Jackie Walsh

By Joe Mallon

JACKIE WALSH AND WILLIE REGAN SAT ON THE FRONT PORCH OF JACKIE’S HOUSE, as they tended to do every evening, weather permitting.  Technically, of course, it was Jackie’s daughter Siobhan’s house. But Jackie lived under its roof, so who’s to argue?

The house was a sturdy bungalow in the heart of Bridgeport, Chicago’s oldest Irish neighborhood. Solid brick, and a replica of the one next to it and the one after that.

Jackie pulled out his briar pipe, handmade by his da and presented to him the day he left Ireland, still a young man.

Willie leaned back in his chair. “A fine evening.”

Jackie took out his pouch. He drew a pinch of tobacco. The old man packed the pipe, as he’d done these many decades. He pressed the tobacco down with his thumb, followed by the strike of a match. Putting it to the bowl, he took gentle draws until a true light emerged. The pipe now aglow, he took an always pleasurable inhale, and held it for the briefest of moments before releasing a deep aromatic puff into the hot, humid night.

Jackie looked out onto Lowe, grimacing at the waves of heat shimmering off the blistering Chicago asphalt. “How can ye call an evening such as this a fine one? ”Tis sweltering, it is.”

Willie reached into his shirt pocket, removing a pack of smokes. He tamped down the pack on his opposite palm, three times, filters down. Though, whether from habit or desire to better pack the tobacco, it was difficult to say.

Willie patted his shirt and pants pockets. “Can ye spare a match?”

Without a word, Jackie reached into his own pocket, pulled out a packet of Lucky Strike matches and handed them to Willie.

Willie lit his cig. He took a long draw deep into his lungs, held it for the sparsest of moments, then exhaled through his mouth with an equal amount of force. “It’s a figure of speech, isn’t it? It’s August, for pity’s sake.”

A car drove down the street, too fast for Jackie’s liking, that awful modern music blasting into the night air. Jackie, leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed. His voice rising, he gave a backhanded wave. “Away with ye.”

“Ach. They’re just lads.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I’m talking to you and your ‘figure of speeches.’”

From the porch, the two men listened to the thundering bass of rumbling trucks on journeys north and south along the Dan Ryan Expressway. To the west, Halsted teased out the melodies of car horns beeping and tires squealing, a harsh cacophony of symphonic summer street noises.

They smoked their tobacco.

The soft glow of the streetlights blanketed the block in a bluish hue. Fireflies twinkled in the air, like tiny fairies. A full moon’s glow hanging over Bridgeport competed with the glaring lights of Comiskey Park for space in the thick nighttime air.

“Though you’re right, Willie. ‘Tis a good night. One must appreciate every one of ‘em. At our age, there’s few left.”

“Tis.”

Jackie eyed a plump raccoon waddle across the street, disappearing into the night. He wished St. Patrick could drive the little bastards out of Bridgeport the way he disposed of all snakes in Ireland.

Willie turned to Jackie. “And how are ye adjustin’ to livin’ with Siobhan?”

Jackie took a deep inhale and blew out the smoke before answering. “I’m adjustin’ quicker than I thought. Me having granddaughter Bridget by my side makes it all the easier.”

“How long’s it been?”

Jackie looked up at the moon. “Three years… next month.”

Willie lit another cig. “Aye. These things take time.”

“Daughter gave me no choice. ‘What if ye fall?’ she asked me. And tells me I’m over for dinner most nights anyway.”

Willie nodded. “Ah now, she scored a point on ye there, Jackie. On both matters.”

“Pffft.” Jackie rolled the pipe stem between his lips.

Both men gazed into the summer night, neither feeling the urge to speak.

Jackie took a draw on his pipe, paused, and released it. He watched the smoke curl its way into the nighttime air, into the stars.

His eyes softened.

“I miss her something terrible, Willie. Seven years next month she’ll be gone.”

Willie stared at the tip of his cigarette, the embers glowing. “Aye. Nellie was a sight to behold.”

“No man should have to bear his wife dying before him. God should not allow it.”

Willie flicked the ashes off his cig. “My Nora.  She says I couldn’t boil a pot of water on me own.”

“On Friday nights, the m’am and I would sit together on the couch and watch Jackie Gleason.  Her favorite.” He turned to Willie. “Those were grand evenings.”

Willie slapped Jackie on the knee. “Ah. Well. Now ye have Bridget. I can’t think of a finer granddaughter.”

Jackie gave up a wisp of a smile, then a laugh. “She’s discovered boys.”

Willie laughed as well. “She has the same black hair as her grandmother. And her dark skin.”

Silence engulfed the two men.

Jackie looked up at what few stars could be seen in the Chicago sky. “Do ye remember when we and the rest of the fellas ambushed the lorry of Black and Tans outside of Croom?”

Willie’s head snapped toward Jackie, slack-jawed. “Jesus, Jackie.”

Jackie’s face turned grim. “It was kill or be killed and ye know it. Ye almost died yerself.”

“We all agreed never to talk about it.”

Jackie took a long draw of his pipe. “We were different men then, ye can agree to that.”

“For Christ sake, change the fuckin’ subject.”

Jackie nodded. “I will. The past is the past. I don’t know why I raised it.”

Willie shook his head. “Ye can’t remember yer own name half the time but ye can remember blowin’ up a lorrie. Ye can remember shootin’ a lieutenant in the head.” He threw his smoke onto the lawn. “Fuck sake. Jesus.”

Jackie leaned back in his chair. “‘Tis a modern country now. I hear it’s as beautiful as ever.”

Willie squeezed the pack of Camels in his hand. He stared at the sidewalk in front of him, his eyes burning. Shaking, he removed a crushed cigarette from the pack. His trembling hands failed in their attempt to light it.

Willie dropped the unlit smoke on the porch and crushed it under an angry foot.

He turned to Jackie. “It’s stuck in me head now. What if someone heard us? What were ye thinkin,’ man?”

Jackie looked at him. “Bridget wants to see it.”

Willie gripped the arms of his chair. “You’ve not been talkin’ like this to others, have ye?”

Jackie held Willie’s green eyes with his own. “I’m old, Willie.”

“We’re the same feckin’ age.”

Jackie turned away. “I don’t want to forget.”

Willie leaned back in his chair, a deep sigh leaving his chest. “Talk about grander times, will ye? Ye could drive a man to drink.”

Jackie nodded. “Aye. I will if that’s what ye want.”

Willie forced a smile. “Good man.”

---

Jackie eyed a plump raccoon waddle across the street, disappearing into the night. He wished St. Patrick could drive the little bastards out of Bridgeport the way he disposed of all snakes in Ireland.

---

The matter being settled, both men returned to their respective habits. Willie lit his Camel. Jackie stuffed his pipe. The smell of tobacco, from cig and pipe soon drifted across the lawn of Jackie Reagan.

A moment in time passed. Willie closed his eyes and softly drew in the night air. “Peat moss. Remember the smell it of it? Burning in the fireplace?”

Jackie nodded. “I do. It’s all central heating now.”

Willie sighed. “Ah, well.  We’re too old to see it again.”

Jackie looked at him. “Would ye go home if ye could?”

Willie lit another Camel. He stared at the glow of it, his face stern. “There’s reasons we left. Reasons that kept us alive.”

“’Tis true. Still, a man can dream.”

Willie nodded. “I’ll admit sharing a pint at Degnan’s with the fellas would be a sight.”

Indeed, the ancient porch had never heard such discussions during the many evenings the two old men sat together.

A multicolored trail of a rocket ascended over Comiskey, followed by the crack of its explosion. A multitude of colors and explosions rocked the sky.

Willie smiled. “Well now. Looks like the game is over.”

Jackie looked wistfully at the nighttime show over Comiskey. “Nellie. She loved the fireworks, she did.”

Willie turned to his friend.

“You’re in a mood tonight, Jackie Walsh.”

Jackie reached down. Hidden behind a large pot of sparky-dwarf marigolds sat a bottle of Jameson’s and two glasses.

“Have a drink with me.”

“A drink?”

“Aye.”

Willie sat up in his chair. “I won’t say no.”

Jackie poured the whiskey. A goodly amount. Enough to burn a man’s throat on the way down.

He handed Willie a glass. “Sláinte.”

“Sláinte,” Willie replied.

The  men clinked glasses and threw back the whiskey.

Willie stared at Jackie. “There’s something you’re wanting to tell me.”

Jackie paused. With a single nod, he said, “I do.”

“Then pour a man another drink and get on with it.”

He poured the men each another. Both drank with dispatch.

Jackie stared at the empty glass.

“Have ye lost yer voice?”

Jackie leaned down and put the empty glass on the floor of the porch. He pursed his lips. A deep breath escaped him. “What I’m going to tell ye, Willie. It stays between you and me. Swear to it.”

“Jackie ye know it will. I’m not a man for swearing. But for you, yes. I’ll take the oath.”

“Nellie came to see me last night.”

“What, now?”said Willie.

“In the middle of the night.” Jackie squeezed the arms of his chair. “I felt a spirit enter the bedroom. Strong enough to wake me. And there she sat, in her rocking chair.”

“Jackie, t’was a dream.”

In the darkness, Jackie shifted in his chair. “T’was herself, I tell ye, in the flesh.”

“Ach, you’re talking nonsense.”

Jackie leaned into Willie. “Willie, she never died. She was taken by the faeries. For her beauty.”

“She was eighty-two years old. Aye, Nellie was beautiful, I’ll grant ye that. But not the beauty of her youth. Her beauty was different, wasn’t it?” He shifted in his chair. “Age didn’t change her beautiful soul. Her spirit. She’s dead and gone.” He blessed himself.

“No, Willie.” Jackie’s eyes stared out into the darkness. “She was young again. Her hair black. Her skin smooth and dark. She told me I had to come home. To rescue her from those feckless Sídhe.”

A shiver raced up Willie’s spine. “Jackie, she died of a stroke. We waked her in your living room. Her body was in the casket. The family was all there.” He put his hand on Jackie’s arm. “Ask Siobhan. Your friends. Bridget.”

Jackie’s eyes grew wide.  “No.  She was stolen.  T’was a faery, a changeling, posing as my Nellie.  Pretending to have the stroke.  Pretending to lay dead in the casket, while we… all of us… grieved.”

“Listen to yerself, man. There’s no such thing as faeries.”

“It’s her beauty they want.”

Jackie rocked back and forth, running his hand through his thin hair. They force her to dance and dance all day and night. She showed me her feet. Worn down to the bone. Her toes half the size. Soon she’ll have none at all.”

“Old myths full of shyte. Only the Tinkers tell them now, trying to scare children out of their lunch money. Christ in Heaven.”

Jackie shook his head. “I know the truth. I have only a month.”

Willie stood. “For God’s sake, one month for what?”

“Until she’s wedded to a faerie king. My Nellie, forced to marry a faerie king. If the faeries steal a beauty and she’s not found in seven years, she’s gone forever.” Jackie grabbed Willie’s hand. “Ye know it to be true.”

He lowered his voice. “Jackie, you’re mad.”

Jackie paused. “I’m going home.”

Willie cocked his head. “What are ye sayin’?”

Jackie’s eyes glowed. “I won’t lose her again.”

“You are home. Ye have Siobhan. And Bridget. Ye have a beautiful family.”

Jackie shook his head. “I’m going home.”

Willie blinked his eyes, his mouth curling open. “Are ye sayin’ what I think yer sayin’?”

Jackie gave him the slightest of nods. “The Lord will take me to Nellie tonight.”

“Ye can’t know that.” A tear formed in Willie’s eye.

“Take care of Bridget for me. She has no father, only me. You’re family to us all.”

Willie’s voice raised a pitch. “That’s reason enough to stay.”

A soothing smile crossed his lips. “It’s my time.”

“Ah, God, Jackie.” Willie saw it in his eyes. Jackie saw Death coming.

Jackie picked up the bottle again. “Will ye join me in one more drink?”

“Jackie, please.”

“Will ye?”

Willie could only nod, the tears flowing.

Jackie poured the drinks, then held up his glass. “Sláinte.”

Willie’s voice broke. “Sláinte.”