The Sacred Fraction: A Memoir of Short Stories

By Patrick J. McCarthy

For those who knew him, the name Patrick McCarthy brings to mind images of Irish wit, integrity, determination, success and true friendship. Like the authors that he admired, Og Mandino and Paulo Coehlo, Pat had a unique ability to restore a friends self-esteem and to convince him that he truly is one of Gods profound miracles.

His stories are skillful and accomplishedstrongly influenced by his early years in Pittsburgh, his devotion to his Catholic faith, his wry sense of humor, his success in the pharmaceutical field and his love of the game of golf. The book is a memoir in form, whether true or fictional, with short stories from past and present.

Pat had a rich and varied background which adds to the interest, quality and humor in this book. He lived from 1948 until his tragic death on his 60th birthday in 2008. He was a driven, goal-oriented man whose success allowed him to retire at an early age. During the course of his career in the pharmaceutical industry, he worked relentlessly to provide for his family, whom he loved dearly, as well as to bring sorely needed cancer drugs to patients suffering from the disease.

There are 14 short stories in The Sacred Fraction, some laugh out loud funny and others meaningful and wiseexactly akin to the man himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781463431952

Patrick J. McCarthy

For those who knew him, the name Patrick McCarthy brings to mind images of Irish wit, integrity, determination, success and true friendship. Like the authors that he admired, Og Mandino and Paulo Coehlo, Pat had a unique ability to restore a friend’s self-esteem and to convince him that he truly is one of God’s profound miracles. His stories are skillful and accomplished—strongly influenced by his early years in Pittsburgh, his devotion to his Catholic faith, his wry sense of humor, his success in the pharmaceutical field and his personal battles with alcoholism, family tragedy and pain. The book is a memoir in form, whether true or fictional, with short stories from past and present. Pat had a rich and varied background which adds to the interest, quality and humor in this book. He lived from October 21, 1948 until his tragic death on his 60th birthday in 2008. He was a driven, goal-oriented man whose success allowed him to retire at an early age. During the course of his career in the pharmaceutical industry, he worked relentlessly to provide for his family whom he loved dearly as well as to bring sorely needed cancer drugs to patients suffering from the disease. There are 14 short stories in Acknowledge and Authorize or Otherwise, some laugh out loud funny and others meaningful and wise—exactly akin to the man himself.

Book preview

JWC_INC_Rich_Black_VECTOR%20(artwork%20for%20page%20one).jpg

JWC Covenant, Inc.

P.O. Box 919132

The Woodlands, TX 77393

Phone: [phone]

Fax: [phone]

www.jwccinc.com

Copyright © 2013 by JWC Covenant, Inc. All rights reserved.

No part of this work can be reproduced, distributed, or otherwise used without the express permission from JWC Covenant, Inc.

First published by JWC Covenant, Inc. 12/14/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4634-3196-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-3197-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-3195-2 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

SECTION I: EARLY YEARS

The Furnace

The Sacred Fraction

Release

SECTION II: TEENAGE YEARS

Carmelina

The Doorbell Incident

The Brassie, a Club with More than One Use

SECTION III: COLLEGE YEARS

Doug Nozzle & the Potato Chips

The Christmas Goose

SECTION IV: WORKING YEARS

W.C.M.

Incompatible

A Neighbor, a Dogwood and a Wasp

SECTION V: LATER YEARS

The Balomingo Baptist Church

A Circle Closed

Splendora’s Music Shop

Afterword

Eulogy

Acknowledgements

We would like to express our gratitude to the many people who contributed to the compilation of this book following the loss of Patrick McCarthy.

Above all, we would like to thank his beloved wife, Ann, and his children, Joseph, Michael and Margaret for their support, caring and encouragement.

Further, we wish to acknowledge all those who read, wrote, offered comments, provided feedback and assisted in the editing, proofreading, design and publication of the book.

A special thank you to Janet Cesak for her direction in this project. Without her this would not have been possible.

SECTION I: EARLY YEARS

The Furnace

In our basement, we had a converted coal furnace. While officially a natural gas fired, forced air unit, it was to me a frightful contraption which emitted ominous sounds and smells. On one side of its enormous silver belly were embossed letters, Commonwealth Boiler Company, Punxatawney, PA. My brother told me that Punxatawney was an Indian word which meant land of the dead. No question about it, I was deathly afraid of the furnace. It was the monster from 20,000 leagues under the sea wrapped in duct tape. Taking up about three-fourths of the cellar, it looked like something you’d find in the bowels of an ancient dreadnought.

One day my brother Joe opened the door to the creature’s maw. We witnessed, firsthand, the power of eternal Hellfire, Dante’s Inferno, right there on Emerson Avenue. Joe said, Come on, get closer, take a good look. My legs trembled as I edged closer to the flames. I could feel the heat on my face, and I knew the beast was hungry, hungry for the sweet taste of a little Irish kid stupid enough to trespass.

Boo! My brother snarled, and slammed the door. He struggled with the latch, claiming Beelzebub was trying to get out. He wanted to eat me. There I stood, transfixed as a warm, yellow puddle formed beneath my Keds. I was six and certain that before I turned seven, shish kabob would take on a very personal meaning. Yes, I was afraid of the furnace.

My sister Mary Jo was the youngest of the kids. I was number four and Joe number three. The two older girls had sought new lives outside the black comedy of the McCarthy house. The year was 1954. Joe, being several years older than me, made a practice of trying to end my life. Likewise, I was very hard on my younger sister. She was quite smart and my parents adored her every move. Unfortunately, Mary Jo’s eyes were bad, and from age four, she wore glasses which if held at the proper angle could easily start fires. They were extremely expensive, owing at least in part to their classic fifties design. The temple pieces looked for all the world like the tail fins of a Coupe de Ville.

Mom sent Mo (I couldn’t pronounce Mary Jo at the time) and me out to play at about 10 in the morning on Valentine’s Day. There wasn’t enough snow to build a fort, so we decided to play in the slush where our driveway met the street. Somehow, my sister managed to get an ice glaze on her glasses. Maybe it was the tsunami I caused when I jumped off the curb, a direct hit from point blank range. There she stood pretty well drenched, screaming, hair already starting to freeze. I had to shut her up. Then it hit me. If I got her in enough trouble, maybe I could avoid the licking I was going to get for soaking her snowsuit.

Now, now, Mo, sit down right over here on the sidewalk, I said.

But look at me, she wailed, I’m a mess and my glasses won’t work. She was holding them away from her face toward the sun. It was as if she was looking through two oval ice cubes.

Don’t worry; just rub those cloudy old lenses right here on the pavement and the ice will soon melt away. That’s it, a little harder, much better. Now a few more strokes and they’ll be as good as new. I was surprised at how quickly she mastered the required sanding moves. She had the wrist action of St. Joseph, the Worker. Now try ‘em on.

She went absolutely berserk when she realized her specs now resembled the glass in our bathroom window. Off she went, bellowing. Presently, my mother appeared. I don’t think Ernie Stautner could have stopped her. In a flash, I was flat on my back. She was on top of me, knees pressing my shoulders to the concrete. Do you know how much those glasses cost, you little… you little… She couldn’t bear to say ‘you little snot’. She was beet red, incredibly powerful and very French. She ordered me to get in my room. Wait until your father gets home. You better hope you die between now and six.

I thought the hinges had actually exploded. Filling the doorway, my father stood fingering my sister’s disfigured glasses. They were dwarfed by his indelicate paw. Come out from under that bed and face me, he demanded. Did you do this to your sister’s glasses? I couldn’t speak, but the general shaking of my body revealed my guilt. You’re a cruel person. When he said cruel, it normally referred to something akin to murder. Cruel, do you hear me, cruel. Get down in the cellar.

Oh no, Dad; not the cellar, please.

Move it!

There was a naked bulb that hung at the foot of the stairs. After that, utter darkness; just me and the furnace. It was groaning, groaning sounds of the dead. I could smell the fire and knew the monster required food. My father left me alone in that subterranean prison for about 15 minutes. Then I heard his descending footsteps. When he stood before me, his head eclipsed the anemic light not 20 feet away. Even in silhouette, he was imposing. [Patrick] John, I don’t know what to do with you; I just don’t know. He was pacing, mumbling, frenzied. He reached down and grabbed a sweatshirt from the laundry basket. I’m not going to hit you and I’m not going to strangle you. That would be too quick. He placed his forearm across my chest and pushed me toward the steel pole that supported the first floor. Put your hands behind you, further, around the pole. He then took the sweatshirt and bound my hands. Tight, real tight. I was trapped.

You can starve to death, he said as he turned off the light. He was on his way to referee a basketball game at Shaler. Oh God, was I scared. I cried. I wasn’t worried about starving. I was worried about the furnace. I was sure it moved closer already. In fact, I heard one of its giant metallic tentacles detach itself from the floor joints above. It was probably inches from me. I couldn’t see it; I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear the flames and feel the breath of Lucifer himself.