The Lucky Shamrock was, as its name implied, an Irish bar, midblock in a neighborhood that had been Irish as long as one could remember. “Tis the bars that keep us here,” people joked. “Under the cash register is a piece of the old sod.” No one needed to ask for the address of one bar or another. “It’s in the blood and the blood knows the day and the bar that goes with it. There’s Guinness and Jameson to be found in all the bars.” Thus it was of a Wednesday that Shea Reilly walked into the Shamrock and, before he was halfway to his stool, Eamon had tapped a Guinness and set it out on a coaster. A glance was enough to tell that Shea was in his moods.
Eamon went to the audio equipment on the shelf under the register, turning it on. Reilly’s early, music be early too. He thought for a moment, picking the playlist with early Coltrane. “My Favorite Things” was the first selection. Shea likes that one, said his father would sometimes hum Rodgers and Hammerstein tunes. Told me his Athair didn’t hold by jazz in general, “But the old recordings, the ones from the 60s, the smooth ones, they could carry a tune fine enough.”
Shea put his elbows on the bar and lifted the glass to his lips, pausing for a moment to admire the tiny dark bubbles riding on top of the beer. He sipped slowly and then held the glass level with his eyes. Nodding, he brought it back to his lips for another swallow and checked again. The level had dropped two inches. Aye, an inch to grow a pinch and another inch for good luck. He carefully set the glass back on the counter.
Eamon saw him leveling the glass. Shea’s had a bad day then, when he told me he was measuring inches I added a couple of cuts from Coltrane’s Inchworm album. Sweet but it won’t come up for ten minutes.
Shea lifted his hat with his left hand and ran the right through his hair, grabbing a handful for a playful tug, just like Athair did when I was wee, then firmed the flat hat back on his head. He put his hands on his lap and straightened his shoulders, running his tongue over his lips. “Stand tall,” Máthair would be saying and then if I be looking sad would sing, “How are things in Glocca Morra?” as if she really wanted to know. And now the two of them gone these many years.
He started to whistle softly, doing his best to remember the twitters his father made if he was around when his mother was singing. “Aye,” he be saying, “they only have sweet and happy birds there where the Shannon flows into the sea but they followed your mother and me here to Boston.”
The whistling dried Shea’s lips and he brought the glass back to his mouth. A few healthy swallows halved the beer. Before the glass was back on the counter he remembered how on occasion his father would extend his hands like branches over his mother’s head, swaying them back and forth as if a breeze had come up. He’d force a tear in his eye, all the while with his mother singing on: “Is that willow tree still weepin’ there? Does that laddie with the twinklin’ eye come whistlin’ by?” And then they would circle me in their arms and kiss me from one ear to the other.
Shea drained his glass and centered it on the coaster. He held up two fingers, one for a shot of Irish Whiskey, the other for another Guinness. And while waiting, he whistled his father’s twitter with nary a twinkle in his sad and dreary eyes.
Eamon replaced the empty glass with a full one and set the tumbler with the whiskey to Shea’s right. He nodded. “Ey, sad it’s the anniversary of your father’s passing, I added a wee bit extra in his memory. He was a right fine man, bringing you in here even as a boy. A man always needs a place where he can think. Your Máthair knew, a saint she was too, listening to your Athair telling of your stunts. Sláinte!” Eamon raised an imaginary glass and then hurried to the other end of the bar where a thirsty patron was waving.
Shea slowly rotated his beer glass on the coaster, staring across at the mirror and the backs of bottles pushing through, thinking that maybe he’d see his father ducking out from behind the register much like he had played as a little boy. He raised the tumbler and muttered, “Here’s to you, Dad, and your Irish tenor, softly singing with Mom those song’s from Finian’s Rainbow. You two wore out the record. Told me Harburg and Lane were leprechauns. I don’t even think they’re Irish, but Harburg had the gift of words with his lyrics, grant him that. Sláinte,Dad,Sláinte! Just sad that the gift of the language was never mine.” Shea sipped from the tumbler breathing in “the smells of the barrel” as his father had taught him.
His father remained behind the register, but for a moment Shea imagined his worn hand sneaking a quick wave. Dad was one for the words: “We always be telling stories around a peat fire back there. Best way to keep warm and your belly full was with a good story. Joyce knew that. Captured us all in Dubliners. Could have been any of us lads in Portrait.” It wasn’t me. They pushed me through high school and then I learned the printing trade; close enough to his books to make them happy.
Shea made a face and ducked behind the bottle of vodka doubled in the mirror, much like he’d played sixty years past. He chuckled, “OK, Dad, maybe fifty or a wee more, but I did learn that from you – one can always improve on reality.” He raised his Guinness, tilting it ever so slightly to the mirror, “Sláinte again it is!”and drained half the glass.
Hands on his lap, he brought his shoulders back and sat tall on the stool, smiling, “Mom, you taught me well.” Tilting his head, Shea addressed his reflection. “Tis your mother you remember best. Thirty years she be gone, taken by the Big C. Dad did his best to hold on. Four or five years more, then he went to find his sweet Colleen waiting for him in Donny Cove.”
He sighed. Lifted the malt in toast. “This for you both,” and sipped, thinking how now the barrel smelled dank with the loss of the two. What’s left is gone as I too will be some day. He looked down at what remained in the glasses and removed some bills from his wallet, slipping them under the coaster.
Eamon returned quietly and raised an eyebrow.
Shea smiled. “As Athair said, ‘Best at times to leave some for the leprechauns.’ Oíche mhaith, Eamon, good night.”
“Oiche mhaith, Shea, good night.” Eamon picked up the glasses, wiped down the counter and smiled. The timing was perfect, the playlist was closing out with “How Are Things in Glocca Morra,” a cut from Sonny Rollins’ Ballads.//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher.
He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave.
He enjoys chamber music and mysteries.
Please visit www.kmkbooks.com.
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About the Author
