Busking

By Patrick O'Sullivan

Busking

 

A mysterious uncle from Ireland. A magic fiddle. And a dark secret from beyond the grave that will destroy a family — or save it.

 

According to Matty's dad, busking is another name for begging. The day he catches Matty playing music in the street is the day Matty can pack his things and go.

 

That's fine for Dad to say, but Matty needs answers, and his uncle's magic fiddle only works miracles under the naked sky. Matty needs a miracle. The Keane family is seriously screwed up, and Matty means to find out why and fix it. Before it's too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dunkerron Press
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781625600035

Patrick O'Sullivan

PATRICK O'SULLIVAN was the OHL and CHL rookie of the year in 2002 and the AHL rookie of the year in 2005. He remains the all-time leader in games, goals, assists and points for the Mississauga/Niagara franchise in the OHL. He played 334 games over eight seasons with the Los Angeles Kings, Edmonton Oilers, Carolina Hurricanes, Minnesota Wild and Phoenix Coyotes in the NHL. He played in three World Junior Championships and is all-time second in games played for the USA in tournament history. He scored the gold-medal winning goal for the United States team at the world junior championships in 2004, the first gold medal in the team's history. The 30-year-old now lives in southwest Florida with his wife and two sons. GARE JOYCE is a senior writer for Sportsnet Magazine. A former writer for ESPN: The Magazine and The Globe and Mail, Joyce has won four Canadian national magazine awards and been a finalist 21 times. He is author of seven books of sports non-fiction, including When the Lights Went Out, Future Greats and Heartbreaks and The Devil and Bobby Hull. Under the nom de plume G.B. Joyce, he has written two mystery novels, The Code and The Black Ace.

Book preview

BUSKING

by Patrick O’Sullivan

Busking

MATTY KEANE WAS SITTING on the living room floor plucking at his guitar when the doorbell rang and a smoker’s voice called out Peter? Dad popped up like a cork and took the three steps from his chair to the front door as fast as that. Dad just stood in the doorway. He didn’t make a move to open the screen door. Strangest thing of all was that Dad answered the door in his undershirt. It was fine to sit around as you liked, it got so hot and muggy in the house, but when a Keane went to the door he didn’t do it looking like a bum. When the doorbell rang you went for the shirt, no matter the weather.

John Joseph, Dad said. Dad’s face was stone.

In the flesh, J.J. said. His feet shifted on the Astroturf of the porch, brown scuffed shoes against faded green.

Dad seemed to recall himself then. He stepped back into the room and retrieved his shirt. J.J. waited on the porch while Dad buttoned up.

Annie, take your brother to the kitchen, Dad said, then the screen door opened and shut.

Matty couldn’t see Dad and J.J. sitting on the porch but he could see the smoke drifting past the kitchen window. There was smoke enough for two, and that was strange as well. Dad had given up the habit years ago.

Half an hour later the screen door opened and shut again and J.J. came in, a stained and misshapen fedora in his hand. Dad seemed at a loss for words, which was pretty much the norm, but when he spoke you’d better listen. This is your uncle J.J. He’ll be staying here to be close to the hospitals. Don’t get too attached. Then Dad went into the kitchen and made a sandwich and opened a Coke.

J.J. shook Annie’s hand, then he shook Matty’s, then he went back out on the porch to get his duffle and his magic fiddle.

The next night they’d just sat down to dinner when Matty heard the screen door open and close and J.J. came in. Annie laid out a place for him at the table. She did it with Dad watching, so it wasn’t like J.J. was uninvited. Dad stared at J.J., his fork halfway to his mouth. It was pork steak night, and Matty could see the barbecue sauce dripping from the pale and gristly meat. Dad stared at J.J. for a while more before he laid the fork down. Dad’s voice was cold and hard when he spoke, not a suggestion, but a command. Take off that Paddy hat.

There was no mistaking J.J. for anything but an Irishman, hat on or off. If you saw Dad walking down the street you’d never know until he opened his mouth, which, Matty knew, was one of the reasons Dad had so little to say. They didn’t look anything alike, J.J. and Dad, but Matty saw the look on J.J.’s face. It was the same look Dad got just before he told Matty that he’d gone too far, that a scolding wouldn’t be enough this time.

J.J. took off that Paddy hat. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he was looking for something he couldn’t find. J.J.’s fingers knotted and unknotted, kneading the brim of his hat. He went out into the living room and came back empty-handed. J.J. stared at the vacant dinner plate, ready and waiting for him. He took his seat. The chair scratching across the linoleum with a sound no louder than a hoarse man’s whisper.

J.J. loading his plate slowly, silently. The food he had there didn’t look like nearly enough. Dad was silent too, staring down at his plate, chewing his food. Dad looked over at J.J. His jaw muscles worked, and at first Matty thought he was fighting a particularly stubborn bit of pork. Dad put his knife and fork on his plate. He picked up his plate and stood. He looked right at J.J. as