“People are always eager to lay a burden upon a willing horse —Old Irish saying
This is part 2 of The Loyalty Bar.
To read part 1, click here:
https://jimcummings5251.substack.com/p/the-loyalty-bar-part-1
O’Brien sat on the edge of the trailer facing the field, stroking the animal’s head, the only part not covered by a painter’s tarp. He stood and wiped his eyes with both hands before turning to greet us.
I wasn’t prepared for the sorry state of the man, his eyes red and swollen, his sparse hair scattered in all directions, white shirttails loose beneath his black Jarvey vest. I lowered my gaze to the gravel in an effort to preserve the man’s dignity, as I would had I opened a door to find him on the shitter.
“I want to thank you for coming, William,” he said. “My apologies to Maura for keeping you beyond dinner.”
“Dinner will keep, Seamus,” I told him. “It’s my privilege to be of service.”
Murphy and Brennan seemed relieved by my gentlemanly demeanor. Perhaps it was the fact that I hadn’t mentioned the darts tournament but Murphy was taking no bets on the duration of my magnanimity. He steered O’Brien away with an arm around the shoulder and asked him to point out the proposed location of dear Finnegan’s final resting place.
O’Brien pointed with a trembling finger, his unbuttoned cuff sliding halfway up his forearm. “On the hill,” he said. “In the shade of the ash.” He paused to wipe his eyes and regain his composure. “It was his favorite place in summer. I drove a few stakes to mark it.”
It was a slow go for the old JCB, what with all the roots from the enormous tree. Several times I had the boys go down and hand shovel around the biggest ones and pull them aside while I ran the bucket underneath so as not to harm them. When finally, I judged the hole to be deep enough, I turned the tractor around and ran it down the hill to retrieve the remains.
Back on the flat, I idled the machine and hopped-down to rummage the storage compartment for a suitable strap. O’Brien emerged from his shed and handed Murphy a small pry bar and a pair of pliers. “I’d like to save his shoes,” he said. “But I can’t bear to do it myself.”
“What in the bloody hell is he after with horseshoes,” I whispered to Brennan. “They’re not worth two cents at scrap.”
“I’m sure he wants them as a memento,” said Brennan. “To preserve the memory, like the prayer card from a loved one’s funeral, or the collar of a beloved dog.”
And so might a hospital bracelet be considered a memento, I thought. One pulled gently over the tiny wrist and cold, limp fingers of an infant not meant to finish a month, let alone the summer into which he was born, never to see the glory unfolded in a trip around the sun and nearly eighteen circumnavigations notched since.
“We’ll run out of daylight if we don’t get on with it,” I hollered over to Murphy.
I unfurled the strap in a straight line from the JCB and stood waiting for him to bumble his way through the task of pulling the nails and prying the shoes, hoof by hoof, nail by nail. He was making quite a process of it.
“How’s she cuttin’ Murphy?” I asked. “The sun is going low.”
“Patience, Willie,” he said. “It’s not something I do every day, this.”
Ten minutes later, Murphy handed Seamus a clanking handful of horseshoes and tools and I began to wrap the strap around the horses neck.
O’Brien gasped.
Brennan yanked the strap from my hand and out from under the horse. “We’re not going to lift poor Finnegan by the neck, Willie,” he said. “Would you show a little respect please?
O’Brien held both hands over his mouth. Looking at him I began to suspect that he may not have the stomach for all of this so I politely suggested that he go inside to join his wife until we notified him that the job had been completed.
“No,” he said. “Finnegan was my loyal partner for nearly eighteen years. I’ll see it through with you boys. I would just ask you for a little more consideration, Willie.”
The situation had taken a sideways turn in my estimation, with the three of them apparently mistaking my workmanlike efficiency for a lack of empathy. I faced O’Brien and removed my hat.
“Eighteen years is a fair bit of time, Seamus,” I said. “A fair bit to spend either loving or lamenting. It may seem like your time with Finnegan was short but it’s eighteen years better than none. Now, I have great respect for your love and loyalty but you’re not going to want to remember him as he is tonight. I wish I could erase this picture from your head but I can’t. I hope you’ll remember him in the harness, trotting the carriage down the lane, the clop of his hooves and his mane flowing in the breeze. Most of all, I hope you will embrace those memories and be grateful that you have them.”
I must have struck an emotional chord with the sentimental Micks because the three of them began giving each other half-hugs and comfort pats on the back. Murphy, with watery eyes, motioned for me to come over to join in the misery. This was not the exact reaction I had hoped to inspire.
“For fuck’s sake, fellas,” I said. “I’m just trying to break it to you gently. What we need to do next is not going to be pretty. I can’t lift the feckin horse clear of the ground with this little tractor—we’re going to have to hook him up to the back and drag him up the hill.”
O’Brien let out a soft moan.
****
The thud of the body coming off the trailer and the first few meters through the gravel were the most distressing moments. Once on the grass, the horse towed nicely by the hind legs, his head downhill and gently bobbing along as O’Brien walked behind.
Murphy and Brennan were scarecrow silhouettes waiting on the hill with shovels and rakes against the half-set sun. I positioned the horse parallel to the pit on the uphill side. Brennan detached the strap and I maneuvered the JCB around to where I could nudge the body with the bucket. Another thud brought a cringe from O’Brien. I turned the bucket for the dirt pile to get on with filling the hole but Murphy was there waving his arms and motioning me to cut the engine. “Seamus would like a moment,” he said.
The sun was quickly setting on this day gone arseways but the three of them showed no urgency to get the job done before dark. They stood graveside, hands folded in front of them as I sat and ruminated over the semi-finals, how surprised the River Pub team must have been when they arrived ready for battle only to learn that they had won without having to fire a shot. Piss on them.
I looked over and saw Murphy staring a hole through me. I climbed down and joined them at the edge of the pit as O’Brien was calling for a moment of silent prayer. I couldn’t decide what to pray for since I don’t think it’s in the faith that horses are eligible for heaven. Likewise, it would probably count as a sin to pray that the River Pub team had met with some disaster on their way to the Loyalty. In the end, I asked the Lord to let me get this feckin hole filled quickly and be done with this bloody horse for once and forever, Amen.
But that was not to be. O’Brien said he was after a proper sendoff for Finnegan and that Mary Beth had called Collins and reserved the backroom at The Loyalty Bar for Sunday afternoon where we would all participate in a “Celebration of his life.”
Ain’t that grand, I thought. Now I’d not have to think of a means of occupying myself after Mass on my only day off of the week.
Brennan convinced Seamus to go down to the house and let us finish the job. A rising half-moon provided a little glow to work by and before too long we had the hole backfilled and raked clean of stones. The boys were quiet on the bumpy ride back to my place, perhaps reflecting on the day’s events or, more likely, scared speechless that the JCB had no running lights. I was content to listen to the clatter of the diesel and the grind of the gravel.
So, all of that and then some, just to help a friend. It was an evening worth forgetting but I was soon to discover that it was far from over. Anyway, I think you can see that we’re getting near the heart of the matter now.
Thank you for reading part 2 of The Loyalty Bar.
Your comments are always appreciated.
Part 3 will be coming soon. (Wherein the bottle comes out and words are exchanged.)
Oh, that last paragraph is masterful! You set us up with subtext last time with the baby in the cemetery, and now with the heart-breaking bracelet paragraph. You have two stories in one here Jim. Not many can pull that off so seamlessly. I hesitate to say genius, but genius, nevertheless. Congratulations, my friend.
Ah, 'tis a fine piece of writing, it is.
Masterfully done, Jim, a joy to read and feel. Some powerful moments in this, especially this one:
"And so might a hospital bracelet be considered a memento, I thought. One pulled gently over the tiny wrist and cold, limp fingers of an infant not meant to finish a month, let alone the summer into which he was born, never to see the glory unfolded in a trip around the sun and nearly eighteen circumnavigations notched since."