Chapter 10

An increasing amount of his time had been spent researching Sergeant Lincoln T. Robinson online. Casey discovered a photo of the sergeant with a couple of his fellow soldiers that had been used in a college student’s research paper, a kid named Jerome Robinson who was the great nephew of the sergeant. Unfortunately, the student was no longer at the university, but at least Casey had a lead. A lead to what? What was he looking for?

The paper was not very well-written, probably received no higher than a C, and Casey was not quite sure what its point was. It was as if the student had just wanted to tell his professor that he had a relative fight in the war. The paper’s title, “Integration of the Army,” seemed promising enough, but aside from providing a brief history of African-Americans in the Armed Forces, one that was missing important information that any well-researched paper should have included, the paper did not do much but mention names of blacks in the Army and their units. “My great uncle, Lincoln T. Robinson, went to Europe in the 93^rd Infantry Division in 1942 and won a Purple Heart. He was promoted to Sergeant in 1950 and shipped off to Korea a year later. The Army had been desegregated by President Harry S. Truman in 1948, and Sergeant Robinson was assigned to the 25^th Infantry Division after the African American divisions were dissolved.” That was it. Nothing about the travails of being a black man in the United States Army before and at the time of integration. Nothing about the struggles with racism or positive stories about integration. Surely if he could find this kid, he could learn more about his great uncle and maybe find out who Clara was and why her letter had been saved from a garbage can by Holden Caulfield. A google search revealed dozens of Jerome Robinsons in the United States, maybe hundreds. He would have to start at the beginning of the list, calling each one of them until he found the great nephew of the sergeant, even at twenty-five cents a minute from across the ocean.

Three strikes and two disconnected numbers later, he put the list down. Ridiculous, he said. Then he called Marin.

“Hello?” Hearing her voice, he nearly hung up, for the distance he had tried to put between him and his life had been erased with the press of twelve buttons. “Hello? Is this Casey?”

“How’d you know?”

“My phone says ‘call from Ireland,’ and you’re the only one I know who is there.”

“Oh, yeah. Technology.”

“So, how is it?”

“If you had asked me that when I first got here, I would have said beautiful, then fun, then lonely, and now interesting. It’s quite an adventure.”

“Are you homesick at all?”

“I was for a bit, after I’d been here for about three weeks. That lasted a week or two.” He proceeded to tell her about meeting Neil on the first day and then Padraig in Belfast, though he left out the IRA part. He told her about the green, the architecture, the taste of the Guinness, the murkiness of the Liffey, the bay, the North Sea, the palm trees and the mild winter, eating Cincinnati Reds (You’re just making that up. No I’m not.), all of the photos he had taken, his research about Sergeant Robinson, and every non-controversial detail he could recall. She asked many questions, more questions than he could answer, and said she wished she could visit.

“Why can’t you?”

“I really can’t afford the plane ticket right now with the Christmas shopping I had to do.”

“I’ll get it for you. A Christmas present.” The phone pretended to go dead.

“I’d really love that, but…”

“But what?”

“I just don’t know if I could accept such a gift from you.”

“You went to Oakland with me.”

“But it wasn’t a foreign country.”

“If you are concerned about the price of a ticket, you’d be surprised to learn that you can get tickets to Dublin for the same price as tickets to San Francisco. The flight time isn’t much longer, either.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the United States is that big.”

She really did want to go and could find no good excuse not to.

“When?” she asked.

“Do you have plans for New Year’s?”

“Aside from watching the ball drop and drinking a glass of cheap champagne in some bar with a couple of girlfriends? No.”

It was settled, then. She would join him for New Year’s Even in Dublin; he would not have to spend it alone.

Neil had invited him to Christmas dinner, his first Christmas with family since his mother had died. The holiday had crept up on him – the air seemed too warm for it, and he had not been subjected to months of Christmas junk stuffed onto store shelves. Even though commercialism had invaded the city years ago, there was still some respect for the holiday, a bit of reverence for spirituality, and another excuse to celebrate the joys of life. Despite the downs, there were many joys to celebrate. He had to remind himself of that quite often.

He was not prepared for how much reverence there was for the day. Thinking he would wake up late and have a Christmas brunch somewhere, like he had for the last several years in the States, in between those wretched Christmases he spent in Muslim Iraq, he dressed and left the flat. Memories of those desert Christmases visited him. It was odd to him that the Muslims he met had the utmost respect for Christmas. After all, they did view Christ as a prophet whose followers simply messed up. Maybe it was because they had misspelled the word as “profit.” Nothing was open in the city, and only ghosts roamed those empty streets. Even the Muslim Pakistanis and the Hindi Indians had shut down their delis near his flat. Casey was stuck frying the one egg he had left and eating some leftover take away. He was grateful he had asked for the box, because he had planned on leaving the food on his plate. I should really learn to cook, he thought. Maybe it’d make me go to the store more often.

By the time he was supposed to head over to Neil’s house, he was starving. Unsure of what the custom was in terms of bringing a gift to the host, he brought over the usually infallible bottle of beautiful red wine, a gift that was thoroughly appreciated by them all that night. Neil had a gift for Casey, too, the best gift he had received in a long time, a wall hanging with the O’Hagan family crest, which he hung on his apartment wall as soon as he returned that night.

He had also bought Neil, Jr. the latest video game console and a few games. Both Neil and Eva nearly had tears in their eyes, for such luxuries could never be considered on their meager cab driver’s budget, and an honest cab driver, too, one who did not rip off passengers, not even obnoxious American or German or Japanese tourists. Casey had even had the idea to send a video game to the child every once in awhile, especially on birthdays and holidays. As Neil Jr. was busy with his prize, the three adults were enjoying an aperitif in the dining room.

“Listen, Casey, you didn’t have to go through such trouble,” Neil said to him.

“Trouble?”

“The video games.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. I’m happy to have a family member to give such a gift to.”

“But it is such an expensive gift.”

“It’s ok, I’m able to do it.”

“But you don’t even have a job.”

“Ah, but I do. It’s just that I’m on a long break right now.”

“But you told me you were in between…”

“It’s complicated. Don’t worry about it.”

“You don’t know how much this means to me, to us.”

“But I do, Neil. My parents struggled to make ends meet. I never had gifts like that. New clothes for me were discarded clothes for someone else. If I can give a kid something like this, it’s worth it.” And then, Casey realized he had not just gained a family, he had gained a friend for life. It felt wonderful.

Marin arrived a few days later, exhausted and jet lagged. She told him she had not slept on the plane, and he related, so he let her sleep as he filed his photos on his laptop. There were some that made him proud, made him wonder if perhaps some magazine could find some use for them. Maybe that’s how he could get out of Sidney’s racket, make a real living doing something legitimate. It was an art, though; only the bests could earn a living off an art. Those who had no real talent but made money from a field in the arts, those like Britney Spears, Dan Brown, and painters who mass produced their works never lasted. It was the toughest industry in a world that revolved around money. Art was life, soul, and business could never understand that. Yes, photography, he could try it. He could not wait to tell Marin, so he went in to check on her in his bed. She looked so beautiful, so peaceful. He returned to the couch and fell asleep until morning.

She woke him unintentionally by the sounds of her movement, as he was used to silence in the morning, had silent neighbors, or maybe no neighbors; he had never seen any. He pretended to sleep as he watched her through barely opened eyes, watched her move into the kitchen, try to find the coffee, find the filters which for some reason he kept separate from the coffee. He watched her as she closed each cupboard, each drawer, with careful motions, slowly pushing them, considerate, gentle. He could hardly wait to talk to her, to take her around Dublin, but he was enjoying watching her. He could not help but sport a slight smile on his face. She looked at him at that moment and knew he was awake, watching her, happy. She was happy, too. Content at least. She smiled at him and said nothing, wanting to ix him breakfast, but when she opened the empty refrigerator, she realized that would be impossible. She vowed to take him to the grocery, laughed out loud at his bachelor kitchen, rejoiced really, because that empty fridge told her that no woman had been here, at least, not one he had seen more than once or twice. She reveled in the fact she was watching him, tried not to look at him save for an occasional glance out of the corner of her eye. He saw these glances, knew she was watching, felt content. Where could he bring her today, what could he show her? They had wandered through San Francisco, she liked adventure, liked to explore what most people ignored, what they could not see, what quotidian ritual had numbed them to. He would show her what it meant to live in this city, reveal its life and its soul to her. Fro now, though, he was enjoying this early morning game. Both of the knew she would end it, as it was easier to get someone out of bed than to get out of bed. And she did, rousing him from his pretend slumber with a Sleeping Beauty kiss. He pretended to be annoyed, pretended to fight a wake up, and realized he had missed her, had actually missed her when he had thought he had erased her.

He took her to breakfasts to relieve himself from her incessant nagging about his empty refrigerator. And because he was hungry. And because he could not wait to take her out in the city. Over breakfast he listened to the details of her flight, her boredom in Cincinnati, and the winter storm that had threaten her trip. She, too, appreciated the mild climate and laughed at how 45 degrees as the New Year rang in could be considered so cold to the people who lived through it. As they were enjoying each other’s company, his favorite song came on, Until the End of the World, Judas speaking to Jesus, blasphemy in the old world. Was there a more reviled figure in Western history? Perhaps Hitler. At least Judas felt remorse. Money it was. Money killed the Savior of the World, the Prince of Peace, a few silver pieces, a betrayal of the prophet for profit. Was this not the real lesson in the Christian story?

They walked the streets of Dublin City, more than friends, not quite lovers, or maybe lovers, but not quite lovebirds. Their relationship was too complicated for that. Coincidence had seen to that. Treacherous coincidence, wasn’t it? She took it all in, nearly ordering a Guinness for brunch just for the thrill of it, but she did not want to dull her brain, did not want to let her guard down against Mr. O’Hagan, who had captured her heart but whose heart would not let her in. His devotion or pain or whatever it was to Anne had helped her get over Michael, for she knew she had never felt such devotion to him. Or maybe she just had the luxury of more time to get over him.

Dublin was beautiful in its own way. It did not have a beautiful blue sea to compliment its coasts, only an ugly, canned pea sea too far from its center, too far from anything but the suburbs. It had mountains, but they were unattainable, far from the city for those without cars. But the city had life, a life that had persevered through turmoil, abuse, poverty, disease, even the torture of starvation by a government and its wealthy lackeys who hated its people. That spirit of life was everywhere, in every brick, every cobblestone, every mind that had the good fortune to traverse its streets. Casey looked at Marin, such beauty, but it was her appreciation of these things that he liked most about her.

It was like the first day he had come to Dublin, only better, because he was not alone, he was with someone he cared about, someone he could share the cracks in the sidewalk with, someone who could appreciate the warmer air without saying, “Oh, it’s much warmer here, isn’t it?” He took her through the streets, across the shopping of Grafton Street, past the winter flowers of St. Stephen’s Green, into old churches like St. Anne’s Church. Anne. And St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a church named for the saint who had brought Catholicism to Ireland and had been taken over by Protestants. How ironic.

She commented on the mountains, calling them “her mountains,” as if they had captured her soul. They walked towards them for awhile, though the distance never seemed to diminish. He let her chase those green hills because he understood those hills, understood that they represented a sort of freedom, where beauty ruled over governments and life was appreciated. Casey referred to them as her mountains for the rest of her trip and the rest of his stay in Ireland.
The streets of Dublin City were alive throughout the last day of the year – Dublin sensed a party and was fully prepared to enjoy itself as it entered a new year of existence. The two of them were indecisive in their evening’s plans. A club? A bar? A restaurant? Back home, they called this night “amateur drunk night,” and usually Casey avoided crowded places on New Year’s Eve. Dublin did not seem to have any amateur drunks.

They settled on all three – a couple of pints early, dinner at whatever place had a table, a club if they could get into a decent one. They figured if they got there early enough, they would be ok. Casey enjoyed the early arrival – it avoided lines, covers, and entering a crowded place sober. Crowds he did not like and liked less as he grew older. Arriving early got a table or a stool where he could sit throughout the night, refuge from those suffocating, shifting, standing crowds. Beers and dinner accomplished, they entered a club sometime just before nine. They were not the only ones there, but they could still hold a conversation without shouting at each other.

“It’s funny,” she said as they sipped a couple of martinis, a drink neither of them usually ordered, but this being a special occasion, they decided on something different. Casey thought it would be funny to order it ‘shaken, not stirred,’ but the bartender was not amused.

“What?”

“How people look at the New Year as a time to start over. I mean, we’re all so flawed that we have to set aside a day every year to try to rectify all of the mistakes we’ve made throughout the year.”

“I’ve always just viewed it as a celebration of life.”

“Come on, you’ve never made a New Year’s resolution? You’ve never said to yourself ‘this year will be better?’ You’ve never joined a gym in January, went on a diet, filed a box of papers, cleaned a house, all with the intention of making things better, making things right again?”

“Yeah, I guess, but the flaws aren’t a negative thing; they’re simply another part of life to celebrate.”

She smiled at him and picked an olive from her glass, taking out the pimento and placing it on a napkin before nibbling on the olive.

“If I didn’t think you were the most real person I know, that you aren’t a fake, I’d tell you you were full of shit.”

“Why, you don’t believe me?”

“I know what you’ve been through and what you think of people. Your dislike of them stems from their insular notions of living, their apathy, the fact that they take life for granted. You can’t celebrate their flaws, you despise them.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He sighed and stared into his drink, a little depressed but satisfied that she knew him so well. “Cheers,” he said as he raised his glass in defeat.

Half a martini later, his mood swung back into contentment. They cheered the night, cheered Ireland, took some champagne as the clock neared midnight, found disquieted passion as the new year rang in, danced the night away, and woke up late with headaches they did not mind.

After spending two days wandering around, Casey suggested they take a trip to see some of Ireland, so they hopped a train and headed to Galway on Ireland’s west coast, a city that happily touched the Atlantic Ocean, where globalization and commercialism were still lingering behind, lurking in the shadows but not in total control. It was a beautiful day, especially for January, and as they walked along the Atlantic, sun shining upon the yellow and green and pink Celtic town, a far cry from the red brick and concrete of the city whose name means “black pool,” Casey had a fleeting notion that he might be falling for her. She was a wandering soul, too, she understood things that average people did not, saw the little things in life as bigger things.

The people of Galway seemed carefree and less confined by definitions of urban cool. Casey and Marin spent the day shopping, talking as long with each shopper and shopkeeper that they could. Marin had just purchased a beautiful Aran sweater when she suddenly wondered why her store could not stock such fine winter wear, why it was so difficult back home in Cincinnati to walk into a store and purchase a decent sweater that had not been mass produced in some sweatshop in China or some other godforsaken authoritarian state. An idea was taking shape in her mind, but its formation was interrupted by the shopkeeper.

“Have you two visited the islands?” she said in an accent so thick Marin thought she had asked something about seeing through her eyelids.

“What islands?” Casey asked.

“The Aran Islands – Inishmore and the like.” Marin still did not understand a word, so Casey had to be her interpreter.

“No, where are they?” he asked.

“Oh, just across the water – you can take a ferry.” Ojusacrostawhathereyukantaykafury.

“What’s there?”

“Some beautiful Celtic ruins, old forts, mysterious stone formations. You simply must see them!”

“Do you want to go?” Casey asked Marin.

“Um, sure,” she said, not really knowing what she had agreed to see.

“You’ll have to catch the morning ferry, the last one’s just gone.”

“But it’s only one o’clock.”

“It’s winter, dear. It gets dark early.”

“Ok, we’ll go first thing in the morning. We have no plans.”

“Aw, in’t that a blessing? You two newlyweds?” That Marin understood. They both laughed a bit uneasily. The woman lowered her voice, smiled, and said, “Ack, it’s ok, this is the twenty-first century, isn’t it?”

As the two of them were leaving the store, Marin said, “How odd. I felt for a minute like I had returned to the 1950s. Or I was somewhere in backasswards Alabama or some other part of the South.”

“Hey, we’re lucky. She could have been some judgmental old hag full of hot air lectures and vituperating quotes from scripture about sin and how we’re going to Hell.”

“True.”

“Let’s get some lunch.”

“But we just ate.”

“Two hours ago. Come on, I’m hungry. I want some fish and chips. It has to be fresh here, being by the ocean and all.”

“And Dublin’s not?”

“Just come on,” he said, playfully tapping her on the arm with his loose fist.

“I guess I could eat a little.”

After finding a little stand where they wrapped the fish and chips in newspaper and eating their treasures while sitting on a beach at Galway Bay, they wandered around until winter’s early darkness had completely engulfed the city. They took refuge in the light of a pub, where they were delighted to find the whole place break into pub songs and dance a few impromptu jigs, just like the movies. What a night, Casey thought as they were going to bed that night.

The sky gifted them with another brilliant sun the next morning, and they caught a 10:30 ferry to the islands, wandering across the bare limestone ground, startled by the strangeness of the land and marveling at the 400 foot cliffs towering over the Atlantic Ocean below. Gulls as small as ants flew beneath them as they explored an ancient fort on the edge of the island, which seemed more like the edge of the world.

“Oh, look, over there,” Casey said. “It’s the Cliffs of Moher. You think this is high? They’re twice this. You can lean out over them and the winds hold you up.”

“Shut up. That makes me queasy.” He noticed she had not gotten close to the edge. “I don’t trust my legs to get too close. They just buckle.”

“You don’t like to stare down 400 feet to certain death?” he teased.

“Don’t say it like that. I’m serious.”

“Aren’t you enjoying your time here?”

“Oh, yes, I just don’t want to get too close.” He took a step closer.

“Am I too close?” he asked as a grin slowly faded from his face. Am I too close? Or is it she who is too close? “Hey, do you want to go back now?”

“To Galway?”

“To Dublin.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Kind of. Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Well, we can go then. I only have a couple of more days here, anyway, then it’s back to the real world for me.” She knew what had just transpired, that he had closed his heart to her again. Her suspicion was confirmed by his silence on the way back to Dublin, when he stuck his nose in a book to try to close out the entire world.

“Do you mind if I just stay in tonight?” he asked as he turned the key to his flat. “You can go out if you want.”

“No, I don’t want to go out alone. I don’t care, do whatever you want. I’ll just read or something.” He disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. It pissed her off, so she grabbed a book and left, determined to find some pub to read it in. This was Dublin, after all. Books were respected, writers were gods, and you weren’t viewed as weird for reading.

As she was looking for a place to stop in, passing several places full of men and looking too uncomfortable for a woman alone, she remembered the idea that had come to her in the Galway shop: opening her own clothing store in Cincinnati where she could stock such items as Aran sweaters.

“It’s a stupid idea,” she said aloud.

“What is?” a familiar voice said behind her.

“Are you following me?” she asked angrily as she turned to confront the voice.

“I’m sorry,” Casey replied. “I was rude, I’m sorry.”

“Well, go home. I’ll be fine on my own,” she said as she tried to remain angry with him.

“Are you sure?” he asked. She noticed that the concern in his voice was genuine. Still, he would never open up to her, why should she pursue this relationship any further.

“Yes.”

“Ok, then. See you later.”

“Yeah,” she whimpered before turning to walk away. Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back…but she did look back, and Casey had walked away, walked a whole block away, but he was still within sight.

“Casey!” she screamed, embarrassed by how loud she had to yell. Several people around her looked. “Wait!” He walked several more steps before stopping and turning around, but he did not advance towards her. She hesitated before walking towards him. “Dinner?” she asked when she was close enough not to shout.

“Sure.” It was not a very comfortable dinner, and the distance between them over her last days there put the fun and closeness they had shared upon her arrival into the backs of their minds. He did not even go to the airport with her to see her off.

A.J. arrived a week later, but Casey had already sunk to new depths of his misery. A.J. stayed in a hotel and was out quite late most of the week, but they managed to spend enough time together to make it feel like A.J. was visiting Casey more than just the city of Dublin. Casey took him to the pub with the Mets fan bartender, who was thrilled by the presence of the superstar and spent the whole time telling A.J. how Major League Baseball should send more scouts to Ireland. The Irish appreciate good sport, he said and invited them to a hurling match a couple of nights later, an invitation the two of them eagerly accepted and enjoyed. A.J. was especially interested in the violence of the sport, the part of the game least appealing to Casey. A.J. enjoyed it so much he said he wanted to start a hurling league in Cincinnati.

“Uh, do you know what country Cincinnati is in?” Casey asked sarcastically. “It’s a country where proposals to make high school soccer player wear helmets are seriously considered. Hurling is probably already illegal in the Nanny States of America.”

“Bollix!” the bartender said in amazement. “You gotta be fucking joking.”

“Nope, unfortunately, he’s right,” A.J. replied.

“So, ready for the season?” Casey asked him on the way back from the match.

“Fuck no. I could use another three or four months off. I certainly could spend more time partying here. I love this city, man!”

But you obviously don’t love baseball, you overpaid dick, Casey found himself thinking before forcefully shoving the thought from his mind.

Casey made the trip to Belfast one more time before saying goodbye to Ireland, at least for the duration of a baseball season. He found it difficult to say goodbye to Neil but promised he would return as soon as he could, and he meant it.

A late February rain was coating the Midwest with ice as his plane touched down at Cincinnati Very Good. He desperately wanted to feel Home Sweet Home but felt only drear instead as he looked out the tiny plane window at the gray misery outside, a picture that immediately filled him with a sense of dread bordering on despair. Until he found Anne standing outside the security gate waiting for him. Maybe I am home, he thought as the two of them embraced.