight, and he’d never bothered to have it.
“Can I tell y’something ‘bout your father, Eouin?” We were in the car now, a new smelling ’71
No, I shook my head. Then after a pause I understood to be his waiting for my honest answer, rather than his agreeing to not tell me what I ought to know, I leaned a bit out of the shade and said, “No,” loud as I could. He barely heard it, but did catch it. I know ‘cause he looked at me shamefully, concerned, until I turned away and looked out the window. Then he told me anyway.
“He was a good man. Not the best, but good. Don’t go ‘round thinking your Da was a scoundrel. He was a crook, but come a certain age a man’s got’ta be a crook to keep alive and feed a family. Y’understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Your Da, well, he got his hands a bit too wet for the winter. Over-estimated his own perseverance. Watch for that in y’self. Don’t ever be an eager man. At your age it’s ok to be eager sometimes. But watch it doesn’t become who you are, watch that you don’t turn youthful interest into aging urgency.”
I blinked at him and it was the only response I could think of, so I did it again. He blinked back, and this time it was he who turned ‘way first. But I followed his stare because I could not help it, and the car turned in the same d’rection, and we pulled into the tailor’s. Mr. Magoo, I’d always called him, ‘cause of his big bottleneck glasses. Ever’one knew him, he was one of two tailors in the area. One who did God’s work, as Mum would say, lookin’ a’ the dresses an’ suits in Mr. Magoo’s window, an’ one for the Prods, a town over.
Mr. Magoo’s real name was Padraic Finneran, and his shop was called, plainly, Tailoring Shoppe. He was small and serious, like me, only about 70 years older. He was made up of bodily accessories: big feet, long nose, wide flapping ears. But had the smallest, daintiest hands that looked like that could take a man dancing and woo him to fatherhood ── so long as the poor sap never opened his eyes, ‘course. I never talked to him really, though he didn’t say too much even to people who knew him well. Rumor was he was so smart it came out his ears in white tufts, but all I could see was old man ear hair.
“Hello John,” he said without looking up as we entered the shop, the little bell by the door jingling happily.
“Paddy! Good to see you as ever. I brought a friend, hoping you can help him out today. Eouin, meet a dear ol’ friend of mine, Mr. Finneran.”
“Tom’s boy?” he asked, not wanting an answer. He looked at me somewhat blankly, but with kindness, then shot Mr. Kelly a look to say, “What the hell you doin’ with this kid, an’ right now? Poor taste, Johnny.” But he paused for a second to bite his tongue, and said, to me, “’T’sa pleasure to meet ya, boy. A friend of Mr. Kelly’s is a friend of mine. What can I do ya for t’day?”
How could I tell this man who knew my father was dead, knew why prob’ly, def’nitely more than I did anyway, I needed a suit for Da’s wake? I turned inside myself for a second, searching for the right words, and found none. My mouth went dry and I could feel my face reddening, all them freckles gathering in arms.
“A suit, Paddy. The boy needs a suit. For tomorrow. He’s got none. You can put it on my bill.”
“Aye, son. We’ll make a man’a you yet. Let’s first take some measurements, and work from there.”
A few hours past, I was sitting in th’ Lamplighter with Mr. Kelly and his watchdogs, drinkin’ tonics and waiting for the proper adjustments to be finished on my new clothes. Already I was wearing a new set of drapes, real smart like, with cuffs that came right to my wrists just right, and then down past my ankles just so like they was a shell grown right from my own skin, to fit just perfect. It was just lying around waiting for me like a miracle. Still used, but clean, and sharp. Mr. Kelly was happy and impressed, and we ate burgers together forgetting all propriety, remembering only hunger, thinking only of possibilities.
“You clean up real good, kid. Real good.”
“Yeah, don’t I? Thanks ‘gain.”
“Consider it a trade. One future for another.” This bit harder than he meant it to. I winced and his eyes said sorry.
“Listen I got to get back to Mum. She worries. An’ her sisters have all been at the house since the news, and it just makes it harder with everyone around. Everyone with an opinion on Da, or tears shed that jus’ cause ‘er breakin’ a frenzy. She’s having a real hard time of it.”
“A’right. We’ll finish up here, pick up the suits, an’ I’ll drop you off. Maybe pick some flowers up for your mother first, yeah?”
As we were putting on our coats, one of the watchdogs, Winty, whispered in Mr. Kelly’s ear. They both nodded and looked near the front of the pub.
“They’re going to meet us around back, Eouin. There’s a street sweeping goin’ on.”
I followed because I had no choice. Walking through the kitchen, I heard a few muffled thuds coming through the walls and I stiffened. A few boys from school were working in the back washing dishes and they gave me uncertain looks. I shrugged. I was scared. Reality came in waves like a bad smell. I could forget who I was for moments at a time, keep parts of the day from molding together and fermenting under my nose. But here I was, looking boys my age in the teeth, walking with a murderer, hearing noises of God knows what. And my Da was dead. Dead. I trembled and began to weep, but fought hard to keep it in.
“Lets go, Eouin. It’s ok.” In the moment, I hated him. But still I followed. I needed him still and always. This stranger who could now be God or the Devil or my father. But never my Da. I stood with him in the alley and waited for the new-smelling car to pull up. I smoked a fag and gagged on the swells in my throat. I couldn’t say a thing, couldn’t focus my eyes.
But out of the corner, just out of sight, Mr. Kelly shivered, hard.
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