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Short Stories from Wing's Authors.
The Passing of Mike Hannigan by Linda Rettstatt Kathleen stands leaning against the doorjamb, watching the slow rise and fall of the blanket covering her father. He is so frail and withered now that he reminds her of the baby birds that she often finds by the garage, having fallen from the nest in the spouting, a head too big for the body and skin stretched over bone. He looks nothing like the man who had demanded a fearful respect from her at one time. Kathleen Marie Hannigan was born in 1929, the eldest
of the seven children born to Michael and Nora Carlin Hannigan. Mike was
a coal miner with a fifth grade education. He was not a tall man, but
had broad shoulders and a quick hand. He was cold, distant and a harsh
disciplinarian who had taught his children to fear him. The family had
lived in a small, cramped company-owned house in one of the little
mining towns that dotted the Mike always managed to have enough money for a few drinks, sometimes more. He and his brothers all worked in the mines. His brothers all died there, and Mike barely escaped with his life when there was a cave-in at the shaft where he was working in 1947. Kathleen remembers with shame the thought that she had that night—that maybe her father wouldn’t make it out alive. It had come to her too much like a wish, and she had gone to Father Bowden the next day, asking to have her confession heard. Mike Hannigan had gone to work in the mines with his father when he was twelve. Kathleen sometimes tried to convince herself that it was this long life of backbreaking work in underground darkness that made him so mean and cold. Her mother was a quiet, religious woman who had virtually no life outside of her home and family. Her morning started at five when she got up and lit the wood-burning stove to heat the drafty clapboard house. She made fresh bread and a huge stockpot of soup every day. When Mike worked the day shift at the mines, Nora had to have his breakfast ready before six. In the weeks when he worked the night shift, she had to have a meal waiting when he came home and to then get the children ready for school as quietly as possible so that he could sleep. They knew that he slept with his wide leather belt next to the bed and would emerge from the bedroom swinging it at anyone within reach, should they waken him. By the time she was eight years old, it was Kathleen’s job to get the younger children up and dressed and to gather the eggs from the henhouse—a job she hated. Their old rooster was protective of his brood and would fly at her in a rage every time she began to shoo the hens from their nests. Her brothers, Mickey and Patrick had followed their
father into the mines, neither finishing high school. Both were now
unemployed, and Mickey was getting disability for a leg injury he
sustained on the job. Patrick worked on and off doing carpentry and car
repair. Eileen, younger by two years, had married another coal miner and
had five children. They had moved to Their mother had died suddenly in 1966 from a heart attack at the age of fifty-six. The doctor had told them that, “she was dead before she hit the floor,” as if that should have been some consolation. She and Mike had moved into a small house that Kathleen and her husband, Roger, had helped them buy just a year before Nora died. Nora had been so proud of that house, and it still bore her signature in every room. It is now 1972, and Mike has lived there alone for the past six years, except for the times Joseph wanders back home for a day or a week. As Kathleen stands there, the light from the kitchen casting her shadow across her father’s form, her thoughts are interrupted by the ringing phone. It’s Roger calling to check on her. “Hi. It’s good to hear your voice… He’s okay…as well as can be expected. How’s P.J.? Is he doing his homework every night? You know you have to keep after him,” she says, longing for Roger to be closer, to hold her and reassure her that she can survive this. He tells her that everything is fine, that P.J. is doing his homework as they speak, and that he misses her and will see her on the weekend. P.J. comes to the phone and quickly says, “Hi, Mom. I’m doing my homework. Bye.” As she hangs up the phone, Kathleen feels a pang of
loneliness rush through her, and she shivers. She goes back to check on
Mike and then to the living room to open out the sleeper sofa for the
night. She never knows when Joseph is going to show up half loaded and
want his bed to crash in, so she just sleeps on the sofa. Eileen and
Abbey are coming on the weekend as well, and she’s counting on them
staying with their father so she can get a break and stay with Roger at
the Holiday Inn. She’s only been with Mike for one week, but it seems
much longer. She hopes that Eileen has been able to find Declan. He was
last heard from three months ago and was in Kathleen turns off the television and just begins to fall into sleep when she hears a car door slam and someone trying the back door. She gets up and turns on a light just as Joseph stumbles in, cursing at the door and struggling with the key to remove it from the lock. “Hey, sis, what’s up? What’re you doin’ up so late?” he asks as he stumbles to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of beer. “I heard you coming in, and it sounded like you were having trouble with the lock, so I got up to help,” she replied. He smiles and takes a long drink. “That’s my big sister, always lookin’ out for me. So, how’s Pop tonight?” he asks, lurching towards the bedroom door and looking in. “He’s about the same, seems to be comfortable, so please don’t wake him,” she warns. He turns, puts a finger to his lips and makes a loud “Shhhhhh” sound, then heads for his room. “I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse,” he says as he slams against a chair and nearly falls, swearing softly. As Kathleen returns to the sofa, tears fill her eyes.
She feels sad. She longs to be back at home with Roger and P.J., in the
life she has created for herself in Kathleen wakens with a start and looks at the clock— It is mid-September, but the air is heavy and moist—it is unusually warm still. Kathleen sits on the top step and looks at the night sky. It is clear, and hundreds of stars are visible. One of the advantages of being out in the middle of nowhere is that you can see the stars at night. She feels tension in her shoulders and takes a few deep breaths, rolling her head from side to side, trying to loosen her neck. Just then the door opens and Joe walks out in his underwear. “What the hell are you doin’ out here at this hour?” he asks. She doesn’t turn to look at him, but answers, “I woke up and went to check on Dad, then I couldn’t get back to sleep. I guess I’m not used to the quiet.” Joe sits down on the step next to her. She can smell stale alcohol and cigarettes when he yawns. “So, is everyone coming to witness Pop’s demise?” he asked coldly. Kathleen turns and looks at him hard. “What is wrong with you, Joe? Why do you have to be like that? You’re just like him, you know—so cold and indifferent.” “Oh, now I’ve done it…” Joe says mockingly, “…I’ve offended Saint Kathleen!” She doesn’t respond and they sit in silence for several minutes. She waves her hand to keep the smoke from his cigarette out of her face. He takes the hint and switches it to his other hand, blowing the smoke away from her. “Joe, do you ever wonder what happened to us…as a family? Why do we make it so hard on one another?” she asks wearily. He takes another drag on the cigarette and exhales slowly. “I don’t know, it’s just what we do, I guess. That’s the way we communicate—being sarcastic is just…it’s Hanniganese for I love you.” She thinks for a moment, not wanting to admit that he is probably right. Then she turns and looks at her baby brother, sitting on the porch in faded boxers, his hair standing out all around his unshaven face. “Joe, why do you drink?” she asks, not as a challenge, but with genuine concern. He laughs cynically. “I thought even you were smart enough to figure that out. I drink because I’m an alcoholic. It runs in the family, you know. I’ll bet if you got off your high horse once and downed a few, you’d find it hard to stop, too.” Kathleen feels her eyes fill and a lump rise in her throat. “I’m not judging you, Joe. I care. I really do. What happened to you?” He sits next to her looking out into the night, tosses the cigarette out onto the gravel drive and snorts, “Life.” Then he stands up, walks back across the porch and opens the door. “G’night.” Kathleen sits for a few more minutes, until she feels weariness overtaking her. She goes back inside, lies down and eventually falls back to sleep. When she awakens again at seven-thirty, Joe has put on coffee and is in their father’s room trying to bathe the old man. They had agreed that this would be Joe’s duty, and he has been faithful to it. She has to give him credit for that much. He comes out to empty the washbasin, then sits down at the table and reaches for his cigarettes. “When are Eileen and Abbey coming?” “Friday…tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon. Eileen’s picking Abbey up on her way. I hope she’s been able to contact Declan,” Kathleen says as she stirs her coffee. “Well, this ought to get interesting,” Joe says with a laugh. “Everyone gathered around waiting for Pop’s passing, and good old Declan right in the middle of it all.” Kathleen chooses to ignore him this time and continues to sip her coffee, reminding herself that she will be in the hotel thirty-six hours from now. “So, Kath, do you think Declan will actually show up? He and Pop haven’t spoken in over twenty years. No, I take that back—they did have words at Mom’s funeral, didn’t they?” Unable to contain her anger any longer, she turns and lashes out at him. “Joseph, that’s enough! Declan’s your brother, for God’s sake. Your father…our father is lying in there breathing his last, and all you can do is make sarcastic jokes about your own family. I’m sick of it! I’m sick of all of it! Do you think I want to be here? Do you think it’s easy for me, taking care of that man that I feel I hardly know…that man, my father, who never offered me a kind word, never showed me that he loved me as his daughter? Do you think this is easy for me?” She is shaking and tears streak her face. She reaches for a napkin to wipe her nose. Joseph sits motionless, staring at her. Then he puts his cigarette out and looks at her, his face expressionless. “You know what your problem is, Kathleen? You keep expecting him to be different. I just take him as he is, as he has always been. You keep waiting for something that’s never going to happen, and then you get all disappointed and hurt because it doesn’t happen. Maybe if you could just stop expecting so much…” She blows her nose, gets up, puts her coffee cup in the sink, and goes to take a shower. When she comes back to the living room, she sees that Joe has made up the sofa bed. That was, she knew, his way of apologizing. Maybe he’s right. Maybe there is a language called Hanniganese—a language that has no words for love, pride, joy, kindness, forgiveness—just a softer look or an action here or there that you will miss if you aren’t attuned to it. The day is long and exhausting. Joe has disappeared,
as usual, and she knows she won’t see him again until he comes stumbling
in around Kathleen stands at the screen door watching her drive
away and thinking, ‘If things
change, I’ll need to call the undertaker, not you.’ She shakes her head and admonishes herself, realizing that she is starting to sound as jaded as Joe. Mike is fitful throughout the day, calling out for
Nora, his wife. Kathleen thinks to herself,
‘Sure, you call for her now, but
you never spoke a kind word to her when she was alive!’ Mickey and his wife, Sheila, stop by with a casserole for dinner. Kathleen notices how pronounced his limp has become. Sheila helps her with the dishes while Mickey sits with Mike, trying to have conversation. Kathleen can hear him asking Mike questions, then answering for him when he gets no response. An hour after they leave, the screen door opens again and Patrick walks in. “Hi, Kath, how’re you doin’?” He goes to the fridge and lifts out a beer. “I’m okay…tired, I guess. How about you? How are Ruthie and the girls?” she asks, sitting opposite him at the small dining table. He stares at his beer. “Ruthie took the girls to stay with her folks for a while. It’s been hard, I guess, with me not workin’. She’ll be back, though…,” he says, taking a long draw on the beer. “She always does come back. She just needs a little break now and then.” Kathleen doesn’t know exactly what to say, so she changes the subject. “Mickey and Sheila were here for dinner and brought a casserole. There’s some left that I can heat for you, if you want.” He chugs down the last of the beer. “No, thanks, I just came to see how you were and to look in on Pop. You need anything?” he asks as he tosses the bottle into the trash. “No, thanks. Eileen and Abbey are coming tomorrow
afternoon, and they’ll stay here with Dad. Roger’s coming out from Patrick just nods, looking at his hands. “It won’t be the same without him, you know. Who’s going to give us hell?” he asks with a sad grin. She thinks about trying to ask him the questions she had asked Joe last night, then thinks better of it. She feels a heaviness in her heart as her brother awkwardly hugs her and tells her that he’ll come by the next day, but to call if she needs him sooner. Mike is settled, for at least the time being, and Kathleen is alone. The quiet is almost deafening to her, and she needs to keep busy. She decides to start sorting through some of the boxes she has found in the hall closet. The first box holds stacks of paid bills dating back to 1969. She shuffles through them and, deciding they aren't worth keeping, tosses the lot into a trash bag and reaches for another box. This one is filled with photographs. The first one she pulls out is an old black and white picture of herself, Mickey and Patrick having a picnic in the yard, their old mongrel dog sitting in the middle of them. She begins to sort the pictures, stacking those of herself and her siblings together and those of other family members in a separate stack. The third pile is for those pictures of people whom she cannot identify. At the very bottom of the box, she finds an envelope with a few photos of her parents on their wedding day and a small rose pressed between two pieces of waxed paper. She first observes her father—standing straight and taller than her mother—his hair slicked back. He is wearing a suit and has a carnation in the lapel. His arm is across his bride’s shoulders in a possessive manner. He is looking directly into the camera, a stern expression on his face. Her mother stands next to him, a small veil on her head, a single rose in her hand, and bearing a tentative smile. Kathleen looks at the rose and then at the one that had been so carefully pressed. They appear to be one and the same. Kathleen moves to the living room floor, where she places this picture of her parents and then begins to arrange the other pictures of herself and her siblings around it. When she has completed her collage, she stands up and looks down at this—her family. She sees her mother holding two-year-old Abbey and smiling broadly. She sees herself at seven, cradling Declan in her lap while Eileen sits leaning against her on the old red sofa. She looks at five-year-old Joseph, his leg in a cast, the result of Mickey and Pat’s dare to him to climb the apple tree behind the house. She sees a picture of herself, all dressed up for her high school graduation, her mother at her side. Her father had a chance to get in some overtime that day and wasn’t there. She looks at this tapestry that she has woven of her family and wonders where it started to unravel. How did these children who were smiling and so full of life and promise become the adults she now knows? She feels a deep sadness and gathers up the pictures, returning them to the box. She wants to keep them, to protect them and save them. Maybe Joe is right, she thinks to herself—maybe I do keep expecting something that will never happen. She opens out the sleeper sofa and, exhausted, falls asleep instantly; she doesn’t hear Joe come in. She wakes at seven, and the knowledge that Roger will be there in twelve hours to take her away for a while gives her a renewed energy. Eileen and Abbey arrive at three-thirty, and Kathleen eagerly tells them that she has put fresh sheets out for the sleeper and is sure they can both sleep there comfortably as it is queen size. They both go in to see their father. Eileen takes the old man’s hand in hers and begins to cry. Abbey says, “Hi, Dad, it’s Abbey. How are you feeling?” When he doesn’t respond, she shrugs and joins Kathleen at the table. “Eileen’s taking this hard, don’t you think?” she asks Kathleen. “Oh, you know Eileen. She was always more emotional than either of us. Do you know if she located Declan?” Kathleen asks. Abbey is chewing a brownie that Eileen had made and
brought along. “I think she tracked him down in Kathleen thinks for a moment, then leans back in her chair and looks at her younger sister. “You know what’s hardest about this? Seeing all of us for who we are. They say it’s times like this that bring out the best and the worst in people…” She shakes her head. “And I think that is the absolute truth.” She looks intently at Abbey. “Are you ever angry with Dad because of the way he is…was with us? You know, how harsh he always was, how distant and mean he can be? Does that bother you, or is it just me?” Abbey smiles. “Well, I think he was harder on you than any of the rest of us, but that was because you were the oldest. I mean, he expected a lot from you and, well, after Mom died, he’d call you when he needed something, even though Mickey and Pat live right here, and I’m only forty minutes away. I guess, in some twisted way, you’re his favorite.” Her sister’s observation made Kathleen bristle with anger. She felt many things about her father, but being his favorite was not one of them. Eileen came to join them, sniffling and wiping her eyes, and Kathleen decided to let it drop for now. The three of them had coffee and talked until it was
time to get dinner ready. Kathleen had already started a pot roast for
them, but told them that she would be leaving when Roger got there and
would have a late dinner with him. As the clock neared six-thirty, she
began to feel antsy, eager for Roger to come and get her. She sat with
her sisters and Patrick, who had come for dinner, waiting for the sound
of Roger’s car in the drive. At “Geez, sis, you’d think you hadn’t seem him in a month,” Abbey said with a laugh. Abbey didn’t understand that it was not what she was going to, but rather what she was getting away from that made Kathleen eager to leave. “You just never mind. Here’s the Holiday Inn phone number, just in case something happens and you have to reach me. Roger and I will stop by tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure he’ll want to see Dad.” She had the box of photos stuffed into her small suitcase. She knew that Roger would understand her observations about her family and would be sympathetic towards her. She would share them with him tomorrow. Kathleen gets to the door at the same time that Roger opens it to come inside. “Whoa. What’s the rush? Can’t I at least say hello to everyone?” he asks after a quick peck to her cheek. Kathleen steps back to let him inside. “Sure, but Dad’s asleep, and you’re taking me out to dinner, so make it quick.” Roger steps into the kitchen. “Okay, okay. Hi, Eileen, Abbey, Patrick. Bye. I’m going to get this wild woman out of your hair. See you all tomorrow.” Kathleen gets into the car while Roger puts her suitcase in the trunk. She puts on the seatbelt and then lets her body relax, slouching down into the seat. Roger gets in and leans over to kiss her. “So, it’s been that bad, huh?” “Oh, you have no idea. I am soooo glad to see you.” She clutches his hand. Once they get to the hotel room, she calls Evelyn to check on P.J. He is staying there with Travis, Evelyn’s son and his best friend. They talk briefly and Evelyn is appropriately sympathetic and understanding to her, saying all the right things that a good friend should say. After dinner, she and Roger head back to their room. She doesn’t want to talk about her week. She doesn’t want to talk about her family. She doesn’t want to talk about anything—she just wants Roger to hold her. Roger is good in that way, able to put her needs ahead of his own. As she closes her eyes, she makes a silent promise that, no matter how tired she is tomorrow night, she will reward his kindness and understanding sufficiently. He holds her, and she sleeps soundly for the first time in a week. They order breakfast from room service and lounge in
their pajamas until almost Roger is cautious with his response, clearly choosing his words. “I don’t know that wanting the best for the people you love is a bad thing. I don’t think it’s a matter of having unreasonable expectations. I think it’s that you want more for yourself and for them, and it disappoints you when they don’t step up to take hold of that the way you have.” Leave it to Roger, the marketing executive, to put a positive spin on this, she thinks. She shakes her head. “No. It’s more than that. I feel like my family is something that you either escape from or are consumed by. Declan knew that when he was sixteen. He got out. I got out by marrying you—and you know how I mean that. Abbey got out by taking a job an hour away. Eileen got out by default when she and Jack moved so he could find work. Look at Mickey and Patrick. What do they have? Nothing! And look at Joe. He’s so lost. And who do we have to thank for this mess? Michael Hannigan.” Now she is getting angry. “Michael Hannigan—the man who wasn’t there! Well, that’s not exactly true. He was very much there, but in all the wrong ways. And now I’m supposed to feel sad, to grieve his passing, and to mourn him? He passed a long time ago—right through my life, right through my mother’s life, through all of our lives, wreaking havoc along the way!” She is sobbing now. “All I ever wanted, ever needed from that man was one kind word, just one thing that told me that he gave a damn that I was born. All Declan ever wanted was acceptance for who he was, without having to crawl a hundred feet under the earth to prove himself. But, no, if you’re not just like Mike Hannigan, then you’re invisible to Mike Hannigan!” Roger moves towards her, and she collapses into his embrace. He is a smart man and knows her well, so he says nothing. He just holds her while she cries out her pain and her rage. Finally, she pulls back and reaches for a tissue. “You know the worst part, Roger? This won’t even end with his passing. The damage has been done and I don’t know that we can ever repair it. I don’t know that the others even see it. I think maybe Declan does, but he’s not going to stick around to see if things could change.” Roger hesitates, then speaks. “Kath, I… You’re right. Some things aren’t going to change, no matter how much you want them to. The only thing…person you can change is you. Now, before you take my head off, hear me out. One thing I can say about Mike is that he was and is who he is. He’s predictable. And I can honestly say that I don’t recall ever hearing him compliment you or say anything encouraging towards you. I almost wanted to deck him myself when you told him you were going to take some college classes, and he just shook his head and laughed.” Kathleen remembers that moment. She loved Roger more at that moment than at any other when he simply put his arm around her and told Mike how proud he was of her. Roger continues, “It’s sad, but the truth is, that’s Mike. He’s now lying on his deathbed, and he’s probably not going to have this sudden transformation and tell you all of the things that you need to hear from him that he’s never said. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought of them. I’m not defending him, I’m just saying that some guys who feel they have to be tough don’t know how to express care without sounding weak. Mike Hannigan is one of those guys. “I think the only way you’re going to get through this is by forgiving yourself and forgiving him—not excusing his behavior, but forgiving him for what he couldn’t do.” Kathleen stares at Roger, her face tight. She doesn’t know how to respond to this. Forgiveness requires letting go of all of the hurt and the anger, and she feels that these are the only things holding her together right now. She needs to be alone, to think, so she stands up and tells him that she is going to take a shower. The water mixes with her tears, and she knows that Roger can hear her sobs from the bedroom. She can’t stop it, though. The pain is more than she can contain. When she steps out of the shower, she feels empty. She has tried to imagine that the tears being washed down the drain were symbolic of the hurt and the resentment she has carried. She tries to imagine forgiving her father. She tries hard, but it still feels too much as though she is letting him off the hook. She is not sure that she’s ready to do that. They ride in silence as Roger drives back to the house. She is greeted by Patrick who is sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette. Joseph comes out the door with two beers and hands one to his older brother. Joe nods to Kathleen, then extends his hand in greeting to Roger. “Hi, Roger. Long time, no see.” “Hi, Joe, Patrick. How have you two been?” Roger asks
as he sits in one of the plastic Joe looks at Kathleen as she opens the door and goes inside, then smiles. “Oh, we’re both okay, aren’t we, Patrick?” He pats his brother’s knee. “Same old, same old—Pat’s out of work, his wife’s on a break and me, well, I’m still divorced and workin’ on gettin’ drunk,” he says, then belches loudly. Patrick pushes Joe’s hand away and stands. “So, Roger, want a beer or anything? C’mon in, I think Dad’s awake, and I know he’d like to know that you’re here.” They go inside and leave Joseph alone on the porch. The house seems so small as more family members gather throughout the afternoon. The nurse has come by and told them that Mike will probably slip into unconsciousness before long and that they should say whatever they need to say soon. Mike Hannigan’s children take their turns going in and out of his room, each trying to find a way to say goodbye. Eileen gets upset when Mickey leans close to his father and tells him it’s okay if he wants to go. Patrick just paces in and out of the room. Abbey sits at his bedside and stares into his vacant eyes, telling him that she loves him and that he should say ‘hello’ to mom for her when he joins her. Joseph remains on the porch, coming back inside only to get another beer from the fridge. Kathleen has kept herself busy, going through Mike’s personal papers and trying to start a conversation with her siblings about what they will do with his house and belongings. No one seems to be very interested in that discussion at the moment. Roger finally comes to her and leans close, asking her softly if she wants him to go in with her so that she can say ‘goodbye.’ She shakes her head and goes through the kitchen and into the room. The air is thick and smells like death to her, and she nearly chokes. She stands and looks down on her father. She wants to tell him everything—how hurt she feels, how angry she is with him, how she blames him for her mother’s death, how he was never a real father. He shifts his eyes and looks directly into hers and, for a brief moment, his mouth curls into a smile. He struggles to speak, but she is able to make out his words--“Kathleen, I knew you would come.” Her eyes fill, and she sees a look in his eyes that she has longed to see for the past forty-three years. Maybe this is the way he looked at her when she was born, but not once since. “I’m here, Daddy,” she says with a choke, laying her hand over his. He grimaces with pain but does not take his eyes from hers. “You’re a good girl, Kathleen. You always were. Your mother was so proud…” He closes his eyes and his chest heaves. Kathleen just stands there, wondering if she has imagined what she just heard. The voice in her head asks, “And what about you, Daddy, were you proud?” She doesn’t ask the question aloud, though. She comes out of the room to see that Aunt Bridget and Uncle Sean have arrived. Her aunt hugs her and offers her sympathy, saying she knows how hard this must be for her, for all of them. Then she goes in to say goodbye to her older brother. Kathleen walks to the door and sees Joseph sitting alone on the porch swing, looking out across the yard. She walks out and sits next to him, causing the swing to move. “Remember when you were little and I had to take you out to the old swing in our back yard to get you to go to sleep? You always did love to be in motion…never could sit still,” she tells him, trying to break the ice between them. He says nothing. Kathleen pushes with her feet and rests her hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “Joe, he’s going soon. He needs to see you one last time. He needs for you to say ‘goodbye,’ and you need to do that somehow.” Joe sits for a long time, still staring out across the yard, and then speaks without looking at her. “Is that what I need, Kath—to say goodbye to Pop?” He turns and looks at her, and she sees tears in his eyes. Suddenly she sees Joey, the five-year-old who tried so hard to be brave and not cry while they set his broken leg. She wants to hug him and tell him that he’ll be okay, but she knows he’ll pull away. She gets up and goes back to the door. “Just do what you need to, Joe, whatever you can live with after he’s passed.” He lifts the beer bottle, tips it towards her and takes a long drink. As Kathleen goes back inside, it strikes her that children are strangely absent from this gathering. There has been no discussion about the grandchildren, no question as to why they aren’t present. Kathleen knows why she didn’t insist that P.J. come along with Roger. She imagined that the others had similar reasons. Mike Hannigan’s house had never been a place for children. Later, as the family sits around the small living room, telling stories, Joseph slips back into the kitchen, grabs another beer and walks into his father’s room. Abbey, who has been sitting with Mike, gets up, saying that she needs to use the bathroom. Kathleen goes into the kitchen to make coffee and sees Joe sitting next to his father, and she hears his goodbye. “Hey, Pop. So, um, here’s to you,” Joe says, raising the beer in a toast and taking a drink. “I’m gonna miss you.” He bows his head and Kathleen sees his shoulders heave. There is the sound of a car pulling up the drive, and Kathleen steps to the door and turns on the light. She sees a tall, thin man get out of the car. He is wearing a leather jacket and jeans and strides toward the porch. She steps outside as he reaches the bottom of the steps and shields his eyes from the porch light, looking up at her. “Hi, sis. You are Kathleen, aren’t you?” he asks, smiling. She rushes down the steps. “Oh, my God, Declan!” She wraps her arms around him. He is taller than she remembers, and she has to stand on her toes to reach him. As they part and start up the steps arm in arm, he says, “Well, it looks like everyone else is here. So, how’s the old man?” She stops and turns to him. “He’s dying, Declan. It won’t be long. I’m glad you made it.” Eileen is the first to notice and runs to him with her arms open. “Declan, you came. Oh, I’m so glad you made it.” Mickey and Patrick shake his hand, as do Roger and Uncle Sean. Abbey gives him a warm hug and Aunt Bridget tells him how much he looks like Mike. Joseph, who has come back out to the kitchen to see what is going on, says nothing. Declan starts towards Mike’s room, but Joe is standing in the doorway. Declan stops and they meet one another’s gaze. It is Declan who breaks the tension. “Hey, little brother, you’ve sure grown up. Thanks for being here for Dad all these years. You did what I couldn’t do, and I’m proud of you for it. You’re a good man.” He extends his hand to Joe. Joe looks at his brother’s extended hand, steps aside and then turns and asks, “So, you want a beer or something?” Declan shakes his head. “Not just now, but maybe in a minute.” They all leave Declan alone with Mike to say whatever it is he needs to say. When Declan comes out of the room, his eyes are shining. Family members sit around the living room, some gather at the kitchen table, all keeping vigil with Mike. Kathleen tells Roger to go back to the Holiday Inn and get some sleep, that she’s going to stay there throughout the night. He starts to argue, then realizes that the siblings need to do this together, as family; and as much as he is a part of this family, he doesn’t need to be here now. It is Kathleen’s turn to sit with Mike, and she rolls the phrase over in her mind—passing. It’s the way she has always heard her family speak of dying, as passing. She knows that she still has unfinished business with her father. She leans close to his ear. She doesn’t know if he has slipped into unconsciousness yet, but trusts that he will hear her. “Dad…Daddy…I need to say something to you. I need for you to know that I’ve been angry with you for a long time because I wanted things from you that you couldn’t give. I have to forgive you for that. I don’t understand it, but I have to forgive it.” She gulps and sniffles, then continues, “I hope you can forgive me, too, if I haven’t been the daughter that you expected. I hope you can forgive me for judging you the way I have. I wanted to love you, but you made it so hard. Maybe I did, too—I don’t know.” The old man’s eyes open ever so slightly and he turns his head towards her. He manages to raise his hand and place it over hers, then closes his eyes for the last time and his breathing becomes shallow and slow. Within the hour, Mike Hannigan passes on. The other siblings elect Kathleen to speak on their behalf at his funeral mass. She struggles to find the words, and her hands shake as she steps behind the podium and looks out at the congregation, mostly her family. “Michael Hannigan, my father…was not an easy man to love,” she says, her mouth going dry. She looks at her siblings and sees confusion in their eyes. “I always thought of my father as being a simple man. He didn’t have much of an education. He didn’t have much to show for all of his effort. He was born in 1901 and worked in the mines all of his life. He came home at the end of his shift, ate his meal, slept and went back to work the next day. He could lift a glass with the best of them. That was his life,” she stops and takes a deep breath. “But my father was not a simple man. He was a complicated man who lived a simple life. He went down into the mines when he was just twelve years old, and he did this every day for nearly forty years, until his body couldn’t take it any longer. Then he took on odd jobs—carpentry, plumbing—whatever he could find. He married our mother when she was just sixteen and he was twenty-three and they had nine children, seven of whom survived. I thought I knew Mike Hannigan, and I wasn’t sure I liked the man I thought I knew. It was hard to find the words to speak about him now. I got a lot of help from my brothers and sisters and from my husband.” She gripped the sides of the podium to steady herself. “My father was his own person. He was constant. I don’t ever remember my father not going to work, except for the time he was hospitalized for a few days after a cave-in. I don’t ever remember my father not coming home from work, not a single day. You never had to guess what my father was thinking. We all have our own memories of Mike Hannigan, some better than others.” She smiles and nervous laughter breaks throughout the church. “My father—our father…” she says, looking at her siblings, “…has passed. We are his legacy, such as we are. We are the best and the worst of Mike Hannigan. We would honor our father—and our mother—by appreciating the best and forgiving the worst, by being the family that, I’m sure, my father thought we were.” Kathleen stepped down from the podium and, as she passed her father’s coffin, traced her fingers over the polished bronze finish. The gathering at the Knights of Columbus hall following Mike’s burial was something he would have enjoyed. His children were gathered, telling stories that, like threads of a tapestry, wove them back together.
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