Clarity of Mind and Heart

Prompt: Write a story with the line “I don’t understand.”

Clarity of Mind and Heart

My old man was a typical old-world Irishman straight off the boat.He would sarcastically say in his thick Irish brogue to my sister and I that we were living the “Life of Reilly.”Right after he would say it his mind and attention would slip away. He would start reminiscing about his former days and trials of his youth. Almost on cue, he would tear up when he reached his story about the ocean crossing and his early struggles to survive in New York City.I was less than enthusiastic to hear another recounting of his boat journey, but my sister always became transfixed on his words. Disrespectfully, I said “Athair (father), please spare us your stories. I have enough of them to last me in this lifetime and into the next.” My younger sister, Julia would say “Daidi’(Daddy), please tell me more. Your stories matter to me.” My athair would sneer at me, but smile at Julia.

Ever since our mother died three years ago, my father continues to be more disconnected with us. He has plunged into a sullen mood. It seems like he only desires to live in his past. He demands so much of our time caring for him because of his depression and unrequited grief. They have interfered with his daily care. Many of his stories pertain to his young adult years when he met our Mamai’ (Momma).Sometimes his stories brought back impeccable memories for me. For instance, when he vividly described her cooking with great clarity, I could almost smell the aroma of her Irish stew, soda bread, cal ceannann (white-headed cabbage) and mairteoil shaillte (corned beef) wafting from the kitchen filling the brownstone. My memory of them made my mouth water for her incredible dessert, ci’ste u’ll Eireeannach (Irish apple cake).

Another story he often repeated was when he and Mamai’ would stroll through Central Park hand in hand feeding the birds. Together they would gaze above the trees at the city’s skyline.My athair would point out a building or two where had worked. Mamai’ would lovingly approve of his “work.”

Now, I loved the stories about my Mamai’, but I needed to get past his flashbacks. I needed him to be living in the day to day. He had to take care of himself with the understanding that Julia and I had jobs that required our attention during the day and often at night. Neither Julia or me had any room to take him in and certainly no money to put him into a senior home.

Besides, I was trying to make a name for myself as a young Irish cop in New York City. I could not be hampered by my athair struggling to hold onto his past. I would soon finish the required recruit testing at the academy to become a beat cop. It was important that I focus on my performance and relationships within the department. I often wished my athair had worked for the New York City Police Department so I could have used his tenure to influence my position on the force. I was hoping my Irish ancestry would count for something these days, but times were changing and even for the NYPD, nepotism would be a thing of the past.

When I told him I wanted to be a cop, he was livid. He would say to me “I don’t’ understand! My son wants to be an Irish flat foot? They all are drunkards and thieves!” I interrupted saying, “They are our country men. Maybe in the past there were a few scoundrels, but all that has changed.” He then interjected, “Your Mamai’ would never let me be one of them. She called them po’ili’n gra’nna (wicked policeman).” I soon realized he would never accept my choice to become a policeman. I suspected my Mamai’ had quashed his dream once they were married. His forty years of marriage intensified his distrust of the police. In his eyes they all were contemptible, especially the Irish ones.

Instead, he became an iron welder and a good one at that. How did I know he was good at it? We lived in a four-room brownstone; we were never hungry so I assumed he made a decent wage. Mamai’ was my source of information and she always spoke the truth. He rose early in the morning at before sun up and would not come home until the sun was just setting below the horizon, seven days a week. I never saw him at his welding job. If I did, I would have had to go up with him in a packed construction elevator 30, 40, or even 100 floors above street level. Looking out my second story window from my efficiency apartment even makes me queasy.

The union he belonged to was bargaining with the city for more benefits including paid vacation. He got three holidays off and two days sick days a year. Just before Mamai’ died, I learned that the city building commissioner attempted to break the union boycott using scabs, he was infuriated. Unfortunately, the commissioner got his way and my athair was without a job.

My athair now found himself alone in the very small brown cobblestone Julia and I grew up in.Julia wanted to move back in with him, but he would have nothing of the sort. Instead, the three of us agreed that Julia and I would check in every other day with him on alternating weeks. As the luck of the Blarney stone would have it, Julia found dozens of boxes of old photographs and a diary our Mamai’ kept in the basement of the cobblestone.Athair was elated at the discovery of this treasure. We commissioned him to chronologically assemble them into albums for the purpose of sharing the family’s legacy with potential grandchildren. He bought into the idea and focused his efforts on the task ahead.

Julia and I kept up our promise to carry out our wellness checks of him.Our athair was doing well! In fact, he seemed to prosper in his health and overall attitude. When I would visit, he was all smiles, relaxed, and eager to share some of his photographical discoveries. Not to diminish his enthusiasm, I forced myself to listen to a few of his stories connected with the photos. Overall, he was doing quite well. That fact helped Julia and I feel more confident in what we were doing. Nonetheless, a nagging thought pestered me. What would happen when he was finished assembling his memories? I prayed that day would never come.

Weeks had passed and all was well. It was Julia’s week to visit athair. I was preparing to leave for the police academy when I received an urgent call from her. “Daidi’ has left with no note or clue to where he would be going. I have been here for five hours now,” she nervously sobbed. I hung up the phone and headed over to the cobblestone where Julia was sitting on the sofa crying. Tearfully she said, “It’s my fault. I should have talked to him the other day when I was here.” I asked, “Was he upset or anxious when you saw him?” She shook her head no. I began to pace the floor. I don’t understand. Where could he have gone? I decided to check his bedroom. Photos and albums were scattered all over on the floor and on his bed. Then I noticed by the window a photo torn into pieces and a second one crumpled up.

I unfurled the crumpled photo. It was my athair dressed in a priest’s cassock. I was mystified at seeing this. He never once said anything to Julia and me that he actually was in the seminary or a priest before he married. I wondered what the torn photo was so I quickly taped it together. I was flabbergasted to see that it was a picture of our Mamai’ in a wedding dress holding the hands of another man dressed in a tuxedo. Surprisingly, I saw our athair standing between the couple dressed as a priestly officiant. On the back of the torn photo it said, “(tha thu nad aon chàraid bheannaichte) You are one blessed couple.” I paused a moment thinking I don’t understand.

I went back to Julia. I quickly showed her both photos. She looked and then chuckled softly. She sighed saying, “If you ever listened to our athair and his stories, Daidi’, Mamai’ and their friend were setting up a ruse for a hearty laugh when they looked at the wedding pictures in the future. But maybe Daidi’ forgot? Maybe he went out searching for Mamai’? Could that explain the crumbled and torn photos? I don’t understand.”

I asked, “But that does not lead us to where he would have gone? I can only hope the local police station might be able to help us locate him. I highly doubt athair would seek any help from the local police.” Julia replied, “We have to try.” Together we drove over to the station. At the main desk we made some initial inquiries and were asked to wait because it was a shift change for the night desk. It had been ten hours since he disappeared from his home.Finally, the night sergeant addressed us.

He said, “One of the beat cops found this guy, your father, at Saint Patty’s cathedral walking around the grounds attempting to enter the priest’s rectory. The beat cop said your old man wanted to get into fisticuffs with one of the priests by the name of Father Mulcahey. Irish luck had it there was no Mulcahey living in the rectory. Fortunately for your father no charges were filed by the priests for breaking and entering.He was unruly to the arresting officer calling him a thief and a drunk. But the beat cop just smiled saying he gets it all the time from these old Irish guys who get hogtied by their wives about drinking, cavorting, and all the stuff Irish guys like to do. Since your old man has no record and clearly is as Irish as they come, I’ll let him go with a warning.”

And chuckling he added, “Maybe it’s time to send him back to the Irish mainland to retire with all the other Fearghus. By the way, let your father know the beat cop is as Irish as they come with a surname O’ Sullivan, and he has an impeccable record.

Our athair was released into our custody. Soon I graduated from a recruit officer to an NYPD police officer. My athair even attended the graduation ceremony.Now having medical benefits, I was able to secure a safe place for my athair in a senior home.

A little voice in my head (sounding like my Mamai’) reminded me: “Children, obey your parents because you belong to the Lord, for this is the right thing to do. “Honor your father and mother.” This is the first commandment with a promise: If you honor your father and mother, things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on the earth.” (Ephesians 6:1-3, New International Version)

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Author: Pete Gautchier

Acknowledgement: Reedsy.com prompts