by Paul Alan Fahey
The man holds tight to the wooden banister as he climbs the carpeted stairway. In the hallway, he glances at his image in the beveled mirror. His hair, thin and white, caps a face with a red veined nose and puffy cheeks. Such is the price of too many late night pints at Gallagher’s.
The grandfather clock below him chimes the hour as he opens her door.
“I want to leave this time, Mr. Mulrooney. Let me go with you.” Agnes Mulrooney, a bit of a woman, is propped up on pillows in a large four poster bed. Her hair fluffed up like candy floss.
He moves to her side and takes her hand. “‘Tis grand to see you, Aggie, but you know you can’t be goin’ with me. What would all these fine people say? The ones fussin’ and takin’ such good care of you? You don’t want to hurt their feelings.”
“No, but . . .”
“No buts about it. We’ve discussed this before.It’s here you are and here you’ll stay.”
“But . . .”
He puts two fingers to his lips. “Shh, Aggie. Sure as Mary heard Gabriel, they’ll be listenin’. So we’ll have no more of this.”
Aggie shifts in bed, crosses her arms in a fake pouting gesture. “I want to go. It won’t be the same, me sittin’ around here wonderin’ and imaginin’.”
“And what might you be imaginin’, Aggie? A lovely woman like yourself.”
She gives him a look that stings like Cupid’s arrow, straight to the heart, full of wistful Irish blarney. “You and whoever. That’s what!”
“Now what would I be doin’ with this whoever and not with you?”
“That’s certainly the question.”
“Don’t be daft.” He pulls up a chair and sits beside her. “You’re still the loveliest woman in the county. And such a fine dancer, too.”
“All they do today is spin about and shake their legs. Wouldn’t know a real Irish jig from a waltz. They’re just doin’ what passes for dancin’.”
“You’re a dancin’ fool, Aggie.”
“That I am.” She stares out the window, seemingly lost in the years that have long since passed. Then after a moment, she’s back with him. “We’ve killed some time, wouldn’t you say?”
“That we have, Aggie.”
“Then let’s get down to business.” She rubs her hands together. “Who begins?”
“You do. As always.”
“I thought so. Givin’ the fairer sex the advantage. I always said you were a true gentleman, Mr. Mulrooney. Let’s see.” She taps her forehead with a finger. “How about Armenian to start?”
“Not bad. Brazilian.”
“Good. Café au lait.”
“Decaffeinated.”
“Now, Mr. Mulrooney, you can do better than that.”
“Think so?”
“I know so.”
“Let’s see. Demitasse.”
“E’s my favorite. Ethiopian.”
“God, you’re good, Aggie.”
“Go on, flatterer.”
“French roast.”
“Guatemalan.”
“Kaffee mit schlag.”
“You got ahead of yourself, Mr. Mulrooney. You forgot ‘H’. Extra points for me.”
“So I did. Hmm, ’tis a hard one.”
“Give up?”
He scratches his chin. “Got it. Harrar.”
“I already said Ethiopian, Mr. Smarty.”
“But Harrar is a different kind of coffee.”
“All right, I’ll give you that.” She looks down at her hands then back at him and smiles. “How about Irish?”
“And me, doomed to the fires of Hell.”
“I win, Mr. Mulrooney!”
“Indeed you do, Aggie.” He shakes his head, pretends to be crushed in defeat. Hiding a smile, he goes to the door and calls down the hall. “We’ll have our coffee now, Miss MacCormack.”
He turns back to her and asks, “Does Justin still visit?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve raised a dutiful son, Mr. Mulrooney.” She points to a vase on the window sill. Pink calla lilies. “He brought me these the other day.”
“So it’s really not so bad, Aggie, I mean, bein’ here in this room with a peek at the bay.”
“No. It’s not so bad.”
He looks out at the front lawn sloping down to Loganderry Road. The fishing boats bobbing in the harbor. The gulls circling the quay. Another mild afternoon in Glandore. The finest village in all of Cork.
Miss MacCormack sweeps in with a tray and sets it down on the coffee table.
“I won again, Laurie. Isn’t that something?”
“Yes, dear, though I never understand the games you two play. Such convoluted rules.”
Aggie raises an eyebrow. “Long as WE do, we’re fine.”
The man turns to the housekeeper. “It’s alphabetical.”
“Oh, I see,” Miss MacCormack says, in a way that implies she doesn’t, then she winks at him and leaves the room.
“Old biddy.”
“Now, Agnes. Is that how to be?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Too bad about her.”
He pours the coffee into two china cups.
“Now fix it how I like it, Mr. Mulrooney.”
He pulls a flask of whiskey from his vest pocket, dribbles a shot into her cup, caps the flask and puts it away. “Real Irish.”
“You’re not havin’ any, Mr. Mulrooney?”
“Just black.”
“A saint if I ever saw one. A little drop won’t kill you.”
“There’s still work to be done, Aggie. It’s not yet four in the afternoon.”
“Okay, okay. Have it your way.” She sips her coffee, gives him a look of contentment then . . . “How’s the wife, Justin?”
Without missing a beat. “Just fine, mum.”
“Daughters-in-law! Who needs them? Once they get your flesh and blood, it’s thank you very much and off they go to God knows where.” Aggie closes her eyes, leans back on the pillows.
He jumps up, ready to catch the cup before it slips from her grasp.
“I’m not sleepin’ yet.”
“You’re a devil, Aggie Mulrooney.”
“That I am, and don’t you forget it. Read to me a bit, Mr. Mulrooney. Before you go. Please.”
He reaches for the library book, the one on her bedside table. He expects an Irish fable full of shamrocks and shillelaghs, everything but a thatched cottage and a leprechaun’s pot of gold, but is happily surprised by the turbulent sex and four letter words. Midway through the first chapter, he looks up. Aggie’s asleep.
He takes her cup and saucer, kisses her lightly on the cheek. “You’re a grand one, Agnes Mulrooney. May you never forget it.”
In the hallway, the housekeeper takes the tray from him. “So nice of you to make these visits, Dr. Adare. If it wasn’t for you . . .”
“Now, now, Miss MacCormack, ’tis a pleasure, I’m sure.”
“So terrible to outlive one’s family,” she says, then starts off down the hall, the words, “God, bless you,” trailing after her.
Dr. Adare stands by her door a moment longer, whispers, “Sleep well, Aggie,” then he turns and heads down the stairs, out to meet the end of a beautiful spring day.
© Paul Alan Fahey. All Rights Reserved.
Paul Alan Fahey is a learning disabilities specialist at Alan Hancock college in Santa Maria, California, and also editor of their new literary magazine Mindprints, A Literary Journal. He is most recently published online in the April issues of The Paumanok Review, Furious Pen, Mocha Memoirs and The Vestal Review. Paul has a short story coming up in both Potpourri and The MacGuffin.
