Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 123
January 5, 2020
It's working, again...
Letting Brendan travel a new path in APoS...one he hadn't bothered to mention till after I finished BNR...has exploded the story in ways I'm not yet sure about. He's revealed a hint of cruelty lying deep within...and it works for him. He's also admitted he feels free, living in Houston. Freed from the horrors Derry is drowning in. Freed from his mother's anger and hatefulness. Free to follow whatever path he now chooses.
But he also is torn up with guilt because his brother, Eamonn, was arrested thanks to him. It wasn't intended, but now he's locked away for 20 years as being an accomplice in a fatal bombing. Brendan also knows the British want to find him to question him about the bombing, even though he only witnesses it and was badly injured by it. He was smuggled out of the country to keep that from happening so is in the US illegally. Not much he can do about that.
So now Brendan has three main emotions to play with -- happiness at being free, guilt for his brother's incarceration, and fear of being caught out and his Houston family being damaged by it. I'd only hinted at the latter two in my earlier writing; now they're the layout for the rest of the story and part of the reason he keeps to himself and makes friends amongst those American society pays little attention to.
This is back to being an adventure...
But he also is torn up with guilt because his brother, Eamonn, was arrested thanks to him. It wasn't intended, but now he's locked away for 20 years as being an accomplice in a fatal bombing. Brendan also knows the British want to find him to question him about the bombing, even though he only witnesses it and was badly injured by it. He was smuggled out of the country to keep that from happening so is in the US illegally. Not much he can do about that.
So now Brendan has three main emotions to play with -- happiness at being free, guilt for his brother's incarceration, and fear of being caught out and his Houston family being damaged by it. I'd only hinted at the latter two in my earlier writing; now they're the layout for the rest of the story and part of the reason he keeps to himself and makes friends amongst those American society pays little attention to.
This is back to being an adventure...
January 4, 2020
Back to it...
I read over the first two chapters I'd written of the Houston section of A Place of Safety and made additions and corrections to set the pace. I also intensified Brendan's new reality, that he's banished from his home and living with his aunt and uncle illegally. He's showing flashes of anger and viciousness, as well, but also tenderness and decency. He's finally taking form in his new world.
The story is, as well. I know where it's going, now. Only took me months of head-banging and avoidance. Hell, years. Brendan's going to be a lot more complex in this section, less a reactor and more of an angry young man on a nihilistic binge. He's seen death and destruction up close and knows how suddenly you can go from living to dead, with nothing to protect you. He skirts close to disaster more than once but somehow manages to keep going. He's using up his nine lives, here.
I have a lot of work to do to make this section fit right, still, but it's begun forward movement instead of stasis. I'm happy for that. I'm ready to explore Brendan's new horizons, see just how far he wants to go. We've already had one back and forth about a moment that I wasn't crazy about writing, and we've come to a momentary truce while he's still regaining his balance. We'll see how it works out.
Life is so much better when this story is revealing itself to me...
The story is, as well. I know where it's going, now. Only took me months of head-banging and avoidance. Hell, years. Brendan's going to be a lot more complex in this section, less a reactor and more of an angry young man on a nihilistic binge. He's seen death and destruction up close and knows how suddenly you can go from living to dead, with nothing to protect you. He skirts close to disaster more than once but somehow manages to keep going. He's using up his nine lives, here.
I have a lot of work to do to make this section fit right, still, but it's begun forward movement instead of stasis. I'm happy for that. I'm ready to explore Brendan's new horizons, see just how far he wants to go. We've already had one back and forth about a moment that I wasn't crazy about writing, and we've come to a momentary truce while he's still regaining his balance. We'll see how it works out.
Life is so much better when this story is revealing itself to me...
January 3, 2020
Slowly shifting...
I now have The Beast in the Nothing Room up in paperback and ebook, and I've let people know about it so it's begun to sell. Now I'm shifting my full focus to APoS.
I've begun doing my usual thing of writing moments to string together and make the story. Brendan becomes friends with an older gay man, Everett, in Houston, who winds up gay-bashed and nearly killed. The man he was with does die. Bren visits Everett in the hospital and learns it wasn't the first time he's been attacked, and he finds out it's probable the guys who did it will probably get off using the gay panic defense. It's Texas in the 70s; it's a viable excuse to too damn many people.
Brendan's going to be something of a head case, for a while. Not sure how to approach it, yet, but it's going to cause him trouble, more than once, so that some of the things that happen to him are brought on by his own actions. This will wind up leading into what happens upon his return to Derry after eight years.
I can't let it go too far, though. He's in the US illegally and can't have him deported. But he's also white, young and living in a good part of the city, so he's cut a lot more slack than anyone else would be. Something's also evolving between him and a nurse, though I'm not sure what it is, yet.
Whatever happens, it's now going to be another roller-coaster ride.
I've begun doing my usual thing of writing moments to string together and make the story. Brendan becomes friends with an older gay man, Everett, in Houston, who winds up gay-bashed and nearly killed. The man he was with does die. Bren visits Everett in the hospital and learns it wasn't the first time he's been attacked, and he finds out it's probable the guys who did it will probably get off using the gay panic defense. It's Texas in the 70s; it's a viable excuse to too damn many people.Brendan's going to be something of a head case, for a while. Not sure how to approach it, yet, but it's going to cause him trouble, more than once, so that some of the things that happen to him are brought on by his own actions. This will wind up leading into what happens upon his return to Derry after eight years.
I can't let it go too far, though. He's in the US illegally and can't have him deported. But he's also white, young and living in a good part of the city, so he's cut a lot more slack than anyone else would be. Something's also evolving between him and a nurse, though I'm not sure what it is, yet.
Whatever happens, it's now going to be another roller-coaster ride.
January 1, 2020
Back to the beginning
I've spent the last two months focused on finishing another of my MM horror books, and it's now uploaded to both Smashwords (and available in ebook) and Ingram Spark (waiting on a proof and print copy to make sure it's all okay). The Beast in the Nothing Room is one of my dark stories but built around multi-dimensional human characters, each with his own arc. There is some very violent sex in it and the premise says it all -- How can you stop a serial killer who never kills anyone and doesn't even exist?
It's a rip on HG Wells' Time Machine taken to a logical extreme -- What if a psychopath from the future went back in time to rape men just before they were slated to die? It's no crime to brutalize someone who's already dead, nor is it murder. If I changed the concept to that of a Jack-the-ripper type coming back to kill prostitutes, I could probably sell the damn thing for a million bucks. Make the hero female...or male with a female partner targeted. Be practical.
But I don't wanna play the Hollywood game, anymore. It's boring. The closest I'm coming now is to send my off-beat horror script, Return to Darian's Point, and my gay revenge thriller, Porno Manifesto, to competitions just to see what will happen. It's more of a fuck you to the industry than anything, and lots of fun.
So...now I return focus to A Place of Safety. And happily so. I got a lot of backed up anger and attitude out in BNR and it showed me something I was missing in the middle section -- Brendan's not really reacting to the horror he's seen and experienced. And the people who wind up surrounding him can help illuminate that and show it's universal.
He becomes involved with an older woman at the bar where he works under the table; he makes friends with a Jewish guy his own basic age (who was caught in the Yom Kippur war and senses Brendan is the only other person he knows who's seen violent death); and gets to know a semi-closted gay man who's 10 years older and been gay-bashed. He even builds a love for a young woman who's of mixed race, and whose brothers are treated like automatic criminals no matter how careful they are in their behavior. Hell, in the 70s there was a race riot in Memorial Park and white cops murdered a Latino man by throwing him into Buffalo Bayou while he was still handcuffed. And let's not forget, Deer Park and Pasadena, Houston's eastern suburbs, had the largest chapter of the KKK in the US.
The story here isn't boring; I was just being too polite and wary to tell it, and pretending it was a drive to genteel literal writing instead of just plain cowardice.
Well...fuck that.
It's a rip on HG Wells' Time Machine taken to a logical extreme -- What if a psychopath from the future went back in time to rape men just before they were slated to die? It's no crime to brutalize someone who's already dead, nor is it murder. If I changed the concept to that of a Jack-the-ripper type coming back to kill prostitutes, I could probably sell the damn thing for a million bucks. Make the hero female...or male with a female partner targeted. Be practical.But I don't wanna play the Hollywood game, anymore. It's boring. The closest I'm coming now is to send my off-beat horror script, Return to Darian's Point, and my gay revenge thriller, Porno Manifesto, to competitions just to see what will happen. It's more of a fuck you to the industry than anything, and lots of fun.
So...now I return focus to A Place of Safety. And happily so. I got a lot of backed up anger and attitude out in BNR and it showed me something I was missing in the middle section -- Brendan's not really reacting to the horror he's seen and experienced. And the people who wind up surrounding him can help illuminate that and show it's universal.
He becomes involved with an older woman at the bar where he works under the table; he makes friends with a Jewish guy his own basic age (who was caught in the Yom Kippur war and senses Brendan is the only other person he knows who's seen violent death); and gets to know a semi-closted gay man who's 10 years older and been gay-bashed. He even builds a love for a young woman who's of mixed race, and whose brothers are treated like automatic criminals no matter how careful they are in their behavior. Hell, in the 70s there was a race riot in Memorial Park and white cops murdered a Latino man by throwing him into Buffalo Bayou while he was still handcuffed. And let's not forget, Deer Park and Pasadena, Houston's eastern suburbs, had the largest chapter of the KKK in the US.
The story here isn't boring; I was just being too polite and wary to tell it, and pretending it was a drive to genteel literal writing instead of just plain cowardice.
Well...fuck that.
November 16, 2019
Returning, slowly...
I slammed into a brick wall with APoS and had to take a break. I wrote another book, instead...and it helped me see what part of the problem is with what I've done with Brendan, so far.
It's too fuckin' nice. Middle class. Gentle in ways it shouldn't be.
Brendan works fine for his time in derry, from 1966-1972 -- just a kid trying to make his way while being caught up in history. Then he gets to Houston and, even though he's been through a horrendously traumatic event, one that caused him to have an emotional and mental collapse, he gets right back to being as he was.
WRONG!
Houston is not a respite. It's another world, completely. He needs to be more human in this instead of angelic. Angry. hurt. Scared. Lashing out. That's why this section was giving me such trouble. He's not acting right...and that needs to be handled. Because this town and its actions to him and others around him is what sets him up for the last section, when he returns to Derry.
Sometimes I think I know what I'm doing. Other times, I figure out I don't know shit.
This is one of the latter times...
It's too fuckin' nice. Middle class. Gentle in ways it shouldn't be.
Brendan works fine for his time in derry, from 1966-1972 -- just a kid trying to make his way while being caught up in history. Then he gets to Houston and, even though he's been through a horrendously traumatic event, one that caused him to have an emotional and mental collapse, he gets right back to being as he was.
WRONG!
Houston is not a respite. It's another world, completely. He needs to be more human in this instead of angelic. Angry. hurt. Scared. Lashing out. That's why this section was giving me such trouble. He's not acting right...and that needs to be handled. Because this town and its actions to him and others around him is what sets him up for the last section, when he returns to Derry.
Sometimes I think I know what I'm doing. Other times, I figure out I don't know shit.
This is one of the latter times...
October 1, 2019
The Alice '65 frames for the first 2000 words...
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mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-fareast-language:JA;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} </style></div><div style="text-align: center;">Chapter One</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xqVDcwYt-i..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xqVDcwYt-i..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Getting Dressed</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cIV1Oelt8N..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cIV1Oelt8N..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Oxfords Brushed</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s8mv65LZm7..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s8mv65LZm7..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">Adam Pulls on Mac</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-afLTibZv8r..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-afLTibZv8r..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Heads for train </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HI_xpVPedj..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HI_xpVPedj..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Reads on Train</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HwA6Tu_b5j..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HwA6Tu_b5j..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> St. Pancras</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ORQ2fMBbRp..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ORQ2fMBbRp..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Merryton College</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cX5DU-xrUM..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cX5DU-xrUM..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Adam Arrives</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Immdr3aFbW..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Immdr3aFbW..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Sir Robert Butterworth</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f6Mlhh2Rsw..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f6Mlhh2Rsw..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Merryton's Research Library</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RV1TA7peR4..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RV1TA7peR4..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Tracking Down When Volume Written...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2di8NSvK__..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2di8NSvK__..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But So Lost in Research...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-23Yyiu7sMc..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-23Yyiu7sMc..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Question Asked</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vqy8WRctBJ..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vqy8WRctBJ..." width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> "Sorry? What was that?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-it4R9LjXRk..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-it4R9LjXRk..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Library in School's Old Chapel</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zPrekdiG5C..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zPrekdiG5C..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Adam Enters</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BPn0u1BSgA..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BPn0u1BSgA..." width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0hdZky6TZ0..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0hdZky6TZ0..." width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fjjeNl759h..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fjjeNl759h..." width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sq0VHkXu18..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sq0VHkXu18..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DzLSqscU0G..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DzLSqscU0G..." width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Adam's cubicle -- # 3</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Jamthe..." height="1" width="1" alt=""/>
September 24, 2019
Steps and stages...
I breeched another section of the book that was causing me serious agita. This is in Houston, and it's a fairly substantial link that needed writing. Brendan's rebuilding his life and has put together a new family, not just with his Aunt, Uncle and cousins but co-workers and people he's met. One is a part-time waitress at a bar he works for. She reads a lot of SF by female authors like Andre Norton, Octavia Butler and Ursula LeGuin, and he finds he likes one of the books she gives him.
They wind up as lovers, even though she's older than him by a good ten years, but he feels comfortable with her because she's also solitary in her ways. Turns out it's because she's trying to keep hidden from her husband, but the guy shows up, things explode and Brendan's new family all but disintegrates around him.
My consistent whine about this is, it's all so superficial. I'm skating over the incidents with near-cliched actions and words in order to keep going, and no matter what I say to myself about it just being to get something written that I can then rewrite into perfection, I hate my voice, right now.
I know it's really Brendan's voice, and he's doing what he can to keep it from being all ABC in the dramatic department, but it's my eyes reading it and my mind hearing it and me telling myself I'm shit for even thinking I can make this a meaningful book.
What saves me is how I've been able to rework other sections into something I'm proud of. Like I have in other books. Curt's walk home after agreeing to the bet in How To Rape A Straight Guy...and the aftermath after he's committed murder. Devlin's breakdown once he connects with one of the killer's victims in Underground Guy. Jake's revelation of who the killer is in The Vanishing of Owen Taylor. I even think the suicide and its aftermath in Bobby Carapisi is me at my best. I would change nothing in it.
Bobby Carapisi. That was not an easy book to write, but I'm proud of it. I let Eric, the main character, turn into a complete asshole after going through a horrific rape and lash out at everyone over it, even those who supported him. Then he realizes his actions have set in motion the destruction of another victim's life and tries to stop the inevitable outcome. But it's from that point that he begins to rebuild, accepts his part in the disaster, and fights to become a human being, again. He even winds up understanding why one of the men who raped him did it.
This is a long book...about 160K in words...but it has a deeper meaning for me than anything else I've written.
I don't like the cover, anymore. It's not bad...it's just not as good as I'd like. Once I'm done with APoS I may look into updating it.
They wind up as lovers, even though she's older than him by a good ten years, but he feels comfortable with her because she's also solitary in her ways. Turns out it's because she's trying to keep hidden from her husband, but the guy shows up, things explode and Brendan's new family all but disintegrates around him.
My consistent whine about this is, it's all so superficial. I'm skating over the incidents with near-cliched actions and words in order to keep going, and no matter what I say to myself about it just being to get something written that I can then rewrite into perfection, I hate my voice, right now.
I know it's really Brendan's voice, and he's doing what he can to keep it from being all ABC in the dramatic department, but it's my eyes reading it and my mind hearing it and me telling myself I'm shit for even thinking I can make this a meaningful book.
What saves me is how I've been able to rework other sections into something I'm proud of. Like I have in other books. Curt's walk home after agreeing to the bet in How To Rape A Straight Guy...and the aftermath after he's committed murder. Devlin's breakdown once he connects with one of the killer's victims in Underground Guy. Jake's revelation of who the killer is in The Vanishing of Owen Taylor. I even think the suicide and its aftermath in Bobby Carapisi is me at my best. I would change nothing in it.
Bobby Carapisi. That was not an easy book to write, but I'm proud of it. I let Eric, the main character, turn into a complete asshole after going through a horrific rape and lash out at everyone over it, even those who supported him. Then he realizes his actions have set in motion the destruction of another victim's life and tries to stop the inevitable outcome. But it's from that point that he begins to rebuild, accepts his part in the disaster, and fights to become a human being, again. He even winds up understanding why one of the men who raped him did it.This is a long book...about 160K in words...but it has a deeper meaning for me than anything else I've written.
I don't like the cover, anymore. It's not bad...it's just not as good as I'd like. Once I'm done with APoS I may look into updating it.
September 14, 2019
Section One has a complete first draft...
It's not great; some parts are really more a skimming through the story to link sections more deeply written, but know I know what I need to know, learn and dig into.
Next comes Section Two -- Houston, of which I have about half written...maybe 40%. I'm about to find out. Right now I'm fighting with myself over something I did at the end of One that will cause difficulties in Two and Three if I don't change it, but which works really, really well, as is.
I may be about to kill a darling of mine...
FWIW, the sections are:
1 -- Derry
2 -- Houston
3 -- Return
Next comes Section Two -- Houston, of which I have about half written...maybe 40%. I'm about to find out. Right now I'm fighting with myself over something I did at the end of One that will cause difficulties in Two and Three if I don't change it, but which works really, really well, as is.I may be about to kill a darling of mine...
FWIW, the sections are:
1 -- Derry
2 -- Houston
3 -- Return
September 7, 2019
Brendan and Joanna in Dublin...
This part is before Brendan takes Joanna to Grianan Aileach, before Internment and Bloody Sunday, when things were only beginning to seem dangerously out of control. Brendan's agreed to deliver a letter for Colm and is leery doing it but agrees because of their long friendship...__________________
The bus took us down to O’Connell and the conductor pointed us to Trinity. And we got there with no trouble and looked it over, and the only thing Joanna said about it was, “It’s dingy.” There was truth in that, without question. And it seemed small for its reputation. So we left and went walking down the Liffey to the Ha’penny Bridge. Crossed over and wandered about some more till we were back on O’Connell. Dublin seemed not only busy but brusque and I was taken aback at the quickness of everyone’s pace. It was an embarrassment after what I’d promised Joanna it’d be. But she seemed not to mind.
Another driver told us which bus was for Clontarf, and we found the address with little difficulty, only it wasn't Colm’s Uncle Finn who took the envelope but a sharp, angry woman with cold black hair and eyes. With her was an older lady, all curves and kindness, and she fed us tea and cheese sandwiches as she asked after Derry and the events up there. Joanna kept silent as I told of what little I was willing to share. The lady seemed disappointed I hadn't some horrors to share, and her associate only came into the parlor once to glare at us before going out. I was not sorry to leave that place.
“So this is Dublin,” Joanna said as we returned to the bus stop. “They don’t seem happy, here.”
I had no answer. I was in full disappointment, myself.
En route back, we hopped off on O'Connell and stopped in some shops and found they had much finer things available than in Derry. Joanna was looking for earrings to convince herself that she should pierce her ears but seemed unable to find anything to her liking. Then we happened upon a shop on a side alley that offered not only the earrings but piercings, as well. She was still thinking about it when I noticed in the back they also provided tattoos. I idly looked through a book of them and wondering at the simplicity of the designs – anchors, dates and animals, and the like -- until I came to a section filled with lettering. In it was a lovely flowing script, like handwriting would be if made perfect, and I got an idea.
“Joanna, what would you think of me with a tattoo?”
“My father has one from his time in the Navy,” was her absent reply. “Got it in Hong Kong, of a half-naked lady. It’s begun to fade.”
“Does he have any names on him?”
“Names? Tattooed? No. Why?”
I turned to the girl at the counter and asked, “How much is one?”
“Depends on what you get,” she said.
“A name. Six letters here.” I motioned across my left upper arm.
“Which letterin’?” she asked as she came over.
“Brendan, what’re you doing?” Joanna asked, coming close.
“Dunno yet,” I said, then I pointed to the script.
She eyed my upper arm and said, “Three punt.”
“How long would it take?” I asked.
“Just over an hour.”
I had five punt on me and twelve British pounds, which I’ve found they take anywhere in the city, so I said, “Do it.”
Joanna’s mouth dropped open. “Brendan...”
“What age are you?” the girl asked.
“Seventeen,” I said, without hesitation.
She eyed me, unsure. “You look younger.”
I took my coolest pose and shot back at her, “We’re down from Derry lookin’ at Trinity College. We’re applyin’ to attend, next year, and wanted to see more about it. Isn’t that so, Joanna?”
She looked at me, wary, then nodded and said, “Though I’m not decided. I’m also considering St. Andrew’s.”
The girl shrugged, called into the back, and a man the size of Mrs. McKittrick’s house come out. I actually swallowed in nervousness at seeing him. “He wants a tatt -- right here.” She patted her left upper arm. “In letterin’ E-6.”
“Spell it out,” he said, shoving a slip of paper at me.
I did so.
Joanna was speechless for the first few minutes, then as I was handing over the money she turned me to her and said, “Are you daft? You can’t take these things off.”
“I’ll never want it off,” I replied.
“Brendan, this is foolish. How’ll you explain this to your mother? To anyone -- ?”
“There‘s nothin’ to explain. Nothin’. I love you, Joanna. I will till the day I die. Nothin’ else matters.”
“You’re mad,” she muttered.
“No argument from me.”
She shook her head, still wary, but smiled.
The man and the girl smirked at each other, but I knew how deep my feelings for Joanna were and no one could have swayed me from this course.
“Off wit’ ye shirt,” growled the man.
I removed it and sat beside him. “Does it hurt much?”
He smiled and said, “Put ye arm here, hold this grip an’ do NOT move.” I did as he said, and he started the needle up and dug in and I near screamed at the sudden pain of it. “Do not MOVE!”
I didn’t, for I did not want the letters to wind up like my own scratchy handwriting. I sat there and locked my eyes on Joanna’s and crushed that grip and she held my other hand and my focus stayed on keeping from crushing hers.
“Brendan, you truly are mad,” she whispered to me, smiling in admiration. “Wicked mad.”
“Have been since the first day I saw you.”
“When was that?”
“The taxi rank. Remember? I was washin’ me hands.”
She giggled. “In the gutter, and you had dirt on you and you were so pleased with yourself about something.”
“It was the first time I’d fixed a car.”
“You like doing that, don’t you?” I nodded. “Well, a degree from university might help you get on with British Leyland. Design cars. Build them.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I whispered, and it pleased me no end that she had considered something so fine for my future.
That’s when the words began spilling from me, and I told her of seeing her, again, that day we saw Eamonn off, and of following her down Shipquay to Wollies, and watching her and her friends dance and seeing what record she bought and how I’d bought the same and the phonograph I’d fixed so’s I could listen to it and how I’d seared the words and music into my heart and sung it when I wanted to see her, and this being a year before the Liberation Fleadh. She just sat there, listening to me, looking at me, seeing me and seeming fascinated by my sordid little tales. And her eyes never wavered from my face.
Of course, I said nothing about the nights where I’d conjured her up. And the girl behind the counter said nothing. And the burly man working on me seemed to grow more gentle so the pain seemed to lessen to the point I could hardly feel it, at all.
I recounted how I felt around her. How my heart leapt from joy at seeing her every time we met. How I hated parting from her. On and on I babbled, as if the needle was digging a truth drug into me instead of ink as he swiped and outlined and filled in...and I grew hoarse from talking so much. The girl behind the counter brought us cups of tea and never had anything felt so good on my throat or tasted so fine on my tongue.
Finally, I could speak no more, but it was all right, for the burly man did one last wipe of his work and leaned back to smile and said, “Well done, lad. Would you care to look at it before I cover it? Last chance for maybe ten days.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’ll become a scab as it heals, then it’ll peel away and what you’ll have will be as lovely as what you see now.”
I nodded and he put up a mirror, and I laughed. “It’s backwards.”
He chuckled and angled the mirror then put up another to catch the first one’s reflection. And oh St. Brigit, how lovely it was. Script flowing together in tender darkness, the hint of an outline in red along the top. Dots of blood that he quickly wiped away. I drew in so deep a breath of pride, I could easily have burst, and I turned to show Joanna her new place in my soul.
She touched it, tenderly. “Does it hurt?”
Yes. “Never. I’m yours now, no matter what. You’ve branded me.”
She looked at me with eyes so filled with confusion and wariness, I grew afraid. Thought for an instant I’d made a fool of myself. Gone that one step too far for her or done it too soon or too sudden and now she’d back away from me for being too much a child in matters of the heart, still, and dear God, I think I’d die if that happened.
But then she leaned in and kissed it. Barely brushed her lips over the raw etching, and relief overwhelmed me. I lay my head in the crook of her neck and let out my breath, finally knowing all would be well. She put her hand to my cheek and whispered, “It’s near six. We’ll be late.”
The bus took us down to O’Connell and the conductor pointed us to Trinity. And we got there with no trouble and looked it over, and the only thing Joanna said about it was, “It’s dingy.” There was truth in that, without question. And it seemed small for its reputation. So we left and went walking down the Liffey to the Ha’penny Bridge. Crossed over and wandered about some more till we were back on O’Connell. Dublin seemed not only busy but brusque and I was taken aback at the quickness of everyone’s pace. It was an embarrassment after what I’d promised Joanna it’d be. But she seemed not to mind.
Another driver told us which bus was for Clontarf, and we found the address with little difficulty, only it wasn't Colm’s Uncle Finn who took the envelope but a sharp, angry woman with cold black hair and eyes. With her was an older lady, all curves and kindness, and she fed us tea and cheese sandwiches as she asked after Derry and the events up there. Joanna kept silent as I told of what little I was willing to share. The lady seemed disappointed I hadn't some horrors to share, and her associate only came into the parlor once to glare at us before going out. I was not sorry to leave that place.
“So this is Dublin,” Joanna said as we returned to the bus stop. “They don’t seem happy, here.”
I had no answer. I was in full disappointment, myself.
En route back, we hopped off on O'Connell and stopped in some shops and found they had much finer things available than in Derry. Joanna was looking for earrings to convince herself that she should pierce her ears but seemed unable to find anything to her liking. Then we happened upon a shop on a side alley that offered not only the earrings but piercings, as well. She was still thinking about it when I noticed in the back they also provided tattoos. I idly looked through a book of them and wondering at the simplicity of the designs – anchors, dates and animals, and the like -- until I came to a section filled with lettering. In it was a lovely flowing script, like handwriting would be if made perfect, and I got an idea.
“Joanna, what would you think of me with a tattoo?”
“My father has one from his time in the Navy,” was her absent reply. “Got it in Hong Kong, of a half-naked lady. It’s begun to fade.”
“Does he have any names on him?”
“Names? Tattooed? No. Why?”
I turned to the girl at the counter and asked, “How much is one?”
“Depends on what you get,” she said.
“A name. Six letters here.” I motioned across my left upper arm.
“Which letterin’?” she asked as she came over.
“Brendan, what’re you doing?” Joanna asked, coming close.
“Dunno yet,” I said, then I pointed to the script.
She eyed my upper arm and said, “Three punt.”
“How long would it take?” I asked.
“Just over an hour.”
I had five punt on me and twelve British pounds, which I’ve found they take anywhere in the city, so I said, “Do it.”
Joanna’s mouth dropped open. “Brendan...”
“What age are you?” the girl asked.
“Seventeen,” I said, without hesitation.
She eyed me, unsure. “You look younger.”
I took my coolest pose and shot back at her, “We’re down from Derry lookin’ at Trinity College. We’re applyin’ to attend, next year, and wanted to see more about it. Isn’t that so, Joanna?”
She looked at me, wary, then nodded and said, “Though I’m not decided. I’m also considering St. Andrew’s.”
The girl shrugged, called into the back, and a man the size of Mrs. McKittrick’s house come out. I actually swallowed in nervousness at seeing him. “He wants a tatt -- right here.” She patted her left upper arm. “In letterin’ E-6.”
“Spell it out,” he said, shoving a slip of paper at me.
I did so.
Joanna was speechless for the first few minutes, then as I was handing over the money she turned me to her and said, “Are you daft? You can’t take these things off.”
“I’ll never want it off,” I replied.
“Brendan, this is foolish. How’ll you explain this to your mother? To anyone -- ?”
“There‘s nothin’ to explain. Nothin’. I love you, Joanna. I will till the day I die. Nothin’ else matters.”
“You’re mad,” she muttered.
“No argument from me.”
She shook her head, still wary, but smiled.
The man and the girl smirked at each other, but I knew how deep my feelings for Joanna were and no one could have swayed me from this course.
“Off wit’ ye shirt,” growled the man.
I removed it and sat beside him. “Does it hurt much?”
He smiled and said, “Put ye arm here, hold this grip an’ do NOT move.” I did as he said, and he started the needle up and dug in and I near screamed at the sudden pain of it. “Do not MOVE!”
I didn’t, for I did not want the letters to wind up like my own scratchy handwriting. I sat there and locked my eyes on Joanna’s and crushed that grip and she held my other hand and my focus stayed on keeping from crushing hers.
“Brendan, you truly are mad,” she whispered to me, smiling in admiration. “Wicked mad.”
“Have been since the first day I saw you.”
“When was that?”
“The taxi rank. Remember? I was washin’ me hands.”
She giggled. “In the gutter, and you had dirt on you and you were so pleased with yourself about something.”
“It was the first time I’d fixed a car.”
“You like doing that, don’t you?” I nodded. “Well, a degree from university might help you get on with British Leyland. Design cars. Build them.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I whispered, and it pleased me no end that she had considered something so fine for my future.
That’s when the words began spilling from me, and I told her of seeing her, again, that day we saw Eamonn off, and of following her down Shipquay to Wollies, and watching her and her friends dance and seeing what record she bought and how I’d bought the same and the phonograph I’d fixed so’s I could listen to it and how I’d seared the words and music into my heart and sung it when I wanted to see her, and this being a year before the Liberation Fleadh. She just sat there, listening to me, looking at me, seeing me and seeming fascinated by my sordid little tales. And her eyes never wavered from my face.
Of course, I said nothing about the nights where I’d conjured her up. And the girl behind the counter said nothing. And the burly man working on me seemed to grow more gentle so the pain seemed to lessen to the point I could hardly feel it, at all.
I recounted how I felt around her. How my heart leapt from joy at seeing her every time we met. How I hated parting from her. On and on I babbled, as if the needle was digging a truth drug into me instead of ink as he swiped and outlined and filled in...and I grew hoarse from talking so much. The girl behind the counter brought us cups of tea and never had anything felt so good on my throat or tasted so fine on my tongue.
Finally, I could speak no more, but it was all right, for the burly man did one last wipe of his work and leaned back to smile and said, “Well done, lad. Would you care to look at it before I cover it? Last chance for maybe ten days.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’ll become a scab as it heals, then it’ll peel away and what you’ll have will be as lovely as what you see now.”
I nodded and he put up a mirror, and I laughed. “It’s backwards.”
He chuckled and angled the mirror then put up another to catch the first one’s reflection. And oh St. Brigit, how lovely it was. Script flowing together in tender darkness, the hint of an outline in red along the top. Dots of blood that he quickly wiped away. I drew in so deep a breath of pride, I could easily have burst, and I turned to show Joanna her new place in my soul.
She touched it, tenderly. “Does it hurt?”
Yes. “Never. I’m yours now, no matter what. You’ve branded me.”
She looked at me with eyes so filled with confusion and wariness, I grew afraid. Thought for an instant I’d made a fool of myself. Gone that one step too far for her or done it too soon or too sudden and now she’d back away from me for being too much a child in matters of the heart, still, and dear God, I think I’d die if that happened.
But then she leaned in and kissed it. Barely brushed her lips over the raw etching, and relief overwhelmed me. I lay my head in the crook of her neck and let out my breath, finally knowing all would be well. She put her hand to my cheek and whispered, “It’s near six. We’ll be late.”
September 5, 2019
Roadblocked till now...
One of the joys of my little library is finding information I need in a book I bought years ago...and that information helping me bypass a possible roadblock while helping the story. I'm still working on section one of the book, but I've just got two bits to connect and that'll be that much done. Way behind schedule, but...
Here's some of what I've written...this takes place after Bloody Sunday, where Brendan sees men and boys being gunned down by Army Paratroopers who've run amok.
----------------I turned sixteen on Wednesday, but without celebration; the day was taken up with funerals for eleven of those killed. Tens of thousands filled Creggan to the point it was difficult to move or even breathe. I was in the middle of it with Eammon and once even thought to ask him if I could use his inhaler, but he was fighting to keep at my side and I could tell he was having trouble at it. I was glad he hadn’t been on the march.
Word spread of marches throughout Ireland in support, and later it was learned the British Embassy in Dublin was burned to the ground. On this occasion, the Army was smart enough to keep its distance, only harassing us with helicopters hovering above. There were too many reporters and cameras about to risk another catastrophic attack.
Now it was time for the finger-pointing, with the Army saying they’d been fired upon by the IRA, which was a pile of shite, and Faulkner repeating the lies from Maulding, and Heath appointing Lord Widgery to do an inquiry no one believed would be fair or balanced. The IRA used the murders as proof the British should not be trusted, and I had to agree with them on that, for London went out of her way to prove they couldn’t.
In Derry, there was a numbness that followed. Grief throughout the city. Shock. Disbelief, still. Ma’s anger at Terry taking Mairead and the wains to Toronto gave way to him being brilliant to have seen this coming and done so. Eamonn slipped back into town to see us, with Jackie and Aidan, and they stayed at our place till Friday, then they slipped away, like ghosts. And what struck me most was the lunacy of those in control, on either side, who thought they could end this cycle of death by threatening even greater death...but that’s what they did. Over and over.
Joanna had already agreed to meet with me, on Saturday, to have a late celebration for my day, but I had no idea how she’d be able to. The Army had turned into occupier, complete, and our status as Derry’s Catholic ghetto was undeniable, now.
McClosky’s was still locked up, but I was close to running mad and needed something to do, so I went there and began tinkering with a jeep whose motor was dying for no reason. It took me a while, but I finally was able to focus enough to let myself see it was a vacuum leak in one of the hoses and was easy to replace. I had just finished doing so when a soft knock at the door jolted me.
Thinking it was Colm, again, looking for yet another favor, I snarled, “No one’s here, go away!”
“Brendan?” It was Joanna’s voice.
I bolted over and opened the door and there she was in jeans and parka and gloves, her cheeks bright and eyes smiling.
“Happy birthday,” she said. “Late, but better than never.”
I began to breathe heavy and drew her into and embrace and just held her, close to losing control of myself. The scent of Spearmint whispered from her; Wrigley’s and nothing less, I was sure. She wrapped her arms around me and caressed my back like she would a child, soothing me more than I could even begin to imagine. I said nothing for a full five minutes, just stood there with her until I was able to step back and bring her into the shop and sit with her and still say nothing.
“You never said where you lived,” she said, “but I remembered McClosky’s Auto Repair and managed to find it. Knowing you, I figured you’d be working. That’s how you seem to handle things.”
I just nodded.
“The checkpoints were difficult,” she continued. “But I took a bus across and told them of my aunt in Pennyburn, and that it’s my cousin’s birthday. They were easy about it, but still, I could have been here hours ago...”
“Will you come with me?” burst from me, without a thought.
“To where, this time?” Her eyes laughed as she said it.
“Up Groarty Road, into the Republic. It’s somethin’ I want to show you and we can talk there.”
“Brendan, I...I have to be home by curfew.”
“I’ll drive us.”
“Have you a license?”
“I...I know ways around the checkpoints. Theirs and ours. Will you come?”
She hesitated then shrugged a yes.
I finished with the jeep and drove us away in it, and it wasn’t easy to do the avoidance I’d so confidently told her of. A couple of times I had to travel down alleys not meant for a car, but the jeep was narrow enough for it. We finally reached Groarty and it was a fairly straight drive...but in the distance you could see a patrol at the border and I’d heard they’d even damaged the road to make the crossing difficult, so I turned onto a side street and stopped under a tree.
“We’ll need to walk, from here.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a circle fort atop a hill...”
She shifted into bright and happy. “Is it Grianan Aileach?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
She laughed. “Why didn’t you say it? I’ve heard of it in history class and would love to see it.”
“Now’s your chance.”
We hiked along the hedgerows of fields, keeping them between us and the patrol, and it was good we’d both worn boots, for yesterday’s rain had made the earth sticky and mean. We reached the brook that marked the border, and it took me a moment but I found an area narrow enough for Joanna to jump over without touching the water, and the whole time I keep a scan going over the countryside, especially along Groarty Road down to the hollow. But the patrol seemed not to notice us, for there was no helicopter racing up or Paras or even a constable’s armored support sniffing about. They were still focused on the Bogside and furies exploding in Belfast and other towns, doing all they could to blame the evil they’d perpetrated on the Catholics who’d been done to and now dared to want equality and justice.
We tramped up the muck and through a field to climb a fence by a lane that would lead us back to the road, where we stopped for a breather and looked about. We turned to face up the hill and the fort was just visible at its crest, the slightest of bumps nestled atop the growth surrounding it.
“Is that it?” she asked. I nodded. “Doesn’t look like so much.”
“It isn’t,” I replied, “not till you’re up there.”
So along the rough narrow road we walked, passing field after field, and she chatted as we went, saying nothing deeper of herself than how her family followed the Clyde, of Glasgow, in football. And how she visited the family in Edinburgh at least twice a year, the last being on Boxing Day. She, her parents and her brother would pile in their estate car, catch the ferry in Belfast and have a grand time of it for two days.
I’d already told her of my aunt in Houston, married to a man near half again her age who owned a real Irish pub near some university, with three wains and all of them my age or younger, and how they’d send gifts at Christmas and Easter, which is why I had my new NASA cap. I got a card on my birthday holding two tenners, not mentioning Ma had snatched them up the second she saw them. I’d never been off the island, and I was a bit jealous of her trips away; it sounded wonderful, going someplace else. Anyplace else.
“I’ve thought of hoppin’ down to Cork,” I said, finally joining her in talk. “Maybe over to Liverpool and sign on with a freighter or passenger ship.”
“Do you have a passport?”
I hesitated, not having thought about it, then said, “Not yet.”
“You should get that, first. And then I suppose it's no more Edinburgh or Dublin?”
“Arra, just...just thoughts,” I said. “Sittin’ on the walls lookin’ out over the Bogside. Dreamin’ of...of possibilities. Like travel ‘round the world and back again. See something other than just this place.”
“And then what?” she asked, seeming to be genuinely interested.
I shrugged. “Maybe come back, when I’ve some money. Start a repair shop like McClosky’s.” I cast her a quick side glance as I added, “Get married. Have a family.”
“You don’t dream for much.”
It seemed a perfectly fine thing to wish for, so I snapped, “You said that before.”
“I know, but haven’t you even thought of being a doctor? A solicitor? Living in Paris to learn a new language? Anything like that?”
I snorted. “Me, a doctor. Funny.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve no head for university. My doctoring is for cars and toasters and tellys.”
“You never struck me that way.”
I snorted a laugh. “Never?”
She was to my left and reached over and caressed where her name was etched onto my arm and said, “Never. I just don’t think you’ve had the support you need to see how bright you truly are.”
And from her touch I felt a moment of life in me, again.
-----------More to come...
Here's some of what I've written...this takes place after Bloody Sunday, where Brendan sees men and boys being gunned down by Army Paratroopers who've run amok.
----------------I turned sixteen on Wednesday, but without celebration; the day was taken up with funerals for eleven of those killed. Tens of thousands filled Creggan to the point it was difficult to move or even breathe. I was in the middle of it with Eammon and once even thought to ask him if I could use his inhaler, but he was fighting to keep at my side and I could tell he was having trouble at it. I was glad he hadn’t been on the march.
Word spread of marches throughout Ireland in support, and later it was learned the British Embassy in Dublin was burned to the ground. On this occasion, the Army was smart enough to keep its distance, only harassing us with helicopters hovering above. There were too many reporters and cameras about to risk another catastrophic attack.
Now it was time for the finger-pointing, with the Army saying they’d been fired upon by the IRA, which was a pile of shite, and Faulkner repeating the lies from Maulding, and Heath appointing Lord Widgery to do an inquiry no one believed would be fair or balanced. The IRA used the murders as proof the British should not be trusted, and I had to agree with them on that, for London went out of her way to prove they couldn’t.
In Derry, there was a numbness that followed. Grief throughout the city. Shock. Disbelief, still. Ma’s anger at Terry taking Mairead and the wains to Toronto gave way to him being brilliant to have seen this coming and done so. Eamonn slipped back into town to see us, with Jackie and Aidan, and they stayed at our place till Friday, then they slipped away, like ghosts. And what struck me most was the lunacy of those in control, on either side, who thought they could end this cycle of death by threatening even greater death...but that’s what they did. Over and over.
Joanna had already agreed to meet with me, on Saturday, to have a late celebration for my day, but I had no idea how she’d be able to. The Army had turned into occupier, complete, and our status as Derry’s Catholic ghetto was undeniable, now.
McClosky’s was still locked up, but I was close to running mad and needed something to do, so I went there and began tinkering with a jeep whose motor was dying for no reason. It took me a while, but I finally was able to focus enough to let myself see it was a vacuum leak in one of the hoses and was easy to replace. I had just finished doing so when a soft knock at the door jolted me.
Thinking it was Colm, again, looking for yet another favor, I snarled, “No one’s here, go away!”
“Brendan?” It was Joanna’s voice.
I bolted over and opened the door and there she was in jeans and parka and gloves, her cheeks bright and eyes smiling.
“Happy birthday,” she said. “Late, but better than never.”
I began to breathe heavy and drew her into and embrace and just held her, close to losing control of myself. The scent of Spearmint whispered from her; Wrigley’s and nothing less, I was sure. She wrapped her arms around me and caressed my back like she would a child, soothing me more than I could even begin to imagine. I said nothing for a full five minutes, just stood there with her until I was able to step back and bring her into the shop and sit with her and still say nothing.
“You never said where you lived,” she said, “but I remembered McClosky’s Auto Repair and managed to find it. Knowing you, I figured you’d be working. That’s how you seem to handle things.”
I just nodded.
“The checkpoints were difficult,” she continued. “But I took a bus across and told them of my aunt in Pennyburn, and that it’s my cousin’s birthday. They were easy about it, but still, I could have been here hours ago...”
“Will you come with me?” burst from me, without a thought.
“To where, this time?” Her eyes laughed as she said it.
“Up Groarty Road, into the Republic. It’s somethin’ I want to show you and we can talk there.”
“Brendan, I...I have to be home by curfew.”
“I’ll drive us.”
“Have you a license?”
“I...I know ways around the checkpoints. Theirs and ours. Will you come?”
She hesitated then shrugged a yes.
I finished with the jeep and drove us away in it, and it wasn’t easy to do the avoidance I’d so confidently told her of. A couple of times I had to travel down alleys not meant for a car, but the jeep was narrow enough for it. We finally reached Groarty and it was a fairly straight drive...but in the distance you could see a patrol at the border and I’d heard they’d even damaged the road to make the crossing difficult, so I turned onto a side street and stopped under a tree.
“We’ll need to walk, from here.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a circle fort atop a hill...”
She shifted into bright and happy. “Is it Grianan Aileach?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
She laughed. “Why didn’t you say it? I’ve heard of it in history class and would love to see it.”
“Now’s your chance.”
We hiked along the hedgerows of fields, keeping them between us and the patrol, and it was good we’d both worn boots, for yesterday’s rain had made the earth sticky and mean. We reached the brook that marked the border, and it took me a moment but I found an area narrow enough for Joanna to jump over without touching the water, and the whole time I keep a scan going over the countryside, especially along Groarty Road down to the hollow. But the patrol seemed not to notice us, for there was no helicopter racing up or Paras or even a constable’s armored support sniffing about. They were still focused on the Bogside and furies exploding in Belfast and other towns, doing all they could to blame the evil they’d perpetrated on the Catholics who’d been done to and now dared to want equality and justice.
We tramped up the muck and through a field to climb a fence by a lane that would lead us back to the road, where we stopped for a breather and looked about. We turned to face up the hill and the fort was just visible at its crest, the slightest of bumps nestled atop the growth surrounding it.
“Is that it?” she asked. I nodded. “Doesn’t look like so much.”
“It isn’t,” I replied, “not till you’re up there.”
So along the rough narrow road we walked, passing field after field, and she chatted as we went, saying nothing deeper of herself than how her family followed the Clyde, of Glasgow, in football. And how she visited the family in Edinburgh at least twice a year, the last being on Boxing Day. She, her parents and her brother would pile in their estate car, catch the ferry in Belfast and have a grand time of it for two days.
I’d already told her of my aunt in Houston, married to a man near half again her age who owned a real Irish pub near some university, with three wains and all of them my age or younger, and how they’d send gifts at Christmas and Easter, which is why I had my new NASA cap. I got a card on my birthday holding two tenners, not mentioning Ma had snatched them up the second she saw them. I’d never been off the island, and I was a bit jealous of her trips away; it sounded wonderful, going someplace else. Anyplace else.
“I’ve thought of hoppin’ down to Cork,” I said, finally joining her in talk. “Maybe over to Liverpool and sign on with a freighter or passenger ship.”
“Do you have a passport?”
I hesitated, not having thought about it, then said, “Not yet.”
“You should get that, first. And then I suppose it's no more Edinburgh or Dublin?”
“Arra, just...just thoughts,” I said. “Sittin’ on the walls lookin’ out over the Bogside. Dreamin’ of...of possibilities. Like travel ‘round the world and back again. See something other than just this place.”
“And then what?” she asked, seeming to be genuinely interested.
I shrugged. “Maybe come back, when I’ve some money. Start a repair shop like McClosky’s.” I cast her a quick side glance as I added, “Get married. Have a family.”
“You don’t dream for much.”
It seemed a perfectly fine thing to wish for, so I snapped, “You said that before.”
“I know, but haven’t you even thought of being a doctor? A solicitor? Living in Paris to learn a new language? Anything like that?”
I snorted. “Me, a doctor. Funny.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve no head for university. My doctoring is for cars and toasters and tellys.”
“You never struck me that way.”
I snorted a laugh. “Never?”
She was to my left and reached over and caressed where her name was etched onto my arm and said, “Never. I just don’t think you’ve had the support you need to see how bright you truly are.”
And from her touch I felt a moment of life in me, again.
-----------More to come...
