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Smilin' Bren In the days following, the meticulous and painful details of Aoife's passing are cleared up and settled. A woman like her was never meant to be interred in the ground, shut away from the sky. And so it was cremation, and a plane ticket bought for Cork. One way. After that, Brendan O'Casey simply dropped off the face of the earth for a while. Even his lads could only shrug and make conjectures as to his whereabouts. Nearly a week later he shows up at the E-Sixx, or wherever Cliona was likely to be found. For the first time in his life Smilin' Bren looks his age, well into his 20s, long past boyhood -- the infectious smile a wry ghost bordering on sardonic. Without it, his face becomes lean, taut, ever unlined, but drawn. Celtic cheekbones stark and high, the ice blue eyes cold as ever, haunted with ghosts, restless. He's cropped his sleek dark locks so short the shine is invisible. His eyes were always hard. Now the rest matches. He sits across the table with a prerequisite pint that he barely touches. He never did like the stuff, hated even more what it did to a man, especially in his weakest moments. A cigarette smokes on the ashtray, and occasionally between his long fingers, and occasionally between his even white teeth. "I'm leavin' t'morrow," he says on an exhale of smoke. "Takin' Aoife home t' her fam'ly, an' then home t' th' ocean. Most o' th' lads are comin' wit' me, but a few are stayin' on 'til Mac puts th' Claddagh back up. An' Handsome's stayin' on wit' Deirdre, as ye know, so maybe he c'n run wit' ye pathetic excuse o'va mob f'r a while." The smile ghosts over his lips; its charisma is somehow undiminished, as potent as a blow. His stark blue gaze glances away, never still for long. Some time passes. A few drags off the cigarette, his eyes narrowing. A sip of lager. His fingertips tap on the tabletop. A memory flits behind his eyes and the smile comes and goes. "Ye know, I used t' spy on 'er from th' tree outside her old house in Cork, until I figured out how t' undo th' locks with a touch. Then she caught me, an' I stole her belongin's to cover me arse. 'S f'r that, that she popped me one square on th' nose." He smokes quietly, leaned back, lanky and wiry thin. The moments slip by. The shadows of his bones can be seen through his skin, but the muscle that sheathes them is long, supple and hard. He puts out his first cigarette and lights another, his lean fingers doing their trick deftly, steady. "I want'ta thank ye, Cliona. Ye've been good t' Aoife. I have no' been fair t' her, but you were always there f'r her." A sheaf of ash collapses on the table. He lowers his hand and traces patterns in the grey until grey is blown away by a stray breeze, that steals away the smoke from the cigarette as well. "An' f'r me too," he adds. The level of her brew drops. When it gets to 1/4 he signals the waitress for a refill. His own stays where it was, barely an inch from the top, barely disturbed. Patrons come and go. Outside it's raining, steadily, a grey curtain pulled over the sun. "D' I e'er tell ye abou' the night at th' lake?" His eyes are distant, hooded, staring into the lights refracted through his glass. "She was like a fae thing. Fleet an' wild an' shyin' away. I swore her feet didn't make a sound. Th' boards underfoot... th' abandoned house." His hands move slightly, languidly, painting the image etched into his mind. "Th' second-floor balcony an' th' lake beyond. She wore a white shirt, fine cotton, th' sort ye c'n almos' see through when th' light is right, but not quite. When she took tha' off she wore black underneath, an' her skin so pale against'it. Black. I'll never f'rget that. "Th' moon couldn't have been past half tha' night, but she glowed when she dove in. Flashed like a fish when she surfaced. Th' firs' time I kissed her mouth was underwater. Her hair all aroun' us. Th' light o' the moon refracted through it. Through th' water. In her eyes. Everythin' silent an' weightless. Silent an' weightless." For a long time afterwards, he smokes silently. A second, and then a third filter joins the first in the ashtray. He lights a fourth cigarette and leans forward on the table, his long strong fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose, then at his temples. Leaning back again, his lean chest rises and falls with a long breath. "She said to me once, ye 'ave the makin's of a real hero. One from th' great stories that are told aroun' the fire f'r generations t' come. But y'r squanderin' it on cheap thrills." The fourth cigarette burns its way to the bottom. The afternoon crowd begins to thicken into the evening. The ambient noise is louder. He puts his cigarette out. "I don' think I'll be comin' back. There's too much t' do a' home f'r me t' be runnin' off t' America." A pause. "There's too much t' do f'r me t' be foolin' aroun' all th' time." He takes a drink of his brew. There isn't much else to say. A little later he pays the bill for the both of them. It's a cold day for late June. Sixty-some-odd degrees. He wears a black coat, somber. Sharing an umbrella with Cliona at the corner, he waits for Logan to come pick her up. Unlike so many others who grieve for recently departed lovers, he has no words of trite advice for her. She doesn't need them, and he was in no position to give them. When Logan's flashy car arrives, he bids his cousin farewell and turns up his collar against the everpresent wind. Their last glimpse of the lean Irishman is the wave he tips them as they turn the corner, and the lopsided smile he flashes them. * Home to Cork, on the lip of the Celtic sea. Moving on. [Sheet] |