For the Love of Mary Brennan

By Danny Stone

Welcome to Parryville, New York. Nestled in the northernmost reaches of the state, the town isnt big enough to install a second traffic light. Cows outnumber people and the night sky is a dark tapestry of shining stars. The story follows the life
of Mary Brennan, born and raised in Parryville, and the lives of the people she holds dear. Mary goes to great lengths to save face for her family in a town where gossip is commonplace and rumors spread like wildfire. The hunt for harmony proves
increasingly difficult as secrets and surprises pile up around her. Ultimately, Marys family and friends act as the paint for her complex portrait, and as the story draws
to a close, she struggles to find her true voice as the multiple identities of mother, daughter, sister, wife, and divorcee converge for an exciting conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469197081

Danny Stone

Danny Stone was born in Malone, New York and began writing For the Love of Mary Brennan while studying English at the University at Buffalo. After graduating, he taught English in France for a year before returning to the University at Buffalo to complete a Master’s of Education. He currently works as an ESL instructor for refugees and lives in Buffalo, New York.

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Copyright © 2012 by Danny Stone.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Good Night, Clay

The Day Before He Died

Queen Frostine

The Night Jake Was Born

Barnum Pond: Part 1

Barnum Pond: Part 2

The Night Kelly Found Out

Free-Running Horses

A Telephone Call

The Little Orange

Thanksgiving Dinner

Tough Love

Theo’s Date

A Power Outage at Walmart

The Late-Night Shoppers

Bucky’s Letter

The Day After She Died

Grandma’s Box

On the Field

Wedding Bells

For KeeBree

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

—Robert Frost

from The Death of the Hired Man, 1915.

Good Night, Clay

Christmas Day, 1976

The church was small, the service was inexpensive, and the casket was closed: a perfect embodiment of how Clay Brennan had dreamt his funeral mass would be. The ceiling lights were set to funeral on the rectory circuit breaker behind the altar, casting a dreary glow over the nave. Dull rays of light shined over the casket and its overlooking crucifix as mourners shuffled respectfully into creaky pews. Without a doubt, the circuit breaker also contained switches for wedding, concert, and mass so that other areas of the building could be aptly lit, but those lights would not be switched on today.

Only one of the late Mr. Brennan’s sons was present. George, the youngest, was clad in a borrowed black suit, white shirt, and red tie. The suit was his father’s and was much too big on him. It succeeded in painting a goofy picture on a sad day.

The adolescent, who was not yet a high school graduate, stood in reverence at the foot of his father’s wooden casket with his head hung low. His face looked lost in an incense-inspired trance, reminded of how small he was compared to the colossal universe and of how short this life can be.

Similar-looking faces were making their way through the tall church doors. At the threshold, people’s right hands hastened instinctively to gesture a cross: forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. This was their entering ritual.

The drafty edifice to salvation was awash with a cacophony of murmurs. The only sound to make itself salient was the voiceless alveolar fricative s, which surfaced and resurfaced with great frequency over the organ’s droning dirge. "It’s so sad, for example. Or perhaps, I’m so sorry for your loss." These were the types of phrases most likely to be spoken on a day like this.

The clock struck noon, officially launching the fanfare to grief. The priest, who was the only adult male present expected to wear a gown, began swinging his lantern of incense, tossing it this way and that as he made his way toward the marble altar. A young acolyte followed closely behind him, caught in a trail of billowing smoke. The ceremony had begun without incident, but there was still someone missing from it.

Clay’s eldest son, Theo, had not yet reached the church, although he could see its steeple poking and hear its bells pelting. He was currently held up on Main Street under the only traffic light in town, waiting in an empty, snow-covered intersection three blocks away.

The car’s wipers methodically removed melting snow from the windshield as pollutants seeped from the idle muffler into the pristine atmosphere. From the warmth of his vehicle, Theo studied a woman exiting the local soup kitchen. This young brunette forded the town’s slushy sidewalks with two toddlers while carrying a few bags. Her children hopped in and out of the snow, and although they were inadequately dressed for the cold, they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Diverting his attention back to the red light, Theo tried to avoid conjuring images of his father’s death-still visage inside the casket. He began to think up trivial details to keep reality at bay, such as the fact that Delaware was the first state to ratify the Constitution. Utah’s nickname was the Beehive State. Florida was either the Sunshine or the Sunflower State.

Then he moved on to state capitals, breezing through the east coast states before manifesting his destiny westward toward California. He did not make it there, getting hung up on Montana. Not only was he at a loss for its capital, but he failed to think of a single city in the whole state.

In a rush of impatience, he eased up on the clutch and pushed down on the gas pedal, rolling forward through the red light. He looked from side to side and was filled with a sudden Big-Brother fear of prowling police. As usual, there were none.

On the way to the church, he passed a plastic nativity scene in someone’s front lawn adorned with the lit-up words, Happy Birthday, Jesus! You’re the reason for the season!

Theo pulled into the parking lot of the dilapidated brick house of God, which, these days, was much in need of repair. Profits from the collection basket must not have been enough for upkeep. Still, this particular church, even with its chipped bricks and bells, was no less the monument to redemption than it had been throughout Theo’s youth. Attendance was higher than ever.

He ran from the car, forgetting to lock it, and made for the entrance. Pushing his way through the weighty church doors, he was immediately seized by the guilty chill of a used-to-be Catholic, who, after a series of unfortunate circumstances, had found himself back at church after a long and deliberate hiatus.

The building’s music, sights, and smells made him feel like he had entered the Middle Ages, or maybe one of those living historic villages where the past is preserved and you pay to watch people in time-appropriate clothing go about their daily lives, as if it were completely normal.

Ignoring his growing anxiety and the beckoning receptacle of holy water in the entryway, Theo hastily made for his younger brother and the coffin at the front of the church, repeating in a low, nervous whisper the two simple syllables, I’m home.

*     *     *

Three months prior

His son burst into the dining room holding a birthday cake. As the boy chanted the familiar celebratory melody, Clay Brennan remembered how his wife had sung the same song when she was alive, and yet how it had not been the same at all: Bonne fête à toi, bonne fête à toi, bonne fête à toi, Clay, bonne fête à toi.

Clay had not been exposed to French before meeting her. He remembered Carla trying to teach him simple expressions when they had first started dating and feeling like an idiot when he had failed to pronounce them correctly. He recalled how her father used to preach doomsday about the English-speakers that were gobbling up Quebec. He remembered how she had labored to muster the kids’ interest in Astérix le Gaulois when the French comic hit Montreal’s stores in the early 1960s, and how, despite her best efforts, the children had preferred to read in English.

Actually, it was Clay who had persuaded his wife to speak in English to the kids. Too many languages would impede their mental progress, so he had said.

There came a time after the kids had done some growing up when he resolved to finally learn French. He began by signing up at the town’s small community college for Professor Emile LaRock’s French class shortly after his wife had fallen ill. Early into the course, Clay came to the conclusion that none of his efforts to retain or pronounce the words would prove successful. It felt as if he were being made to swallow every sound he uttered and this made him feel uncomfortable. After all, you are supposed to speak a language, not eat it!

And so it was. He had given up on it, just as he had on her. Soon after, his wife stopped saying goodnight to him in French. That, in his view, was when they had each tacitly recognized their lovelessness. On the day she died, there was one woman fewer in the world, yes, and still her death felt like more than the loss of a body to Clay. It was as if an entire language had fled the world with her.

Presently, Clay’s son placed the birthday cake and its burning candles on the table, licking the frosting that had rubbed off onto his hand. Thanking him with a nod, Clay began to cough. He was down to two packs of cigarettes a day, but a pat on the back for good effort might prompt him to cough up a black lung. His health had been in a state of decay for a long time and his body had turned into a derelict old building that stood erect only because nobody had the heart to knock it down.

His voice had been reduced by cigarettes to a gargling obstruction, emanating from the depths of a tired esophagus. Clay caressed his hairy gut under his shirt, imagining a large group of people gazing into his future coffin. He detested the thought of so many heads hanging over his lifeless body.

When I die, I want my coffin to be closed, he ordered.

Why would you say that? his son worried.

Clay moved to cut the cake. He felt older than any living thing on Earth, as if the Permian Extinction were just another piece of his hazy, distant past.

Grab me a beer, he muttered.

George wolfed down his portion of the cake, putting orders aside for the moment.

Slow down, Clay told his son, disgusted by the confectionary carnage. The cake’s not going anywhere, you know.

George did not seem to hear his father. His mind was elsewhere. Without paying much attention, he arose from his chair, went to the fridge, and returned with a beer for his old man.

The school counselor came to our class today and talked to us about going to college, George revealed after Clay had opened his beer and taken a generous swig. It was interesting.

Nonsense, mumbled Clay. It’s a whole lot of nonsense and a waste of time and money.

Clay had a knack for regurgitating his own words, but he assumed by now that his son had developed a skill for tuning them out. Currently, George was working part-time for Parryville’s daily newspaper as an intern and had on several occasions expressed interest in going to college to study journalism.

It just ain’t practical, Clay grumbled as particles of cake projected at high velocities from behind his cigarette-yellow teeth. You’re too young to be talking about that anyway.

I’m sixteen.

Clay’s eyes bored through his thick glasses into his son’s pale face like sunlight through a magnifying glass. He washed down his cake with a swig of beer, then another swig, and another for good measure.

I’ve always said, Clay lectured. Do what’s smart and be smart about what you do. You’re sixteen and you obviously ain’t got a smart bone in your body. You don’t know the importance of money yet. Just wait a couple years. Wait ’til you start paying taxes and bills. Your mother always said not to be picky about how you get money. You just got to get it. That’s how you make your way in this life. So be sensible, for her sake if not for mine.

George took the plates into the kitchen and washed them, leaving sufficient time for his father to fall asleep at the table. The boy reentered the room to a symphony of snoring and watched for a moment as his patriarch’s slumbering face drooped dangerously close to a frosting-lined napkin. The sleeping man gripped a finished beer in his right hand, as if his life depended on it.

With the slightest nudge from his son, Clay jolted up like a dead man resurrected by defibrillator. After the initial shock had worn off, he rubbed his weary eyes, analyzing the details of the room, now resembling a long-dormant coma patient upon waking. How much time had passed? Minutes, hours, years? He lifted up his empty beer bottle and examined it, then went to the refrigerator for another.

Have you heard from Theo lately? George asked.

Clay made no effort to respond, but of course he had understood. He was distracted by the sound of white noise resonating in the air, as if somewhere in the house a television had been accidentally left on.

He knew that the space between him and his son was crowded with the memory of a deceased woman they had both loved. And now, just as Carla Brennan was nowhere, at times it seemed as if she were everywhere, returning in brief stints to fill the vacancy of their womanless home.

Your brother called me last month, Clay yielded finally.

That’s good, his son responded. Theo hasn’t been back to Parryville for a long time.

Let’s talk about something else, Clay suggested, cracking open his cold drink. There was solace in the noise of the popping cap. The first sip was the best one.

He wants us to have Christmas together this year, George continued. It’s been almost three years since we’ve all been together as a family and I think—

And almost three years since your mother died and three years since he walked out that door! Clay boomed, feeling his chest grow heavy with the escalating volume of his voice. He knew that George was referencing a recent letter he had received from Theo. Don’t you dare tell me what your brother wants. He deserves none of it. He is ungrateful and unwelcome in this house. Some nerve! Wanting to come back here after storming out like that. And for Christmas? What is he, ten? Besides, his sort don’t belong in this town anyway.

Clay lost his balance as he stood to make his way to the bathroom. As he passed by his son, he pulverized him with the alcoholic stench radiating from his body and remembered Theo’s letter. It had been addressed to George, but Clay had intercepted it:

Do you realize that it has been three years since I’ve been back to Parryville? I haven’t seen Dad since the day I left. Sure, it’s for good reason, but I want you to know that I am trying to figure out how to deal with it. It’s a slow process, but it’s happening, maybe. I have started writing a book about a boy who grows up in a small town, only slightly autobiographical, of course. I have a beginning, but don’t know where to go. Sure sounds like growing up in Parryville, doesn’t it? Christmas is three months away and I am going to come home. I don’t care what Dad says. Whatever happens during my visit will be the basis for the last chapter of the book. Let’s hope for a good ending.

Clay returned from the bathroom, beer still in hand. He shook it to test its weight before stopping at the refrigerator for another. Meanwhile, George sat alone at the table, scraping the remnants of frosting from his napkin.

*     *     *

Three years prior

Theo Brennan passed through the border town of West Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where the Turnpike turned into the New York State Thruway. A green sign decorated by lightly-falling snow read, Welcome to the Empire State, and Theo knew that he only had three hours and thirty-seven minutes, give or take a red light, before he would enter the village limits of his hometown.

There was nothing glorious about this trip. It was intended solely for his mother, Carla Brennan, who had been downsized to a sick bag of bones over the last year due to lung cancer. It gave Theo a good excuse to return home, and besides, the college had closed the dorms for break. There was nowhere else to go. At this point in his life, he saw Parryville as a town from which he had escaped. Returning there conjured emotions that he assumed were akin to those felt by a P.O.W. visiting a prison where he had once been held.

The ride went smoothly enough, despite the slick roads. After a few hours, he rolled over the village line into Parryville. He was stunned that nothing had changed in his absence. The same maples and pines lined the road; names on mailboxes, although eroded, remained the same.

As he drove past Barnum Pond, he noticed old ladies feeding ducks with their grandchildren. Were they the same ducks? What was a duck’s average lifespan? As he drove onward through the tiny town, he passed the crooked street signs named mostly for presidents and states.

The river was to his left. It was the same water upon which Parryville had been founded some 200 years before. Most of the year, its rushing liquid parted for rocks, winding its way toward the vast and verdant north, but now it was frozen. Its icy surface curved along the backyards of a slew of shoddy structures, most of which were occupied by low-income families.

From the porches of these homes flew vibrant American flags in a display of steadfast patriotism. Since his last visit, Theo felt more distant from the town’s buildings and people. Still, he could not suppress a wholesome giddiness as he looked upon the setting of his childhood.

He construed the green light on Main Street as a good omen and pulled up to his house soon after. It was the first time he had seen the abode with adult eyes. One year before, he had been a senior at Parryville High, but something major had changed inside him since then.

The smell of the house evoked a potpourri of vivid memories, some good, some not. The door frame seemed smaller than ever before. Only one thing had changed: his thirteen-year-old brother, George, had grown taller. Theo could tell from the grin on the boy’s face that he was happy to see him.

Where’s Mom? Theo asked immediately.

In her room like she always is, George answered. Dad should be home soon. He was working again, but this time downstate—

I don’t care, Theo interrupted. Let’s go see Mom.

They ventured down the narrow hallway toward her isolated chamber at the end of the house. The hall too seemed narrower than before and was still adorned with baby photos and pea-inspired chartreuse wallpaper that had not been changed in over a decade. Theo noticed two empty beer bottles on the table near a pile of unopened mail, a reminder of the man he did not wish to see.

When the boys reached the bedroom door, Theo put his hand on his forehead and took a deep breath. Lately, he had been conscious of each breath he took. They walked inside.

Carla, once a healthy and voluptuous woman, had been reduced to a skinny lump of sun-deprived flesh. An invisible cage of illness had enveloped her and it was clear that she had become one with her bed.

During the last year, her husband had mostly been absent. He had worked various construction jobs downstate, which, for people living in a town on the Quebec border, meant anywhere from Lake Placid, to Buffalo, to the Bronx. Much of the money from those jobs had not been spent on his wife’s growing medical needs, but on other earthly pleasures.

Theo thought it was his father’s obligation to help his mother, but whenever he complained about it, she seemed to shrug it off as a non-issue.

You look good, he lied.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted saying them.

"Merci, she whispered. But you