Chapter 54 Thursday June 25th Between the two movies, Flanery claims to have smoked exactly 1/3 of a cigarette whereas Norm smoked 27 cartons (Sacramento WW BDS panel 3/2014). The man is so funny he could do stand-up comedy, I swear. I've written it as if Connor does the Irish waterfall. If you've never seen the image of Norman doing it, you're missing out. Go Google it.

Storms

Crosby, Stills, and Nash – Southern Cross

When you see the Southern Cross for the first time,

You understand now why you came this way

'Cause the truth you might be runnin' from is so small,

But it's as big as the promise, the promise of a comin' day

Connor and I stood on her balcony, the sound of splashing in the bath a soothing babble of water and humming behind us. Between the two of us, we had convinced her into laying in hot water with the ice on her face. I shook two smokes out and handed one to my brother. We struck our lighters in unison, the practiced motion a comforting habit. I inhaled greedily, the first licks of nicotine hitting my blood stream, my mind a much welcomed blank of pleasure. I leaned on the railing, arms hanging over the edge, my cigarette dangling from my lower lip. The sun was well up and the fog burning off. It was going to be another scorcher, the forecast set to rise to nearly 90 degrees today.

We smoked in silence, but I could feel the thrum of anxiety in Connor. His usually smooth motions jerky as he threaded his belt back into his jeans. His need to do something was like a series of ants crawling across my skin, irritating and ticklish at the same time. I didn't want to talk about it right now. But if I didn't, they would both pick at me until I went insane, that much I knew about the both of them. Better he should deal with his own actions with the girl. It was barely a formed thought, but he picked up on it.

"I didna t'ink when I started t'ings last night dat they'd end as they did t'day." Connor's voice was quiet and subdued, an apology. He mirrored my stance, arms resting on the balcony railing, head bent in thought.

"Ach." I took a sip of coffee and whisky. "I'll no regret it, Brudder. I'd pay a higher price yet t'see ye again wit her as I did last night. She's not de only one wit de marks t'prove it." I laughed, a flash of humor, looking at my brother's body.

"Aye, well, bed wit a vixen..." Connor exhaled, smoke drifting away from his nostrils on the light morning wind, rubbing distractedly at a particularly angry red spot on his chest. "Ye'll have noticed she left her own marks on ye as well?" He teased back.

I smirked, but with a tiny flinch at the remembered feel of her nails digging into my flanks. At the time, I hadn't spared it a thought, the driving need to have her overriding everything. But my lips lifted in a smile to go along with it; vixen indeed.

"Ah, well. Holdin' on dere at de end? Waitin' on de two o'ye? Hardest t'ing I've ever done, a dheartháir. An' havin' ye in me head didna help at all."

"Twas good," he agreed. "I just wish…"

"I know. My fault. I dinna know why de fuckin' tromluí came last night. I shoulda been dead t'de world. An' I'm sorry fer it." I sighed, wishing the dream would leave me alone, wishing I hadn't hit the girl.

He nodded sagaciously, "It's okay, Murph, not yer fault. Ye heard her, twas mine. But I dinna t'ink we're fucked completely. She's still listenin' t'us." He jerked his chin towards the bathroom, indicating her willingness to take our suggestion that she'd feel better with heat and ice.

"Aye, well, maybe so far," I answered ascerbically. "There's still a reckonin' comin' fer all o'us." He raised his left eyebrow at me, a question, a commentary, sarcasm, and reluctant agreement all compounded into one simple motion. My stomach twisted in memory of just where that scar came from.

"But she did say best, no?" I said hurriedly to cover the feeling. He smiled lasciviously at me, our thoughts in accord at least on that subject. We subsided into silence then by mutual agreement.

The wind shifted, the sun rising higher into the sky. The fog was nearly gone now and summer laid its hand on me. I inhaled another lungful of smoke meditatively.

"Murph…"

"Kin ye still do de Irish waterfall?" I asked abruptly as a delaying tactic. I could feel him veering towards my dream and I didn't want to go there yet.

"Me? O'course I can! What de fuck de ye t'ink I am? He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke collect in his mouth, the cigarette end bright with burning. When the time was just right, he exhaled and then opened his mouth on the next inhalation, pulling smoke up through his nose in a trick we learned the first year we started the habit, but had taken years to master.

"Well?" He asked, defiantly. I shook my head, unwilling to rise to the challenge. He saw the look on my face and instead asked quietly in a different tone, "Church?"

"Aye," I exhaled, blowing a perfect smoke ring. It hung, ethereal and fragile for a frozen moment and then was whipped away by the breeze.

"Murph…" I could feel his torment, the need to go to her and fix things, the need to go with me, the need to preserve my pride.

"Go t'her, Brudder. Ye need t'fix dis shit. Tell her why," I clapped him on the shoulder, shoving him toward the door. "Go." He nodded once and turned away, stepping swiftly into the bathroom.

He left me, my cigarette burning down to the filter, forgotten between thumb and index finger. He always took care of me, I thought. And now he was once again giving me what I needed most: space to fight some of my demons on my own; allowing me time to order my thoughts for the coming conversation she wouldn't let me avoid. I looked out over the buildings of Southie, the warm wind caressing my face, looking east to the Atlantic, looking toward home, but seeing instead the streets of Bishopsgate Ward.

My right hand, covered in mortar and stone dust, reached for a pea coat turned almost grey with grime from the blast of a bomb.

I moved convulsively, dropping the butt of my cigarette over the railing. I swept up my keys and a T-shirt. I pulled my rosary from its hook and quietly closed the front door behind me, the storm in my head carefully blocked from my brother.

Headed for the quiet of church and a refuge I wouldn't let them give me right now.