The Love Song of Joseph Flaherty

By Jerry McGinley

Joseph Flaherty, a small town newspaper editor with the soul of a poet and the self-esteem of an earthworm, never experienced any pleasure in his life—never felt he was worthy. But when he met Grace, he was forced to decide how much he was willing to risk in order to have a chance at happiness. Joseph’s love song is struggle to find redemption and romance in a seemingly hostile universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheFictionWorks
• Release date: May 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781581245448

Jerry McGinley

Jerry McGinley lives, teaches and writes in Wisconsin. His work includes A Goal for Joaquin, an audio novel published by The Fiction Works; a hard cover novel, Joaquin Strikes Back; and a collection of poetry titled "Waupaca County: 7 a.m."

Book preview

storyteller.

Special thanks to Roy Dorman and Craig Akey for their willingness to read the story and provide valuable insights, and to Ray Hoy for always seeing the glass three-quarters full. Of course, this book would never have been written had it not been for the works of T.S. Eliot, Robert Frost, Yeats, Edith Wharton, Bruce Springsteen, and all the other creative wizards who’ve inspired and entertained me my whole life. Lastly, great appreciation to my family, all generations.

Chapter 1

It all started because of the fog. Driving home that night was like swimming through buttermilk or skating through shaving cream. It was like traveling blindly through forty years of hazy, unhappy memories. The wipers made a grating noise as they dragged across the dry windshield. The misty drizzle had stopped five miles back, but in my foggy trance, I’d forgotten to switch off the wipers.

Dr. John, my husband and I haven’t made love in nearly a year. Is there something wrong . . . a Southern accent tried to fight through the crackling static on my AM radio. Damn talk radio shows were the only programs you could find out in the boondocks at night. I strained to hear Dr. John’s expert answer, but the relentless cackling squelch of static drowned out the response. I clicked off the radio and listened to the hum of the defroster. There was a tape player in the car, but I’d never spent the ten bucks it would’ve cost to have decent music while I drove. Guys like me don’t feel worthy of frivolous self-expenditures.

The wooly fog was so thick I could barely see the end of the car hood as I strained to follow the faded white dashes down the middle of Orchard Road. It was close to midnight, and I was driving home from my Thursday night bowling league in Rolling Ground, a crossroads of two hundred people eight miles from the town of Lake Hope where I lived.

Thursday night bowling was a bizarre ritual performed weekly by a group of guys who had gone to high school together, but now had nothing in common, and made no effort to see each other except for those weekly sessions at a smoky, dilapidated four-lane bowling alley in the middle of nowhere. I hated the ritual but didn’t have the guts to admit it. I guessed the others felt the same way.

My being part of the bowling team was ludicrous. I didn’t drink beer during beer frames. I didn’t make jokes about my wife or fantasize about the weekly cleavage displays of Helen Cooper who tended bar on Thursday nights. And I rarely scored above 130. But I went there because somebody asked me to.

These guys were not even my friends in high school. In fact, I didn’t have many friends when I was in high school. I’m not sure why I was ever asked to join their league. Must have been desperate for another body, I guess. Perhaps it was time to give up this silly ritual.

It was cold for November, well below freezing, and when that arctic air wrestled with the warm water of Lake Hope, the result was pus-thick fog. I was glad I was driving alone this time.

Twice I felt the car edge off the road and on to the shoulder. The rattle of loose gravel against the bottom of the car shook me out of my trance. Maybe I’d fallen asleep and didn’t know it. Maybe I just drifted to the right because I couldn’t see the road. Didn’t matter.

Earlier, I drove with the window down, partly so that the cool air would keep me awake and partly to get a better idea where I was going. But driving with an open window causes me to drift into a different world. I feel stupid sharing this, but I want to tell this story as honestly as I can. Let me back up to when I first noticed this weird effect the wind has on me.

It started when I was about eight. My grandpa, who I lived with, got down my dad’s old bicycle from the machine shed and cleaned it up for me to ride. It was a two-toned brown bike with wide tires and dented fenders. Attached to the front fork was a wooden horse head. It was supposed to give of the effect of riding the range on a prize pinto when I was really gliding down the gravel driveway on an old hand-me-down bike.

Well, one day I was riding, and all of a sudden, I was somebody else. Even though it was July, the ground was covered with snow, and I was wearing a red checked lumberjack coat and a cap with earflaps that tied under the chin—the kind Elmer Fudd wore when he hunted wabbits. One minute I’m a semi-normal kid riding a bike, and the next minute I’m somebody else, and it’s winter, and I’m wearing clothes I’ve never seen before, and I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I didn’t know if I was seeing ghosts, traveling into some other dimension, or what. But it scared the hell out of me. This happened to me more than once when I was riding that old horse bike. After a while, I parked the bike in the shed and walked.

This same sensation came back to me again when I got my first car. Of course, it had no air conditioning, so in warm weather I drove with the window open. Still do. But several times driving on a cool night with the windows open, I’d drift into that other world again. Only now I wasn’t wearing a lumberjack coat and Elmer Fudd cap. I was wearing a greasy green John Deere cap and bib overalls, and I wasn’t a kid. I was my grandpa. I could see myself driving—thick-callused hands gripping the wheel, wide shoulders hunched forward. It was so weird I actually sort of enjoyed the sensation. But it still scared the shit out of me.

I asked a doctor about it once, and he said it was probably caused by pressure built up in my inner ear that can lead to dizziness or even mild hallucinations. The rushing air from riding a bike or driving with the windows open increased this pressure and intensified the effect. Said it was caused by allergies. I didn’t put much stock in his diagnosis.

One last thing about these hallucinations—several years after the first experience, I saw an old picture of my dad when he was a kid. He was wearing the lumberjack coat and the Elmer Fudd cap. I can’t remember if I’d ever seen that picture before the first hallucination. Weird. More about my childhood later.

Even in the low beam headlights, visibility was no more than thirty feet. I drove in a daze trying to follow the road. The fog was a hypnotic gray gauze.

Suddenly the headlights unveiled a yellow ghost. It came out of nowhere and stood frozen in the misty glare. Then I could see its outline, which meant it was no more than fifteen feet from the car. I jammed the brakes and cranked the steering wheel to the right to avoid hitting the thing.

Goddamn it, get out of the road!

I skidded for what seemed like several minutes before I felt the jolt and heard the metallic crunch. Of course, it all happened in less than a second.

As I collapsed forward, my chest pressed against the horn and sent a mournful blare into the haunted gray night. I wasn’t hurt really—just mentally muddled. I forced myself back into the seat away from the steering wheel, and the wail from the horn stopped. I let the silence swallow me.

I don’t know how long I sat there hunched over on the front seat before I heard the tap on window. It was like a woodpecker pounding a neighbor’s tree. I heard the sound, but somehow it didn’t register. It sounded far off. I sat there locked in my private hazy universe.

The tapping repeated several times. I didn’t move. Then I heard the door open and felt the blast of cold air.

Are you okay? A frightened woman’s voice. Hey, wake up. You all right?

I couldn’t respond. I understood the words and was capable of answering, but I just sat like a corpse. It occurred to me that I might be dead. Maybe this is what it feels like. The physical sensations are still present, but being dead simply means you no longer have to respond to them. I sat numb to the world, a puppet with no one at the strings. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation.

Hey, wake up. Are you drunk or hurt or what? A hand gently gripped my shoulder. It shook me. Hey, wake up!

Is the dog hurt? I mumbled.

What dog? Did you have a dog in the car? It was a low, gritty voice—not harsh or threatening. In fact, it was pleasant, sort of a gentle raspy sound. Maybe she was scared.

No, no, the yellow dog. In the road. I saw it before I . . . I didn’t feel like explaining. I lay my head back down on the seat and hoped she’d just leave me alone.

Mattie. Did you hit Mattie? Her voice rose with the frantic realization that I’d killed her dog. I heard footsteps as she ran to the front of my car. Mattie, here, girl. Her voice quivering through the dense foggy night was a ghost voice. I heard it but didn’t know if it was really there.

I thought about the dog that she was going to find dead in the road. I dreaded her return. I wished I could crawl off in to the fog and disappear.

Mattie, come on. Here, girl. Her fear turned to elation. There’s my pretty girl. Come on. Let me look you over. Yeah, you’re okay. More soft words I couldn’t make out. Then footsteps coming toward me. You okay in there? She was talking to me again.

Yeah, I’m okay. Barely a mumble.

Come on, try to sit up. She pulled my arm. I just wanted to stay there hunched over in the seat. My dog is fine. She was still tugging at my arm. I refused her help. Did you think you hit my dog? You asked before about the yellow dog. Did you think you hit Mattie? She’s a yellow lab. Is that what you were asking.

I guess, I said, as I braced my weight against my right elbow and lifted myself up in the seat. I saw the dog and tried to miss it. Thought it was something else at first. My voice was a nearly inaudible drone. I hit something. I felt…I heard.

Just the mailbox. You must’ve swerved to avoid hitting Mattie and ran into the mailbox. Her voice was close. I could feel the warm air of her words, but my eyes were still closed, so I couldn’t see her. I was never good at making eye contact with women. Better to keep my eyes shut.

That was really nice . . . She put her hand on my shoulder. I jerked away from her touch. She was invading my private space. She ignored my reaction. Let me look you over. Does it feel like anything’s broke?

I’m fine.

Don’t see any blood, no cuts. Turn this way. Looks like a good goose-egg starting on your forehead. Must’ve hit the steering wheel. Her hands touched my face. Strong hands but gentle. Hands that were warm even in the damp cool midnight air. I recoiled. Sit still. I just want to see …. Oh, yeah, one good bump, but otherwise you look fine. Do you think you can stand up?

Just let me sit here a minute.

She took my arm again. I tried to tug free. I wasn’t used to being touched this much. Try to get out of the car. If you want I can call for help. Come on, she pulled at my arm, see if you can stand up.

I’ll be fine. Go back to the house. It’s cold. I spoke without turning my head. It’s late. I should get home.

You can’t drive. Not yet. Besides, your car may be wrecked. Let’s take a look. She pulled at my arm trying to get me out of the car. You’ve got to get out and meet my dog Mattie. Sounds like you saved her life by swerving off the road. I’m sorry about your car.

Why was she being so nice? It was the middle of the goddamn night. In the middle of nowhere. I was a stranger. I’d just wrecked her mailbox and almost killed her dog. She should be afraid of me.

Let me try backing out of the ditch. I can drive. I’ll be fine. I fumbled with the car keys.

No, not till you come inside and have a cup of coffee. I’ll put ice on that bump on your head. I want to make sure you’re all right before you leave. That fog is horrible. Please, come inside. Let me make coffee. We can call someone if you want them to pick you up.

No, there’s no one . . .

Well, come in the house. I want to make sure you’re okay.

I didn’t want to argue. I climbed out of the car and staggered toward the front end. She held my arm to keep me steady. The big yellow dog sniffed my crotch. It was the ghost I thought I saw in the road—just a big friendly yellow lab. I patted it behind the ears then gently pushed its nose away.

Mattie, mind your manners. She laughed, embarrassed. You must like dogs, she said. Most people wouldn’t risk a wreck on a night like this. You must be a kind person . . .

Thought it was a deer. Long time ago I hit a deer. I stopped, not wanting to go back there. Glad your dog wasn’t hurt.

Nasty dent in your fender. You’ll have to pry it away from the tire before you try to drive it. Got tools in the basement you can use. Maybe a crowbar. She paused for my response. There was none. I’m really sorry about your car. Mattie should’ve been in the house—not in the middle of the road. She ran off chasing a rabbit about an hour ago. I’d been calling her.

It’s an old car. Almost two hundred thousand miles. No big loss.

Cars can be fixed, she said. I’m just glad nobody got hurt.

I didn’t answer. I yanked at the dented fender trying to pull it away from the wheel. Wouldn’t budge. I tugged again and felt the sharp metal bite into my finger.

Goddamn it! I whispered under my breath.

Come inside. I’ll make coffee. Then we’ll come out and work on your car. Please, come inside. You’re shaking. Come in and warm up before you go back out on the road.

Thanks. It is cold. But first let me try to at least get my car off the road in case somebody else comes along.

No offense, but who’d be crazy enough to drive this road on a night like this. She laughed, hesitant but friendly.

Guess that’s true, but just in case. I climbed back in behind the wheel and cranked the engine. It started fine, but when I tried to back up, there was a grating sound of the fender rubbing against the tire. I swung the steering wheel back and forth hoping to force the metal away from the tire. It worked well enough to let me back the car half way into the ditch so that there’d be enough room if another car did come along. I’ll leave the parking lights on while I’m inside.

She was waiting when I climbed out of the car. She took my arm and led me through the fog.

* * *

It was an old farmhouse. The first room we entered, a living room I guessed, had a sixteen-foot high ceiling. There was a warm, homey smell—fresh baking. Junk was cluttered everywhere—magazines and loose papers, easels and paint brushes, unfinished clay statues and bowls, candles and coffee mugs, books and CD cases, a guitar case and a drawing table like architects use. One wall was nearly all glass, windows that must have been recently installed because the wood trim wasn’t stained or painted. The old plaster walls wore the scars of many years of patching and re-patching. The walls were painted dazzling white. The wood trim around the doors and along the floorboards was aged walnut-black. It was clean and cluttered at the same time.

I stood dumb as a lost kitten in the entry while she walked toward the kitchen. I hate going into people’s houses. I never know what to say or how to act. In most social situations, I have a feeling that everyone else has a script of brilliant words and appropriate gestures, but nobody ever gives me a copy. I’d first noticed this sensation when I was a freshman in high school in algebra class. For some reason I’ve never outgrown it.

Come out here, she said over her shoulder. It’s warmer in the kitchen. I just baked bread. The oven stays warm for hours. Old wood stove. Her voice trailed off as I stood near the door gawking about the room.

Well, come on. She was standing in the kitchen door. I dropped my eyes to avoid hers. I’ll make coffee, and we’ll try this fresh bread.

You don’t have to bother. I’m fine. I’d better get home.