On the afternon of his debut, Ronan’s aura of anxiety was palpable as we walked toward the coffee shop.
The week before, when we’d gone to listen, I was pleased to discover that it was the very place I thought it might be, but sad to see that the counter man I’d enjoyed bantering with was indeed the man Ronan had described. Sometime between now and the last time I’d gone there for coffee—could it possibly have been as long as two or three years?—he had been seriously ill. Given how well he maneuvered his wheelchair through the crowded room, he’d been using it for quite some time. Still, he was as cheerful and lively as he’d ever been, and Ronan hadn’t exaggerated when he said the man could play the paint off the walls. He could sing, too. Though his voice sounded rough-edged and weathered, his phrasing and delivery were superb, and reminded me of Shane MacGowan: a good-natured, sober version, with a light brogue and his front teeth intact.
He’d remembered Ronan from their previous meeting, and greeted us both warmly, with a firm handshake. “Liam O’Malley!” he exclaimed. “I’m delighted that you found your way back! And you’ve brought a friend.” One eyebrow quirked upward as he smiled at me and grasped my hand.
“Yes, my anam cara, Sarah LeJeune.”
The smile expanded into a grin, revealing a gold-capped eyetooth. “Your anam cara, eh? Well! I’m Sean Phelan. A warm welcome to both of you. Settle in, and one of the fellas’ll be by to take your order.”
Ronan wouldn’t tell me what an anam cara was, but after the music started I forgot he’d ever uttered the phrase. What a charismatic performer Sean was! He had everyone in the palm of his hand from the start. What sparks might fly when Ronan was able to join him?
Now the day had finally come, but Ronan wasn’t exactly setting the world aflame with his enthusiasm. The closer we got to the coffee shop, the slower his steps became, and I knew he was worrying about his wrist: that it might well fail him long before the seisiún ended. He’d been giving it a good workout every day, and it was holding up well enough for moderate practice, but not for much else. When he wasn’t playing guitar or doing strengthening exercises, he wore a brace. Now, I could see, his right hand held the handle of the guitar case in a white-knuckled grip.
“I’m going to be awful tonight,” he muttered. “They’re all going to wish I hadn’t come.”
“They won’t wish any such thing, Ronan. You’ll be fine.”
A light frown creased his brow as he turned towards me. “Well, maybe I will be, but remember, you mustn’t call me Ronan tonight.”
“Sorry. Liam.” I shook my head. “It seems so strange to call you that now.”
“It wasn’t always strange.”
“No.” We walked along in silence for a little while. “You’re nervous.”
“Yes, a bit. I wish I was in better shape.”
“You sounded good to me when you were practicing this week.”
“Well, even I’ll admit my playing was—acceptable—but it certainly wasn’t up to my usual standard. I know things will improve as my wrist gets stronger, but that doesn’t help me now. And I’ve got to prove to Sean that I’m not just some hack.”
“He knows about your wrist, so I doubt he’ll judge you harshly. Just let be what will be.”
“Thank you. That’s good advice. Now, if I can only take it to heart.”
“You’ll be fine,” I said again, and put my hand on his shoulder.
He stopped walking and turned to face me, his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Just this.” I put my arms around him and planted a kiss on his lips. “I love you, and I have every confidence that this seisiún will be a wonderful experience.”
“I hope so,” he said, and we continued walking.
A few minutes later, we came to the door of Mary’s Place. I pulled it open and held it for him. Ronan hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and was suddenly transformed. His old stage presence was firmly in place as he drew himself up to full height, tossed his hair back, and strode inside.
I followed in his wake.
There were already quite a few people setting up, and Sean was seated stage left in his wheelchair, a twelve-string acoustic guitar cradled in his arms. He was plucking the strings gently, eyes closed, listening carefully to the tuning. At last, he opened his eyes and looked up, and smiled broadly. “Liam!” he called. “Hey, man, I’m glad to see you! How’s your wrist?”
“Better. See?” He displayed his left arm. “I’ve got to wear this thing when I’m not playing, but I’m almost back to normal.”
“Great! Do you need to borrow a—oh! You’ve brought your own.”
Ronan nodded. He set the case down on a table and took off his brace, then opened the latches and lifted the lid.
I gasped in surprise. “Liam, that’s not my guitar. What—?”
“Call me a creature of habit if you will, but I couldn’t get comfortable with that instrument, nice as it was. I needed something more—familiar.”
“Yes, but—a Martin?”
“Why not?” He smiled. “I got a fantastic deal on it.”
He rolled up his shirtsleeves and plucked the guitar from the case, then took a seat beside Sean. Once they had settled the tuning, Liam played a few simple arpeggios to warm up, the right hand fingers dancing lightly among the strings. The left hand fingers were slower to respond, and he was clearly displeased. Then he appeared to relax, as if he had finally realized that, even at his own imagined “worst,” no one present was likely to notice. The other musicians would be too intent on their own parts, leaving him utterly free to be Liam O’Malley, with no obligation to uphold Ronan O’Farrell’s reputation.
The seisiún was a lively one, and the music delightful. Sean and Ronan began by challenging each other, and in just a short time, they forged that intuitive link true artists are compelled to seek, one knowing through some visceral impulse exactly what the other would do a split second before it was done. The other musicians, though not so accomplished as Sean and Ronan, quickly recognized that they had become part of something truly extraordinary, and reverently followed wherever the two chose to lead.
As the afternoon wore on, I realized that Sean was studying Ronan closely as they played, a serious expression on his good-natured face. I wondered if Ronan was aware, and soon decided he wasn’t. He was far too preoccupied with the challenges Sean presented, and having a wonderful time.
It was over all too soon, and I was sorry for that. Ronan in his true element was indeed a sight to behold.
He was smiling broadly, talking to the other participants as he packed up his guitar and strapped on his brace. Finally, he joined me at my table and accepted the mug of tea I’d bought for him.
“Thank you, a ghrá. I’ve worked up quite a thirst.”
“I’m sure you have. It was nice to hear you sing again.”
“I probably shouldn’t have. I’ve a rather distinctive timbre, and it could be recognized—”
“Oh, I hardly think so,” I assured him, even as I thought of the way Sean had been studying him. “You weren’t exactly known for your folk and trad work, much as you might wish you had been.”
“That’s true,” he agreed, and sighed. “It’s what I like best now, though. A new direction and a new me.”
“Change never hurt anyone,” a voice interjected. “Mind if I join you?”
Ronan and I looked up, startled. Sean had wheeled himself to our table and was smiling expectantly.
“Not at all,” Ronan answered, and shifted his own chair to make room. “May I get you a drink?”
“Ah, no. Mary’ll bring me a cappuccino once the crowd’s thinned out.”
“Would you like some of my tay in the meantime?” Ronan offered. “You sang even more than I did, and Lord knows I’m dry.”
“Thanks.” Sean took Ronan’s mug and sipped. “That’s better!” His smile broadened as he handed the mug back to Ronan. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you both came by today. This was a particularly good seisiún, one of the best we’ve had yet since I’ve been able to get back into playing.”
“Get back into playing?” Ronan echoed, one eyebrow arching up slightly.
“Yeah. I’ve only been able to start up again in the last six months or so. I’ve been very ill in the last two years—cancer—and it took me a long time to feel like myself again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You’re better now, though?”
“Much. The doctors even say I’m finally clear of it, but—” He touched the rim of one wheel and frowned slightly. “Unfortunately, it’s wreaked havoc on me. No matter how hard I work at my therapy sessions, I don’t seem to get any stronger. I can walk around the house a bit, with crutches, but that’s about it. Looks like the chair’s a permanent fixture, and I’m not accepting that with good grace.”
“I think anyone would have a hard time with that. Are you able to work in spite of it?”
“Yeah, though not at the things I used to do. I was the head cook and counterperson here, y’know, before I got sick. Mary and I used to run this place together. She still keeps active in the business, but it’s my nephew, Michael, the fella with the dark hair and the ponytail, who does my job now. Mary hired the other fella, Dennis, to cover for her while I was at my worst and needed her care. He’s a promising gutarist, and I coach him now and then. Aside from him, I have a few students who are somewhat less promising, and the seisiúns keep me busy, of course, as do my wife and son. I also run a studio.”
Ronan’s whole expression brightened visibly. “Not a recording studio?” he asked, sounding as if he hardly dared to hope.
“Yeah, sort of. I got into producing a few months ago, to help a friend of mine with an album he’d just recorded. Turned out that I really enjoyed the work, and with my wife’s help, I was able to set up my business. I wish I had more clients, but that will come in time, and until then I can work on my own songs.”
“You’re doing an album?” I interjected, tired of being a third wheel.
He turned towards me. “Well, not exactly,” he replied, and as he continued speaking, he looked back and forth between the two of us, doing his best to include me.
I couldn’t say the same for Ronan. He was so intensely focused on what Sean had to say, I felt as if I didn’t exist. Over time I would learn that this was just the way he was when it came to music. Nothing else did exist: not people, nor environment, nor physical need. That kind of tunnel-vision had undermined him once, and I fervently hoped it would not do so again.
“I’ve laid down a few basic tracks,” Sean was explaining, “but it’s just me and my guitar. I don’t know how far I want to go with it, especially since there’s no way I could support it with a tour. My wife is convinced I could do well with it locally, but she’s more than a little biased, and I’m not as convinced as she is. This is a sad era in music, when good looks and hype matter more than actual talent.”
“You have that in spades,” Ronan said, smiling.
“What, talent?”
Ronan nodded.
“Well, thank you! But as far as my looks go—” He shrugged dispassionately. “I don’t think anyone in the business would get too excited about promoting a man like me, especially when I have no interest in selling myself to a niche market. I just want to be myself and do what I do.”
“I know how that is.” Ronan sighed. “What sort of niche market?”
Sean made a wry face. “Oh, well, y’know, if I wanted to, I could set myself up very nicely as a poster child for disabled cancer survivors. I could be a real inspiration,” he said, his words dripping sarcasm and saccharine.
“Ouch!” Ronan remarked, wincing. “In your place, I wouldn’t want that, either. Don’t sell yourself short if you can possibly avoid it. Go ahead and make your album. You never know what might come of it. If this is your dream and you’re able to follow it, then for God’s sake, follow it. You deserve to be heard.”
“You really think so, eh?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say so. I’m not one to offer idle praise.”
“Well, thanks! That means a lot coming from someone who plays like you do. I’ll think about the project seriously, but—I’ll need other musicians to support it, and so far I haven’t had much luck finding anyone who meets my criteria. There are a few I’d give my eyeteeth to have, but—” He shook his head. “Even if it were possible to ask, I’d never have the nerve.”
Ronan leaned towards him. “Who did you have in mind?”
“Two, but it’s too late. They’ve crossed over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dead,” Sean said, with regret. “One because I knew him personally and loved him, but the other—well, I had his albums, but was never fortunate enough to see him play. I’m guessing you must know of him. Your playing bears a resemblance—”
“Who?” Ronan repeated.
Sean brightened suddenly. “Say, I could play you one of his albums, if you and Sarah would like to come up and have a drink with us. Can you stay?”
Ronan appealed to me. “Could we, Sarah?”
“It’s fine with me. Mary won’t mind?”
“I’ll go ask her. Sit tight, will you?”
He wheeled away from the table and disappeared behind the counter.
“I told you he’d know,” Ronan said, finally acknowledging my presence.
I was a little miffed, and couldn’t resist digging at him a bit. “He might not be talking about you. You aren’t the only guitarist in the universe, after all.”
“Well, now, I know that! But you heard what he said about my playing bearing a resemblance—”
“But he could be talking about someone else,” I persisted, still annoyed enough to want to bring him down a few pegs. “Rory Gallagher, perhaps. Toured his ass off over here God knows how many times, but still never gained a large enough following to become a household name.”
“True enough,” Ronan agreed calmly. “He was a good man, though, and a brilliant musician. I was quite fond of his acoustic work, and—well, I couldn’t begin to touch what he could do with a blues line.”
Hearing him admit that, my heart softened a bit. “Yes, you could,” I told him, remembering. “That last night I heard you play, you surpassed him.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, but I can’t remember much about the music I played that night. All I remember is feeling ill and broken-hearted. Your kindness was the only thing that saved me from throwing myself into the nearest river afterwards.”
My heart melted. “You never told me that before.”
“I didn’t want you to know, but—it’s true. I knew people were walking out on the show. I saw how few were left by the end, and I’d just about decided I couldn’t go on like that anymore. Then I saw you standing at my feet, looking up at me with such sadness and joy at war in your eyes, and then you were outside the door waiting when the show was over. I wanted to tell you right then and there how much that meant to me, but I was too shy, and you had that boyfriend with you, so I just asked if you could walk me to my hotel. I basked in the light of your compassion, and it took away some of the ache in my soul and saved me. I never forgot.”
Now I really felt guilty for being annoyed with him! While it was true that he had tunnel-vision when it came to music, he also had it when it came to me, and sometimes his eloquence still caught me completely off-guard. He had told Sean he was not one to offer idle praise, and I knew he was not one to offer idle flattery, either. If he said something, he meant it. I felt completely at a loss for words, so I simply reached for his hand and held it, smiling at him across the table.
He smiled back, and I knew that his eyes, though hidden behind his dark glasses, were locked on mine. “I do love you, à chuisle, and don’t you go forgetting it. I know it might not always seem so, when I get distracted by other things, but—”
Just then Sean reappeared. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mary says to come on up with me, and she’ll join us as soon as she can. She just has to talk to Mike and Dennis about closing up shop. Not that they don’t know what they’re doing, but she likes to be sure. Even when I worked the counter, she was that particular, and I had a lot more experience than Mike and Dennis.” Sean smiled. “If you’d like to follow me?”
We went through the back door and into a hallway, straight down to the end where there was a wide staircase. Sean transferred himself from his wheelchair to a lift chair and rode up while we walked beside him. The rails carrying the chair wound around two corners and up two flights of stairs before Sean stopped it. The rails appeared to continue up another flight.
“My studio is up there,” he explained, when he saw me looking at them. “It looks like I’ll never be able to do stairs again, so we had this thing put in. An elevator would have been too difficult and too expensive.”
“This is a pretty clever device,” Ronan observed.
“It really is. I like that it makes it possible for me to keep living in this building, because at first we thought we might have to sell out and go live somewhere else. But I’m a city man. I love a good, long vacation in the country as much as anyone, but I wouldn’t want to live there permanently.” He took a pair of forearm crutches from the umbrella stand on the landing, hauled himself up from the lift chair, and in a few short, awkward steps arrived at the apartment door and opened it. “After you,” he said. “I’m slow, so be comfortable and don’t let me hold you up. Living room’s right in front of you. And Liam, do have a look at my record collection, eh?”
“Thanks, I will.”
I sat down on the sofa while Ronan went to examine the collection and the stereo system. Sean followed slowly and moved to stand near Ronan. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Impressive,” Ronan answered, without looking up.
“Do me a favor, will you? Everything’s in alphabetical order. Go through and find O’Farrell. Ronan O’Farrell. There should be ten or so albums on the shelf. I have everything the man ever put down.”
“Thirteen, actually,” Ronan corrected him.
“So, you’re a fan, too. When I heard you play, I figured you had to be.”
Ronan straightened and turned to face Sean, then took off his sunglasses. “Well, I don’t know,” he purred, thoroughly enjoying the moment. “What do you think, Sean?”
Sean stared, his myopic eyes widening behind his wire-frame glasses, and drew his breath in sharply. Even with the neat beard and mustache he’d grown to disguise himself, there was no mistaking Ronan’s identity once he’d chosen to reveal it. “Jaysus, God! But you’re—”
“Dead?”
“Yeah.”
Ronan laid his hand on Sean’s arm, and the poor man looked like he would keel over in a faint any second. “Does that feel dead to you, man?”
“No!” Sean exclaimed, color gradually returning to his face as he spoke. “But you had pneumonia, and—and I saw pictures from your funeral—a coffin, pallbearers, the cemetery, the whole lot!”
“Oh, I had pneumonia, all right. It nearly killed me, and it took me a long time to get well again, but you see, I did recover. That funeral was a sham, a cara. Sealed coffin, no wake—and did you ever hear of an Irish Catholic who wasn’t waked? I suggested that a wax dummy could stand in for me, since that’s what most corpses look like, anyway, but no one else thought that was a brilliant idea. There was only a simple funeral Mass, and my family buried a coffin filled with my weight in stones, and slapped my name on a headstone. My sister tells me that fans come and visit the grave in the summer months, and now there’s quite a collection of little trinkets and notes and other remembrances. Sometimes that makes me feel a bit guilty, but beyond that—” He shrugged. “Well, I’m free now, as I needed to be, and life is good. Sit down, Sean, and I’ll you all about it.”
