GROGAN'S GIFT-Part 1

[JackShea]

- I'm sorry about your father, Jack- spoke Mr. Minogue proprietor of the Blarney Stone Bar and Grill, 207th Street and Broadway, Inwood, Manhattan, New York City, last stop for the A train on the IND line.

- Wasn't I just speaking with him this very day the week past.-

Minogue moved closer and affectionately patted Jack's hand as he continued his monologue. His voice lowered, almost hushed as though Jack and he were conspirators.

- Sure he has gone to a better place now Jack, a better place. And proud of you he was Jack, proud indeed. It is not often the neighborhood produces the talent the likes of yours lad- not often a'tall. I was just saying to the misses we should be seeing your play, we should. Though it isn't often we get downtown. And how's your mother, God bless her, bearing the strain Jack?-

Three Jack's repeated in Minogue's sympathetic discourse. Two Queens's prance in and bejasus a full house. Leave me to my spirits Minogue for Christ sake. Still, he pats my hand as though I were his lap dog. Easy now Jackie boy. Even he has his priestly functions. Doesn't your elbow lean upon his mahogany altar? Look at his eyes. Somber and gray. Glassed over like a frozen pond. His gut protrudes over his belt buckle and the buttons on his yellowed and frayed Van-Heusen are about to burst. Pop! Pop! Pop! Dead. In Finnegan's care now- the embalmer.

Jack removed Minogue's oversized paw from the top of his hand and pushed his glass forward.

- I'll have another Mr. Minogue.-

- Indeed you will, and then whispered to Jack in all confidentiality, and your money is no good here.-

Minogue winked and turned and looked about for the quart of Four Roses. He found the whiskey and saw it was emptied. As by law, he broke the bottleneck and declared in all sincerity,

- Anuther Dead Man!-

Realizing his remark at the moment not apropos, he turned toward Jack his face crimsoned.

- Good Lord lad, I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was saying! I'm sorry son, terribly sorry.-

- It's all right Mr. Minogue, Jack muttered-

- It won't take me a moment to get anuther bottle from the back Jack. Not a moment a'tall.-

With this stated Minogue departed. Across the street from Minogue's Blarney Stone Bar and Grill lay Thomas O'Neill, Jack,s father, quite dead.


Don't return for a while Minogue. Leave me to stare at my features in your uncleansed bar glass. My nose distorted by the sandblasted "Jamison's" etched across the bar mirror. Do you like what you see there Jackie boy? Lift your chin. Now turn your face left, and then, to the right. Pub games. Tip your tweed cap up and then to the side. If you tilt your cap to the left, you are a Corkman. Or was that Donegal? You are in a bar so you must be somewhat of a corkman. Pop goes the champagne! Pop. It must be the liquor or the death or both. It begins to rain as I gaze across Broadway. It is March. What am I doing? Walk out the door and cross the street to Finnegan's and sit in a folding chair next to your mother and mournfully greet- the guests? Shake their hands like a dutiful son. Lead them to the kneeler and stand at the head of the coffin whilst they say a silent- I wonder what they are saying? But I can't you see. He stares back at me with deadened eyes. Just as in life, the face, a piss yellow color. The suit, cleaned and pressed. Unlike his life. Finnegan has removed his glasses. Bring them back you ghoul; he is blind without the peepers! He is dead you fool.

- Here we go laddie.-

Minogue snuck back. Berated the man's hands before. Not pawed at all. Artistic. Look at the way the index finger gently touched the base of the spout and pours the nectar. Irish singsong. "Whiskey you're the devil, you're leadin' me astray!" How goes the rest? Take a swig. Warm going down the gullet. Minogue interjects.

- I stopped by this afternoon and signed the book.-

Ah yes. Inked the tome. The old Irish Catholic trick. Go by the Parlor in the afternoon when the family is sure to be out. Duck your head in and grab a peek at the corpse. Not too close and do not stay to long. Clear the conscience. Singsong. ' Sure I was there, said a prayer, signed the book.'

- My father would have liked that said Jack-

- Your father was a kind man Jack, a kind man. None better. If only he found his way in life.-

But he did. Find his way. Here I sit upon the throne from which he fell. Humpty Dumpty and aren't we all descended from Kings. Aren't ain't a word.

- He should have been an actor Jack, an actor. There was none better in the Paulists Players then Thomas O'Neill. Even to this day I chuckle to myself when I think of him playing Teddy Roosevelt. What was that play Jack where Teddy was always going to Panama?-

- Arsenic and Old Lace.-

- That's the one!-

As Minogue laughed at the memory of Thomas the Thespian in walked Gaffney. Another regular, even in the mornings. Has the face of a crater, the body of a barrel, the toughness of a docker. Low to the ground he his built. He stands by the coat rack and shakes the raindrops from his topcoat and hangs it upon the peg. He removes his tweed cap and slaps it once, twice, and then a third time to his thigh before replacing it upon his head tilted somewhat to the right. A Donegal man. When I was young, thought Jack, what was it my brothers and sisters called him? A pause for reflection. The Potato Chip Man! Always bought us Wise as we sat in the corner of this very establishment waiting, waiting, waiting. Gaffney sat two stools from Jack and ordered. - Draft please Michael.-

- Right you are Aquinas. Right away.-

Michael Minogue meted from the keg. ' Give the man the three ring sign and ask the man for Ballentine!' Mel Allen. Foam builds in the glass so Minogue utilizes his wooden stick to remove the excess. He lays a cardboard coaster before Gaffney and places the glass of gold before the imbiber. Gaffney lifts the glass to his chapped lips and reverently drains the contents. James Joyce would have written...dingaling, dingaling, dingaling. Minogue having witnessed this ritual over and over remains at his station before the celebrant. Gaffney's faced is flushed and alive.

- Anuther if you please Michael!"

' Shaffer is the one beer to have, if you're having more then one!'

- It's a wet one tonight Aquinas.-

- Ay, tis weather fit for wakes is all, comments Gaffney.-

A hurried whisper from mouth to ear and then a quick glance of understanding in my direction.

- How's I ta know, says Gaffney. I didn't recognize him!-

[JackShea]

Two stools between us and may the Red Sea never part. Did you know there are more Irish in New York then in all of Dublin! Reingold Beer! Out of the corner of me eye...me eye!? Now I am speaking with immigrant intonations. I look in the mirror and can see...no, I can feel his eyes upon me. He stares and penetrates my profile.

- Jack? -

- Hello Mr. Gaffney. How are you? -

Here he comes with outstretched hand. Have to be careful of his grip. The former farmer and retired docker can drain the blood from you. Used to do it when I was wee. Test of the manhood; see if he could bring tears to my eyes.

- Jack, says he as he clasps my hand in his. But I squeeze first. I have the years on him. No tears now for I am older and stronger.

- I'm sorry aboutja fadder Jack. -

Beer and whiskey breath blown in my face. We are nose to schnoz. The muscles in my arm are as taunt as a tightened bow. Heh, heh. I shall drop the old leech to his knees. The triumph of youth! The lines about his eyelids begin to squint. By God, the eyes are laughing at me. My handbones begin to crack. Old man, old tricks, old story. He has me!

- A terrible thing Jack; a terrible thing he repeats finally releasing his massive grip. He pierces my gaze with a self-satisfying look of contempt of a defeated opponent. -

- Michael, two more if you please. -

- Comin' up Aquinas. Right away. -

- And a bag of crisps Michael. -

The ever unchanging. Gaffney lowers himself to the stool beside me. Michael pulls a bag of chips from the clips and lays them before us. Not knowing whether the Wise are for me, I let them lay and shift uncomfortably while the old man surveys me from his perch. Slowly he reaches his hand for the chips and with one deft movement he rips the cellophane between his teeth and spits the torn wrapper to the floor. He lays the bag between us and ever so eloquently speaks:

- Chip Jack? -

- Here we go lads, says Minogue laying fresh cruets before us. And if you don't mind, one for myself...in His honor. -

Minogue drains his glass and then his eyes look out the window and he exclaims,

- Oh Jesus, there he is! -

Gaffney as well stares across Broadway and I feel foolish not to look as well so, I turn toward the window and see an old classmate. Gaffney nervously crunches a chip and spits and sputters as he says,

- I'll not be taking that bums abuse tonight Michael! I'll crush his scrawny neck between these hands if he so much as opens his mouth so help me Hannah! Look at the idget would you! -

- Now, now says Minogue patting his friend's hand. The boy is harmless enough Aquinas, harmless enough. -

- Boy is it Michael! The force of Gaffney's voice reverberates the inner ear. And since when is a man in his thirties considered a boy I might ask. The man Michael; the man is a bum! -

- Now Aquinas, Michael tries to console...-

- He's a bum I say and so help me God I'll break his neck! And look at him with that Jew who thinks she is royalty. I tell you Michael, that ones elevator doesn't go to the top floor if you get my drift...and him an ex seminarian!"-

Can't believe it is he. Goose Grogan. Standing curbside his head bobbing up and down like a nervous chicken. With a woman who even from this distance has an aura of mystery. She stands indifferently under Grogan's umbrella. Grogan starts to cross the road; jumps back on the curb; starts to cross again and again jumps back. The number 10 bus roars by and splashes street water upon the Goose and his Gander. Goose leaps into Broadway indifferent to the on coming traffic and renders the bus the New York Salute. Middle finger pointed to the sky, arm bent at the proper right angle at the elbow. The bus spews exhaust from its rear end as Grogan desperately scans the street for some implement to heave at the southbound number 10. The woman stoically stands beneath the umbrella and as the light turns green crosses the street without her escort. She stands on the opposite curbside indifferent to the Goose's antics. Tiring of yelling at an inanimate object, Goose haphazardly weaves his way through honking automobiles and screaming drivers and makes his way to the woman's side.

- Morons! - Let's get a drink. He says-

The Goose and his lady enter the Blarney Stone with Goose announcing as he enters;

- God save all here and those who aren't. -

We all speak with the lilt and us second generation Irish. Second generation with 19th century habits. We are gentlemen though. We tip our hats to the ladies and as Goose is doing, assist woman out of their trench coats. He shakes it twice and hangs it upon the rack. The removed raingear reveals the figure- full, proportioned. But I am drawn to the obscurity of her eyes. The eyes sit back in their lair and I am drawn inward and inward. She plies her craft well. I have enrolled in whatever cult she practices. I want to take her silk black hair in my hands. I watch as she shakes her hair to and fro. Rain droplets fall to the saw-dusted floor. The dust reminds me of where I should be. Across Broadway gazing at the dead and greeting the living. Dutiful son dabbles in dust. Ashes to ashes. Questions and comments:

- Terribly sorry about...-

- How old a man was he? -

- It was his heart, wasn't it? -

- Did he have a history of it? -

- I didn't know he was poorly. -

- Did he suffer? -


Nonononononono! I will stay in my stool and drown myself in Goose Grogan's gorgeous girl. Let's make love in the dust. Let's squirm together while Gaffney munches on his chips and Minogue lays Four Roses beneath us. Terribly insensitive I am. I should be praying; I want to be ****ing! But one-way to forget death...to life! Slainte! She now sits beneath the pedestaled TV. The Knicks dribble up and down above her head. The Goose speaks:

- Michael; liquid refreshment when you can break from the crowd. -

As the bar patrons consists of we four I cannot help but laugh.

- Ah ha, says Goose. A man of humor. You must be a stranger for you do not understand the moribund nature of this establishment. Classless clientele caressing chalices. Goblets to the gob****es. -

- Shut your mouth growls Gaffney. -

- Am I to be denied my constitutional right to free speech in your establishment Mr. Minogue? Grogan plays the innocent well. -

Minogue is a publican ever the politician. Straddles the fence. Curator of cash.

- What'll it be Brendan? -

- Better company then what's five stools to my left. That not being possible, Dewers and Soda for me and black coffee for the lady. -

The lady remains sphinx like.

- I told you Michael, Gaffney sputters; I will take no guff from the likes of him! -

- Therein stranger, Grogan says to me, lies the key to the reason for the existence of this establishment, this neighborhood, this world. We take no guff, we give guff, we are guffing ourselves to death. And extending his hand to me he continues. Brendan Grogan's the name. Ex-seminarian; ex-soldier; former patriot; and currently the dispenser of literary wisdoms to deaf-eared students at Columbia University. Roar Lion roar. The woman to my left who I notice you sneak an occasional glance is Rachel. Former student. Brilliant mind. Great physique. Member of the Jewish Defense League. Natural killer she is so be careful. Draws you in like a spider she does. And to whom do I have the pleasure? -

- Goose? For some reason I think he should remember me. Or like him have I changed so much. The Goose's neck long and slender with it's bobbing Adams apple rears backward in mock surprise. -

- Who is it who invokes a name from the past! -

- It's me for Christ sake. Jack O'Neill. -

- He ponders momentarily-

- No ****? -

- No ****. -

- I'll be damned, he says draining the Dewers. Another if you please Mr. Minogue. The Playwright returns eh. -

Grogan stares at me as I mentally write a character sketch as though he were a character in a play.

BRENDAN GOOSE GROGAN...age 35. A slender tall New Yorker of Irish American decent. His facial features are sharp and pointed. His eyes, blue bloodshot and glassed. His speech is articulate almost to the point of theatrical. His hands are long fingered, artistic looking. Brash and humorous in a sarcastic vein. At the age where one is considered in the prime of life, Brendan Grogan wears a mask of death. His eye sockets are blackened from too little sleep and too much booze. It appears he lives upon a liquid diet. He speaks.

- For Christ sake. Jack O'Neill. Come home despite the warnings of Wolfe. So, who's dead? -

[JackShea]

Perhaps Grogan wishes me to play Stephen Dedalus to his Buck Mulligan. Maybe he will call me Kinch.

Gaffney's face turns rage red.

- Have you lost all sense of day-cent-cee, he bellows? His father God rest his soul has just passed away! -

- All men's fathers die you lout. In the end we all become sons a *****es! -

Grogan turned away momentarily. I saw him place a pill in his mouth. Rachel spoke. I heard her voice for the first time.

- You shouldn't do that. -

Grogan laughs. Gaffney appears as though he is about to rise and plummet Grogan's face to a bloody pulp. Rachel returns to her stoicity. I must admit I wanted to take the Goose by his scrawny neck and thrash him from limb to limb for his crude remark for wasn't I in mourning? But there was a truth in his words. I had not been home for years. Roaming the world like Ulysses. A playlet here, a playlet there, here and there a playlet. The rain pit pats against the windowpane. I watch as the droplets hit the glass, freeze in place and slowly unfreeze and slide down the glass much as a teardrop moves from eye to cheek. Should I stay and watch the teardrops streak. Should I leave and confront my pain? Dead. Alive. It is all the same. Incidental part of the cycle. Each cloisters its own mystery. What am I doing here?

- It's a long way to Tipperary; it's a long way to home! -

Quiet with that infernal singsong. Avoid your duties. Sit here and renew old acquaintances? Minogue's voice is near yet appears to be at the end of a tunnel...echoing within...consoling Gaffney...warning Grogan.

- I'll have no more of this now! -

The two hostiles remain at bay. They bait each other for they share the roots. Gaffney the immigrant. The struggler upon whose back his children moved onward an upward from the life of apartments. Grogan, the son of an Ellis Island landee. Got his education and now flaunts it back in the faces whose toil and sacrifice he chooses to forget. Heard he got his PH.D. Knew him when he picked his nose in class. Sister Redempta made him wear white gloves as I remember. Spot the green easier. Gaffney arises and announces the reason for his departure as though a simple exit would be uncivil.

- The paper should be up Michael. I'll be after going now. -

How is one after going when one is still here? Methodically, he removes his topcoat from the rack; arms enter the sleeves as he cast a side glace at Grogan.

- Keep yourself warm now Aquinas, cautions Minogue. -

- It's only a drizzle now Michael. Would you be wanting a paper yourself? Gaffney asks. -

- I would Aquinas. That would be grand. -

Grand? Like the piano? Before Gaffney leaves he comes to me and places his hand on my shoulder.

- It was good to see you lad though I wish it could be under better circumstances. All the best to your mother. -

Grogan pops another pill and mimics.

- All the best to your sainted mommy! Are we never to be free from this ignorant immigrant mentality? -

- That will be enough Brendan, Minogue admonishes. -

Grogan rests his head on the bar and laughs through his nostrils.

- Jesus, I can't take this. What a drama you could write about this place Jackie boy. You got the O'Neill name. You could call it Long Days Journey into the Fright. Gaffney here could play all the characters. What do you think? -

- I think we should go Brendan. -

Rachel. The name is biblical. She suggests. The voice was neither hard nor soft. Suggestive. Perhaps in her late twenties, early thirties. Gaffney called her the Jew, royalty. No tinkers daughter this one. Dresses downtown not working-class. More meant for the Waldorf not Minogue's. Yet when Grogan raises his voice to her,

- You want to leave, leave! Hit the bricks! Don't let the door hit you in the ***! -

- Here, here Brendan. There will be no talking to a lady with that tone of voice in my establishment!

She remains impassive. Treats Grogan as though he were the second coming of Christ. The protector. Remember the mother of Jesus. Mary was her name. Rumor has it Joseph showed up at her parent's doorstep one day. Like to marry your daughter; have a kid; no sex involved. Sounds like a biological blunder to me. Oy vey! Says the father. Could be a good business opportunity here. A Virgin birth. I can see the shekels rolling in! Yetta! Pack the bags we are moving to better digs! Maybe get a cottage along the Dead Sea. Take a trip to Rome, catch a crucifixion or two. Yetta plans a Seder. Commemorate the daughters Exodus. Whole world would be different today if the old man threw Joseph out on his ear. Hard to imagine a man wanting parenthood without the penetration. Where's the reward? I blame this type of thinking on the school system. What time is it? Have to attend the rosary at 7:30 and an encore performance at 9:30. Mumble mumble jumble. Repeat after me. Mumble mumble jumble. All these crazy thoughts in my mind and then Gaffney valedictates.

- Begging your pardon Missy, he says as he tips his hat to Rachel. Grogan! Your company is wearing thin in this neighborhood. Word to the wise. I'm not the only one tired of your actions. We overlooked it when you came back from the war. This is 1985. Grow up. No one cares about your law-dee-daw education. Thinking your better than those you grew up with. Good night to you Missy. -

A miracle. Goose momentarily at a loss for words. Minogue busies himself polishing the glasses. And then the Goose turns his vengeance upon me.

- Your plays suck! -

- Then don't go see them. -

Smart comeback.

- And don't think I haven't been watching the way you have been looking at her! -

- It's time to go Brendan. - Again she merely suggests.

- I wasn't aware I was. - I lied.

- You had no talent when you were a kid...and it's carried over. Shakespeare is safe. And the name O'Neill. Do the man a favor, change your moniker. -

Have to take a wee. I start to leave. Grogan gets to groveling.

- Jack! Hey, look guy, I was kidding. It's just that everything got screwed up. Stick around. Let's party what do you say? Where you going! -

Nosy bugger.

- I'm going to the bathroom if that's okay with you. -

Trying to renew a never was friendship Grogan says;

- Mention my name. You'll get a good seat! -

Stand above the porcelain trough. Demeaning really. What to do? Look down at a bar of freshener. Piss laden. Draped in cigarette butts. Whip it out. Dangle it. Nothing happens. Comeon, comeon, comeon! What's the hurry? Stand with this piece of flesh in your hands or be across the street on your knees with a string of beads. Here it comes. The pause that refreshes. Only thing this thing in my hands is good for as of late. Married an actress. Poor plot. Playwright not the leading man type. Became a star she did. Dropped me for a thespian. Men drooling and dreaming of a night of frolic with the fem-fatale of film. Worse lay I ever had. Thank God we did not reproduce ourselves. Thirty-five years old and have the world by the scrotum. Staff of life finally running dry. Slip it back behind the zipper and wash the hands. Toss cold water upon the face. Thoughts keep spinning in the noggin...all phrases, no complete sentences. Awaken to my senses by screams from the bar. I open the door and Grogan has Rachel by the arm. Minogue grabs a hurling stick and starts to move warning,

- Let her go Brendan. Now! -

Brendan sees me. His eyes blaze. Possessed.

- There he is you *****. You want him, take him. -

He twirls her by the arm and throws her toward me. I catch her before she falls. Minogue backs Grogan toward the door as Grogan sneers over Minogue's shoulder,

- There she is O'Neill! Take her! Consider it a gift! -

- I am not yours to give Brendan. - Simply said. No hostility or fear or trace of a quiver in her voice. She simply states I am not yours to give and then Grogan is ushered curbside. Minogue reenters. Grogan's face momentarily framed in the window. A Grotesque Grogan Grin. He bangs the glass with his fist then takes off running into the void he has created. I feel apologetic and say to Rachel:

- I'm sorry. -

- Why? What did you do? -

An awkward moment. Time to go. Minogue offers an observation.

- The war made him like this Jack. And now the drugs. One day he is fine, the next day, a madman. Never know from one day to the next with that one. Are you leaving Jack?

[JackShea]

I think I said goodbye. Thanked him for his hospitality and promised I would pass along the condolences to the family. I think I asked Rachel if she were all right but I do not remember a response. The rain felt cleansing. I stood on the corner of 207th Street and Broadway watching the raindrops streak past the yellow glowed streetlamp. Still two hours to go before the family meets at Finnegan's. The traffic light changes two or three times and still I stand not crossing. Nowhere to go and then to my left I hear the whoosh of an umbrella opening and then I am canopied. She takes me by the arm and guides me across the street. Conversationless, she leads and I follow. We enter an apartment building across from Finnegan's. She opens and closes the umbrella, droplets of moisture running down the cloth. She takes my hand and I follow.

She has gone into another room. I stand by her studio apartment window and then I turn and absorb her abode. Bookshelves all about. Oriental in decor; rugs strewn all about; unpretentious. I smell Jasmine. I look out the window and Finnegan's sign takes center stage. I think of him lying there and feel a wetness on my cheek and then a hand touches my face; wipes away the teardrop; and beckons me to follow. She leads me to the bathroom. The tub is full of hot water, steam rising. She unbuttons my shirt, her eyes lowered as she says:

- I am sorry about your father. Your clothes are wet. Give them to me. -

I undress and give her my wetted garb. She leaves me for a moment and I sit on the toilet bowl unsure of what I am to do next. Embarrassing. I wear nothing but Adams Apple. She reenters and tells me to lie down in the tub. I comply. She lights four candles and places them about the four corners of the bath. She reaches into a cabinet and removes what appear to be two hallowed out oyster shells. She then pours oils into the shells and lights the oil. The room starts to have an odor of lavender and then she slowly pours the oils into the bathwater. My skin absorbs the oils and I feel freshened yet not relaxed. She senses this. She asks:

- Would you like a glass of wine? -

- Will you join me? -

- I don't drink. -

She leaves then returns with a glass of Merlot. She sits next to the tub and hands me the wine.

- He admires your plays. I know he has seen a few. -

- He has a funny way of expressing his admiration. -

Absurd. I lay in a vat of lavender. My creator, pine boxed. Finnegan gave us the discount. Family of twelve. Lots of future Finnegan funerals. Finnegan. Stand before him and he mentally measures you horizontally. I ask her about herself. She speaks softly. Tells me she was a student of Grogan's. Has a Masters in English Literature. Teaches at a private girls school on the east side. Raised in Israel. Both parents killed on a tour bus. Came to the states to study. Found Grogan. Became his lover and then, better to be friends. Longer lasting. Tells me he, Grogan is a genius. Now he is sick. I ask her about the JDL. She tells me Grogan exaggerates. She has a minor in economics. She traces the ebb and flow of Nazi monies and writes reports on her findings. I tell her pretty soon all the old Nazis will be dead and she informs me she will then keep track of the new ones. I ask her why she let me come to her apartment and she says because I looked as lonely as she once did. I reminded her of a bird with a broken wing. She asks me how soon I have to be at the funeral parlor. I tell her an hour and a half. She reaches for a sponge and rubs the oiled and scented water over my back, across my chest, between my legs. The tension leaves my body. She suggests I lay for a while while my clothes dry and leaves me. I stay for another 15 minutes or so then rise from the tub; dry myself; wrap the towel about my waist and go to the studio.

Rachel has lowered a Murphy bed. She turns down the sheet and turns and looks at me. Slowly she opens each button of her shirt and lays it across the end of the bed. Her hand reaches behind her and unsnaps her bra. Her breasts are lush and olive toned. I want to take one in my mouth but I remain gapping. She unbuttons her jeans and lets them drop to the floor. The panties follow and my gaze goes to her Venus mound. I want her to bend over the bed and I will drop to my knees and my tongue will go where the serpent in me suggests. She removes a pin from her hair and shakes her head. Her hair drapes over her shoulders. She then pulls down the sheet, gets into the bed and beckons me to her side. I drop the towel and crawl in next to her. I want to enter her but she takes my head and lays it on her breast and tells me,

- Sleep. -

I fondled her for a while. She permitted me. I keep remembering her words,

- I am not yours to give. -

I slept. Perhaps you may find it odd. I awoke sated. No past orgasm felt as satisfying as this woman who bathed me and let me sleep upon her breast. I have told no man this story for they would not understand. I do not really understand it myself. When I awoke she was dressed and standing by the window. She smiled and told me it was time for me to go. She held out my shirt and I eased my arms into the sleeves. I could see the mourners arriving at Finnegan's for my father's rosary. I tell her I would like to see her again and she puts her finger upon my lips and says sh! Someday maybe she says. Not too soon. It is for the best.

The rosary is about to start. I kiss my mother on the cheek and then kneel before my father's coffin. When no one is looking, I slip a packet of tobacco in his coat pocket. Granger I think. He liked his pipe. I left home when I was young. Time has washed away any memories whether good or bad. When he is in the ground I will return to my theatrical world of make believe and pretend it is real for what else do we have to keep us going. I pat my father's hand and rejoin my mother and family. The priest has started to lead the prayers. "Holy Mary, mother of God...". My mind drifts. I think of Rachel. And then Grogan. I smile. It wasn't Grogan's Gift at all but Rachel's. The prayers drone on and suddenly an odd thought enters my head. All I can think of is,

ACT 1, SCENE 1

ACT 11, SCENE 11

ACT111, SCENE 111

THE END