Page 12 of The Associate

He woke early, having dropped into sleep the second he laid his head on his pillow in his childhood room. After six hours and change, he felt refreshed and attributed it to Joe Spatafora’s expert touch and kisses. Conor tended to sleep well after sexual activity, which would explain past months of restlessness. If one could bottle the post-orgasmic sensation and sell it as a sleep aid, he’d buy it by the case.

Peering in on his parents, he watched Mona’s bowed head waver from side to side as she woke naturally. She drew in a sharp breath and turned to her husband with widened eyes. Conor presumed she feared Hugh was gone, but she murmured that she didn’t want to wake him. “I’ll get breakfast started then,” she said to Conor when she spotted him.

“No, mam. Stay.” Conor extended his hand and motioned for her to remain seated. “I’ll fix you anything you want. What should I, uh…” He watched his da’s chest rise and fall, his heart sinking at how Hugh had seemed to age further overnight. Pale to the point of near translucency, Hugh’s face appeared to melt. “Will he be able to eat?”

“His doctor suggested a special glucose drink with electrolytes. There’s a jug in the fridge. It’s rather thick, though, so maybe dilute it?” Mona asked. “And I don’t need anything elaborate.”

In the end, Conor prepared two bowls of Irish oats and cut up a few bananas. He brought in a tray with three spoons in case Hugh had the strength and appetite to try a few bites. Hugh, now awake, nibbled on a bit of both before deferring to the glass of sweet-smelling purple liquid Mona fed him through a bent straw. “I think Con can handle this while you freshen up,” he then said, assuring his wife with a wink. “I promise you, I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

Mona flicked her melancholy gaze at Conor, who took the glass from her hands. Of course vanity meant nothing to her right now, but it was heartwarming to see Hugh’s concern for his wife. Whatever happened in the next few days, Mona would have to put one foot before the other. After several seconds of tense banter, Mona capitulated but promised to express her morning routine. She backed out of the room, watching the bed as she exited.

“I figured you didn’t want your mother in the room when I asked if you got lucky last night.” Amid the pallor of pending death, a twinkle revived the cornflower hue of the old man’s eyes. “You went to that place down by the river, I take it?”

A mild burst of laughter escaped Conor’s lips. “JT’s, yes. Haven’t been there in years, it’s not changed much.”

Hugh shrugged his shoulders against the mattress. “It’s a second home to many, I suppose, as Lonnegan’s is to our friends,” he said. “I find people who visit a bar or a restaurant with regularity are reluctant to see change, even with the best of intentions. A few years ago some salesman came in during a busy shift and pitched one of those digital jukeboxes.” Hugh rolled his head side to side. “You should have heard everybody grousing, threatening to boycott if I had one installed.”

A digital jukebox would have gone unnoticed in JT’s for all the strobes and pounding disco music, but definitely an anomaly in a pub with authentic old world decor. Conor wanted his da to tell more about the pushy salesman, if only to hear him talk. For a man who hinted last night at giving up the ghost, Hugh seemed to improve. However, Hugh pressed for details of Conor’s adventures on the other side of the river.

“Not much to tell, really,” he said. Conor cradled his bowl of oatmeal in his left hand, stirring the banana slices so that the creamy mixture covered them. “A man bought me a beer and we spent most of the evening on the back deck talking. We didn’t get to dance.”

“You’re downplaying it, sounds like. A person can dance with anybody, but you’re talking about making a connection.” Hugh waved away the drink when offered it. “Is he Irish?”

“Sicilian.”

Hugh sighed. “Well, as long as he makes you happy—”

“Da, I barely know the man.” Conor spoke in a light voice, implying his father spoke nonsense, though the memory of Joe Spatafora’s urgent kisses and solid muscles jockeyed for prominence in his head. Happy? Well, his father’s health notwithstanding, he wasn’t miserable thinking about the man. He’d hold onto the image of their pleasant tumble in the back of his car to warm him on cold Dublin nights.

“I’m also not local anyway,” he added, wanting to drive the point home. He’d stay for as long as his parents, and eventually just his mam, needed him. He belonged in Dublin.

Hugh’s fallen smile expressed his acceptance. “Con, I mean no harm. I hate to see you alone.”

“I’m not unhappy being single, Da.”

“Yes, there’s no shame in enjoying your freedom, but I’d feel better shuffling off this mortal coil if I knew there was someone to look after you.”

“I have Mam.” Conor glanced toward the door. So much for that express wash and dress. Perhaps his mother had decided to make coffee. “I believe I look after myself rather well, too,” he added. “I have the both of you to thank for that.”

Hugh uttered an unintelligible syllable before launching into a coughing fit, alarming Conor. A water pitcher and cup sat on a nearby table, but Hugh refused a drink when presented with it. Conor’s mind raced with choices—call his mother back for instructions or go over her head and dial nine-one-one—when Hugh calmed down and wheezed out an apology for scaring him.

“False alarm. Just a tickle that turned bad,” he said, and looked around his bed. “They set up a panic button sort of thing with this bed. You push it and the paramedics come. Did you touch it?”

“I now learned that it exists,” Conor said. “Please have it out in the open for next time.” His heart raced. One thing to sit vigil for his dying father, but this moment reminded him that he wasn’t at all prepared for the inevitable. He drank the water Hugh had refused to settle his nerves.

“Everything all right in here?” Mona asked from the doorway, put together in fresh clothing and a touch of makeup.

“All good, love. Only a quick rehearsal.” Hugh’s tone was light. Gallows humor became him, Conor had to admit. Even he laughed. Mona, however, fixed her mouth in a serious moue.

“Patrick is here. He’s brought some paperwork.”

Four words sucked the thin veil of joy out of the room. Conor caught Hugh’s reaction and stood, as though to block his father from any ill threatening to enter. “Why don’t Mam and I take care of it?” he suggested, and nodded toward the television. “Want me to turn that on for you?”

Hugh declined, leaving Conor to suspect his father wanted quiet in order to eavesdrop. They left the door open wide and Conor followed Mona into the seldom-used dining room. Conor’s cousin Patrick Keagan from his mother’s side of the family—older than Conor by about ten years with brown hair thinning on top—sat at the head of the long oak table with several documents fanned before him. He wore a neat gray suit complete with the vest and a linen handkerchief poking out of the jacket’s breast pocket, a stark contrast to Conor’s faded jeans and black T-shirt.

Patrick looked up at their arrival and pushed his glasses back to the ridge of his nose. “Con, hello. How long’ve you been back?”

Conor shook his hand. While cousins, they weren’t close. The age gap prevented childhood bonding, and Patrick had spent his undergraduate and law school years out of state before returning home. Unlike other stateside family members, he spoke without a hint of accent. Conor noticed how Patrick winced when he answered, clearly not used to hearing a thicker brogue.

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