Final Lullaby, page 12
“Call back in fifteen minutes.”
“It’ll be after midnight.”
“Call back. I’ll pick up.”
Click.
I called the exchange. “Hi, this is Angela. Keep forwarding me calls for the next half hour.”
In the kitchen, Tucker played Jackson Browne’s “Linda Paloma” for Geneviève. A beautiful song, it has an upbeat Mariachi sound with vihuela guitar, guitarrón, violin, and harp. Tucker strummed his guitar as fast as hummingbirds fly and added in all the little Mariachi whoops and hollers with the help of Socrates, who had a grand time howling along with company over since he missed his playmates. I loved the song but couldn’t wait for it to be over.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt. Geneviève. I have to do something about Robby. I can’t just sit by knowing he’s being mistreated. He’s a minor but he’s begging me to help. He turns eighteen in a few months, but the damage will be done. He’s going to call in fifteen minutes.”
“His coach is supportive, right?”
“Extremely.”
“I’m free tomorrow. Ask him if we can meet him with his coach. We’re a community. I don’t feel right sitting by either. You’ve talked to him for a long time.”
9.
KEIRAN AND TIPPLER, MAINE
“Hello, North Yarmouth Grief and Support Line. This is...”
“Is this Angela?”
“Yes, it is, who’s this?”
“Angela, you don’t know me. My name is Kieran O’Shannessy.”
“Huuuh, Kieran O’Shannessy? I thought you died!”
“No, that was my father, Kieran. I’m Kieran Junior.”
“Oh, Kieran, how’s your mother, Mary Rose? I haven’t heard from her in a week.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’m sorry to let you know Ma passed away last Tuesday. The last thing she talked about was calling you to have you sing her a lullaby.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Kieran. Your mother was a great woman.”
“Thank you. We… I… thought so.”
“How are you doing? Would you like to talk about it?”
“No... thank you... on behalf of my Ma, I’d like to invite you to her memorial service. It’s at half past three, next week Sunday, at the Big Brown Church at Cotters Point in Maine. Ma requested that we invite you. It’d be a real honor if you can attend, but I realize it’s a lot to ask.”
“Oh, my, up in Maine. Well, I’m off that Sunday. I’ll ask my husband to come along. Maybe we can all drive together? Mary Rose talked so much about you. She was incredibly special to me.”
“We... I... loved her very much. She was loved, you know.”
“Yes. I know. She knew.”
“It’s just. I’m divorced, kids are grown, and the economy has been tough for my business.”
“Kieran, I understand. It’s hard to juggle everything.”
“Angela, I didn’t sing to her every night. We... didn’t have that kind of relationship. Our family is very grateful to you. Ma was happiest Tuesdays and Wednesdays when she could call you.”
“Kieran, she knew you loved her. I’m glad I could help.”
“Angela, (sniff, sniff, swallow) it’s just that I miss her so much (sniff.).”
“I’m here, Kieran. What can I do for you?”
“Would you.... can you (sniff).... sing something to me?”
“Yes, I can do that, Kieran. What would you like to hear?”
“Do you know “Fly Me to The Moon”?”
“‘Yes. Great choice.”
I closed my eyes and sang the first verse from my heart to Kieran’s. I closed my eyes and lost track of time and space. Tucker entered with pea soup he made me. I peeked at him and motioned for him to put it down. He kissed me on the forehead, then sat, and sang silently alone.
“Thank you, Angela. I see why you were soothing to my Ma.
“Tucker texted me back. We’d be honored to go with you, Kieran.”
“Meet at the center at half past eight, then?”
“Sure. We’ll see you then.”
Click.
Sunday was our day to spend together, but Tucker and I believed in our mission of support for those left alone. Ten minutes into the drive, Kieran was too emotional to be behind the wheel.
“Kieran, pull over. Tucker will drive.”
Tucker maneuvered down unfamiliar roads as Kieran nervously fingered his father’s old rosary. “I don’t know why I carry this,” he said. “Neither he nor I were religious men in the least.” The semi-deflated wheels of his pale aqua Chevy Impala crunched on twigs scattered by the storm. A blanket of fog broken by insolent sunlight fell in horizontal silver stripes across the meadows and settled in on the misty harlequin green grass.
“Round the bend there,” Kieran pointed out to Tucker, “past the Peekaboo Pool Hall.”
The building sat defiantly across from the old schoolhouse. “The peeling paint on those strict red doors was refreshed each season by my Da, who dipped a four-inch steely brush into a rusty paint can he kept safe in the cellar. Da took on this task every three months so the kids would have a cheerful welcome. He did this until he was too ill to leave his house, though no one asked, seemed to care, or ever gave him a wee nod of thanks. Ma stayed home and took care of us lot.”
There, a few feet past a quad of fuzzy baby goslings nosing Pinocchio beaks into the topsoil, scavenging for breakfast, stood the pastor, the man Kieran was searching for: straight and slender, mousy brown hair flopped down on his forehead as wind blew chilly gusts across Tippler, Maine.
A mile past the pastor a tired old lighthouse survived, now defunct, unable to blink its large eye steadily into the dark night. “Slow down now. See this signal house? The memory of its light burns in my imagination. I see Da, his salty rugged aura, strobing out to sea and returning handsomely back to meet me. Ma, of course, is there too, faithfully bringing up the rear.”
“Morning, Father, dia duit.” Kieran called out. “This here’s Pastor McNeil. Walt, as my father called him. He’s legendary to us Irish folk in these parts.”
“Dia duit, Kieran. A sad morning it is, lad.”
“Tis,” our friend sniffed a bit. The men slapped each other on the back, softly like a preschooler patting a drum. “Me comrádaí here are Tucker and Angela. They are my life rafts today.”
“Thanks for coming.” The pastor lifted his hat to us and then excused himself to get ready for the service. Kieran gave us a little background. “Walter McNeal, Da, and my Uncle Whelan all grew up together when Tippler’s tiny town was tinier still, population four hundred and ninety-eight. Now, we are ten times that and still a community tight enough to recognize most folks at the grocery and hardware, though a newcomer might sneak in and slip away unnoticed.
“This coast reminds me of Da. I’d constantly question this righteous patron of salt sea, fisherman of quahog, littleneck, cherrystone and steamer clams; cockles, scallops, mussels, haddock, lobster, cod, trout, alewife, halibut, bluefish and smelt he caught in reedy water; no matter my question, his answer was always: the sea. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he was right.
“‘Walk on the sand; it will soothe you, boyo. The water is wise. Listen well to it. Wake with the sunrise in silence. Watch the sun set with a friend. You will find your answers there, Kieran.’
“The pastor was a regular visitor of Da’s. To me, it was always, ‘Yes Sir, Father McNeil.’ I kept this man at a distance out of awe, fear, and high regard. The town chatterboxes swear up and down to this very day that Father McNeil has an illegitimate son in Portland who is the spitting image of his high school girlfriend. We may never know the truth, not that it matters to me.”
The congregation arrived in their Sunday best. The women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs. The men blew their noses.
“Should we head over there now?” I wondered.
“Ay.” He finished his story as we walked. “The McNeil and MacAuley families emigrated from Ireland, landed in New York and quickly made their way up to the striking miracle that is Maine. The boys, fast friends since they were four, were living parallel lives until, as budding men, they came to a fork in the road where Walter chose god and Kieran and Whelan chose cod.”
Tucker laughed. “That is a good line. The rhyme. Did you just make that up now?”
“No. It’s just what happened. Other than the wild crash of the surf, charming dive bars, roadside stands, cafes that served lobster rolls and fresh oysters, everything was buttoned up in this corner of Maine. I knew I didn’t want to stay in teeny, tiny Tippler for long.
“I worked as a courier at sixteen. I flew from Paris, Oslo, Madrid, and more. You could take the boy out of Tippler but couldn’t take Tippler out of the boy. As my job took me around the globe, I’d look at my reflection in dirty mirrors in stinky airport loos and feel guilty that Ma was lonely back in Tippler. After Da passed, I tried to make it up to her. My girl Marta in Dusseldorf put up with my comings and goings as no other woman would, but I moved back for Ma.”
A smattering of townsfolk gathered for the service. “I expected a much bigger crowd. Right sad to think that so few will miss Ma in this town where she lived with such generosity and grace.”
Tucker and I each took Kieran by an elbow and walked him to the service site. Father McNeil heaved a sigh, opened his bible and read a few passages, none of which I recognized, heathen that I am. The second-to-last verse he recited was Psalm 23, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
“My folks weren’t people of the scriptures, but they would’ve liked the part about the water,” Kieran told Tucker. His cry was the bark of one unused to weeping. Tucker held Kieran up at that point. McNeil closed his book. The cozy crowd made small talk about Mary Rose, condolences swirled, and Mrs. Donovan invited all round to gather at her house after lunch.
We strolled up the high road in Tippler to get something to eat. The toasty and briny olfactory burn of The Flap Jack Factory hit us first. The neon sign is of a fisherman catching pancakes. “They serve pancakes all day, short golden-brown stacks with crunchy hash browns, white and moist on the inside, or medium stacks of sweet cheese or boysenberry jam filled flapjacks with bass, trout, or cod on the side. Da had convinced Marvin to add a Fishermen’s Catch of the Day Special, and even after Marvin died, the tradition stuck.”
“I’m starving. In we go,” Tucker said as he pulled us inside.
Inside, the percussion of tintinnabulation was intoxicating. We studied the green chalk board. There it was on the top right side, Fisherman’s Catch. Just beneath, a photo of Kieran Sr. Chalked to the left was a drawing of the red school door with a pink heart on it. It read, “Thank you, Kieran, we love ya and miss ya.”
Kieran noticed a figure hunched over, back to the crowd, at the triangle-shaped corner table. It was the pastor. He lifted his chin from his Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda and motioned us over. “Have a seat, Kieran. Angela. Tucker,” he said in more of a question than a statement. “That’s your Da’s seat,” he pointed to the round plastic cushioned dirty tangerine swivel chair. Kieran inhaled deeply. When we sat down, waitress Noreen came by with a pad, but didn’t look at it.
“Fisherman’s Catch?” Her smile was so lovely we could see it pierce through Kieran.
He nodded.
“It’s on the house. For everyone.”
“Thank you so much,” Tucker and I spoke in unison.
Kieran turned back to the pastor to thank him for his service and lifetime of friendship with his family. The staunch man, stalwart, pillar of his community was gushing like a geyser; his tears streamed freely down his face and splashed onto his flapjacks.
“Father…,” Kieran began.
The pastor took Kieran’s hand in his. “Call me Walt.”
“All right, Father, I will.” We all laughed.
“Don’t be a stranger. This is still your home. Come back and see us…” his words trailed off as he took out a handkerchief and blew into it, using up every dry corner.
“I’ve nothing here to come home to anymore, Walt.”
Noreen set down our plates of pancakes stacked up like a lighthouse into the sky. The Fisherman’s Catch of the Day circled the cakes.
“The door, Kieran.”
“What?”
“Who’s going to paint the red door if not for you? It needs painting every three months. You can stay with me if you want, no strings attached.” Kieran nodded. Noreen warmly squeezed his shoulder, leaned in and whispered, “Fisherman’s Catch of the day, every day, special for you.”
Tucker and I were moved by Kieran’s vulnerability and the goodness of Walt. The rugged beauty of the Maine cliffs made an impression on both of us, but more so on Tucker.
“If I ever die, scatter my ashes here, will ya, Angela?”
“As you wish, Tucker.”
“Where do you want to be scattered?”
“Here too, if you are. Beyond that, I’ve never given it a thought.”
We hurried back for a gathering at the center that night. Sunday nights were special. We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries of those in our community and lit candles on the death day of their dearly departed. There was no religion in our doings, just love. On Sundays, Tucker, and his band, Tyrone, Angelo, and Claudia played a concert and took requests. If one or the other couldn’t make it, those that could improvised without them. There were days when Tucker came on his own. He was the holy man of the moment, always ready to lift someone’s spirit.
On Monday, Tucker went to see his parents and do some work in New York. I’d have gone with him, but I was still breaking in new volunteer trainees at the talk line.
“Hello, North Yarmouth Grief and Support Call Line. This is Angela. What’s your name?”
“Taur.”
“Spell it.”
“T A U R.”
“Oh, just like it sounds.”
“It’s a nickname for Taurus. They say I’m stubborn like a bull.”
“What’s going on tonight, Taur?”
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I’m sick of the direction things are going. People are divided and divisive, and now... I’m sort of a whistleblower at work, which has opened a new world of opposition.”
“Sort of?”
“I am. I saw a doctor do something that seriously harmed a patient. I reported it. Now I think I’m going to get fired.”
“What do you do?”
“Nurse. Now, how can I do my job if I can’t speak up, huh? How could I live with myself? I don’t want to stand silently by.”
“Wow, That’s a tough situation. You made my night by being that strong person doing the right thing. I’m sorry it may cost you. That’s real, I know. I get a lot of calls from people in your situation.”
“It seems common, huh?”
“It does to me from my own life and from working the talk line.”
“Angela, every time I get up on my feet and stand my ground, I get knocked back down.”
“That reminds me of that Tom Petty song, ‘I Won’t Back Down.’” I began to sing it. Taur joined in. We shared a rousting round, fists pumping in the air.
“Thanks, Angela. I’ll call back. When are you here?”
“Tuesdays and Wednesdays from 6:00 to midnight.”
“I’m going home to put that song on. I’m worried about my job.”
“Call me anytime.”
Click.
“Angela, why do you sing on so many of your calls? Isn’t that unprofessional?”
“By whose standards, Manny? We’re dealing with human beings here. Music is universal. It touches people. I often suggest they spend time in nature, exercise, eat well, do artwork, write, sing, help others. We’re having an advanced training in December. You’re welcome to join us.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Okay, right now, let’s answer some phones.”
“Hello, North Yarmouth Grief and Support Talk Line. This is Angela. What’s your name?”
“Robby. Just checking in.”
“Hey Rob! How are ya?”
“Better than last week, but I’m still in sick shock and mourning my old life. It sucks.”
“That’s totally understandable.”
“I have a little less pain thanks to the massage therapy. That was a great suggestion, by the way. After talking to Coach, my folks agreed to taper me off the medicine, see how it goes.”
“You stood your ground and look at you!”
“Thanks to you and Geneviève. Stuff made me feel like killing myself. And the best thing that happened is some freshmen have asked me to coach them. It makes me feel a little useful.”
“That’s incredible, Robby! I’m so happy to hear that.”
“Yeah, so, I’m headed over there now, so I’ll read you the story another time.”
“I’d like that. Tonight’s not good anyway, I have to...”
“Triage?”
“Exactly. We’ve been getting a lot of despairing calls lately.”
“You go sing to ‘em, Angela. I’ll go coach. I’ll call tomorrow. I need to talk.”
“Okay, Robby.”
“Angela?”
“Yes?”
“You’re as pretty as I thought you’d be. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Same, Robby. Hang in there, okay?”
“I will. Bye.”
Click.
“Hello. North Yarmouth Grief and Support Line. This is Manny. What’s your name?”
“Carmen.”
“What’s going on tonight, Carmen?”
“My landlords are trying to raise the rent again, which is against the law, but they’re bullies. They know I need a roof over my kids’ heads. I just want to give up sometimes. I’m tired.”
“I’m sorry, Carmen. Have you been able to get legal help?”
“No, but my cousin, he knows how to deal with this. He’s going to help. Since Archie died, I have to do everything on my own. People say they’ll help, but they get busy. I stand my ground alone.”
