JULY 4, 1995
BECAUSE MY HOUSE WAS THE UNOFFICIAL HEADQUARTERS FOR EVERYONE TO HANG out, it meant that I didn’t spend much time at friends’ homes. Even Feely’s. I could count on two hands the number of times I’d been to his farm, but today was his birthday, and he’d only invited myself and Gibsie over to celebrate.
Unfortunately, Gibs was still deep in his “not leaving Claire’s side” phase, which meant I was the only guest. To be fair to Feely, he didn’t push Gibs, and neither did I.
He was doing remarkably well considering his world had fallen apart two months ago. Neither one of us wanted to tip him over the edge. If Claire’s company was what he needed right now, then he could have it with our full blessing.
“You know I don’t eat that,” Feely said, dragging me from my thoughts. I peered at the plate in front of him and my stomach growled in appreciation when my eyes took in the sight of a juicy steak. “I’m a vegetarian, Dad.”
“You’re a bollocks is what you are,” his father shot back before dumping another massive steak onto my plate. “Now, Hughie, lad, tuck into a feed of prime Irish beef for yourself.”
I wanted to.
Badly.
But I didn’t want to be used as a pawn in Paddy Feely’s attack on his son. Especially on his birthday.
“Actually, I’m a vegetarian, too,” I lied, mentally devastated to abandon the glorious piece of meat on my plate. Feely caught my eye, and he gave me a grateful smile.
“Jesus Christ,” the old man muttered, shaking his head. “There’s something fucking wrong with the youth of today.”
“Paddy,” Mary scolded, pouring a mountain of steaming spuds into a bowl on the middle of the table. “Could you give it a rest? It’s our son’s birthday. Let the lad eat what he wants for one day, will ya?”
“Would ya take one look at him, Mary?” Paddy continued, using his fork to point at his son across the table. “He’s like a ghost.”
“He’s just pale.”
“And scrawny.”
“Because he’s growing like a beanstalk.”
“Because he’s lacking in iron. And do ya know where iron comes from, Mary? Red meat is where iron comes from,” he ranted, shaking his head. “Did ya ever hear the likes of it in your life? A beef farmer with a vegetarian for a son?”
“You’re just old-fashioned,” his wife argued. “There’s nothing wrong with not eating meat.”
“I blame his sisters for putting notions in his head,” he continued, not one bit dissuaded by my presence. “They babied the lad and made him soft. Putting musical instruments in his hands instead of a shovel and pike!”
“He’s brilliant,” I heard myself point out, feeling pissed off with the old man. Feely’s dad wasn’t intimidating or physically aggressive, just a contrary old fucker set in his backwards ways. Both Feely’s mother and father were pushing on in years. They were both gray and wrinkled and sort of looked like they should be his grandparents. “Your son is the best singer at school.”
That was no word of a lie. Feely could hit the high notes in “Queen of the May” better than any of us in the school choir, which meant he got roped into singing for Holy Communion every year. And his rendition of “Oíche Chiúin” was tremendous. My friend could turn his hand to any manner of instruments, be it the bodhran or guitar, the keyboard or the fiddle. He was so superior to the rest of us that I often wondered why the teachers forced the rest of us eejits to crow behind him when we clearly brought him down.
Last year, Gibs pitched a fit about favoritism, so they let him tinkle on a triangle while crooning out “Kumbaya, My Lord,” but that’s as close as Feely ever came to losing his leading role.
“A lot of good that’ll do him when he’s farming the land,” his father scoffed, retraining his attention on his son who could have easily been his grandson. “You’ll do well to remember that, boyo. Don’t be getting any notions of grandeur because this is your lot.” He pointed out the kitchen window to the sprawling, green countryside that was his family’s farm. “That’s your future.”
Borrowing a pair of his wellies after dinner and with a cattle prod in hand, I trailed through the farm with my friend, feeling so fucking sad for him but knowing better than to verbalize my thoughts.
“Are you all right, lad?” I finally asked him once enough time had passed.
“I’m grand,” he replied, brushing it under the carpet like only Feely could, while he herded the milked cows out of the parlor and back down the path to the field. “He just doesn’t get me.”
“Well, I think you’re brilliant,” I offered. “I think you should keep playing.”
“Yeah,” he replied flatly, smacking one rogue cow on the hind to move her on when she starting holding up the others. “It is what it is, Hughie.”
His shoulders were slumped, his head was bowed, and I knew he was drowning in his father’s words of warning.
Now, I was no Patrick Feely. In fact, I couldn’t sing for shit and was always put in the far back in the choir, but I decided to break into song right now, because he needed me to.
Crowing like a lark, I belted out the first song that came to mind, which just so happened to be Christy Moore’s “Don’t Forget Your Shovel.”
Thankfully my attempt to cheer him up was a success. He choked out a laugh. Encouraged by his hearty chuckles, I upped the stakes, mimicking his father’s hobbled walk as I scuffled toward him.
“You’re a dope,” he laughed, nudging my shoulder with his when I reached him.
Grinning, I threw my arm around him and continued to croon the words until he gave in and sang along with me.
And that’s how we spent the rest of his birthday, knee-deep in cow shit on his father’s farm, singing about shovels and holes in buckets.
