The Blarney Boys
by AutumnWriter
Copyright © by 2007, 2008, 2011
There was a time that seems to us so far away—but it's not so distant when we measure the span of years. It was the waning of an era in which people cared more for preserving traditions than for throwing them away.
March 1970
It was a gray afternoon, following a gray morning in that limbo time of year between winter and spring. It wasn't yet time to be thinking about St. Paddy's Day; people were tired of snow. It had arrived pretty and white but time had turned it dirty and stale. A strip of bare concrete had finally worn its way through the blanket of ice that had covered the sidewalks for so many weeks. It was too warm for overcoats; too cold to venture outdoors without one.
That was outside. Inside the barroom, Kevin was polishing the glassware. There were no patrons yet and it was a Wednesday. He, nevertheless, had reason to expect brisk business a little later in the day—and well into the night.
He wore the standard uniform that he dressed himself in each time he stood behind the bar; white dress shirt, sleeves folded halfway back up his forearms, and black tie with black trousers. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror behind the back bar, which reminded him that (although he once thought it impossible) the years were weaving a space for him in the fabric of time. He still had burley forearms and a barrel chest but his belly pushed his belt out farther than he would have liked. His black, curly head of hair that he'd taken for granted in his twenties, was retreating from his forehead as he stepped over the line of forty, but hadn't quite surrendered. He had the square jaw of the Irish.
Kevin kept the lighting on the low side in the long, narrow barroom, but not overly so. He wasn't sure why; the effect was to soften some aspects of reality and make it easier to add a pretense or two. At any rate, that was the way it always was. It could have been a neighborhood saloon in 1970, or 1960, or 1950 or...
Most of the patrons had Irish names. There were a few Germans, too, and perhaps an Italian sprinkled in here or there. The Poles and Ukrainians had their own places on the north side of town. A few, but not many, of the Irish could trace their lines to the tarriers who dug the Erie Canal, or the desperate refugees of the potato famine who later fought and died in the American Civil War. Most families had come later, for whatever the reason, but they still claimed kinship with those immigrants who'd brought them so much fame.
The brogue was mostly a sound in their memories—of grandparents, or parents when they were living. There were few who could not recall at least one who was born on the 'auld sod' and the way words trickled from their tongues like music. The brogue was a frame of mind, too, that decades were slow to erase. It mattered not if one was born in America or across the sea. The bond was a secret one, known only to those it touched. It grew stronger over the years as the world pulled and grasped at them, trying to tear them away from what they knew they were.
Kevin thought little of all that while he polished, awaiting his first patron of the day. If he'd had a few spare moments he might have reflected on how his little tavern was the neighborhood gathering place for so many decades—even before he took the place over from his father, Big Bill Higgins (God rest his poor, tired soul, and of his dear mother lyin' b'side 'im."). He had to think about business—and the bar business was getting tougher all the time. The younger crowd didn't seem to care about a bar without a juke box blasting out rock and roll which would have drowned out conversations amongst neighbors and friends—and chased away the established clientele. It was Kevin's dilemma, for he needed new faces to fill in the barstools made empty by the ages. It was different times.
He kept polishing the glasses and was re-checking the bowls of pretzels when the door opened at the far end. The blast of light pouring in the open door from behind the figure blinded out the details except the short, portly silhouette in a trench coat ambling with a slight hitch in his gait to the place at the bar where Kevin polished. It didn't matter; he knew right off who it was. The patron entered as an actor—stage-right.
"Good afternoon, Mr. O'Connor. How are you this day?"
The older man deposited his trench coat on a hook mounted on the wall and claimed a barstool. He was overdressed for the bar in a gray suit. Muttonchops framed his round face. His red, wavy hair was thinning and threads of gray were woven throughout what remained.
"Ah, Boy-o, ye know I need a whiskey. A shot o' Corby's, if ye please—an' a chaser."
"Been to Dooley's wake? I went early— before I had to open."
"Aye, I was jus' there, an' it was a sad sight—a sad one, I tell ye."
"I'll have one with you—in honor of Old Dooley, of course. But, we'll keep the Corby's on the shelf for right now. I brought out a bottle of the Jameson-18 for the occasion. I'll buy the first one."
"Kevin-boy, I swear yer a saint."
The proprietor lined up two shot glasses. With great ceremony he broke the seal on the bottle of Irish Whiskey and filled them with great care.
"No chaser needed with that!"
"No, I wouldn't think so, Mr. O'Connor. Well, here's to Old Dooley."
He swept the shot glass from the bar and raised it to his lips, tilted his head back and let the dram slide down his throat. He set the glass back on the bar. O'Connor was sipping his.
"I'm seventy years old, Kevin-boy. I got t' take my time." He took another tiny sip. "This 'ere whiskey's better for the sippin', anyway."
He tenderly raised the shot glass to his lips again.
"An' I'd be pleased if ye'd call me by de name m' mudder gave me; ye got t' call me ‘James’."
"You tell me that every time you come in the bar; it's hard to get used to. It was 'Mister O'Connor' when I was ten and sweepin' out the place for my father and you were sitting on that very same barstool."
O’Connor appeared confused for a moment, but then gathered himself.
"Yer d' owner now, Boy-o. Try a little harder, will ye?"
"That, I'll do," Kevin promised.
"To Old Dooley," James said and threw his head back and poured down the balance of the shot. "Sad, I tell ye, 'tis truly sad."
Before Kevin could answer the front door opened and both men's heads turned to meet the intruder. It was old Mike Flynn.
"Mike, bring yerself right in an' be quick. Kevin's buyin' Jameson in honor o' Old Dooley."
Kevin sighed. "Just the first one for the old-timers," he cautioned. He poured a shot for Big Mike.
"I'll have another, Kevin. Put it on my tab."
The bartender sighed again and refilled the shot glass that was still in front of James. Flynn raised his to his lips and sipped it like James had.
"To Old Dooley."
"To himself," James confirmed and took a sip as well.
"That's good whiskey," Mike said. "It's a shame that one of us has to die ev'ry so often to get it out on the bar."
Kevin might have taken umbrage at the comment, but it promised to be a long night and some things were better left unsaid.
Mike Flynn was a larger man than James, but the same age. Their two sets of parents got off the boat together seventy-two years before.
"Mike," O'Connor said, "there's not many of us old-timers left. It's sad."
"I'll miss Dooley," Mike said, "but, let's face it; he was ready to go."
"T'aint dat Dooley's gone," James thundered. "It's de way they did it."
"You mean the presentation," Mike confirmed. "It was a shame, but these are modern times, Jamie."
"A wake wit' out a stiff," James lamented. "I've not see the like of it—nor do I hope to again."
"It was the daughter's choice," Kevin said. "And the widow didn't seem to care."
"They put out old pictures in place o' de corpse."
"I kind of enjoyed seein' the pictures," Mike said. "You know, the black and whites of the old days..."
"No! A corpse—a corpse! What good is a wake wit' out a corpse?"
"Hey, take it easy," Kevin said. "I doubt Old Dooley cares at this point."
"It don't matter about Dooley," James proclaimed. "It don't matter at all. A wake is not a wake wit' out a stiff. It's always dat way. I bin to hundreds of 'em, Boy-o, and I never bin t' one wit' out a corpse laid out in its finest attire."
“Well, 'tis somethin' new, I got to admit," Mike conceded.
"An where do ye think Ol' Dooley is now?" James demanded. "Shoved off in some refrig'rater, cold as ice, when 'e could be out, injoyin' his wake wit' his friends."
"Unless the body's lost," Mike pointed out, "like a drownin', or somethin' like that."
"Then, it's not a wake—more a remembrance reception," James insisted. "D'ere's a Church teachin' governin' this—I'm sure of it."
"I wouldn't stake much on what you know of church teachin', Jamie," Mike countered.
"Perhaps ye'd find it in the ol' Book o' Kells," James speculated.
"So, I guess Dooley's Missus wanted a remembrance instead of a wake," Kevin said from the other end of the bar, where he'd repositioned himself.
"A wake's always pr'ferred," James declared. He turned to Kevin. "I'll take another shot o' Jamesons if ye please, and one fer m' friend Mike, too. Put it on my tab."
"Your tab's getting a little long in the tooth," Kevin told him.
He looked at the older man, half in apology, but had to say it. The bar business wasn't what it used to be.
"Oh, Kevin-boy; don't bring that up when we're tryin' to give Old Dooley a proper send-off. It's hard 'nough wit' out de corpse."
"I wish Old Dooley had taken care of his tab before he decided to kick off," Kevin put in, feeling no small amount of justification, but remorse, as well, as soon as he'd uttered it.
"Ye can be sure I'll square mine before I go," James promised him, "an' I'll be sure to treat my friends to a proper wake."
Kevin felt the sadness in the old man's eyes, so he poured another shot for each of the elderly patrons and lengthened the tab a bit longer. He screwed the lid on the bottle, tactfully put it away, and then fled to find a chore at the other end of the bar before it cost him another round. He watched the two old men from a distance as they nursed their whiskeys.
More patrons came into the establishment as the afternoon wore into evening. Most were on their way home from the wake and wore their nicest clothes. Kevin was busy pouring. With the heavier crowd, James and Mike knew better than to ask for the Jameson again, and Kevin was grateful for that.
It was the standard post-wake regaling that took place on such occasions and the absence of the corpse didn't seem to dampen enthusiasm. Of course, between back slaps and hand shakes, they parsed the significance of the truancy of the stiff, and that was to be expected, for if they could not be united in the keeping of tradition, they would be in the violation of it.
Kevin moved to the opposite end of the bar to wait on a customer who'd stationed himself there. He was a respectable looking sort, and pleasant enough, but not appearing to fit in with the post-wake crowd.
"What'll you have, Mr. Schultz?"
"Just stopped in for a quick one on my way home from the shop. I just got done installin' a new drain uptown."
Schultz lived in the neighborhood and owned a plumbing shop. Kevin poured him a draught.
"Who died?" Schultz asked as he watched the group at the far end of the bar.
"Old Man Dooley," Kevin answered.
"Too bad, too bad," Schultz answered. "I put in a new sink for him and the Missus last year. What'd he die of?"
"Bum ticker, so they say," Kevin answered, "but I'd wager his liver looked more like a bowling ball than a liver."
"Speakin' of wagers," Schultz asked, "is it too late to get in a bet for Hialeah?"
"Should be able to," Kevin answered.
He turned toward the crowd at the far end of the bar.
"Hey—Cavannaugh—down here!" Kevin yelled into the crowd.
The resident bookie turned when he heard his name and Kevin pointed at Schultz. He left the crowd and ambled down to where Kevin stood talking with Schultz. Kevin retreated from the pair just a bit to give them some privacy to transact their business.
He resumed his observation of the post-wake crowd, watching for newcomers and those who needed refilling. He saw what he could have predicted, based on experience of a hundred wakes ago. They were singing the old songs.
"O Danny boy, th' pipes, th' pipes are callin'
From glen to glen an' down th' mountain side."
Kevin shook his head and chuckled to himself a little bit. He asked himself how many times had he heard that anthem after every wake. More than one could count, was the answer. Were they mourning or celebrating? It was both, for as they feared death, they knew it also as one of life's crossings—like a birth, a marriage or First Communion—to be shared with those of whom they were part. It was comfort, a buffer from sorrow, multiplication of their joys. A life didn't belong only to the person living it, but to them all. The traditions held it together and had to be done just right.
O'Connor had the worst voice—never with the slightest pretense to be on key—and he sang the loudest. As each wake would mark a post along the road of time, the count of singers would dwindle by one. It was, perhaps, due to their dwindling number that they clung to the ways with such doggedness. It seemed that Jamie had anointed himself to make up the lost volume.
"Th' summer's gone and all th' flowers are dyin'
'Tis ye, 'tis ye must go and I must abide."
Kevin winced as he heard the verse proceed. It never failed; the words would start an argument that could not be won.
"It's 'all the leaves are fallin'," Mike Flynn insisted in a strong voice intended to be heard above the din.
"Mike, ye say dat ev'ry time. What makes ye think ye know 't better'n I do?" James demanded.
"I do know, James, and well you know it, too."
"Not true," James proclaimed. "Many a time we've sung 't an' t'was always 'flowers are dyin'."
"That's because you always got t' have it yer way, Jamie."
James became sullen.
"I sung it fer m' bride, Kathleen—God rest 'er—and she never complained wit' 'flowers dyin'."
He faced his challenger with his jaw jutted forward.
"Tish-tosh. The only singin' she ever heard from you was when you came staggerin' in after a night o' drinkin'."
The woman butting in occupied a barstool between O'Connor and another man. She was about the same age as they were, but appeared to be more fit than the old men. She sat ramrod straight and was thin. She was dressed in a modest frock with a small hat and presented herself as a proper Irish matron. She blurted out her accusation so that all could hear, so the singers halted.
At first, James was taken aback by the interruption, but recovered quickly.
"That's the way 'tis with us Irish," he proclaimed. "Th' men do all the sinnin' while de women do all th' prayin'."
He laughed in triumph upon proclaiming the unassailable truth.
"Bah!" the chagrined woman scowled.
Kevin couldn't help but let out a little laugh as she turned away from her tormentor. She took a drink from her Old Fashioned and stared straight ahead.
Kevin had known the woman for all his years. She was Mary Margaret Murphy, wife to Neil Murphy who stood beside her. She was born a Flaherty; the 'Mary' part of her name was for the church—'Margaret' was for everyday.
"I seen ye run out de back when Fadder McDuffy came in t' lead de prayers," she said, turning roughly to face her adversary.
It was a deft parry, turning his thrust of truth against him and keeping open the subject of his fetid soul, which was, obviously, not in the state of grace.
"I never stay fer de prayers," Jamie countered. "Besides, what good are prayers wit' out a stiff to say 'em fer?"
"God have mercy on ye!" the woman exclaimed in disgust. "You'd 'ave not skipped out on de prayers if Kathleen was livin'. Don't try to fool me, James O'Connor. Ye skipped out 'cause ye don't want t' face Fadder McDuffy."
"I told ye, woman," James shouted back, "I always skip de prayers—an' I'll thank ye not t' speak ill o' the dead."
James signaled Kevin for a refill and then looked past the disagreeable woman to her husband, who was standing quietly alongside her nursing a beer.
"What say ye on it, Neil?"
The thin man looked startled and then spoke.
"It don't hurt to stay fer de prayers."
"No—no," James scoffed, "I meant about 'flowers dyin'. Haven't ye been list'nin'?"
"Don't pull him into this," Mrs. Murphy scolded. "This is between you an' me."
She raised her glass and downed what was left in it. She turned to her spouse.
"Buy me another, Neil."
"Ye'll do no such t'ing, Murphy," James shouted, and held the husband's arm down to keep it away from his money. "Not so long as she's arguin' wit' me—I'll do de buyin'."
Kevin was of two minds. It all had the potential to give him a headache. It was worth it, however, for when they argued over the proper application of old ways the whiskey really started flowing. A dose of religion mixed into the argument had the promise of great profits. If only he was more certain that O'Connor would pay his tab it would have been much better. Kevin convinced himself that Old James would finally come through—and if he didn't, so be it, for his buying drinks kept the cash customers buying, too.
"I seen it done both ways," Kevin pointed out. "'Flowers dyin' and 'leaves fallin'. Both are permitted."
The crowd fell silent again, pondering the new impasse.
"In what fouled vein of yours did you find de pint of English blood that gave you dat idea?" James demanded. "I meant de real, Irish way."
"Did ye not know dat de song was writ by an Englishman?" Mike interjected.
"Be silent, ye," James commanded. "On Old Dooley's Wake Day, no less, wit' 'im a freezing stiff in a giant refrig'rator."
"That's right!" Margaret scolded. "What made ye bring dat up fer?"
James and Margaret clinked the glasses holding their fresh drinks. Mike shrugged and turned to talk to the man next to him.
"Now, Margaret, ye know dat it's 'flowers dyin'."
"Be still, ye old sot," she cut him off. "On her dyin' bed yer dear wife said to me, 'don't let James sing it as 'flowers dyin'. He'll try to—don' ye let 'im'."
"She said dat, did she?"
"As sure as you an' I are sittin' here," the woman swore.
"Well, I don' b'lieve ye, Margaret, but I'll tell ye true, I sure do miss 'er."
"I miss her, myself, Jamie. She might 'a' been yer wife; she was my sister, after all."
"A drink to 'er, den," Mike announced. They all downed what was in their glasses. Kevin approached to replenish that which needed replenishing.
"Dat was kind of ye, Mike," James conceded. He turned to Kevin. "Put the refills on Flynn's tab, if ye please."
To most bartenders, O'Connor's order would have been a strange one. But, Kevin was a veteran of neighborhood wakes, and it was as normal as seeing leprechauns at dawn. He stole a glance at Mike Flynn, just to be sure. The big man was laughing, so Kevin accepted that as confirmation. It was fine; it made the bookkeeping easier.
"Well, it don't matter, does it?" Flynn butted in. Kevin knew that he'd missed something while he was recording the tab. "It's only a single line of the whole song. Ev'ryone sing it the way they want. Just be back together for the next verse."
"It ain't right," Jamie protested, "but it's better to observe the traditions wrong, than not to observe 'em at all."
"But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'tis I'll be there in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love ye so."
So they sang "Danny Boy" many times. Kevin suspected that there were many who didn't know the last few stanzas, because they kept singing the first two over and over. It didn't matter to them, they were singing it and they were together. They'd sing it a few times, and then stop for another round of drinks, or trade an old story, or two. Kevin had heard every story many times—and even remembered the original version of some of them, or, at least the version that his father had told him.
The hands on the clock kept on turning. Most had bid their good-nights. Jamie and Big Mike remained, along with Mrs. Murphy and her husband. Many rounds had passed across the bar. Jamie signaled for another and Kevin filled them up. He poured out the last of the Jamesons for each of them and one for himself.
"On the house," he proclaimed, "for Old Dooley."
"Let's sing somethin' else," James shouted out.
"Like what?" Margaret Murphy sneered.
She sat on her bar stool, ramrod straight. She looked like the Lord High Judge peering out at them from under her little hat, but Kevin knew that three Old Fashioneds had brought her close to rigor mortis.
James didn't answer; he started singing a simple tune.
"McGinnis is dead, but McCarty don't know it.
McCarty is dead but McGinnis don't know it.
Neither one knows that the other is dead."
Jamie sang it through once by himself. He took a gulp of his whiskey and began singing it again. Big Mike joined him. They sang it through twice before stopping to drink some more.
"That song is stupid," Mary Margaret Murphy informed them. She stared straight ahead, her back still stiff and erect.
Jamie looked at his detractor. He might have become angry, but did not. He threw his arm around her and sang it again.
"McGinnis is dead, but McCarty don't know it.
McCarty is dead but McGinnis don't know it.
Neither one knows that the other is dead."
The woman said nothing. Jamie leaned closer to her, his arm still around her shoulder.
"Ye don't get th' meanin' o' the song," Jamie explained. "Ye see, McGinnis—he's dead."
Jamie took another sip of whiskey and laughed a bit, and then continued.
"McCarty—he don' know 't ... an' he's dead, too. They're both ... dead."
He paused and looked up at the stern face. He refused to give up.
"They're both dead ... but neither one o' em knows it."
He shoved a playful elbow into her ribs and dissolved into wheezing laughter.
He released her and slapped the bar with his palm as he laughed. The woman never flinched. She allowed him to laugh the two dead men from his system and then she turned her head and waited for him to come to attention.
"It's a stupid song. You're an old sot, and you smell of whiskey," she informed him.
James gave her a puzzled look.
"Mary Margaret," he answered, "there's many a thing I dunno, but this I do." He paused and let her wait for the rest. "If we'd had any amount o' soldiers as mean as you," he said, "we'd 'ave not lost de Battle o' de Boyne."
Flynn began laughing. O'Connor laughed, too. They laughed harder and Neil joined in. Kevin was determined not to laugh—he had to be professional—but in the end, he laughed with them after trying hard not to.
"Neil, time to go home," she commanded.
The matron had declared an end of the evening. It was the way such affairs always ended. Mike Flynn announced he was on his way home, too.
Jamie sat alone at the end of the bar, looking into his empty glass. Kevin approached him and filled it up.
"One for the road," Kevin said.
"Old Dooley finally got a proper send off," Jamie said.
"What about not having the corpse, and all that?" Kevin asked.
"Ye'll learn by the time yer as old as I," Jamie said, "wakes and weddin's are the same. They never go off perfect. But at the end of it all, a wake's a wake and a weddin's a weddin' an' de job gets done."
"I'll remember that," Kevin told him.
"Be sure ye do," Jamie said. "I've got lots more t' learn ye, but I dunno if I got time t' do it."
"There'll be other nights, other wakes," Kevin answered.
Jamie looked up from his drink.
"That's not what I mean," he said, "I'm talkin' 'bout th' big picture o' time. Who knows? Maybe th' next wake'll be mine."
Kevin grimaced at his error.
"I hope not, Mr. O'Connor. Anyway, it's time to start closin' up for the night. Finish your drink while I clean up."
Kevin flipped the closed sign and turned off the outside lights. He was nearly done and was emptying the butts out of the ashtrays.
"Kevin-boy," Jamie called out. "I don't think I can make it home, boy. 'Ave ye still got dat cot in de back room?"
Kevin stopped and shook his head to himself.
"Some things never change."
"Yeah, sure," he called back. "You gonna be alright in there?"
"Sure, sure," Jamie assured him. "I said de next wake might be mine," he said, "but it might not be, either."
He grabbed his drink off the bar and laughed as he made his way to the back room.
"There's a pillow and some blankets on the shelf."
"Okay—I'll be fine."
"You know how to let yerself out in the mornin'?" Kevin called to him.
"Sure, sure, Boy-o."
Kevin was nearly ready to go home. He'd vacuum in the morning before he opened. He took a last look around before walking out the door. He figured O'Connor was asleep already, but he was wrong. As he locked the door behind him, he heard the old man sing the third verse.
"And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me."
Kevin shook his head as he locked the door behind him.
"So he does know the rest of the words, after-all," he said out loud and laughed a little to himself.
He stumbled to his car in the dark that was parked just a ways down the street, careful not to slip on the icy sidewalk. He got in and started the motor. While he waited for it to warm up, Kevin finished the last verse for Old Jamie.
"And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I simply sleep in peace until you come to me"
THE END
Author's note: the lyrics to the song referred to in the story, "Danny Boy" were written in 1910 by Frederick Weatherly (an Englishman who never visited Ireland) and adapted to a traditional Irish tune, "Londonderry Air" in 1913.
by AutumnWriter
Copyright © by 2007, 2008, 2011
There was a time that seems to us so far away—but it's not so distant when we measure the span of years. It was the waning of an era in which people cared more for preserving traditions than for throwing them away.
March 1970
It was a gray afternoon, following a gray morning in that limbo time of year between winter and spring. It wasn't yet time to be thinking about St. Paddy's Day; people were tired of snow. It had arrived pretty and white but time had turned it dirty and stale. A strip of bare concrete had finally worn its way through the blanket of ice that had covered the sidewalks for so many weeks. It was too warm for overcoats; too cold to venture outdoors without one.
That was outside. Inside the barroom, Kevin was polishing the glassware. There were no patrons yet and it was a Wednesday. He, nevertheless, had reason to expect brisk business a little later in the day—and well into the night.
He wore the standard uniform that he dressed himself in each time he stood behind the bar; white dress shirt, sleeves folded halfway back up his forearms, and black tie with black trousers. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror behind the back bar, which reminded him that (although he once thought it impossible) the years were weaving a space for him in the fabric of time. He still had burley forearms and a barrel chest but his belly pushed his belt out farther than he would have liked. His black, curly head of hair that he'd taken for granted in his twenties, was retreating from his forehead as he stepped over the line of forty, but hadn't quite surrendered. He had the square jaw of the Irish.
Kevin kept the lighting on the low side in the long, narrow barroom, but not overly so. He wasn't sure why; the effect was to soften some aspects of reality and make it easier to add a pretense or two. At any rate, that was the way it always was. It could have been a neighborhood saloon in 1970, or 1960, or 1950 or...
Most of the patrons had Irish names. There were a few Germans, too, and perhaps an Italian sprinkled in here or there. The Poles and Ukrainians had their own places on the north side of town. A few, but not many, of the Irish could trace their lines to the tarriers who dug the Erie Canal, or the desperate refugees of the potato famine who later fought and died in the American Civil War. Most families had come later, for whatever the reason, but they still claimed kinship with those immigrants who'd brought them so much fame.
The brogue was mostly a sound in their memories—of grandparents, or parents when they were living. There were few who could not recall at least one who was born on the 'auld sod' and the way words trickled from their tongues like music. The brogue was a frame of mind, too, that decades were slow to erase. It mattered not if one was born in America or across the sea. The bond was a secret one, known only to those it touched. It grew stronger over the years as the world pulled and grasped at them, trying to tear them away from what they knew they were.
Kevin thought little of all that while he polished, awaiting his first patron of the day. If he'd had a few spare moments he might have reflected on how his little tavern was the neighborhood gathering place for so many decades—even before he took the place over from his father, Big Bill Higgins (God rest his poor, tired soul, and of his dear mother lyin' b'side 'im."). He had to think about business—and the bar business was getting tougher all the time. The younger crowd didn't seem to care about a bar without a juke box blasting out rock and roll which would have drowned out conversations amongst neighbors and friends—and chased away the established clientele. It was Kevin's dilemma, for he needed new faces to fill in the barstools made empty by the ages. It was different times.
He kept polishing the glasses and was re-checking the bowls of pretzels when the door opened at the far end. The blast of light pouring in the open door from behind the figure blinded out the details except the short, portly silhouette in a trench coat ambling with a slight hitch in his gait to the place at the bar where Kevin polished. It didn't matter; he knew right off who it was. The patron entered as an actor—stage-right.
"Good afternoon, Mr. O'Connor. How are you this day?"
The older man deposited his trench coat on a hook mounted on the wall and claimed a barstool. He was overdressed for the bar in a gray suit. Muttonchops framed his round face. His red, wavy hair was thinning and threads of gray were woven throughout what remained.
"Ah, Boy-o, ye know I need a whiskey. A shot o' Corby's, if ye please—an' a chaser."
"Been to Dooley's wake? I went early— before I had to open."
"Aye, I was jus' there, an' it was a sad sight—a sad one, I tell ye."
"I'll have one with you—in honor of Old Dooley, of course. But, we'll keep the Corby's on the shelf for right now. I brought out a bottle of the Jameson-18 for the occasion. I'll buy the first one."
"Kevin-boy, I swear yer a saint."
The proprietor lined up two shot glasses. With great ceremony he broke the seal on the bottle of Irish Whiskey and filled them with great care.
"No chaser needed with that!"
"No, I wouldn't think so, Mr. O'Connor. Well, here's to Old Dooley."
He swept the shot glass from the bar and raised it to his lips, tilted his head back and let the dram slide down his throat. He set the glass back on the bar. O'Connor was sipping his.
"I'm seventy years old, Kevin-boy. I got t' take my time." He took another tiny sip. "This 'ere whiskey's better for the sippin', anyway."
He tenderly raised the shot glass to his lips again.
"An' I'd be pleased if ye'd call me by de name m' mudder gave me; ye got t' call me ‘James’."
"You tell me that every time you come in the bar; it's hard to get used to. It was 'Mister O'Connor' when I was ten and sweepin' out the place for my father and you were sitting on that very same barstool."
O’Connor appeared confused for a moment, but then gathered himself.
"Yer d' owner now, Boy-o. Try a little harder, will ye?"
"That, I'll do," Kevin promised.
"To Old Dooley," James said and threw his head back and poured down the balance of the shot. "Sad, I tell ye, 'tis truly sad."
Before Kevin could answer the front door opened and both men's heads turned to meet the intruder. It was old Mike Flynn.
"Mike, bring yerself right in an' be quick. Kevin's buyin' Jameson in honor o' Old Dooley."
Kevin sighed. "Just the first one for the old-timers," he cautioned. He poured a shot for Big Mike.
"I'll have another, Kevin. Put it on my tab."
The bartender sighed again and refilled the shot glass that was still in front of James. Flynn raised his to his lips and sipped it like James had.
"To Old Dooley."
"To himself," James confirmed and took a sip as well.
"That's good whiskey," Mike said. "It's a shame that one of us has to die ev'ry so often to get it out on the bar."
Kevin might have taken umbrage at the comment, but it promised to be a long night and some things were better left unsaid.
Mike Flynn was a larger man than James, but the same age. Their two sets of parents got off the boat together seventy-two years before.
"Mike," O'Connor said, "there's not many of us old-timers left. It's sad."
"I'll miss Dooley," Mike said, "but, let's face it; he was ready to go."
"T'aint dat Dooley's gone," James thundered. "It's de way they did it."
"You mean the presentation," Mike confirmed. "It was a shame, but these are modern times, Jamie."
"A wake wit' out a stiff," James lamented. "I've not see the like of it—nor do I hope to again."
"It was the daughter's choice," Kevin said. "And the widow didn't seem to care."
"They put out old pictures in place o' de corpse."
"I kind of enjoyed seein' the pictures," Mike said. "You know, the black and whites of the old days..."
"No! A corpse—a corpse! What good is a wake wit' out a corpse?"
"Hey, take it easy," Kevin said. "I doubt Old Dooley cares at this point."
"It don't matter about Dooley," James proclaimed. "It don't matter at all. A wake is not a wake wit' out a stiff. It's always dat way. I bin to hundreds of 'em, Boy-o, and I never bin t' one wit' out a corpse laid out in its finest attire."
“Well, 'tis somethin' new, I got to admit," Mike conceded.
"An where do ye think Ol' Dooley is now?" James demanded. "Shoved off in some refrig'rater, cold as ice, when 'e could be out, injoyin' his wake wit' his friends."
"Unless the body's lost," Mike pointed out, "like a drownin', or somethin' like that."
"Then, it's not a wake—more a remembrance reception," James insisted. "D'ere's a Church teachin' governin' this—I'm sure of it."
"I wouldn't stake much on what you know of church teachin', Jamie," Mike countered.
"Perhaps ye'd find it in the ol' Book o' Kells," James speculated.
"So, I guess Dooley's Missus wanted a remembrance instead of a wake," Kevin said from the other end of the bar, where he'd repositioned himself.
"A wake's always pr'ferred," James declared. He turned to Kevin. "I'll take another shot o' Jamesons if ye please, and one fer m' friend Mike, too. Put it on my tab."
"Your tab's getting a little long in the tooth," Kevin told him.
He looked at the older man, half in apology, but had to say it. The bar business wasn't what it used to be.
"Oh, Kevin-boy; don't bring that up when we're tryin' to give Old Dooley a proper send-off. It's hard 'nough wit' out de corpse."
"I wish Old Dooley had taken care of his tab before he decided to kick off," Kevin put in, feeling no small amount of justification, but remorse, as well, as soon as he'd uttered it.
"Ye can be sure I'll square mine before I go," James promised him, "an' I'll be sure to treat my friends to a proper wake."
Kevin felt the sadness in the old man's eyes, so he poured another shot for each of the elderly patrons and lengthened the tab a bit longer. He screwed the lid on the bottle, tactfully put it away, and then fled to find a chore at the other end of the bar before it cost him another round. He watched the two old men from a distance as they nursed their whiskeys.
More patrons came into the establishment as the afternoon wore into evening. Most were on their way home from the wake and wore their nicest clothes. Kevin was busy pouring. With the heavier crowd, James and Mike knew better than to ask for the Jameson again, and Kevin was grateful for that.
It was the standard post-wake regaling that took place on such occasions and the absence of the corpse didn't seem to dampen enthusiasm. Of course, between back slaps and hand shakes, they parsed the significance of the truancy of the stiff, and that was to be expected, for if they could not be united in the keeping of tradition, they would be in the violation of it.
Kevin moved to the opposite end of the bar to wait on a customer who'd stationed himself there. He was a respectable looking sort, and pleasant enough, but not appearing to fit in with the post-wake crowd.
"What'll you have, Mr. Schultz?"
"Just stopped in for a quick one on my way home from the shop. I just got done installin' a new drain uptown."
Schultz lived in the neighborhood and owned a plumbing shop. Kevin poured him a draught.
"Who died?" Schultz asked as he watched the group at the far end of the bar.
"Old Man Dooley," Kevin answered.
"Too bad, too bad," Schultz answered. "I put in a new sink for him and the Missus last year. What'd he die of?"
"Bum ticker, so they say," Kevin answered, "but I'd wager his liver looked more like a bowling ball than a liver."
"Speakin' of wagers," Schultz asked, "is it too late to get in a bet for Hialeah?"
"Should be able to," Kevin answered.
He turned toward the crowd at the far end of the bar.
"Hey—Cavannaugh—down here!" Kevin yelled into the crowd.
The resident bookie turned when he heard his name and Kevin pointed at Schultz. He left the crowd and ambled down to where Kevin stood talking with Schultz. Kevin retreated from the pair just a bit to give them some privacy to transact their business.
He resumed his observation of the post-wake crowd, watching for newcomers and those who needed refilling. He saw what he could have predicted, based on experience of a hundred wakes ago. They were singing the old songs.
"O Danny boy, th' pipes, th' pipes are callin'
From glen to glen an' down th' mountain side."
Kevin shook his head and chuckled to himself a little bit. He asked himself how many times had he heard that anthem after every wake. More than one could count, was the answer. Were they mourning or celebrating? It was both, for as they feared death, they knew it also as one of life's crossings—like a birth, a marriage or First Communion—to be shared with those of whom they were part. It was comfort, a buffer from sorrow, multiplication of their joys. A life didn't belong only to the person living it, but to them all. The traditions held it together and had to be done just right.
O'Connor had the worst voice—never with the slightest pretense to be on key—and he sang the loudest. As each wake would mark a post along the road of time, the count of singers would dwindle by one. It was, perhaps, due to their dwindling number that they clung to the ways with such doggedness. It seemed that Jamie had anointed himself to make up the lost volume.
"Th' summer's gone and all th' flowers are dyin'
'Tis ye, 'tis ye must go and I must abide."
Kevin winced as he heard the verse proceed. It never failed; the words would start an argument that could not be won.
"It's 'all the leaves are fallin'," Mike Flynn insisted in a strong voice intended to be heard above the din.
"Mike, ye say dat ev'ry time. What makes ye think ye know 't better'n I do?" James demanded.
"I do know, James, and well you know it, too."
"Not true," James proclaimed. "Many a time we've sung 't an' t'was always 'flowers are dyin'."
"That's because you always got t' have it yer way, Jamie."
James became sullen.
"I sung it fer m' bride, Kathleen—God rest 'er—and she never complained wit' 'flowers dyin'."
He faced his challenger with his jaw jutted forward.
"Tish-tosh. The only singin' she ever heard from you was when you came staggerin' in after a night o' drinkin'."
The woman butting in occupied a barstool between O'Connor and another man. She was about the same age as they were, but appeared to be more fit than the old men. She sat ramrod straight and was thin. She was dressed in a modest frock with a small hat and presented herself as a proper Irish matron. She blurted out her accusation so that all could hear, so the singers halted.
At first, James was taken aback by the interruption, but recovered quickly.
"That's the way 'tis with us Irish," he proclaimed. "Th' men do all the sinnin' while de women do all th' prayin'."
He laughed in triumph upon proclaiming the unassailable truth.
"Bah!" the chagrined woman scowled.
Kevin couldn't help but let out a little laugh as she turned away from her tormentor. She took a drink from her Old Fashioned and stared straight ahead.
Kevin had known the woman for all his years. She was Mary Margaret Murphy, wife to Neil Murphy who stood beside her. She was born a Flaherty; the 'Mary' part of her name was for the church—'Margaret' was for everyday.
"I seen ye run out de back when Fadder McDuffy came in t' lead de prayers," she said, turning roughly to face her adversary.
It was a deft parry, turning his thrust of truth against him and keeping open the subject of his fetid soul, which was, obviously, not in the state of grace.
"I never stay fer de prayers," Jamie countered. "Besides, what good are prayers wit' out a stiff to say 'em fer?"
"God have mercy on ye!" the woman exclaimed in disgust. "You'd 'ave not skipped out on de prayers if Kathleen was livin'. Don't try to fool me, James O'Connor. Ye skipped out 'cause ye don't want t' face Fadder McDuffy."
"I told ye, woman," James shouted back, "I always skip de prayers—an' I'll thank ye not t' speak ill o' the dead."
James signaled Kevin for a refill and then looked past the disagreeable woman to her husband, who was standing quietly alongside her nursing a beer.
"What say ye on it, Neil?"
The thin man looked startled and then spoke.
"It don't hurt to stay fer de prayers."
"No—no," James scoffed, "I meant about 'flowers dyin'. Haven't ye been list'nin'?"
"Don't pull him into this," Mrs. Murphy scolded. "This is between you an' me."
She raised her glass and downed what was left in it. She turned to her spouse.
"Buy me another, Neil."
"Ye'll do no such t'ing, Murphy," James shouted, and held the husband's arm down to keep it away from his money. "Not so long as she's arguin' wit' me—I'll do de buyin'."
Kevin was of two minds. It all had the potential to give him a headache. It was worth it, however, for when they argued over the proper application of old ways the whiskey really started flowing. A dose of religion mixed into the argument had the promise of great profits. If only he was more certain that O'Connor would pay his tab it would have been much better. Kevin convinced himself that Old James would finally come through—and if he didn't, so be it, for his buying drinks kept the cash customers buying, too.
"I seen it done both ways," Kevin pointed out. "'Flowers dyin' and 'leaves fallin'. Both are permitted."
The crowd fell silent again, pondering the new impasse.
"In what fouled vein of yours did you find de pint of English blood that gave you dat idea?" James demanded. "I meant de real, Irish way."
"Did ye not know dat de song was writ by an Englishman?" Mike interjected.
"Be silent, ye," James commanded. "On Old Dooley's Wake Day, no less, wit' 'im a freezing stiff in a giant refrig'rator."
"That's right!" Margaret scolded. "What made ye bring dat up fer?"
James and Margaret clinked the glasses holding their fresh drinks. Mike shrugged and turned to talk to the man next to him.
"Now, Margaret, ye know dat it's 'flowers dyin'."
"Be still, ye old sot," she cut him off. "On her dyin' bed yer dear wife said to me, 'don't let James sing it as 'flowers dyin'. He'll try to—don' ye let 'im'."
"She said dat, did she?"
"As sure as you an' I are sittin' here," the woman swore.
"Well, I don' b'lieve ye, Margaret, but I'll tell ye true, I sure do miss 'er."
"I miss her, myself, Jamie. She might 'a' been yer wife; she was my sister, after all."
"A drink to 'er, den," Mike announced. They all downed what was in their glasses. Kevin approached to replenish that which needed replenishing.
"Dat was kind of ye, Mike," James conceded. He turned to Kevin. "Put the refills on Flynn's tab, if ye please."
To most bartenders, O'Connor's order would have been a strange one. But, Kevin was a veteran of neighborhood wakes, and it was as normal as seeing leprechauns at dawn. He stole a glance at Mike Flynn, just to be sure. The big man was laughing, so Kevin accepted that as confirmation. It was fine; it made the bookkeeping easier.
"Well, it don't matter, does it?" Flynn butted in. Kevin knew that he'd missed something while he was recording the tab. "It's only a single line of the whole song. Ev'ryone sing it the way they want. Just be back together for the next verse."
"It ain't right," Jamie protested, "but it's better to observe the traditions wrong, than not to observe 'em at all."
"But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'tis I'll be there in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love ye so."
So they sang "Danny Boy" many times. Kevin suspected that there were many who didn't know the last few stanzas, because they kept singing the first two over and over. It didn't matter to them, they were singing it and they were together. They'd sing it a few times, and then stop for another round of drinks, or trade an old story, or two. Kevin had heard every story many times—and even remembered the original version of some of them, or, at least the version that his father had told him.
The hands on the clock kept on turning. Most had bid their good-nights. Jamie and Big Mike remained, along with Mrs. Murphy and her husband. Many rounds had passed across the bar. Jamie signaled for another and Kevin filled them up. He poured out the last of the Jamesons for each of them and one for himself.
"On the house," he proclaimed, "for Old Dooley."
"Let's sing somethin' else," James shouted out.
"Like what?" Margaret Murphy sneered.
She sat on her bar stool, ramrod straight. She looked like the Lord High Judge peering out at them from under her little hat, but Kevin knew that three Old Fashioneds had brought her close to rigor mortis.
James didn't answer; he started singing a simple tune.
"McGinnis is dead, but McCarty don't know it.
McCarty is dead but McGinnis don't know it.
Neither one knows that the other is dead."
Jamie sang it through once by himself. He took a gulp of his whiskey and began singing it again. Big Mike joined him. They sang it through twice before stopping to drink some more.
"That song is stupid," Mary Margaret Murphy informed them. She stared straight ahead, her back still stiff and erect.
Jamie looked at his detractor. He might have become angry, but did not. He threw his arm around her and sang it again.
"McGinnis is dead, but McCarty don't know it.
McCarty is dead but McGinnis don't know it.
Neither one knows that the other is dead."
The woman said nothing. Jamie leaned closer to her, his arm still around her shoulder.
"Ye don't get th' meanin' o' the song," Jamie explained. "Ye see, McGinnis—he's dead."
Jamie took another sip of whiskey and laughed a bit, and then continued.
"McCarty—he don' know 't ... an' he's dead, too. They're both ... dead."
He paused and looked up at the stern face. He refused to give up.
"They're both dead ... but neither one o' em knows it."
He shoved a playful elbow into her ribs and dissolved into wheezing laughter.
He released her and slapped the bar with his palm as he laughed. The woman never flinched. She allowed him to laugh the two dead men from his system and then she turned her head and waited for him to come to attention.
"It's a stupid song. You're an old sot, and you smell of whiskey," she informed him.
James gave her a puzzled look.
"Mary Margaret," he answered, "there's many a thing I dunno, but this I do." He paused and let her wait for the rest. "If we'd had any amount o' soldiers as mean as you," he said, "we'd 'ave not lost de Battle o' de Boyne."
Flynn began laughing. O'Connor laughed, too. They laughed harder and Neil joined in. Kevin was determined not to laugh—he had to be professional—but in the end, he laughed with them after trying hard not to.
"Neil, time to go home," she commanded.
The matron had declared an end of the evening. It was the way such affairs always ended. Mike Flynn announced he was on his way home, too.
Jamie sat alone at the end of the bar, looking into his empty glass. Kevin approached him and filled it up.
"One for the road," Kevin said.
"Old Dooley finally got a proper send off," Jamie said.
"What about not having the corpse, and all that?" Kevin asked.
"Ye'll learn by the time yer as old as I," Jamie said, "wakes and weddin's are the same. They never go off perfect. But at the end of it all, a wake's a wake and a weddin's a weddin' an' de job gets done."
"I'll remember that," Kevin told him.
"Be sure ye do," Jamie said. "I've got lots more t' learn ye, but I dunno if I got time t' do it."
"There'll be other nights, other wakes," Kevin answered.
Jamie looked up from his drink.
"That's not what I mean," he said, "I'm talkin' 'bout th' big picture o' time. Who knows? Maybe th' next wake'll be mine."
Kevin grimaced at his error.
"I hope not, Mr. O'Connor. Anyway, it's time to start closin' up for the night. Finish your drink while I clean up."
Kevin flipped the closed sign and turned off the outside lights. He was nearly done and was emptying the butts out of the ashtrays.
"Kevin-boy," Jamie called out. "I don't think I can make it home, boy. 'Ave ye still got dat cot in de back room?"
Kevin stopped and shook his head to himself.
"Some things never change."
"Yeah, sure," he called back. "You gonna be alright in there?"
"Sure, sure," Jamie assured him. "I said de next wake might be mine," he said, "but it might not be, either."
He grabbed his drink off the bar and laughed as he made his way to the back room.
"There's a pillow and some blankets on the shelf."
"Okay—I'll be fine."
"You know how to let yerself out in the mornin'?" Kevin called to him.
"Sure, sure, Boy-o."
Kevin was nearly ready to go home. He'd vacuum in the morning before he opened. He took a last look around before walking out the door. He figured O'Connor was asleep already, but he was wrong. As he locked the door behind him, he heard the old man sing the third verse.
"And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me."
Kevin shook his head as he locked the door behind him.
"So he does know the rest of the words, after-all," he said out loud and laughed a little to himself.
He stumbled to his car in the dark that was parked just a ways down the street, careful not to slip on the icy sidewalk. He got in and started the motor. While he waited for it to warm up, Kevin finished the last verse for Old Jamie.
"And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I simply sleep in peace until you come to me"
THE END
Author's note: the lyrics to the song referred to in the story, "Danny Boy" were written in 1910 by Frederick Weatherly (an Englishman who never visited Ireland) and adapted to a traditional Irish tune, "Londonderry Air" in 1913.
