It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 31: Chapter X (Cont'd)

Coarse and Offensive Language. Domestic Violence. Reader Discretion Advised.

The wake of Mary Malone was an event, somber, but still more of an affair than was ever given to the Donahues and Zielinskis. The entire parish turned out, a long line extending from the parlor of Halloran's Funeral Home on Fitzgerald, all the way back to the church's intersection. A sea of mourners in their Sunday best, filing past the open casket, shaking the hands of the family that stood the side, each forcing smiles and shaking the hands of the well-wishers.

'Your Nana was a great woman,' said someone.

'She loved you very much,' said another.

'She's in a better place,' was the most common phrase to be used, which really pissed Bud off, because as far as he was concerned, his Nana was just dead.

What's so good about being dead? he wondered later that night, tossing and turning in his bed as the radiator under the window rattled and pinged with heat.

'Death is only the beginning,' Father Peter answered in his eulogy that Tuesday. He raised his arms towards the nearly empty pews, and repeated: 'Only the beginning!'

But the beginning of what, huh Bud?

Funerals in St. Gregory's were notoriously underpopulated. Of the neighbors who came to pay their respects at the wake, only BB and the Townes showed for the funeral. Only BB came to the grave, where he spent the time holding Colin under the arm, for the widower could hardly stand for all the shattering cries and tears that broke loose as they lowered Mary Malone's remains into the pit.

Everyone wept! Everyone gripped at each other! Comforting and feeling...Niamh sobbed into Alanna's shoulder, while Vera hugged tight to her mother's waist. No one held Bud, but he preferred it that way. Try as he might, Bud Carr felt nothing as they lowered what remained of his grandmother. 

And he tried! 

All week he'd strove to feel, willing himself to get beyond the dull numbness that had consumed him as person after person had touched and attempted to commiserate with him. What he wouldn't have given to cry! Why couldn't he just shed a tear? What was wrong with him?

'Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust...' recited Father Peter, crossing his hand over the descending casket.

So that's it? Ashes and dust? What the fuck is this all about then? What's the point? If death is so wonderful, then why does everyone look so fucking miserable?

A spasm of ravenous resentment flourished in the child. He couldn't abide all the unnecessary noise. He hated the wracked sobs.

And the touching!

All the fervor made him want to hurl! He didn't want to hear anymore of it! He didn't want to be subjected to it—infected!

The world, he thought, would be a happier place if we didn't have to feel so much.

'Does that make me bad?' he asked aloud of his radiator, at last allowed to be away from it all. 

The radiator responded with a hiss, and Bud kicked out at his covers. 'Is that what's gonna happen to me? Am I gonna know nothin', and then...die?'

The radiator clunked and whined.

'I don't wanna die not knowin' nothin'...'

A fizzle and steam leaked.

'I tried to cry. I really tried!'

Touching and clutching! Grief-suckers! They love it!

'I'm not bad. I swear...I'm not!'

No...we're better!

There was a loud crash from outside of Bud's door. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. He didn't remember falling asleep, and was very troubled by the voices that filled the apartment.

'What are ya doin' here?!' His Ma sounded scared.

'I need da boy.'

The hairs on the back of Bud's neck immediately stood on end. His stomach tightened, and his hands curled into fists.

'No...No! Ya can't just come here—'

'Move.'

'It's the middle of the night. He's asleep! He's got school—'

'I told you to move.'

They were getting closer, and Bud could sense a real panic in Niamh's voice.

'Now!'

'Tony—not tonight, please! Just...just come back tomorrow. Ya can see him—'

'MOVE!'

'YOUR NOT TAKIN' HIM—'

Something heavy met something hard. There came a loud SNAP! and CRACK! and then an almighty CRASH! and in the next moment, the bedroom door burst open.

Bud shut his eyes tight.

Play like you're sleeping. Play dead. Maybe he won't notice...

The Specter blew into the room like a hurricane, not caring for the hour, nor the state of his son, and thundered, 'UP! NOW! GET UP!' He grabbed at his pajama-clad son, wrenching the child up by the arm, nearly separating the recently healed shoulder.

'Ow!' yelped Bud, eyes watering as the Specter came into full view. Time had not been kind to Anthony Carr. Gone was the suave man of limitless potential, and in his place stood a pale imitation that smelled of cheap after-shave and hard liquor. His once 'exotic', Mediterranean looks were replaced with outstanding girth that were swaddled in comfortable clothes held up by a flimsy belt. His dark hair had fully receded, and his face was poorly shaven and flushed in the street light that shimmered through the window. So conspicuous was the change in the Specter that for one, wild second, Bud thought Alanna must have grown a five o'clock shadow. 

'Where we goin'?' It seemed like a reasonable question for such an instance, but the Specter's only response was to smack his son over the head. 'OW!'

'Put your fuckin' shoes on!' Bud obliged, not daring to massage his smarting crown. 'You gonna sing for ma friends—hurry up, let's go!'

Fuck you.

'Letsgoletsgoletsgoletsgo—Jesus, how long it take?!'

'But Daddy, I dunno know how to sing!' Which wasn't, strictly speaking, the truth. Colin had been trying to impart his monumental knowledge of drunken Irish ballads on his grandson for years—

'I'm gonna teach you—LET'S FUCKIN' GO!'

With another yank, the Specter pulled Bud out into the living room.

'NO!' From the shadows loomed Niamh, staggering, blood pooling over her face, her nose cocked at a sharp angle. She threw herself at the Specter, trying to pull father and son apart. No longer the compliant wife, she shouted and scratch and pounded at the Specter's face, but he, ever cool in situations of violence, merely flicked his wrist, and sent Niamh reeling across the room with an efficient backhand. She bounced off the wall with a THUD! and crumbled to the floor, where, for all Bud knew, she stayed, beaten and broken and vanquished.