There are lines from the insane prose poem “Literary Heroine,” that go
“I swear I’d have read your letter dying,
But alas, it was lost, among the debris of the slow and lying.
It’s the reason why your letter and my life, so softly
Slip away
Un-noticed least by me.”
After he was gone, as my eyes closed, the nurse asked,
“Is he your son?”
Ah, for fuck’s sake.
Before I could rise to indignation, she said,
“Good-looking lad.”
Then in that blunt way that Irishwomen have, she asked,
“Is he married?”
I was messed up enough to lie that he was gay, or say he was married, but I went with,
“I’ll put in the word for you.”
She beamed, said,
“And I’ll get you a sleeping pill this evening.”
Trade-off?
I’m not afraid of dying, but I’m absolutely terrified of dying with a pink teddy bear.
– Barbara Ehrenreich, Smile or Die
Ridge was sick to her soul at what had happened to Jack. Stewart had told her as gently as he could but there isn’t really a way to soften the severance of fingers. He told her, too, about Laura, and Ridge wept. She had so thought that, just maybe, Jack might be happy. Recently, she’d had a checkup and mammogram to see how she was doing after the radical mastectomy. She loved the book by Barbara Ehrenreich on positive thinking and the so-called PC brigade who waxed fucking lyrical about the positive aspects of cancer. The do-gooders who saw cancer as a makeover opportunity. Barbara was her new hero. Anyone who could write that being down, being angry about your illness, meant instant pariah status.
All the pink ribbons, pink freaking badges, made her so furious. Now at last, here was a writer who could say that those who preached cancer sufferers could be cured by developing the right attitude, as they peddled shitloads of pink garbage, books, DVDs, T-shirts, added insult to life-threatening injury.
She fingered her gold miraculous medal round her neck, given to her by her late mother. God, she had adored her mother. A strong woman who, as she lay dying, said,
“Alanna, don’t put me in a hospice.”
She didn’t.
Allowed her the dignity of dying at home. Her mother had fought alcoholism and every other battle in a poor family’s life.
She had, as they say,
“A hard death.”
Near the end, she had gripped Ridge’s hand, whispered,
“Be beholden to no man.”
In light of Ridge’s sexual orientation, this seemed unlikely but, working as a Ban Garda, she had to eat a shit sandwich every day from men. Despite Jack’s numerous flaws, faults, Ridge felt her mother would have liked him, would have said perhaps,
“He has a good heart.”
As for Ridge’s marriage, she didn’t want to think what her mother would make of that.
Not much.
And Ridge knew for certain she would have described Anthony as “A poor excuse of a man.”
She read on. Stewart was upstairs, doing Zen exercises, no doubt. He was just finishing up his regimen as it happened. Took a moment to dwell on Ridge. He was quite stunned at how well they lived together. He’d been so long on his own, he was, as the old people say,
“Set in his ways.”
But she blended right in. Was fine company, knew when to talk and when silence was the best communication. He finally had an eager student of Zen and, in return, she was demonstrating her kickboxing routines to him. He admired her litheness and her ferocious passion to heal her body and make it strong again. He didn’t ask how long she intended to stay as he really didn’t care. He’d miss her if she suddenly left, that he knew.
He’d met her husband a few times and found him to be an empty vessel. Stewart, like Jack, didn’t really do friends, but he would put his life on the line for either one and had. He was selecting some casual gear. His casual gear was all top of the range. He opted for Japanese jeans-read, small fortune-his Ked trainers, and a silk T-shirt. He heard the post come through the letter box. Ridge shouted,
“I got it.”
He was dressed, ready to move, when he heard her scream. He rushed down the stairs. Ridge, sitting on the couch, was ashen. The remnants of an open parcel before her. A small wooden box in the center of the package. He picked it up and recoiled.
Two severed fingers.
Ridge stared at him, her eyes wide from shock. Then she indicated a pristine white card. He picked it up, read, Garda Ni Iomaire A touch of Taylor for you so you can, dare we say, finger yourself. Nice display of the martial arts the other evening. Perhaps we can sever your legs when we take you next time. Send a leg to your husband, let him have a piece of meat, too. Oh, what a gay delight. xxxxxxxxxxx Headstone.
Ridge buried her head in her hands.
Stewart, for the first time since the awful day he’d been sent to prison, wanted to bury his head in the sand.
He’d been about as ill prepared for jail as is possible. Who is prepared?
But some adapt fast and learn the basic rule of survival.
Eat or be eaten.
That day in the prison van, the paddy wagon they called it, manacled to some thug who’d raped a young girl, the judge’s sentence ringing in his ears: