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Authors: Catherine Anderson
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say.” He motioned Quincy closer. “Come on. Have a look.”
Quincy moved to stand beside his dad, acutely conscious as he did that he was only a couple of inches taller than Frank and in almost every other way his duplicate—same build, same square and work-hardened hands, and the same coloring. Family . In that moment, as Quincy stared into the carton, the meaning of that word took on a whole new significance. The old Bible and journals were a physical record of Harrigan history.
“Damn, Dad. I’m afraid to touch anything for fear it’ll disintegrate.”
Frank chuckled. “I kept all this stuff for you kids. Not much point in that if you’re afraid to look at it. If one of the bindings falls apart, we can always get it restored.”
With cautious reverence, Quincy lifted the Bible from the container. The cover was dark brown leather and fragile with dryness. He could imagine the hands of countless Harrigan ancestors touching the book just as he was now. He turned to the first page, which sported a yellowed and faded family tree. The name O’Hourigan leaped out at him. “Shit, it’s true, then. We changed our name from O’Hourigan to Harrigan.”
“I thought O’Hourigan sounded familiar,” Frank said. “I only needed a quick look inside to know I wasn’t rememberin’ wrong. Back in the eighteen hundreds, when the Irish immigrated here to escape the famine, name changes were pretty common. Sometimes to make them sound less Irish, other times to make them simpler to say and spell.” He flashed Quincy a quick grin. “O’Hourigan, for instance. Here in America, H-O-U-R is pronounced like the hour of the day, with no H sound. Changin’ the spellin’ was probably a smart move. Everybody probably would’ve called me Hour-Again.”
Quincy smiled and nodded. He’d mispronounced his share of surnames. Behind the original family-tree page, his ancestors had slipped in additional parchment or paper as the years passed to keep track of marriages, births, and deaths. He noted that the record ended with his dad’s generation.
“You stopped keeping track?” Quincy asked his father.
“No, of course not. Your mother just felt this Bible was getting too fragile, and she bought a new one. I have it over at my place. She went back a few generations and then recorded our marriage. All you kids is in there.” His voice turned thick. “After she died, I had to enter her death and Samantha’s birth. It took me a few months to muster the courage, but I finally got it done. Had myself a good cry afterward, feelin’ like I’d just lost her all over again. Pain like I can’t explain. Nowadays, it’s easier for me. I made note of my marriage to Dee Dee, and I’ve kept track of Clint’s babies, and the little one Sam and Tucker lost before it ever got born.” Frank’s eyes grew moist. “I just hope and pray I won’t have to enter the death of another loved one anytime soon.”
“Loni.” Quincy didn’t state it as a question. He knew Clint’s wife was never far from Frank’s mind. “Any updates since I talked to Clint this morning?”
Frank shook his head. “Not on her condition. Zach called to tell me Clint is busy tryin’ to get ready to transport her home. He’s worried about how she’ll handle the flight and about them removin’ the IV catheters. Once they get a vein, he hates for ’em to lose it. She’s so dehydrated that it’s the very devil to find a new one. But the nurses at the center refuse to leave ’em in. They say new catheters will have to be used if she’s seen here, anyway.”
Quincy sighed. For a few hours, the relentless sadness that had formed a lump in his throat had been pushed aside by the events of the morning. Now his concern for Loni came flooding back. All he could do was pray for her. He believed in the great power of prayer, but even so, he was, by nature, a do-it-yourself man. Loni’s illness made him feel so damned helpless.
He took a seat at the table to
Quincy moved to stand beside his dad, acutely conscious as he did that he was only a couple of inches taller than Frank and in almost every other way his duplicate—same build, same square and work-hardened hands, and the same coloring. Family . In that moment, as Quincy stared into the carton, the meaning of that word took on a whole new significance. The old Bible and journals were a physical record of Harrigan history.
“Damn, Dad. I’m afraid to touch anything for fear it’ll disintegrate.”
Frank chuckled. “I kept all this stuff for you kids. Not much point in that if you’re afraid to look at it. If one of the bindings falls apart, we can always get it restored.”
With cautious reverence, Quincy lifted the Bible from the container. The cover was dark brown leather and fragile with dryness. He could imagine the hands of countless Harrigan ancestors touching the book just as he was now. He turned to the first page, which sported a yellowed and faded family tree. The name O’Hourigan leaped out at him. “Shit, it’s true, then. We changed our name from O’Hourigan to Harrigan.”
“I thought O’Hourigan sounded familiar,” Frank said. “I only needed a quick look inside to know I wasn’t rememberin’ wrong. Back in the eighteen hundreds, when the Irish immigrated here to escape the famine, name changes were pretty common. Sometimes to make them sound less Irish, other times to make them simpler to say and spell.” He flashed Quincy a quick grin. “O’Hourigan, for instance. Here in America, H-O-U-R is pronounced like the hour of the day, with no H sound. Changin’ the spellin’ was probably a smart move. Everybody probably would’ve called me Hour-Again.”
Quincy smiled and nodded. He’d mispronounced his share of surnames. Behind the original family-tree page, his ancestors had slipped in additional parchment or paper as the years passed to keep track of marriages, births, and deaths. He noted that the record ended with his dad’s generation.
“You stopped keeping track?” Quincy asked his father.
“No, of course not. Your mother just felt this Bible was getting too fragile, and she bought a new one. I have it over at my place. She went back a few generations and then recorded our marriage. All you kids is in there.” His voice turned thick. “After she died, I had to enter her death and Samantha’s birth. It took me a few months to muster the courage, but I finally got it done. Had myself a good cry afterward, feelin’ like I’d just lost her all over again. Pain like I can’t explain. Nowadays, it’s easier for me. I made note of my marriage to Dee Dee, and I’ve kept track of Clint’s babies, and the little one Sam and Tucker lost before it ever got born.” Frank’s eyes grew moist. “I just hope and pray I won’t have to enter the death of another loved one anytime soon.”
“Loni.” Quincy didn’t state it as a question. He knew Clint’s wife was never far from Frank’s mind. “Any updates since I talked to Clint this morning?”
Frank shook his head. “Not on her condition. Zach called to tell me Clint is busy tryin’ to get ready to transport her home. He’s worried about how she’ll handle the flight and about them removin’ the IV catheters. Once they get a vein, he hates for ’em to lose it. She’s so dehydrated that it’s the very devil to find a new one. But the nurses at the center refuse to leave ’em in. They say new catheters will have to be used if she’s seen here, anyway.”
Quincy sighed. For a few hours, the relentless sadness that had formed a lump in his throat had been pushed aside by the events of the morning. Now his concern for Loni came flooding back. All he could do was pray for her. He believed in the great power of prayer, but even so, he was, by nature, a do-it-yourself man. Loni’s illness made him feel so damned helpless.
He took a seat at the table to
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