It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 48: Chapter III

Coarse Language. Conversations on Suicide. Reader Discretion Advised.

The death of the stalwart O'Toole had a curious effect on the people of St. Gregory's Parish, but it began with the usual trajectory. Lots of gossip, lots of tattle and tittle bandied about over the porches of the three deckers and in the hallways of Curly's.

'Have you heard the news?' the neighbor in the off-smelling hall would lament, and before you had a chance to answer, they would shout: 'O'Toole! O'Toole! God help us! He's dead! O'Toole is dead!'

A wildfire of excitement then ripped through the veins of neighborhood, and within an hour of the poor barkeep topping himself, not a man, woman, or child could be found in bed. Nearly the entire neighborhood packed Ascension Street, drawn like rabid moths to the flashing lights and wailing sirens of the ambulances. A crowd sprung up around Colin, and they demanded him recite the story of O'Toole's demise over and over again; and Colin James Malone, faced with the most riveted audience he'd commanded in years, was more than happy to indulge. By the time the EMTs carted O'Toole's body out of the public house, his death had already taken on a legacy of its own, and Colin by that point had most of the parishioners convinced that the publican had been found, post felo de se, sitting up and sermonizing.

"Love each other,' he said, 'as I've loved ya!' Sure, his voice was magical. 'Twas like heaven speakin' through him. 'Twas like a Christmas movie—with more brain matter—but ya know when that George Bailey has his great revelation? Sure, it sounded like that! I could almost hear the choir of angels welcomin' him to Paradise.'

'How'd he look?'

'Jesus, Marie Lynch, he didn't have half a head there now, did he? So...other than that...not too shabby.'

Bud fast grew tired of the tales, and as Colin, who had until recently—recently being the day before—been predicting the fall of 'Church induced hysteria, and all that baloney,' rhapsodized a melodious and miraculous demise, he excused himself and Vera, who was fairly shaken by the whole event and had not said a word since the discovery. They said good night to Ed by the church—he was still queasy from all the blood, and walking wasn't a help to him—and made their way home.

'Why do you think he did it, Bud?'

'I dunno,' said her brother, feeling his sister's hand tighten in his own. O'Toole had promised he would kill himself, had become famous for his proverb, but one doesn't telegraph one's suicide in such a loafing fashion.

Or does one?

It didn't seem very logical to either Bud or Alan, but then again, neither did putting a gun in your mouth. He had never experienced a suicide before, at least, not up this close.
'It's awful,' said Vera as they rounded the corner into Curly's. 'I hope he didn't feel it. I hope it didn't hurt!' It was a strange thing to say, and it gnawed at Bud for the rest of the night, even as Niamh threw herself at her youngest child the moment the siblings entered into their apartment.

'I heard there was a shootin'!' she wailed, shoving Bud aside and hugging her youngest tight. 'I thought the worst!' But her anxiousness did not last long, and her old spirit returned soon as she noticed Vera's bandaged face and still swelling eye. 'What happened to her?! What did ya let happen to her?!'

'Ma—' began Bud, miserably searching for a good enough excuse. One didn't come fast enough:

'I don't need ya to explain! I told ya to look after her, and look what happens when ya don't listen to me?! And where's your grandfather?! I told ya to bring him home!! It's like you can't follow the simplest fuckin' instructions! Jesus Christ, Alfonso! I didn't raise a fuckin' imbecile, did I?!' So on and so forth it went like this, until Niamh, as previously predicted, tired herself out, and Bud felt safe enough to take refuge in his room. In all her rantings, she hadn't remembered to get the reasoning for her daughter's injuries—