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Authors: Colum McCann
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around her, his body more pliable. He put his hand on the small of her back, and they both disappeared inside the electronic door.
In the glove box of the van I looked for evidence: needles, packets, drug paraphernalia, anything. It was empty except for a well- worn Bible. In the inside flap Corrigan had written scattered notes to himself: The wish to make desire null. To be idle in the face of nature. Pursue them and beg for forgiveness. Resistance is at the heart of peace. When he was a boy he had seldom even folded down the pages of his Bible—he had always kept it pristine. Now the days were stacked up against him. The writing was spidery and he had underlined passages in deep- black ink. I recalled the myth that I had once heard as a university student— thirty- six hidden saints in the world, all of them doing the work of humble men, carpenters, cobblers, shepherds. They bore the sorrows of the earth and they had a line of communication with God, all except one, the hidden saint, who was forgotten. The forgotten one was left to struggle on his own, with no line of communication to that which he so hugely needed. Corrigan had lost his line with God: he bore the sorrows on his own, the story of stories.
I watched as the short nurse negotiated the ramp with the wheel -
chairs. She had a tattoo at the base of her ankle. It crossed my mind that she might be the one supplying him heroin, but she looked so cheerful in the hot slanting sun.
“Adelita,” she said, extending her hand out to me through the van window. “Corrigan’s told me all about you.”
“Hey, get your carcass out here and help us,” my brother said from the side of the van.
He was straining to get the old Galway woman through the door. The veins in his neck pulsed. Sheila was just a rag doll of a thing. I had a sudden recollection of our mother at the piano. Corrigan breathed heavily as he heaved her inside, arranged a series of straps around the woman’s body.
“We have to talk,” I said to him.
“Yeah, whatever, let’s just get these people in the van.”
He and the nurse glanced at each other across the rim of the seats.
She had a little bead of sweat around the top of her lip and she wiped it McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 45
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away with the short sleeve of her uniform. As we drove off, she leaned against the ramp and lit a cigarette.
“The lovely Adelita,” he said as he turned the corner.
“That’s not what I want to talk about.”
“Well, it’s all I want to talk about,” he said. He flicked a look in the rearview mirror and said: “Right, Sheila?” He did a fake drum roll on the steering wheel.
He was back to his old singsong self. I wondered if perhaps he had shot up while inside the nursing home: from what little I knew of addiction, anything at all could happen. But he was bright and cheery and didn’t have many of the hallmarks of heroin, or at least the ones I imagined. He drove with one arm out the window, the breeze blowing back his hair.
“You’re a mystery, you are.”
“Nothing mysterious at all, brother.”
Albee piped up from the backseat: “Pussy.”
“Shaddup,” said Corrigan with a grin, his accent tinged a little by the Bronx. All he cared about was the moment he was in, the absolute now.
When we had fought as children, he used to stand and take the blows—
our fights had lasted as long as I punched him. It would be easy to thump him now, fling him back against the van door, rifle his pockets, take out the packets of poison that were ruining him.
“We should make a visit back, Corr.”
“Yeah,” he said absently.
“I mean to Sandymount. Just for a week or two.”
“Isn’t the house sold?”
“Yeah, but we could find somewhere to stay.”
“The palm trees,” he said, half smiling. “Strangest sight in Dublin. I try to tell people about them, but they just don’t believe me.”
“Would you go
In the glove box of the van I looked for evidence: needles, packets, drug paraphernalia, anything. It was empty except for a well- worn Bible. In the inside flap Corrigan had written scattered notes to himself: The wish to make desire null. To be idle in the face of nature. Pursue them and beg for forgiveness. Resistance is at the heart of peace. When he was a boy he had seldom even folded down the pages of his Bible—he had always kept it pristine. Now the days were stacked up against him. The writing was spidery and he had underlined passages in deep- black ink. I recalled the myth that I had once heard as a university student— thirty- six hidden saints in the world, all of them doing the work of humble men, carpenters, cobblers, shepherds. They bore the sorrows of the earth and they had a line of communication with God, all except one, the hidden saint, who was forgotten. The forgotten one was left to struggle on his own, with no line of communication to that which he so hugely needed. Corrigan had lost his line with God: he bore the sorrows on his own, the story of stories.
I watched as the short nurse negotiated the ramp with the wheel -
chairs. She had a tattoo at the base of her ankle. It crossed my mind that she might be the one supplying him heroin, but she looked so cheerful in the hot slanting sun.
“Adelita,” she said, extending her hand out to me through the van window. “Corrigan’s told me all about you.”
“Hey, get your carcass out here and help us,” my brother said from the side of the van.
He was straining to get the old Galway woman through the door. The veins in his neck pulsed. Sheila was just a rag doll of a thing. I had a sudden recollection of our mother at the piano. Corrigan breathed heavily as he heaved her inside, arranged a series of straps around the woman’s body.
“We have to talk,” I said to him.
“Yeah, whatever, let’s just get these people in the van.”
He and the nurse glanced at each other across the rim of the seats.
She had a little bead of sweat around the top of her lip and she wiped it McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 45
L E T T H E G R E A T W O R L D S P I N
45
away with the short sleeve of her uniform. As we drove off, she leaned against the ramp and lit a cigarette.
“The lovely Adelita,” he said as he turned the corner.
“That’s not what I want to talk about.”
“Well, it’s all I want to talk about,” he said. He flicked a look in the rearview mirror and said: “Right, Sheila?” He did a fake drum roll on the steering wheel.
He was back to his old singsong self. I wondered if perhaps he had shot up while inside the nursing home: from what little I knew of addiction, anything at all could happen. But he was bright and cheery and didn’t have many of the hallmarks of heroin, or at least the ones I imagined. He drove with one arm out the window, the breeze blowing back his hair.
“You’re a mystery, you are.”
“Nothing mysterious at all, brother.”
Albee piped up from the backseat: “Pussy.”
“Shaddup,” said Corrigan with a grin, his accent tinged a little by the Bronx. All he cared about was the moment he was in, the absolute now.
When we had fought as children, he used to stand and take the blows—
our fights had lasted as long as I punched him. It would be easy to thump him now, fling him back against the van door, rifle his pockets, take out the packets of poison that were ruining him.
“We should make a visit back, Corr.”
“Yeah,” he said absently.
“I mean to Sandymount. Just for a week or two.”
“Isn’t the house sold?”
“Yeah, but we could find somewhere to stay.”
“The palm trees,” he said, half smiling. “Strangest sight in Dublin. I try to tell people about them, but they just don’t believe me.”
“Would you go
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