The Dramatist by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

flipped through the pages. Typed on a label stuck onto the last page was: “Maura can at last look forward to the great rest.” I could safely say I knew nothing about the plays or the poems, and precious little about Synge. Save that he lived a long time on the Aran Islands and convinced the world that stage Irish was a reality. I put it on top of the bookcase, and maybe I’d even read it, but not any time soon. Got dressed and checked myself in the mirror. Looking sharp. Asked aloud,
    “Hot date, fellah?”
    You bet.

 
    Before I left the room, from nowhere, a vivid memory resurfaced . I loved my father, admired, hero-worshipped; all of the textbook stuff.
    I still do.
    He taught me how to play snooker, hurling. He was a father of the old school. He did the unheard-of thing: he gave me his time, not in a hurried or impatient way but as if he loved to do so. My first hurley, he made it, cut from the ash tree. He honed, polished, tested it for weeks on end.
    In our new era of prosperity, when fatherhood consists of McDonald’s, PlayStations and shitpiles of cash, he taught me the virtue of patience. Only once did I ever see him “lose it”. With my mother he’d have been justified in a daily tirade, but he never reacted to her continuous verbal onslaught. Sad to say, but I’d have broken her back with the hurley.
    I was maybe ten and our terrace house bore witness to constant street activity. My father was home from work, had taken off his boots, and a group of lads were horseplaying at the window. As many as fifteen, what would constitute a crowd fuck today.
    One of them began hitting the window with his elbow. My mother, exasperated, said,
    “For heaven’s sake.”
    And went out, asked them to move it along. Normally, that would be it, done deal. But the elbow one answered,
    “Fuck off, you oul’ bitch.”
    My father straightened in his chair. He glanced briefly at me, a look of such sadness in his eyes. I’d been expecting rage.
    My mother came storming in.
    “Did you hear what that pup called me?”
    My father stood, in his stockinged feet, then went up the stairs.
    My mother called,
    “What kind of man are you?”
    I knew he was gone to get his shoes. She, as usual, knew him not at all. A few moments later, he came down, his face set in stone, opened the door, closed it quietly. Through the window, we watched him wade through them, approach the elbow one, ask,
    “What did you say to my wife?”
    The fellah repeated it, bravado lighting up his face. I saw my father sigh, may even have heard it. Then, his whole body tensed, the strength compressing into the length of his right arm, and wallop, he dropped the guy like a stunned cow. He stared at the crumpled boy at his feet, seemed to make a tormented decision, then turned away.
    The gang of lads, silent, moved out of his way. He strode into the kitchen, turned on the cold tap. As the water poured over the raw bleeding knuckles, he looked at me, his face in deep anguish, said,
    “Jack, that was a response but it is never a solution.”
    I didn’t agree with him then and I don’t agree with him now. More wallops and we’d need less therapy.
    Niall O’Shea was the lad with the smart mouth. My father had fractured his jaw. There were no repercussions, at least not of the legal kind. Unless you count my mother’s comment,
    “What sort of carry-on is that?”
    Or the personal cost to my father. Over the next few years, I’d often meet Niall and he’d give me a sheepish smile. When I was a young guard, pulling night duty in Portumna, I was given four days’ leave and ended up drinking in Hughes’ in Woodquay. I met Niall in the crowded saloon and he bought me a pint. He was in the building game and making money, all on the “lump”, he said,
    “Did you know my jaw was wired for six months?”
    I had a feed of drink but not enough to feel real comfortable with this conversation, went,
    “Oh.”
    He was nodding, animated,
    “Had to eat through a