If I can make it there

People talk about getting that harrowing call from home. A gravely ill parent, a tragic accident. The adrenalin-fuelled charge to the airport. Touch-and-go whether you’d make it back in time.

My version of gut-wrenching dread, the one that keeps me up at night, is different. It’s rounding a corner or strolling into a coffee shop.  For just a moment, my thoughts are elsewhere, and my guard is down. Then, slap-bag.  I bump into someone from home.

Perhaps there’s an initial half-smile. A hazy acknowledgment. But this is no meet-cute. I’d see it in their eyes,  a flicker, their expression hardening with that dawning awareness. They know who I am. They know what I’ve done.  As this nightmarish scenario unfolds,  I’m not ready, not convincing with my response, which is always the same. Deny everything. Especially who I am.

My parents bundled me into the car as soon as the court hearing was over. I didn’t have time to change out of my too-big suit, a borrowed one of Dad’s. Or say goodbye to my friends.  If they were still my friends. They stood in an untidy huddle down the back, speaking in low murmurs. A couple of them glanced over, then looked quickly away.

Seanie nodded at me, just once,  then returned to the group. The formality of his gesture, so at odds with our usual banter, cut deeper than my other friends’ turned backs. The other boy’s parents, the boy who died, they shuffled out the door, neighbours and relatives and his two younger brothers forming a phalanx around them, holding them together.

Ireland was too small. London is too close. And I was still a minor. My Dad’s cousin in Queens offered a room and that was it. My parents put me on a flight and told me to use my middle name.  

Tanya wrote a few times in the first year c/o my parents. They’d made me promise not to give anyone my new address. And to stay off all social media. I thought they were overreacting. Then I read one of the online blogs. Death threats, so violent, so visceral, I saw the capitalized words every time I closed my eyes for weeks after.

It didn’t matter anyway.  Her letters grew more infrequent, shorter and shorter until finally, they stopped altogether. I’m not in contact with anyone else.

5 years on and I’m always careful. I avoid the obvious hang-outs. No pubs with green-jersey punters. No trad music sessions. No hurling. Ever. I miss it.

Growing up, in our small village, being on the hurling team, was a big deal. It was all anyone talked about. Being a player, one of the team, meant something. Made you a bit special. Until it didn’t. I know it could have been worse. If the coach hadn’t spoken up for me, given me that character reference. I couldn’t ask the other lads. I wasn’t sure what they’d say. Yes, it could have been much worse.

It was the day after the match. We’d won it by a narrow margin and the whole village had celebrated. Hard and late into the night. The thing to do, after match night, was the early morning sea swim. Some of the lads tried to ease themselves in. They’d wade in from the beach, with its high, brackish tang that caught the back of your throat. They’d step around the sharp-edged rocks slimed with seaweed and broken shells. They’d yelp and shriek in the shallows as the lip of the tide curled over their feet and encircled their ankles, the water sucking them in until finally, it was deep enough to swim further out.

I always wanted the shock of it. Especially that morning. The gasping exhale. I held my breath and leaped in, plunging beneath the surface.  The chill seeped into MY bones, sharp as a million little knives stabbing at my skin. I wanted it to cut away the sore head, the doom-laden fug, and the bad feeling that blanketed me after a night of drinking.

But it hadn’t worked. Shivering on the rocky shoreline, roughly drying myself off and pulling on clothes I still felt it. Apprehensive, jangled with nerves. I’d have a word, I decided. Seanie and James agreed. They said it wasn’t on. Him chatting her up like that. Tanya was my girl, after all. Every time I thought of her, whip-smart and as beautiful as the morning, I felt that leap in my chest.

That second night, we started off in Keoghs. Deccy got the first round in, and then pints arrived on their table from one of the regulars, who came over and pumped our hands hard telling us we were the best team ever. James got the next round and someone else got shots and by the time Tanya and her friends arrived, the table was covered with drinks. She came over and sat on my lap for a while, one arm slung around my neck. Seanie was chatting up her friend, Anna, who was rolling her eyes at something he said.  He winked over her head at Dan.

The trad band started. Some of the older regulars started shushing. A bit of quiet now, please.  Heads low, we stumbled out the door, quick as we could, me holding Tanya’s hand, and we headed into Fitzys. It was heaving in there. No chance of a table. We pushed through to a space near the bar. We ordered another round and whisky chasers. It was hot in there now, the hoppy smell of Guinness and traces of cigarette smoke from the open door curling into the air. I felt a trickle of sweat down his back. My head was pounding. I glanced over, looking for Tanya. She was talking to that fella again, laughing up at him, staring into his eyes. His hand briefly squeezed her arm.

I felt icy calm. I’d have that word with him, and let him know it wasn’t on. I tried for a relaxed saunter over. I knew my walk was off-kilter. I still can’t recall what I said. No matter how hard I try, I can’t dredge it up. My last memory is walking towards the door with the stained glass panels glimmering in the pub glow. Then the smack of cold air. I don’t know how long they were outside before Seanie and James came running over. Later, in court, Seanie would say he saw me stagger over,  and punch him, just once.

Maybe here in New York, with its tropes of anonymity and starting over, will be the place where I get another chance. Then I see him. A tall man, the back of his head disappearing into the revolving entrance of my workplace.  The weighty ball of anxiety, ever-present in my gut, hardened. I tried reaching for the positive. Lots of lads with that shade of hair, that blade-two cut on the side. And this is New York, not home. Then the man turned his head and stood there staring at me. It was him alright, the dead boy’s brother. Slowly, I walked towards him.