One Last Round

Jon’s dad was particular about his Irish coffee. The whiskey had to be Jameson’s Black Barrel, with real cream, not whipped cream from a can. And, if you started with lousy coffee, adding the Jameson’s and cream was just a waste of money.

As Jon’s wife, it fell on me to find the closest pub to the funeral home, so we might have one in Pop’s memory before the service. The idea was to have just the immediate family and a few friends from the firehouse. I wanted to do this right and meet at Pop’s preferred hangout, but it was too far away. Consequently, here we were, sipping our warm drinks, and yes, the coffee was lousy. 

Seven of us stood in a misshapen circle as slivers of sunlight escaped the blinds to land at our feet.

“Here’s to Pat Keating, a curmudgeon of a man with a heart of gold, loving father, brother… a true pal.” Pop’s best friend was the first brave enough to speak.

“And don’t forget, king rabble-rouser!” another fireman joined in. A few laughs cut through the still air.

Another firehouse brother added to the case for canonization, “Pat was the most generous guy I ever knew. After one fire, I saw him open his wallet right on the street and give a C-Note to a man who just lost his house.”

The others nodded their heads.

Except for Jon. He shifted, passing the spiked coffee from one hand to the other. He kept his eyes down.

After a moment, he turned to me and whispered, “This was a bad idea.”

I was always dumbfounded hearing Pop’s selfless antics as a fireman. Why did he save his best self for work? His shift seemed to drain all the good from him. Afterward, he would go right to the pub and drink until someone brought him home, usually me.

 At our wedding, Pop was buzzed when he found Jon in the back of the church before the service. Without a word, he poured a splash from his flask into Jon’s latte. Of course, Pop meant this as an endearment, a show of support between men, a little nip to calm the nerves, but Jon regarded it as the behavior of an alcoholic, disrespecting his son and future daughter-in-law, desecrating the day. Jon dropped his cup into the trash in the corner with a thunk that resonated through the church. No, he couldn’t see the tenderness in his father’s gesture, imperfect as it was. A few weeks later, Pop and I shared a drink and he told me what happened; he regretted the misunderstanding. I told him to talk to Jon, but he didn’t. They never talked. Even after Jon’s mom passed, father and son didn’t talk, couldn’t find a way to comfort one another.

“Please, Jon. Just for today. For Pop,” I whispered. Jon winced at the name—Pop. A few overheard and turned in our direction, and the room grew quiet, a mixture of awkwardness and melancholy.

After a long silence, Jon broke the stillness.

“I want to say something.” Jon raised his glass and drew in his breath. His hand was shaking. “To Pop—to the man he wasn’t. Wasn’t a father, wasn’t a husband—wasn’t anything but a drunk.”

Everyone looked down at the worn floor.

Jon continued, “You guys are making him out to be a saint. I know it’s his funeral, but he wasn’t. He just wasn’t. Maybe you can pretend today, but I can’t.”

I put my hand on Jon’s arm, signaling for him to stop. He jerked his arm away and turned to me, his eyes full of resentment.

“Stop it. Let me speak,” he said. “You two may have gotten along okay, but he was my father and I hated him. I hated him for not being there. For not being there when mom was dying, for drinking himself to death—”

My face hot, I downed the coffee and rushed out the door into the brilliant light of the morning. As I buttoned my coat, the door to the pub swung wide. Sara, Jon’s sister, walked to me and stood a few steps away. She pulled a cigarette out of her purse and lit it in a cupped hand.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked. She took a long drag and squinted against the sun.

“I just wanted some peace today, for Jon, but I guess that can’t happen. Pop was a man of contradictions. But Jon will never see him that way.”

“Give him some space. He’ll be okay. You understood Pop—better than any of us.”

It was my job, for the last year of Pop’s life, to get him from the pub. Jon was too busy with work and Sara couldn’t be bothered, so I would get the call from the bartender when he showed up. By the time I got there, he’d be finishing his second Jameson’s neat. We’d sit and have another together and Pop talked. He said all the things he wanted to say to Jon, but couldn’t.

Once, he talked about how, when Jon was in high school, he came home from the pub after closing, and he just stood at Jon’s door and watched him sleep. He could see Jon’s steady breathing, but also his maturing body and handsome face, and he was struck with love and pride for him. But he also felt shame, shame that he needed the door-frame to balance, shame at the growing chasm between them.

The pub door opened again and the group started filing out onto the sidewalk.

Jon was the last out the door. He stood a few feet away, looking at the sidewalk and grinding salt under his shoe. His flushed cheeks deepened in color from the winter air.

I walked to him and took his arm.

“It’s okay to be angry,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“I’d just like a little support from my wife.”

He looked away, wiping his face on his sleeve, and we walked to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧ 

The priest finished his last prayer at the gravesite. Jon and I lingered as the others moved toward their cars. The sun caught the chrome on the casket, causing me to look away.

One fireman had stood apart from the group, but now came to Jon’s side.

“I want to say how sorry I am about your dad’s passing,” the chief said.

“Thanks. I appreciate that,” Jon said.

“It’s hard to make sense of him sometimes. But your dad was proud of you, of all you did, from sports, to college, to your career. He filled his locker with pictures of you. Pat wanted to be there for you. He told me once how he bought you a bike for your birthday and spent a week putting it together, but we got a call for a fire and he missed the party. That kinda stuff really got to him.”

Jon listened and nodded.

“Pat wasn’t a perfect man, but he did a lot of good. I’m not sure you got to see that.”

“Thanks for sharing. Really.”

The chief nodded and walked away.

I took Jon’s arm again and now held it tight. We walked to the car across the crusted snow.

✧ ✧ ✧ 

That evening in the kitchen of our townhouse, I poured myself a Belvedere over ice to steady myself for what was next.

Jon sat at the table, looking through the box of stuff collected from Pop’s locker. I sat next to him. There were pictures, just as the chief had said. Pop’s wedding picture, such a handsome couple they made. Infant Jon in Pop’s arms. Jon and his sister at the park. Jon in his soccer uniform. And there were other things. A program from Jon’s high school band concert. Funny, Jon couldn’t remember him being there.

And a ticket stub from the state soccer championship.

“I’m sure Pop didn’t go. I was crushed he wasn’t there. I thought he was on one of his benders,” Jon said.

“But here’s the stub. He must have gone.” I took another sip of the vodka and the longed-for warmth spread through my body.

Jon closed the box. He took my hand and I could feel his confusion and anger, but also a measure of peace. He stood and left the room, but I sat for a moment and finished my drink, looking at the box. And I missed Pop.

I began to leave but paused at the door and looked back at the box. Then I touched the switch and extinguished the light.

✧ ✧ ✧