Stopped Clocks

Grandpa Micky always told us stories about Ireland. He told us that traditional Irish wakes were wild parties people would throw instead of funerals. That they’d last for days and the whole town would come. He said at these wakes you were just as likely to laugh and drink and dance as you were to cry or mourn.

He said they’d cover the dead person with a sheet. That they’d lay them on a table right smack-dab in the middle of the room and surround them with women who would wail and cry and sing. He said wailing was an art form and you could hire professional Wailers to give the wake an added umph. At least that’s what Grandpa Micky told us.

He said the air would be filled with tobacco smoke and music and stories about the deceased. That whoever was under the sheet had their life celebrated and their death mourned all at once. That no emotion was kept out. No happiness unsung. No sadness untouched.

He also told us all the clocks would be stopped at the time of death. My cousin, Patrick, had stopped his watch when we heard the news. It still reads 11:42.

When Grandpa Micky told us stories about Ireland, he would get this soft look on his face. His accent would get thicker. His gestures, more animated like a newly wound-up toy that would spring to life. When Grandpa told us stories about Ireland, his eyes would stare off into nothing as if he were dreaming. He ached for that place. You could tell.

I wondered then what it would be like to ache for something. To miss it so deeply it fills your whole being. Now I know how heavy and hard it sits in your chest like a ton of bricks.

Grandpa Micky always said he wanted to be cremated and returned to Ireland. To be spread into the sea. But instead we buried him a few hours ago next to Grandma Orla in the cemetery behind St. Matthew’s. Patrick and I had fought tooth and nail against our family about the cremation. But we’re teenagers, what could we do? They told us good Catholics don’t get cremated and that was that.

Patrick and I had also wanted to throw a big party. But instead we’re sitting silently in the stairwell of Grandpa’s house, listening to the grownups in the kitchen talk about their inheritance money.

We used to sit here as kids if we weren’t up in Grandpa's study. From the stairs, you can hear everything that’s being said below. It’s how we learned all the family gossip. Like how Uncle Pete’s wife left him for his boss. Or that Patrick’s brother, Seamus, got kicked out of Boy Scouts for starting a mini-rebellion against the troop leader. The pompous, little jerk.

And it’s how we know that instead of honoring Grandpa Micky, all they’re talking about is the big payout they’re expecting when we go to the reading of the will tomorrow.

“How much do you think he left us?” I hear Uncle Pete’s voice.

“What’s the property value of this house?” says my dad, ever the businessman.

“The old man better ‘ave left me somethin’,” spouts Uncle Jay. He’s the only one of the siblings who still has an Irish accent since he didn’t emigrate to the US with the rest of the family. They came over twenty-something years ago in the 70’s with Uncle Jay following behind eventually. Apparently the Brits got wind of his involvement with the IRA. Another fact we learned from the stairwell.

“I’m going to get a new car,” brags Aunty Shannon. She only ever talks about buying things or what she reads about in celeb magazines.

“Mummy, will I get anything?” Seamus is down there too, the little traitor. Probably hugging on Aunty Shann’s arm with his chin on her shoulder.

“But honestly how much do you think we’ll get?” says Uncle Pete again like a broken record.

Grandpa Micky hasn’t been in the ground two hours and my family is already chomping at the bit for their inheritance. I can still feel the irritation where the tag on my dress scratched my neck the entire funeral and all they can talk about is money.

I’m done listening. “Let’s go find Grandpa's whiskey,” I whisper to Patrick and we head up the stairs. We know he keeps a bottle up here somewhere but have never found its hiding spot.

I walk into Grandpa’s study and it fills my senses. The smell of his books. The look of all his antiques and relics from the Irish War of Independence. The sound of the creaky floor as we move around. It brings him back so quickly, I stop in my tracks. How many times have we been up here exploring all his nicknacks and listening to his stories? To think that won’t ever happen again makes the hardened pain in my chest grow heavier.

My eyes fall on the big table next to his desk stacked with piles upon piles of worn Moleskine notebooks. I pick one up and open it gently. Grandpa Micky’s slanted cursive sings across the yellowing pages, filling them with his thoughts and poetry. And I realize this table holds a compilation of Grandpa’s life, beautifully dissected into these little black books.

“Molly, come here!” Patrick yells. In the top drawer of Grandpa’s desk is a small, unopened bottle of whiskey.

“This seems too easy,” I say, as Patrick takes it out. He shrugs, opens the cap, and takes a drink.

I’m about to take my turn when I look down and see a brand new Moleskine in the drawer. It must have been hidden under the bottle. As I pick it up, two slips of paper fall from its pages. They’re identical checks, one to Patrick and one to me. Both for the sum of $20,000 and made out in Grandpa Mickey’s distinct cursive.

We look at each other wide-mouthed and big-eyed. I’ve never seen so many zeros on a check before. Let alone with my name on it.

Inside the Moleskine is a note:

“To my Wee Ones,” it reads in Grandpa’s beautiful, slanted cursive. My eyes start burning with unshed tears so I hand it to Patrick for him to read. I still haven’t let myself cry. Even at the funeral. Even when I heard the news. I spent the entire funeral concentrating on that scratchy tag and fuming at my family about the burial.

“To my Wee Ones.” Even with Patrick’s voice reading the words, I can still hear Grandpa’s lyrical accent.

“I wanted to leave you something out of the hands of my greedy children. Use this money any way you wish. My only request is that you buy a ticket to Ireland. Hopefully with my ashes though I doubt I’ll win that battle. So take this notebook instead and fill its pages. Write down everything: the smells, the sounds, the songs you hear, the people you meet. The beauty of the land. Do this so that one day you may share it with your children and your children’s children. So that they will know where they’re from and who they are.

I love you, Wee Ones. I always have and I always will.

-Your Daideó Micky

P.S. - Yes, the whiskey’s for you. Enjoy the craic but don’t go overboard. And give a splash to me grave. Grandma Orla too, she’s probably peckish by now.”

This is all for us. The note. The whiskey. The checks. I don’t care as much about the money as I do that he knew we’d be the first ones to come to his study. That we’d go looking for the whiskey. That we loved him. And thinking this makes the hardened pain in my chest soften a little.

Patrick and I are taking turns with the bottle when the antique clock on Grandpa’s desk gives a jingle to tell us it’s a new hour. Hard to believe it’s still ticking the seconds away since we lost him. And that’s when it hits me. I take the clock off the desk and twist the knob on its back until it's stopped at 11:42.

Then I go to the huge table stacked full of Grandpa’s notebooks and begin pulling it to the center of the room. Patrick understands instantly and comes over to help.

“Oi! What are yous doin’ up there?” Uncle Jay is shouting at us from the kitchen below. They must have heard the heavy table moving around. In response, Patrick goes to lock the door while I take one of the dingy curtains off the window. We each take an end and spread the fabric neatly over the books.

Patrick grabs the boombox he’d brought up to keep out of the hands of Seamus. Luckily, our favorite CD is still in it. We’d recently played Flogging Molly for Grandpa so he could hear how the band fused together traditional Irish music with punk. He’d loved it.

I hold the whiskey in the air and Patrick does the same with a lit cigarette. “Sláinte,” we say in unison. Patrick turns the volume up as far as it goes and presses play. The opening drum beat of Flogging Molly explodes into the quiet study. We begin to stomp our feet to the rhythm as hard as we can over the heads of our ungrateful family. The rest of the music comes in and we start to dance. We spin and headbang. We fling our arms and punch the air to release all the frustration at our family. At losing Grandpa. At life for its ability to snatch something away from you in an instant.

Between chords I can hear the rest of the family banging at the door. But we don’t stop. We dance and stomp and yell the words of the song at the top of our lungs. We blow cigarette smoke into the air and splash whiskey on the ground. And we laugh our arses off at our family trying to get in.

That is until the opening lyrics to one of Flogging Molly’s slower songs starts to play:

“If I ever leave this world alive

I'll thank you for the things you did in my life

If I ever leave this world alive

I'll come back down and sit beside your feet tonight

Wherever I am, you'll always be

More than just a memory

If I ever leave this world alive.”

Patrick is the first one to go face down onto the table, clutching at the curtain. At first I think he’s hurt himself but then I realize he’s crying. That’s when the grief hits me like a ton of bricks. So I go down too, grabbing at the notebooks through the sheet and feeling the tears run hot on my face.

And that’s how our family finds us after they finally bust the door open: wailing over Grandpa’s notebooks. To be honest I’d forgotten they were there and didn’t hear them come in over the music. When I feel a hand petting my hair and one rubbing my back, I’m almost surprised to look up and see my parents.

The rest of the family has joined us at the table. Aunty Shann is cradling Patrick in her arms. Next to her is Uncle Pete, sobbing like a little baby. Uncle Jay is patting Pete’s back with one hand and taking swigs of whiskey with the other. Little Seamus is using the opportunity to sneak a puff of the cigarette and then starts coughing, which actually manages to make me laugh. We’re all here, I realize. And even though that doesn’t take away the pain in my chest, it does seem to soften its edges. And even though that doesn’t lighten the load of grief, maybe if we can carry it together it won’t feel so heavy.