Donegal's Son

By L. Jaye Hill

Katie Carey's life is disrupted by a request from her dying father, forcing her to recall the enigmatic grandfather she never knew. A skulking stranger, hints of the Irish struggles for independence and a recurring dream are preludes to accusations and murder, catapulting Katie on a quest to her Irish roots. She soon learns her traveling companion harbors disturbing hositilities. Shocking truth unravels, revealing passions fueled in hatred and rekindled in the present ongoing strife, bringing with it, repercussions landing squarely on Katie's shoulders.
In her second novel, L. Jaye Hill recaptures the unique character of steel town, Shankton, Pennsylvania, first introduced in the historical novel, Steel Clouds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456795085

L. Jaye Hill

Ms. Hill's travels to Ireland, influenced by her celtic heritage and childhood experiences among the massive steel mills of Western Pennsylvania provided inspiration for her storytelling. Her love for Irish ballads led her to write the song lyrics in Donegal's Son. Ms. Hill was published for several years with an historical column, "Looking Back" with the Berkeley Independent newspaper. She is the editor of "Battery Warren and the Santee Light Artillery", authored by Robert G. Pasquill, Jr. Ms. Hill currently resides in Florida where she is compiling a collection of her poetry, which she hopes to publish while writing her third novel, a mystery in the locale of South Carolina's Low Country.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Fanad, County Donegal, Ireland

March, 1896

Scattered ancient rocks and huts defied the hammered fury of a violent storm that lashed across the Atlantic eastward ripping through Tory Sound and Sheep Head. Two miles south of Fanad Head and its lighthouse, a centuries-old thatched-roof cottage stood. Inside, a hearth fire fueled by turf exhumed from distant peat bogs provided the only light and warmth. Four men sat on a makeshift bench. Four others leaned against the rough-hewn walls. Each drank from an earthen cup filled with the brew of poitin supplied from a barrel by the door. Between thunder claps, the intermittent undertones of voices could be heard. Conversation centered on family, and news of them was limited since they rarely got to see their loved ones. Most everyone engaged in the dangerous aspects of their operations and movements were discouraged from entering into matrimony. With each passing minute, apprehension heightened in the small dwelling. Every man summoned here was aware these secret meetings were fraught with peril. Orders would soon be issued and these orders must be carefully carried out. Success was not guaranteed, and capture would assure the ultimate sacrifice—first torture—followed by execution.

A declaration ruptured the building tension in the room and resounded above the howling wind blowing through the tattered burlap tacked over the cottage’s only window.

They’ll never break me! the male voice boomed.

The young man who spoke stood boldly, irreverently. His dark, piercing eyes manifested his wrath. Fellow freedom fighters sat speechless, transfixed, and waiting. Although they were united in their convictions, none dared an outburst such as this.

Their aged leader sat on the hob by the blazing fire, unperturbed with his sagging shoulders wrapped in a ragged, wool blanket. He lifted a lit twig to his clay pipe. The flame revealed a haggard face, lined and hardened by a history of defeats. The man’s wife was long dead; his boys were killed in an ambush during a siege in Derry. His daughter died in childbirth. The sickly we’an, his only grandson, unfortunately followed his mother days later.

Those gathered here had undergone similar tragedies. The political climate, famines, and ongoing efforts by the British to purge Eire of drunken, illiterate hordes throughout the centuries culminated into years of repressed rancor. Common bonds formed, forcing men to engage in clandestine dealings, both foul and deadly.

Smoke spiraled from the old man’s lips in continuous ringlets, emitting a stale pungent odor. He finally looked to the young rebel who vented his outrage and impatience. He removed the pipe from his lips with trembling hands before speaking.

Like a son to me, ye are, lad, he finally said. Treachery follows us like a plague without yer risk takin’.

The idealist stepped forward from the wall and into the glow of the hearth. He was about to speak, vindicating himself and defending his actions. Anticipating this, his elder raised a gnarled hand. By doing so he suppressed the impending onslaught, and the young patriot grudgingly refrained.

When the time comes, ye’ll be called back. The man’s tone was harsh, resonating authority. Take heed. Our enemies are everywhere. He stopped, suddenly struck by a fit of coughing. When it ended he spit phlegm onto the hut’s dirt floor and wiped his mouth on the edge of the blanket.

Am I understood, lad? he asked in a voice barely audible.

A wave of resentment swept through the malcontent. By those words he was not permitted to explain his recent conduct and independent act. All eyes watched as he walked to the table and slammed his empty cup down. It shattered into pieces on impact. His ire was replaced with capitulation. His intended appeals in his own defense would not be heard.

The aged leader closed his eyes. Flames cast from the fire’s radiance danced a tapestry of shadowy, macabre images on his bent form and throughout the walls of the room. The shrewd and wise mentor continued sitting quietly. This rebel band of nine had experienced over time the cruelties of the human hand and the evil deeds of their common enemy. The old warrior’s orders must be obeyed. Defiance would bring a swift death followed by a legacy of dishonor.

The impetuous comrade proceeded to the door, quaking with agitation. He gripped the door latch, turned, and seized one final glimpse of the elderly warrior who remained seated by the fire, unmoved by his heated display. It was this leader who had taught him the art of survival, and for that, he was forever indebted. Forbidden to speak, his farewell was a nod of disdain, and with bitterness he stepped outside into the black velvet of night.

The storm had finally receded; he was met by a fine, soft rain. In the barren, rocky wilderness a few small, scraggly trees stooped under fast moving clouds with limbs permanently scarred and wrenched by decades of savage winds. Snippets of moonlight cast a ghostly aura on remaining branches with their black, narrow fingers pointing eastward in the direction of the enemy.

The brooding young man had just been banished to the west and far beyond the strife. He would go with reluctance and hostility.

There would not be a different resolution for him. He was being punished, and scanning the midnight sky, he loudly swore, I’m not finished ’ere. There’s hell to pay when I return.

With the winds whipping savagely around him, his movements were labored as he forged ahead across the land cloaked in shimmering moonlit mist.

CHAPTER ONE

Shankton, Pennsylvania

November, 1979

Outside, traffic’s incandescent headlights shimmer through a steady rain, mimicking an effigy of ghosts gliding slowly in a somber parade. Inside the bedroom our family priest touches his thumb to the blessed oil, dips, and moves to Dad’s forehead where he forms the sign of the cross. He repeats this ritual on Dad’s hands. In the stillness of these holy proceedings, I feel the presence of a grim specter among our small gathering, tormenting us with a touch of arrogance and whispering death knells.

Father Jarvis intones softly, Have mercy upon Michael Francis Carey, O God, according to thy loving kindness; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out his transgressions…

Thomas is seated in a chair near the window staring blankly at the holy proceedings. My brother’s long flight from California provided him with little sleep. I place my hand on Tom’s shoulder, grateful that he could be here. He glances up with red-rimmed eyes. His sorrow broadcasts what we both now comprehend. It will soon be over.

I move closer to the bed, weary and overcome with exhaustion.

Father Jarvis completes the anointing of the sick, the extreme unction, as Dad slowly turns his head to me. His eyes are wide with the certainty of his end.

Katie, he says. His voice is coarse, racked with the illness that has invaded his body for much too long and will soon steal him from us. His frail, bony arm rises slowly, and his tremulous finger is directed toward the bedroom bureau.

Our priest moves aside when he sees Dad is trying to speak.

Dad opens his mouth, struggling, and finally says, Find out. I place my hand on his arm, wanting to sooth and wanting to comfort him.

Find out about him… About my da, Katie, he pleads in a voice surprisingly stronger.

Tom leans closer to the bed.

Dad calls our attention to the old sepia photograph of his father. Grandfather Rob Carey’s gaunt face and the haunting intensity of his eyes convey to me an almost evil-like and ruthless air. Grandpa generated grief for his only son, and Dad will go to his grave without answers. He spoke of this many times since his illness and wretched prognosis. I have always been baffled myself as to why Dad’s father, the man in that photo, left his young family. It has remained a puzzling void these many decades.

Promise me, Dad calls out weakly, and his arm falls. His body stiffens. He clutches the blanket that cradles his emaciated form; breath exhales, softly, so softly. His head turns, his final reflex, surrendering to death. His gaze is hollow, denoting it is over. But I read in those sightless eyes reflections of fear for what we, the living, might possibly uncover by his last request.

And with this finality I witness what must be an illusion—a sensory trick—an apparition—coaxing his soul from us into oblivion, an eternity unknown to the living.

Automatically I brush my trembling finger tips to my lips and touch them to Dad’s forehead and to his silent heart. His extinct eyes are directed at me as though, even in death, he is waiting for an acknowledgement to his request. Oh Dad, why now?

Our priest’s prayers encircle us with a gruesome calm and are nothing more than incoherent mumblings to my ears. But reality always has its way, coursing onward and striking with ruthless energy. It grabs and slices through our curtain of loss, presenting us with a brutal announcement. No matter my months of preparation, it seizes hold of me—icy and cruel—shrieking, declaring within my depths—he’s gone. It sears and rocks my consciousness generating previously restrained primeval wails, shattering our surroundings—ungodly cries from the past—echoes of banshees in ancient ancestral lands—the mystic land of Dad’s ancestors.

Sssh, Katie. He’s with Mom now. Thomas’s caring voice rescues me back as he guides me from the room.

CHAPTER TWO

A man I’ve never seen before is loitering in the alleyway between my neighbor Alice Wendell’s house and the McMurray Tool and Die Shop’s building. He’s been pacing for some time out there but is now leaning against the business’s brick wall and looking in the direction of our house. A gray ball cap is pulled low, concealing his face. His oversized black raincoat is shredded at the hemline. Adding to his offbeat apparel are combat boots.

Whatcha lookin’ at? James Walsh asks from behind me.

My childhood friend leans close and peers through the kitchen window where bleak weather hovers outside. Dad would approve the dismal send-off. Male mourners amble between the kitchen and living room, clinging to their bottles of Iron City and Rolling Rock. Half-empty Jameson bottles stand on the sink and table. All the alcohol was generously donated by James from his tavern stockpile.

You can’t have a proper Irish wake without that, he insisted, taking charge of the liquid refreshment after arrangements were finalized three days ago. He brought too much as I knew he would.

He could be waiting for a handout, I say, scrutinizing the intruder beyond the yard. He may be a homeless Vietnam vet, a sad consequence of our involvement.

Who? Oh, that guy, James says. A little on the seedy side. Never seen him before. Hey, there’s the cab, he calls out. Her ladyship has arrived.

I turn just in time to see the cab slowing down to deliver our family storm cloud. Dad’s sister is late. She may have planned it that way in order to miss most of our pagan rituals and Dad’s inferior friends. She will be very disappointed. The neighborhood descended on our house two days ago bringing casseroles, condolences, and swapping stories about Mikey Carey.

The presence of the derelict outside hunched against the chilly November winds, registers a sudden warning. I possess the gift or sight. Some might swear this is the day for such things: signs, omens. This peculiar ability of mine is normal and instinctive to me and not spooky or supernatural. Most people have it, but ignor it. I shelve all this when I hear the cab door slam shut, announcing our nemesis, Aunt Mary Anne Carey.

Do you need more beer or liquor for the crowd? James asks just as I come away from the window.

Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead. James’s green tie is pulled loose around his neck. His formal wake wear includes a surprisingly clean white tee shirt.

No, I answer. Take the full bottles back with you to the tavern. Everybody’s had enough to drink. There’s got to be a few sober men here so the coffin can be moved out of the house.

Dad’s best pal, Dirk Lynch, asks, "Is she here?" alluding to our late arrival. Everyone was warned of Aunt Mary Anne’s impending visitation via the cab. She’s the reason for our unofficial wake here at our residence.

She is, Mr. Lynch. You can stand out in the cold with the rest of that bunch of rascals, or find a closet and be my guest. I’m smiling. Dirk is such a funny old character.

Dad’s childhood chum finishes the remains of his Iron City in one gulp and is considerate enough to place the bottle into the beer case on the floor with the rest of the empties. He pulls out a frayed knitted cap from his jacket pocket and tugs it down over his full head of wiry, snow-white hair. I catch him swipe a half-empty bottle of Thompson’s rye off the table. He takes that and himself out the door and into our backyard to join several other mourners there.

I leave the kitchen and walk through the hallway. My aunt won’t approve of my blue jeans and shabby sweater. I never got accused of being a fashion plate. My hair is a fright—natural curls, simulating a rat’s nest. We are all so happily uncouth here in Shankton and consider my aunt’s life and her part of town highfalutin.

Thomas is playing the coward. He’s been at Walsh’s Tavern for two hours, opting to manage the bar before the funeral march down Turk Street, leaving me to handle our aunt dilemma alone.

Our loved one lies in a solid oak casket, placed centrally in the middle of our modest living room. He’s dressed in his navy blue suit, white shirt and green tie with dancing leprechauns. His tight grimace on thin lips highlighted by red lip balm is something he would deplore. We placed the casket in a direct path to the door with Dad’s feet facing there. Some swear it is an Irish superstition involving the spirit world. Our funeral director rendered a different account. According to him the doorways in Ireland are narrow. The coffin is lifted upright with the corpse’s feet to the floor and out the door it goes. Even today in Ireland, the deceased is often times resting upstairs on a bed. Dad’s casket is supported on the tops of four chair backs in the tradition of the old country. The sturdy chairs were donated and come with a guarantee from McDermott’s Antique Store—Twenty-Five Wakes And No Topples.

Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Shaughnessy read the card on a bouquet of flowers. They’re from Michael’s grandson Patrick and granddaughter Shellie, who remain in California with their mother. Tom couldn’t afford the price of airline tickets for the four of them. I assured him Dad would understand and that I was grateful he was here with me.

The front door opens, bringing a rush of frigid air into the room. Mac McCloud escorts my elderly aunt inside.

Tom and I have always considered my father’s sister an eccentric family member. Aunt Mary Anne and my grandmother Kathleen, my namesake, lived for many years in the country, miles from Shankton. They ran an orphan house. This was before Tom and I were born. Dad’s sister loved children. She finally married late in life after her mother, my grandma, died. Although a widow for many years now, Auntie M has always remained somewhat the perpetual, prudish maiden aunt for us.

When Mac shuts the door, Mary Anne is confronted by an enormous, garish wreath of greenery from the neighborhood that sits at the end of the casket. Sprigs of baby’s breath are scattered throughout. Its green satin sash broadcasts in large gold letters: Shankton’s Finest Irishman—Our Son—Our Friend. Aunt Mary Anne’s eyes grow wide at the sight of it. With eyebrows arched, she turns away, unable to camouflage her sanctimonious disposition.

She’s enshrouded in a dire black suit, and I can only surmise it was bought at Sak’s Fifth Avenue. A beige ruffled blouse collar tickles her chin. Her mouth is drawn with disapproval etched sharply as inscription on the finest marble. That distinctive small Irish nose tilts upward. Around her shoulders she’s hugged by a fur wrap that includes the startled eyes and needle-edged snouts of several slaughtered tiny vermin. Dad called it her rat wrap but not within hearing distance.

Auntie M hesitates as a hush falls on our small gathering. Still stately at eighty-three, she boldly squares her shoulders, bracing herself against this exhibition of what she regards as Irish absurdity. Mac releases her arm, and she takes a step forward.

Nobility enters Shantytown. Her late husband left her a nice bundle. Otherwise, her haughty air might not be so apparent. Our only similarity is in our small frames and short height. Mary Anne is fair like her mother and blue-eyed. Dad enjoyed calling himself and me, gypsies. My stark, uncanny resemblance to the mysterious, Rob Carey, their long-time missing father, borders on the bizarre. It must be disconcerting to her at times, but she’s never shown it. Despite silly resentments for her brother, my aunt has always had a soft spot for me.

She finally faces me. Her blue sapphire eyes are misting, imploring caution during this novel viewing which in her judgment is lunacy and crudeness. Mary Anne pleaded with me to cease such disrespect for the dead as she called it when we spoke only days before by phone.

I’m sorry, I apologized. But it’s what Dad wanted, I added in defending myself. He left strict instructions. I gave him my solemn promise we would have this wake his way. It was one of his last requests, Aunt Mary Anne. My voice slightly squeaked. She wouldn’t appreciate Dad’s final wish concerning their father. The subject of my grandfather was taboo around her, and except in the last few months, Dad never had much to say about him, either.

It’s exactly like something Michael would pull, Auntie M continued carping over the phone. If your mother… , she stopped, allowing Mother’s memory to rest in peace.

Well, she continued. I can’t fathom why a priest would agree to those arrangements.

She is not aquainted with our priest, Father Jarvis, born and bred in Ireland where wakes are as common as blarney and spirits. I was unable to say anything of consequence to placate her objections. I’ll be at the house briefly, she announced. I’ll not go to the church. With that, my aunt abruptly ended our conversation.

Her papist religion was excluded from her life long ago, but I can only surmise she expects there will be a funeral mass at St. Francis. This will not be the case since Dad was a lapsed Catholic in the realm of an Irish priest. It’s a relief Mary Anne has decided not to attend the funeral. She hasn’t contacted me with more inquiries on the arrangements. If she knew where the actual rites will take place, I would get an earful.

Mick McCloud advances out of the dimly lit hallway and addresses our late visitor. Sorry for your trouble, he says sympathetically.

That goes double for me, my aunt’s escort, Mac McCloud, chimes in.

They get no response from Auntie M.

Mick and Mac are Shankton’s bachelor twins. Our McClouds dress in the same type of flashy plaid sports jackets, influenced by Bob Prince, broadcaster for the Pittsburgh Pirates. Mick stands on one foot and attempts to polish his other shoe on the back of his pants. With that, he sways, loses his balance, hits the wall, bounces back, and swiftly straightens himself into a rigid-like military posture. Twin Mac rocks back and forth, heel toe, heel toe, speechless in the company of this regal specimen related to the once proud and grimy steel worker, her brother, the deceased. Mac’s flamboyant jacket hangs lopsided; his cowlick is more pronounced than Mick’s. In a fit of hilarity in our teenage years, James Walsh and I privately dubbed them The Double Affalfas after our favorite Little Rascals comedy character.

Auntie M accepts my arm for support. Several people lurking in the hallway scurry off to our kitchen where they can drink peacefully without the critical glare of our teetotaler. My aunt loathes the nip as fiercely as her Irish roots.

She’s here strictly out of duty. She’ll never venture into Shankton again. Her memories of poverty linger on the streets of her childhood, carrying all the pain of those early years before and after her father’s abandonment.

We pass the casket, but she remains stoic without even a slight peek at the departed. I’ve gone to great lengths with the help of my neighbor, Alice Wendell to conduct a suitable wake at the house. My aunt seats herself daintily on the tired, worn sofa, and I choose to sit in our old rocker opposite her. Alice Wendell is wearing her best housedress and stands vigilant, keeping an eye on the sad scene. Once she’s satisfied our newest mourner is comfortable and not going to bite anyone, she resumes her hostess routine.

I’ve a pot of tea just brewed. Would you care for a cup Mrs., aah, Miss Carey?

Alice has forgotten Mary Anne’s married name.

Yes, thank you, my aunt replies, not in the least miffed by the use of her maiden name. She adjusts her fur wrap and places her purse carefully beside her.

Care for sugar, milk?

No thank you, Alice. Just black, please.

Mrs. Wendell pours tea from the pot that rests on the end table and offers the cup and saucer to my aunt. Mary Anne and my neighbor have been acquainted for years ever since my aunt came to live with us before she married. Shortly after Auntie M married, my mother became bedridden with an illness that eventually resulted in her death. Uncle Oscar drove my aunt to our house every few weeks. Mary Anne brought presents of fruit baskets, candies and exotic edibles, all expensive treats purchased in the downtown department stores. Mother was always appreciative, but my aunt cut her visits short most times. Uncle Oscar and she must have been relieved to escape Shankton and return to what they considered a safer environment.

Our family mourner takes a small sip of tea. Her eyes flit nervously around the room avoiding any peep at the casket holding our guest of honor, a term used by Mick and Mac to describe Dad’s esteemed presence. Alice leaves us for the kitchen but only momentarily. She hobbles back and forth from kitchen to living room. Predictably, my aunt refuses all edibles. Trays of sandwiches, cakes, cheese, and crackers are offered to the two brave women by the flower arrangement who linger out of sheer fascination of the city dweller. They speak in hushed tones. Every so often they stop and stand respectfully quiet.

My stomach feels queasy, and I decline Alice’s offer of food. Not a good idea to go without eating, she advised in a voice softer than her normal tone. You’ll need your strength, dear, she gently added.

Alice is putting up a brave front for my benefit to help me in the dire days ahead. Our next door neighbor’s stockings are rolled snugly to her ankles. Scuffed brown orthopedic shoes testify to various missions and journeys of mercy throughout Shankton in spite of her arthritic knees and gnarled hands. She’s prepared most of the food, and a pink hairnet graces her head. Her wings and halo are most visible to me. For sixteen years since mother’s death, dear Alice, Mom’s best friend, has brought comfort and warmth to my life.

While Auntie M sips her tea I nervously pluck lint from my navy blue sweater and discover a hole near the bottom. A hole is more honorable than a patch, Dad would say. It was a favorite Irish quote of his.

My aunt is perched tensely on the edge of the cushion. If she decides events will become even tackier than what she first encountered upon arriving, she’ll gladly take leave. She glances my way occasionally with sad, compassionate eyes. Life’s trials tug keenly downward at the corners of her mouth. She’s pale except for a touch of color on her cheekbones. Her black pill box hat is slightly askew.

Mrs. Wendell takes a break and plops her sparrow frame down on the opposite end of the sofa.

Your brother was a saint, Alice announces, and her words cut sharply into the tranquility of the room. When my husband Frank died, Michael handled all the paper work and helped me get the benefits I was entitled to.

I’m stunned she would address that. It’s been years since her husband died.

My aunt gets no chance to comment. Old Dan Topperly drifts in from the kitchen. This quaint interruption is dressed in a rumpled tweed suit. A brave, tipsy soul, Dan crosses himself at the casket and turns to eye my wealthy relative. Uh, oh. He turns to Dad and raises his whiskey glass high in tribute to the deceased. Auntie M doesn’t flinch as Dan pours the remains of his drink down his throat. He sways and steadies himself by placing his hand on the edge of the casket. With diligent ceremony he sets the glass beside the green satin pillow where Dad’s head rests. He clears his throat and begins singing in a funny, quavering voice. Alice, not the least intimidated by our reluctant relative, chimes in with Dan in a faulty rendition of a popular Irish jingle.

All my friends are down at the bar/I’m on the road to joinin’ them too.

I’ve got me a terrible hankerin’ thirst/for a pint of ole Gallagin’s brew.

Now some take a shot of that mountain rot/sure ’tis I’ll be tryin’ it, too.

But the closer I get, I just can’t forget/my cravin’ for Gallagin’s brew.

Dan and Alice stop singing when Mick and Mac step into the room. Mac ogles Mary Anne, slips his arm around Dan’s shoulder and escorts him back to the kitchen without an objection. Mrs. Wendell continues the song by way of humming.

Kathleen, would you please call me a cab, Aunt Mary Anne requests with a deep frown of intolerance at the singing shenanigans and, no doubt, that empty glass in the casket.

I’ll do that, ma’am, Mick McCloud volunteers, pleased to be of help in getting rid of her. He vaults like an Olympian, heading for the kitchen phone.

Will you be all right, dear? Aunt Mary Anne asks me.

I’ll be just fine, I say.

You shouldn’t be alone on Thanksgiving. I’d enjoy your company. Her eyes seem to be pleading with me for agreement. When she called earlier this morning to confirm her visitation, she brought up the holiday.

Yes, alright, I say with not much enthusiasm. I get up from the rocker. She extends her hand to me. I take it and place my arm around her waist to assist.

Let’s make it around four, then, she confirms, standing beside me.

Her expression of sorrow is genuine. With her brother gone it’s too late to reconcile various disagreements she had with Mikey. Once Dad left the countryside to work in the mills, they grew apart, except for the few years she lived with us. The only thing they had in common was a life without their father. Auntie M, Thomas and I aren’t kin to any other Careys in this area. We only have each other.

If you need anything, Kathleen, just call, she whispers. Please, let’s keep in touch. She releases my hand and leans close to my ear. Don’t wear those blue jeans to the funeral. Respectability is of the utmost importance at a time like this."

I’m sorry, Aunt Mary Anne. I didn’t mean any disrespect.

I feel the rush of blood to my face, partly from embarrassment but mostly anger. The floodgate of resentment erupts briefly when I remember my aunt’s lack of compassion when Dad was lying sick and in need of family. And now, she’s reprimanding me on my choice of clothing. This is a mill town where people are losing their jobs. We take pride in friendships and camaraderie above any fancy frills. I harness my temper and escort her past the casket, but she doesn’t even glimpse at Dad. Mick and Mac hurry to the door together. Mick slams against Mac’s arm and he stumbles backwards into me.

Oh, sorry, Kate, Mac says. Cab’s here, he adds. Mary Anne sniffs scornfully with her nose in the air.

Mick opens the door. Mac helps our relative down the porch steps before she has any chance to object. The taxi driver gets out and opens the door for her. Before getting in Mary Anne surveys the neighborhood sprawled on Turk Street. She and her siblings were born above a butcher shop and entered the world there with the aid of a mid-wife. It must all come back—the misery, squalor and that habitual empty coin jar that Michael spoke of when he was having a bad day during his illness and mumbling in his sleep.

After she enters the cab and settles herself in the back seat, Mick and Mac wave a farewell as the driver pulls away from the curb. My aunt is safe at last, off to more pleasant engagements in the upscale end of town near her apartment with a dramatic view of the park and the city’s three rivers.

The twins linger on with their necks craned in the direction of the retreating cab. When it’s out of sight, they both yell in unison, All’s clear! to the group that has gathered on the porch.

Relieved of that particular mourner, hearty voices begin the first line of McClaren’s Wake. Visitors pour en masse from various hiding places like packs of liberated mice, now that the cat’s gone. Faces communicate the exuberance of our local tradition, unrestrained now and allowing them to continue with Dad’s send-off.

Inside the living room the coffin lid has been closed. Six young men carefully lift the casket off the chair backs. They pass through the door and trudge down the steps. The wake mob converges onto Turk Street after a break in traffic. The stream of mourners make their way to Walsh’s Tavern just five blocks away where the others are waiting.

Where’s our Mikey goin’? someone calls out.

The tavern, just where he should be, Weasel Toomey shouts still clutching the neck of an almost empty liquor bottle. He misses a step, stumbles and manages to stay on his feet. Before moving on he uses his free hand to hitch up his pants.

Mick and Mac bear the neighborhood wreath in front of the processional, high stepping it like band members in a St. Paddy’s Day Parade. A car horn honks impatiently behind the string of walking pedestrians. Stick it in your ear! someone shouts to the driver.

The sky is abundant with menacing clouds, bringing with it the smell of moist, rich soil. And nearby, a newly dug grave lies for the moment, undisturbed and covered with a tarp—waiting for Michael.

Several policemen should be stationed outside Walsh’s Tavern in case of any disturbances. I always worry about the drinking. Shankton’s mayor hasn’t been here, but Dad is legendary for his union work and sometimes making the local politicians sore as hell.

Our town’s reputed Irish traditions have provided local fascination and color for the communities around us and are considered archaic by modern standards.

Oh, you’re one of them", a guy from the South Hills exclaimed after we were introduced at a wedding. Them, meaning a Shanktonian.

"Yeah. Careful