In the Galway Silence

9

A second helicopter was lost.

Unbelievable.

Based in the UK, it contained a family flying to Ireland for a confirmation.

Unlike those from the first helicopter, the bodies were recovered quickly.

R 117, the search-and-rescue helicopter, still had two of the crew missing despite a massive search.

To see the families waiting reminded me of the widows in the Claddagh back in the harsh days as they awaited news of their husbands and sons.

Ochre ochon (woe is me indeed).

I was in my apartment, staring out at the bay and thinking how much the very ocean played such a part in our collective history.

The doorbell rang, a quiet ring as if the caller hoped I wasn’t home. I opened the door to Tevis, the man whose life I saved and who was now becoming a fucking nuisance. He offered a bottle, said,

“Old Kentucky sipping bourbon.”

And,

“Six genuine longnecks. If you read your crime fiction as much as you pretend to, you’ll know it’s the preferred tipple of Craig McDonald.”

I said,

“That is one long sentence.”

He laughed, moved past me, said,

“Like life.”

I followed him in, put the beers in the fridge, and turned to him. He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels, said,

“Eddie Bunker’s favorite.”

I asked,

“You came to educate me on the tastes of crime writers?”

He stood before the bay window, asked,

“Like glasses?”

Marion had given me a set of Galway crystal to spruce up the apartment, said,

“Taylor, you need some style.”

She used my surname when she was being playful. Jack when I was in deep shit. Alas, she was using my Christian name a lot more frequently. I took out two of those heavy babes, poured the bourbon, admired the way the light caught the glass, like a tiny whispered prayer.

Truth is, though, I’d have drunk out of a wellington if my need was great.

He said,

“Nice glasses.”

“My mother’s,”

I lied.

He said,

“Ah, Irish lads and the mammie.”

As fucking if.

He knocked back the drink in jig time. I went,

“Whoa, like what happened to the sipping bit?”

He gave me what he probably figured was a roguish smile, said,

“Partner, we’re a long ways from Kentucky.”

I took a sip, asked,

“What do you want?”

He did the mock-offended gig, said,

“You don’t like me.”

True.

I said,

“True.”

He asked,

“Is it because I’m gay?”

I said,

“I didn’t know that. I don’t care if you like sheep.”

A silence.

Then he asked,

“Sheep?”

Enough with the sipping, I walloped back the drink, gasped, muttered,

“Phew-oh.”

Gathered my thoughts somewhat, tried,

“What’s the deal with the chess piece and the message on the base, the

Two for Justice?”