In the Galway Silence

29

Galway won the All-Ireland hurling final!

The city went wild, three days of party central.

That the Irish team failed to beat Serbia in the World Cup qualifiers almost — almost — went unnoticed in our jubilation. Flush with joy and Jay, I made a last-ditch effort to salvage my relationship with Marion. I mean, if Galway took the Cup after thirty years, then surely I could win back my lady.

Met her, went

Like this.

She was dressed to dazzle, but not me, alas. We met in Jurys hotel, neutral ground, in the lounge there, surrounded by tourists asking reception why the wi-fi was on the blink. I was dressed soberly, in white shirt, funeral jacket, pressed pants, polished shoes, and massive hope.

For now.

She launched,

“I’m reconciled with my husband.”

What do you say?

“Congratulations”?

Or go with your gut, go,

“Fuck it.”

I lied.

“I’m happy for you.”

Yeah.

She near snarled,

“No, you’re not.”

Okay.

I asked,

“How is Jeff, um, Joffrey?”

She actually sneered.

“You can’t even remember my child’s name.”

Stir of echoes.

For some bizarre reason, Marion’s tone of voice recalled my late mother at her most bitter. She had accused:

“You want to put me in a home.”

“No,”

I’d shot back.

“I want to put you in an urn.”

Marion looked at my dark clothes, not seeing any aspect that appealed.

She said,

“Try and introduce some color into your appearance. You look like something died.”

Yeah, something died sure enough. Was dying and wilting right in front of her.

I said,

“Right, then, have a lovely life.”

I was already walking away when she said,

“I’m happy for your wife.”

WTF?

I turned, asked,

“What?”

“We ran into each other the other night. She introduced me to her new man.”

I said,

“But she left Galway.”

She gave what might have been a very nasty smile, said,

“Afraid not. She seemed so lit up and you know what she said was really great?”

Heavens, I couldn’t wait to hear, asked,

“Yeah?”

She said,

“He is so good with the little girl, as if she were his.”

The hits kept on coming.

I said,

“So good of you to share.”

I went to the bar, ordered a large Jay, the guy there asked,

“Ice?”

I said,

“I’ve had enough ice in the last ten minutes to last a decade.”

He placed my drink carefully before me, said,

“There’s been an explosion on the London Underground.”

I muttered to myself,

“The grief is endless.”

He asked,

“You hear about the student in Oxford?”

No.

I shook my head, so he said,

“A homeless man asked him for some change?”

I waited.

“He took out a twenty-pound note, set fire to it, said, Now it’s changed.”

I looked over at the Claddagh Basin, wondered how long it would take to walk over there and just fucking jump.

I drained the glass, set some money on the counter, said,

“Take it easy.”

He said,

“I’m taking the plane to Australia.”

I was standing outside Eason’s, huge stack of Hillary Clinton’s

What Happened

On display.

Really, she had to ask?

A girl came up to me, got right in my face. I said,

“Back it off.”

The dog poisoner said,

“David has got a broken arm, his face smashed, and said to give you a message.”