The Phelans’ cozy living room now had a large television centered on one wall, and the sofa had been arranged to face it.
“That’s new,” Ronan observed. “I didn’t know the two of you were much into watching television.”
“We aren’t, but we do like to rent movies,” Mary explained. “It’s hard for Sean to sit for hours without getting up and having a stretch, so we almost never set foot in a theatre. At home, we can pause the program any time and not miss anything. We’ve been doing that for ages, but our old TV finally gave up the ghost a couple of weeks ago. Sean and I thought it made sense to upgrade to a larger screen, and this model was a nice compromise. Not too small or too large. Just the right fit for us.”
“Well, that’s sensible,” Ronan agreed. “Sarah and I like to watch movies that way, too, but beyond that, television is a vast wasteland.”
“I promise you,” Sean interjected, “what you’re about to see won’t fall into that category. Or so I devoutly hope. My memory of how good this was might be a bit hazy.”
“What is it, Sean?” Mary asked.
“Sit down on the sofa, all of you, and you’ll see.”
So we sat, and Sean fiddled with the TV and the DVD player, and the screen came to life. First there was crowd noise, and a long shot of the backs of people’s heads, and then the camera swerved dizzily to focus on a figure standing on a darkened stage. “Let’s have a big hand for the Gods of Guinness!” someone shouted, and the stage was suddenly, vividly illuminated, and an orange spotlight singled out a tall, striking figure with long, flaming red hair. He was dressed entirely in black leather, and on his feet he wore a pair of platform boots that made him look not just tall, but menacing, and he wielded a black Stratocaster emblazoned with yellow and orange tongues of fire.
Mary’s jaw dropped. “Sean—a video of the Gods? Really?”
He grinned and sat down in the rocking chair next to the sofa. “I’ve never seen it before, myself. Ought to be good for a few laughs, eh?”
No one replied.
There was nothing funny about it as the guitarist slashed into a ferocious cover of the old Savoy Brown song, ‘Double Lover’. He sounded like a force to be reckoned with, and just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any better, the young man strode forward to the microphone and began to sing. The minute he raised his head and locked eyes with his audience, I knew who he was. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen at the time, but there was no mistaking it: Sean Phelan. His lead breaks went on and on with endless variations, and I noticed that even Ronan was holding his breath, utterly riveted to the performance.
Savoy Brown’s original cut of the song was maybe five or six minutes long, but Sean’s version lasted a good fifteen minutes.
It was exhausting to watch. Sean was all over the stage when he wasn’t singing, and sometimes off it, in the middle of the audience, towering over everyone thanks to those outrageous boots. His hair floated like a veil, and in a rare moment when he stood still for a split-second, I saw that the rippling auburn cascade really did fall well past his waist.
When the song finally ended, Sean muted the volume. “There’s more,” he said. “It’s coming back to me now. That was quite a gig.”
“Jaysus!” Ronan muttered. “I’ll say! How in hell did you walk in those boots?”
“Dunno. Guess I just got used to them, wearing them all the time like I did. D’you know, I stood six-foot-seven in those things?”
“Yowza!” Mary remarked. “Glad I didn’t know you then. Can you imagine how ridiculous we would have looked together, with the top of my head level with your balls?”
“You’re not that short, Mair. The top of your head would surely have reached my navel.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and swatted his shoulder.
“What next?” Ronan inquired. “I’m waiting with bated breath, and guessing it must be ‘Stairway to Heaven’.”
Sean laughed. “No, not quite. I think it’s probably ‘Green Manalishi’.”
“Good God Almighty!” Ronan exclaimed. “I had no idea you played metal back in the day.”
“I had to if I wanted a gig, but I tried to incorporate as much blues and Celtic influence as I could.”
“Yes, I heard that. Turn the sound back up. The music’s starting again.”
Sean’s memory was correct.
“Rob Halford, eat your heart out,” he remarked cheerfully.
Ronan frowned. “Sean, you do realize, I hope, that this song was originally Fleetwood Mac’s, not Judas Priest’s?”
“I confess, I didn’t know that back then, but it wasn’t too long afterwards that I learned, and changed my interpretation accordingly.”
“Good!” Ronan approved, his eyes focused intently on the screen.
This time it was a ten-minute extravaganza.
Halfway through, Mary burst out laughing. “Nice guitargasm, Phelan. I had no idea it was possible to boff a Strat.”
“Very funny, Mair,” he retorted, with mock hauteur. “I’ll have you know there’s an art to making feigned orgasmic ecstasy look that realistic.”
“Jaysus, God!” Ronan shook his head. “If that’s an art, then let’s hope it’s not long before it becomes a lost art!”
“When was the last time you saw a video of yourself playing a lead break?” Sean challenged. “You were pretty damn good at making faces yourself.”
“Not intentionally. Augh! Sean, if you didn’t have a guitar in hand, I’d swear you were chokin’ the proverbial chicken!”
“Yeah,” Sean agreed. “It would have done wonders for my stage presence if I could have seen this video within a week after the gig.”
He fell silent as we all continued to watch his youthful self strutting and posturing. During one especially complex solo, I saw him wince and shake his head. The song finally ground to a conclusion, and I was glad of it. The Savoy Brown song had been excellent, but ‘Green Manalishi’ was far too flashy for my likes.
“Well, that was—something else,” Ronan said, rather flatly.
I could tell from his tone of voice that he didn’t intend for his remark to be taken as a compliment.
Sean understood, and laughed as he turned the volume back up. “And now, if I recall, it just gets silly.”
“Holy shite! What the feck is this?” Ronan demanded, no longer attempting to be tactful.
Sean chuckled and shrugged. “Like I said, I had to do stuff like this to get a gig. The crowd ate it up, and I have to admit I had some fun with it. I mean, who wouldn’t, with lines like, ‘and I command you to kneel’?” He growled out the quote in a deep, threatrical voice.
Mary was gurgling with laughter. “Sean,” she gasped. “Really! ‘God of Thunder’?”
“I know, I know. Not one of my more sublime performances, but it is fun to watch, don’t you think?”
“Och, but a strange kind of fun, aye? Sean Phelan writhing his way to musical whoredom,” Ronan interjected drily. “Shameless, weren’t you?”
“Hey, I was sixteen. What can I say?”
Ronan snorted, trying to disguise the fact that he found it all rather amusing.
When the song ended, Sean turned off the television.
“Phelan, don’t be a spoilsport,” Mary chided. “I’d like to see the rest of it.”
“Alas and alack, there is no rest of it. This came courtesy of a rich kid in my high school class who had a Beta-max and a video camera back in the day. Eddie ran into him awhile back and found out he still had the tape. The rich kid is now a rich man who has more gadgets than he knows what to do with, and he converted the old video to DVD as a favor to Eddie. And of course, Eddie made a copy for me.”
“Who’s Eddie?” Ronan asked.
“He played bass for the Gods,” Sean explained.
“Ah, the fella with the ‘look at me, I can play with my feet in two different continents at once’ stance,” Ronan quipped. “A fan of Phil Lynott, I suppose?”
“But of course,” Sean replied. “We all loved Thin Lizzy.”
“They were a good band. I like some of their work, myself. But Sean—a cara—the playing’s not bad on your video, but your stage antics—!” He shook his head. “God Almighty! It makes me think of Nigel in ‘Spinal Tap’. Did you never perform ‘Lick My Love Pump’ or ‘Big Bottom’?”
“No. Wish I’d thought of it, though,” Sean admitted. “We also never attempted anything having to do with Stonehenge. But it’s fun for me to watch and hear, anyway, no matter how corny and dated it seems now. This is the only document I have of that era, apart from some pictures that same rich kid took before he got the Beta-max rig. Those shots were good enough to have been album covers, if I had chosen to go that far with the Gods.”
“I’m glad you didn’t go that far with them,” Ronan declared. “Performances like that would be hard for a serious musician to live down.”
“Oh, Ronan, don’t be such a snob,” I scolded.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘purist’,” he said stiffly. “Sean, is there something else of yours you can play that’s more tasteful?”
“All I have is that one solo CD, and that you’ve already heard.”
“Indeed. Well, put on something you like, then, and shouldn’t we all be thinking about dessert now?”
“I think I have room,” Mary said. “How about you, Sarah?”
“Yes, I’m about ready, too.” I patted Ronan’s knee. “Come on, hon. I’m dying to try your bread.”
“Me, too,” Sean agreed. “You say it’s an authentic Aran recipe?”
Ronan shrugged. “Well, it may have other origins, for all I know. ’Twas me Mam’s recipe, and she made it three times a year: Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost. Truth to tell, I forgot about it completely after she died. Lord, it’s hard to believe that’s ten years ago! But I’ve had so much time to reflect on the past lately, and many old memories have come swimming to the surface.” He smiled wistfully. “Just the scent of that bread baking took me back to a time when the simplest of things was still magical, and I realized that I miss Mam, and my family, and my childhood home.” His voice trailed off. “I’m sorry,” he continued, after a moment. “That’s not to say I don’t love and appreciate all of you, but sometimes I have a great longing for those times when life was less complicated.”
“Don’t we all?” Sean replied, frowning a bit as he steadied himself on his crutches. “Well, we can eat, drink, and try to be merry, at any rate. Mary, would you make some coffee?”
“Sure. Decaf all ’round?”
“Please,” Ronan agreed. “Sarah might well strangle me if I drink high-test at this hour.”
“I wouldn’t strangle you, but I might have to gag you.”
He raised his eyebrows comically and leered at me. “Ooh, promises, promises!”
“Augh!” Sean exclaimed. “TMI! TMI!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sean!” I scolded. “Get your mind out of the gutter! We’ve never—honestly, Ronan!” I could feel myself blushing.
“Developing more of a sense of humor should be one of your New Year’s resolutions, a chuisle.”
I sat beside him at the table. “There’s nothing wrong with my sense of humor, and you know it. I just don’t like having you imply that we’re—”
“Kinky?” he suggested. “Isn’t everyone, at least a bit?”
“Idiosyncratic is probably a better word for it,” Sean offered. “And what is normal, anyway? I mean, there are definitely some practices I wouldn’t care to experience, myself, but there are endless variations of a good, honest fuck, and every couple has their own ways, and their own quirks. There’s no shame in that.”
“No,” Mary agreed, as she measured out the coffee. “I love you, Phelan.”
He leaned close to her. “Love you, too, a mhuirnín,” he replied.
Judging from the way she squealed and writhed away from him, he had done something she found sexy. “Later, Phelan!” she barked.
Sean just laughed and took his place at the table. “Where’s that bread of yours gotten to, Ronan?”
He pushed the platter across the table. “Take the foil off, if you don’t mind.”
Sean peeled it back. “Wow, this looks fantastic! What do you put on it?”
“Butter, usually. Cream cheese might be nice, too. Depends on what you prefer. As for myself, I’d like butter.”
Sean nudged the butter dish towards him.
“Thanks, a cara.” Ronan took a slice of bread and set it on his plate. Buttering it took longer than it would have if could have used both hands, but he managed and didn’t complain.
Mary set out a pitcher of cream, and another pie.
“What kind is that?” Ronan asked.
“Sean’s specialty,” Mary declared proudly. “Green tomato mincemeat. He makes up a big kettle of it in the Fall, and we pack it up in jars so we can enjoy it throughout the winter.”
“There’s always a surplus, though,” Sean told us, and set a jar in front of me. “Just throw that in a pie crust and bake it at three-fifty for an hour, and you’ll have a nice dessert. Add some good vanilla ice cream to each serving, and it’s even better.”
“Thank you, Sean. Ronan and I will enjoy it.” I smiled at him, knowing well that he adhered strictly to the old peasant ethic: if you love someone, you feed them the best you have to offer.
Mary served steaming mugs of coffee all around, and sat down beside Sean.
“Slainté,” he said, raising his mug.
“Slainté,” Ronan replied, and sipped.
We were slipping quickly into the wee hours of the morning, and conversation trailed off as fatigue took its toll.
“I hope that old video didn’t upset you guys,” Sean said suddenly.
“Of course not, a cara,” Ronan answered gently. “I think every musician has a youthful phase he’s embarrassed by later in life. I’d remember my own if it had ever been documented.”
“True enough,” Sean sighed. “But I have to confess, it upset me to watch it. Not because of the music, but—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“What is it, a cara?”
“Mind, I don’t indulge in self-pity too often anymore, but—watching myself move like that—I can’t even remember what that feels like.”
Mary put her arm around him.
Ronan leaned forward and tried to catch his eye. “Sean, it’s perfectly right and natural for you to mourn for what you’ve lost.”
“I know, but I wish I could just get past it and move on.” He took off his glasses and laid them on the table with a trembling hand, and leaned against Mary’s shoulder. “The last five years have been hell, Ronan. Sure, there have been some good times, but I have too many nasty souvenirs from the bad times, and I’ll carry them to the bitter end. I didn’t realize how angry it’s made me until I watched that video. No one can fix it for me. I just have to work through it one day at a time.”
Ronan’s eyes flicked down to his left arm. “I know what you mean. We’ll travel that road together, a bhráthair.”
“For your sake, I hope not,” Sean said. “It would be enough if you walked with me, with no burden of your own to bear.”
“If it’s meant to be that way, then it will be. Only time will tell now.”
“At least you have hope that time will tell you something better than what it’s told me.”
“You’re alive, Sean,” Ronan reminded him. “Your life may not be exactly what you hoped and dreamed it would be, but you have a lot to be thankful for.”
As if to confirm Ronan’s words of encouragement, Rory’s hungry cry came through Mary’s walkie-talkie loud and clear. She got up and left the room abruptly.
Sean folded his arms on the table-top, rested his head on them, and wept.
Ronan got up and moved to stand behind Sean’s chair, and gently rubbed his shoulders. “There’s one of your many blessings, Sean. Your son. Your miracle child.”
“Yes,” he gasped, and hiccupped. He raised his tear-streaked face. “Ronan, I’m afraid he’ll hate me someday, because I won’t be like his friends’ fathers. Physically, I just won’t be able to do as much as a healthy, younger man.”
“You’ll be able to do anything you put your mind to. You have the will, and you’ll find the way.”
“And if he’s into sports? Then what?”
“If you want to be a coach, there’s no reason you can’t. Lack of knowledge regarding a game and its rules is more likely to be a hindrance than your wheelchair. And if you just want to go to his games and cheer him on, that’s even easier. I doubt your dependence on crutches or a wheelchair will faze him in the least. Your disability in no way affects the power of the love you give.”
“I hope you’re right,” Sean sighed, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket to dry his eyes.
Mary returned, carrrying Rory, and settled in beside Sean, bared her breast, and offered it to the child.
Ronan watched for a few moments, smiling, then resumed his place beside me. “I’m envious of what you have, Sean. I always wanted a family of my own, y’know, but time passed me by too quickly and I missed my chance. Thank God it’s never too late for love! For years, it seemed the chance for that would bypass me as well. I met Sarah when I thought there wasn’t even the faintest glimmer of hope.” He smiled at me fondly and leaned over to nuzzle my cheek, then turned back to Sean. “We should be going now, a cara. It’s late, and I think we could all use some sleep.”
“Yeah,” Sean agreed. “I’m beyond tired now. I think I’ve hit total meltdown.” He started to rise from his chair. “I’ll see you out.”
“No need for that,” Ronan told him. “You just get yourself to bed and have good, long rest.”
Sean nodded, stifling a yawn. “Thanks, a cara. Don’t forget the harp. I expect to hear you play it at the next seisiún.”
“You don’t have unrealistic expectations, now, do you?”
Sean smiled. “For a musician of your caliber, it’ll be a piece of cake.”
“Time will tell.” Ronan patted his shoulder. “Slán agus beannacht leat, a cara.”
“Slán agus beannacht leat to you, too, Ronan.”
In the car on the way home, Ronan seemed subdued.
“Are you all right, hon?” I asked him, concerned.
“Well, my arm’s paining me a bit, but I’m more worried about Sean than anything. I think he shouldn’t watch that video again, and it’s nought to do with the music. He mustn’t focus on his losses, and that’s all he’ll do if he’s confronted with his youthful image again.”
“Indeed. A pity he wasted so much energy on the likes of Kiss and Judas Priest.”
“I did. He took that one off in directions I didn’t expect. He should have done more of that sort of thing.”
“He probably did. There’s just no video of it.”
“Aye.” Ronan sighed. “It is painful to see how dramatically his illness has changed him. I mean, I knew what he went through was rough, but I didn’t know what an intensely physical person he was before he got sick.”
“I didn’t know, either. I’d never have believed it if anyone told me, without seeing that video. He was extraordinarily beautiful, too. I bet the girls were all over him.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Ronan agreed. “Sarah, I don’t pity the man, but I do feel badly for him. He hasn’t come to terms with his disability yet.”
“That’s all right, so long as it leads him to fight against it with a will. I think that’ll be the way with him, but I worry about the moments when his will fails him and doubt creeps in.”
“I think so. Well, I’ll do what I can to make his next seisiún the best he’s ever had. Maybe that’ll help lift him up from the depths.”
“I know he’s depressed. I recognize the signs. He covers it well most of the time, but it doesn’t take much to break him. Poor man. Sometimes it’s an impossibly hard road.”
“Aye, there is that, Sarah. Thank God.”
“’Twas more than kind. He’s given me a way to get on with things. From a purely realistic standpoint, my arm’s been through too much trauma to ever be right again. I might yet play guitar someday, but I’ll never be as dexterous as I was before the injury. I have to accept it, because if I don’t accept it and come to terms with it, I’ll go off my head. So the gift of the harp isn’t just a kindness. ’Tis a key to my survival. A way to move on, and with any luck at all, I’ll be satisfied with it and not look back. Maybe I’ll explore medieval ballads, too, as Sean did, and they’ll appeal to me. Or maybe some other folk and traditional pieces. As long as I can still make music, I’ll adapt. A challenge will be good for me at this stage in my life.”
“Do you really believe that?” I asked gently, once I’d eased the car into my parking space and switched off the engine.
“Och, there’s the rub, Sarah. I don’t believe it, but maybe if I say it often enough, I’ll convince myself, and make a success of it.”
He leaned against me and I put my arms around him. “Whatever else happens, Ro, remember that you aren’t traveling a hard road alone, either.”
He kissed my cheek tenderly. “Yes, and I’m eternally grateful to you, Sarah. Someday when the time is right, I hope to show you with more than words. But for now—” His lips found mine and we kissed for a time. “I love you, a chuisle. Nollaig shona dhuit.”
“Oh. Happy Christmas to you, too, Ro.”
I locked the car, and we linked arms, walked around the corner to the front of the house, ascended the front stairs, and went inside, eager to fall into bed for a few hours of sleep.
