The Wake

New Orleans Review

Old men at wakes stand at the back. They stand at the back and jangle coins in their pockets. Their eyes go this way and that. This way and that. They are searching for a kiddo. They want to find a kiddo, preferably a boy. But a girl will do just fine. Thank you. Here boy-o or little colleen they want to say bending their bony fingers, smelling of whiskey. Their ears like jug handles. Their hair cut too short. They want to say, the old men with their jangling coins, hey kiddo, here's a spot of freedom for 'ya as they plant two bits or four bits or maybe a silver dollar into a kiddo's outstretched hand. But the old men can't find the kiddos. Everyone knows there are no kiddos to be found at wakes. The old men are clear on that. They have said to the sons and daughters, the wake is no place for a kiddo. We will have no kiddos running about your mother's wake.

The old men with funny haircuts and whiskey breath have said to the sons and daughters at the kitchen table where they eat the big mourning breakfast of mutton and eggs that the northern Aunties cook. No kiddos at the wake. But the northern Aunties are fat and have big black hairs on their chins to make them brave. They know how to beat the frying pans with a spoon to drive the devil to Connaught . They call the old men wicked and with a fork in one big fat hand and a knife in the other they say, any fool in Glenties knows who will be drunk before the casket leaves the church. And Jesus, who's to begrudge a few kiddos at the wake?

The old men say, the money. The money. There will be no mutton left for the breakfast and the priest will want a tithe. And the stink! The stink! When I was a boy-o we laid out at the house and when the ice was all gone— the stink! Unless it was winter. Ha. Ha. Then it was buckets of snow you shoved up their arse. The old men are clear on that. It's buckets of snow you shove up their arse. Buckets of snow until the fat Aunties cry and the sons and daughters are saying, you old fart shut your mouth. And wasn't it your own Da died in winter?

And then it's the old men crying and taking the bottle to the glass. Christmas. And did'ya know all the good boy-o wanted was an orange in the stocking. But the boy-o will have no orange until he's kissed the old fart on his fat dead lips. And aaargh, don't 'ya know. The stink! Beef paste and petroleum jelly. She's put beef paste and petroleum jelly on the fat dead lips. The stink! So now you know what a mother did to one of her own. That's the story, the old men say. They put down their whiskey glasses then pick them up again. They say, raise a cheer for the dead and gone. Let them stay dead and let them stay gone.

And now it's the sons making fists and the daughters crying. And the northern Aunties telling how it wasn't like that at all, not at all and you shouldn't be telling it like it is in front of the kiddos. But the old men push the plates back and show their teeth for battle. It was like that for sure they say, and I've a mind to fight you, and the sons. The sons. Why what good boy-os! What will become of them with the mother gone? And the lovely daughters. And the Aunties. And all the kiddos such good kiddos. Who wouldn't miss them if they weren't at the wake?

back