17 Not my Fault

He honestly hadn’t expected to do more than a quick walk through of his normal ward at the hospital. He hadn’t expected to set a broken leg. He also hadn’t expected a lecture from the head doctor about students respecting their time off the clock and if he didn’t take care of his non-medical life how did he expect to provide top notch care for his patients either. It was one thing to quote scripture at Alfred to annoy him, it would have been quite another to take that tack with the head doctor. Alfred might well murder them still, but no one could eviscerate someone like Dr. Morris with just words.

This led to about fifteen minutes crying in a locked supply closet. By the time he’d gotten control of himself, he no longer felt ready for sideburns. Alfred could make Gael a lawyer in less than a year, but Jack didn’t think Moses could convince Dr. Morris that he was a good doctor. In control, but still off center, he grabbed up his black medical bag, and then checked his pocket watch.

He was two hours late for Gael’s party. He cleared his throat and strode towards the exit. Better late than never.

There was a cab waiting for him out front, not Henry, but a younger man in an automobile. He couldn’t very well claim to be Job, and he knew the comparison was out of reason, but he wasn’t happy anyway.

The young man waved to him and Jack tried to smile.

“Dr. Walker? Hi! I’m Caleb. Henry couldn’t wait anymore, but I said I’d be happy to take you to your party. Do you want to go someplace and get dressed first?”

“No,” Jack snapped, settling into the back seat, which was clearly not meant for a passenger the size of a grown man. “Thank you for waiting for me, Caleb. Please get me to my destination as quickly as possible. I fear I’m running late.”

“You got it, Dr. Walker!”

By the time they got to the warehouse where the party was, Jack had found not a single sliver of new love for automobiles. Caleb was nice enough, offering to wait to take them home, all night if he needed to, for a dollar, he’d stay.

Jack gave him a dollar. Making the guy happy was at least something he could do and now that he was here, he was actually really nervous about meeting Gael’s family. He’d always heard that Irish Catholics were very strict, that they didn’t like Protestants, and probably had extra disdain for Baptists. With three guests from Ireland, the whole thing was about to be all Irish, all night long, and try as he might, Irish was not an easy language to learn.

Standing up tall, he walked the entrance, which barely contained the din of music and shouting. He had the sudden feeling that he’d chased his blond lover down the rabbit hole and he wasn’t ready to be Alice.

There was a Goliath of a man who moved in front of the door, arms across his chest. “Private party,” he said in English with an Irish accent that made angry Gael’s accent sound as delicate as a doily.

“I am Dr. Jack Walker,” Jack said in Irish that probably sounded like a two year old with a sore throat.

“What?” The man grunted in English, supposedly.

There were things he’d practiced to be able to say at this party, even if there had been no time during the day to practice them any further. So he cleared his throat and spoke slowly in memorized Irish. “I am Dr. Jack Walker. Gael invited me.”

“Oh!” Then this giant of a man threw an arm around Jack’s shoulders and nearly lifted off his feet in a hopefully friendly hug. He threw open the door and dragged Jack into the roaring light of the world on the other side of the rabbit hole. With a huge bellowing voice, he howled, “Gael’s Walker is here!”

The menage of people, the band, everyone in this world just stopped to stare. It wasn’t like any party Jack had ever imagined, not ever. Men, women, and children mingled through the space, though there was clearly some space for dancing and some space with tables. There were five or six odd men, shorter hair, neater, in black trousers, polished black shoes, and Jack guessed that Alfred had sent waiters to the party, but they were all sitting around with the guests now, drinking pints.

In the center of it all, there was his Gael, standing on top of a barrel stacked on another barrel, shirt half unbuttoned, hair sweaty, with a flushed grinning face. As their eyes met, Jack found everything to be okay. The ringing in his ears gave way to a riotous banging of things that he took to be his welcome. He waved to everyone, then slipped out of his light summer trench coat, which he gave to the man who’d shown him in. The big guy looked at the coat, which was of a size that he probably hadn’t worn since elementary school, then tossed on the floor by the door with a bunch of other coats.

Gael jumped down from the barrels and disappeared into the crowd. The music started up again. this time it was a woman up on the barrels, her footwork adding percussion to the band’s music.

Then Gael was on him, arms around his neck, kissing one cheek, then the other, which only made Jack blush and squirm, but no one seemed to care. Hand-in-hand, Gael towed Jack across the sea of people towards some stairs that lead to a loft above, and then to a small patio on the roof.

It was a beautiful night, brilliant stars, for all that New York was never really dark. The music carried up, but only as a sweet distant hum overlaying the hum of the party. There was a table there with Gael’s mother, another older woman, a man who looked like a middle aged Gael, then another man, all of them except Gael’s mother stood as Gael brought Jack close to the table. “He’s here!”

Apparently the middle-aged Gael clone was Gael’s older brother Cillian. The older man was an Uncle Darragh. The older woman was Eimear. The other woman, a dour woman with unnatural looking blonde hair and a simmering rage in her eyes was Gael’s mother. It was, perhaps, the only time that the thought of not marrying Gael carried benefits for he did not want this woman as a mother-in-law.

Gael gave him an elbow in the side, “Aunt Eimear wants you to take a card. I’m telling you now, she’s going to judge you by which card you pick.”

The elderly woman had fanned the cards out, face down. They were clearly a very dear item, edged in gold and probably older than Aunt Eimear.

Jack gave Gael a smile that meant ‘Do I have to do this?’

“It’s traditional,” Gael, being a lawyer, said, explaining in a neutral way that it was old world magic and yes, Jack had to do it.

With a sigh, Jack reached out, but then couldn’t make up his mind. It was harder than just grabbing the nearest one. It was old. Finally he settled on one and touched the corner of it.

She drew it out, laid it on top of the stack of cards face up, with all the ritual that Jack imagined the Pope might use in such a case. Smiling, she motioned for Jack to lean closer, when he did, she drew a cross on his forehead in some sweet smelling oil. “He is good, Gaely,” she pronounced in pained, memorized English. Then she said stuff in Irish that made it sound like Gael was always speaking at half speed.

The man next to her lifted a small cask onto the table, rose and motioned for those present to get a glass. “This whiskey was put to rest the day Galen Francis McNeil was born. Now I’ve brought it all the way to these United States as our Gaely has become a barrister, even though he was so sickly at birth we had to bribe the banshee to wait to take his sickly ass beyond the veil. We drink for a bright future for house McNeil, forgive my English,” he said as he pulled the cork and set the spigot. “I hate the English. Death to the English!”

“I’m not English,” Jack half whispered.

Cillian, who looked so much like an older Gael, snickered. “That does work in your favor. I understand you’re a Protestant.”

Jack had never once heard the word Protestant used like the foulest of obscenities. “I’m a Baptist.”

“Worse,” said the older Uncle. “Tonight you’re Catholic. You can ask Jesus to forgive you tomorrow.”

“I don’t see why, Catholics and Protestants are Christian a like,” Jack said, now staring at the full shot glass set in front of him. If he drank all of that, he’d never be able to walk back to the cab.

Gael did half of his own shot, then magic tricked to switch the glasses. No one seemed to mind. “A toast!”

“You can’t make the first toast, you eejit!” Uncle Daragh roared. “Let your Baptist friend make the first toast.”

So nervous, he hoped he wasn’t shaking, Jack picked up the little glass, lifted it like they do when characters in a book make a toast, “To Gael, the bravest, kindest, cleverest man and best dancer I’ve ever known!”

Glasses lifted. Whiskey disappeared, and then much to Jack’s dismay, filled up in his glass again.

Cillian lifted his glass. “To my younger brother, the best of us all. I didn’t want you to leave Dublin and I would have kept you home if I could have, but look what you’ve done for yourself. I couldn’t be prouder if you were pope!”

No one noticed that Jack didn’t drink that shot of whiskey as the two brothers latched onto each other, hugging intensely. It gave Jack a slight stab of jealousy because neither of his brothers would ever feel or express themselves like that.

The movement caught his eye just as the Aunt Eimear switched their glasses and took Jack’s shot. She gave him a wink like she was thirty years younger.

Jack wasn’t at all sure what to say to that. Already the alcohol was hitting his system and he didn’t trust himself not to make a fool of himself.

Another movement caught his eye, but it wasn’t until the shot glass hit Gael in the nose that he understood it. He didn’t understand at all what came next though. Gael’s mother was around the table so quickly, a handful of blond curls in her hand as she dragged Gael towards her.

Stunned, Jack watched, not believing what he was seeing. Her hand drew back and slappe Gael’s face, splattering blood across the floor. Gael covered his face with both arms, blood dripping from his nose.

“You think you’re better than us, don’t you, you stupid whore,” she screamed it loud enough that the band stopped playing below them.

Gael dropped to one knee, forearms crossed over his face.

“You can’t be a lawyer! You’re too stupid!”

Before he even thought about it, as her hand drew back to strike with more power, her fist closed, Jack grabbed her wrist and growled in Irish, “No. Never again!”

Ripping a bit of hair out, she moved to slap Jack, her eyes filled with insane rage. “Don’t tell me what to do with my child! You stole him from us! How are we supposed to feed ourselves now.”

Cillian caught her other hand, stepping between her and Gael. “Enough. This is why I tried to keep Gael in Dublin with me. I’m proud to call Gael my brother, but you’ve got demons eating your soul.”

“If I don’t go home with her, she’ll start on Kate or the others,” Gael cried, now on both knees, blood and tears dripping down his face, onto his new shirt and vest.

Aunt Eimear held up a card in two fingers, a grim expression on her face, her eyes especially dark and foreboding. Jack didn’t know what the card meant, but didn’t think a picture of the grim reaper could be good.

Jack pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and went to one knee in front of Gael to help stop his nose from bleeding. “Come, sit down, Gael,” Jack said as he helped him to his feet and farther away from the mother reaching for him. “We won’t let any harm come to your brothers and sisters.”

“Exactly,” Daragh said in ugly English. He poured Gael another shot of whiskey and handed it to Jack. “You haven’t changed at all Orlaith.”

Kate-Marie, with Emily on her hip and the boys right behind her came running up the stairs, only to freeze when they saw the look in her mother’s eyes.

“It’s alright,” Cillian said to them, “Come on up. She’s not going to hurt anyone again.”

“Jack,” Gael whispered, pleadingly, “Can we bring them home with us tonight?”

Jack nodded, a touch hurt by the surprise he saw on Gael’s face because he’d agreed. From his inner vest pocket, he pulled out a set of keys. “It’s a gift, and I’ll explain it all later, but we have a house. They don’t have to go back there.”

Gael took the key, not having any idea what Jack was talking about, but trusting him completely nonetheless. “I want to go home.”

“Let’s go.” Jack stood, still protectively near Gael. Cillian and the mother were gone. The band played on. To Gael’s relatives, he said, “If you would do us the honor, I would like to invite you to have dinner with us. If you tell me where you’re staying, I’ll send someone around with our new address.”

“We’re at the Havek,” Darragh said. “We’ll bring the whiskey.”

“Very good,” Jack said, his first and perhaps last time to approve of alcohol.

Emily was in Gael’s arms now. Kate-Marie held a hand of Finn and Ian. Jack patted her shoulder, imagining himself with those sideburns again. “Everything will be alright. Come home with Gael and I. We’ll sort everything out tomorrow.”

“Mom is going to kill us,” Kate whispered.

“I promise you she will never touch you in anger again,” Jack said with conviction. “Everything is going to be alright.”

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It was a tight fit into the automobile to get home, but Jack gave Caleb another dollar as a tip. Staff was there to open the door for them, confusing Gael terribly.

In the end, the lot of them settled into the one big bed that Jack had scattered rose petals on. Jack on the bottom, Gael’s head resting on his shoulder, Emily snuggled between them. The boys took the foot of the bed and Kate-Marie snuggled in at Gael’s back. Jack had never slept at home with his clothes on, been that crowded, or that satisfied. It wasn’t marriage, but it was family.