March 17th

The Saint Patrick's Day celebration at the firehall is in full swing. It's a well-attended bash—almost everyone in the village is here, having finished off the corned beef, cabbage and colcannon and now progressed to Sarah's excellent apple cake with ginger marmalade, among other delightful goodies. And beer, of course. At least it's not green, but it does have a harp on the label. Still, given the circumstances, that's not too much of a trauma to live with.

Greg sits in a comfortable chair in the corner and watches the pickup band. Sarah plays piano, with Jay Lombardi on guitar and someone he doesn't know with a tin whistle. They're not bad, at least they can play in time and they have plenty of enthusiasm going for them too. At the moment they're in the process of a boisterous version of 'Whiskey in the Jar'.

As he sips his beer Gene comes to sit beside him. He folds his lean body into the chair next to Greg's and watches the proceedings in silence, his expression inscrutable. After a while he says "Did she get out her albums?"

Greg looks at him. "The naked volleyball montage, or scenes from our secret tryst in Atlantic City?"

"No, her Irish albums," Gene says with a sad lack of reaction to provocation. "Black 47, Virgin Prunes, Pogues."

Greg shakes his head. "Nope."

"Damn, so she only inflicts them on me. Oh well. She had a lot going on this year. Maybe next time you'll get the pre-Saint Pat's ordeal." Gene tips his bottle back for a long swallow. "By the way, a trip to AC means she's just flirting with you. All her real boy-toys get a month in Cancun." He flashes Greg a grin, and his dark eyes hold sly amusement. "I've been there twice."

After Gene leaves to corral some toddlers from suicidal leaps off the folding chairs, Greg considers what was said. He tries to absorb the casual assumption that he will be here next March. He doesn't want to acknowledge any faint hope those simple words create; another year at the house probably means he'll still be in treatment. Besides, only a fool would count on anything so ephemeral. But he can't help it. He feels the dangerous warmth of acceptance beckon. He's an idiot to trust it, to give in and savor it, but in a reckless moment he goes ahead and does it anyway, what the hell. If he gets hurt it won't be anything different than what's happened before; if he doesn't, then maybe . . .

"Hey." Sarah drops into the seat next to him. "How's the leg?"

"Still attached," he says. He's played with the TENS settings, amazed that in conjunction with a new med regimen, the pain is still nothing more than a deep mild ache. "If you're here to get me to dance, forget it."

"How about taking over the piano for a couple of songs? I need a break and a ginger beer," she says. Greg stares at her. She glances at him, her expression relaxed and open. "You don't have to," she says after a moment. "Just thought I'd offer."

"Testing the waters," he says. "Seeing if lack of pain turns me into a fluffy bunny."

"You're fine the way you are," she says with a smile. "Most musicians can't resist the chance to ham it up. I thought I'd give you an opportunity to show off a bit."

Maybe it really is the absence of chronic hurt. Maybe it's the beer. Maybe the moon is full and he's got excess water in his brain tissues, but he goes to the piano. It's an old beater of an upright; still, the real ivory keys feel good under his fingers, and it's in pretty decent tune. He tries a few scales up and down the board, gets the feel of the instrument and loosens his hands; then he plays a rousing introduction with the chorus melody in it to see if his fellow musicians will catch the song. It takes a few moments, but Jay nods and starts the verse after Greg vamps a measure or two.

As I went out one morning, it being the month of May

A farmer and his daughter I spied along me way

And the daughter sat down calmly to the milking of her cow

Saying 'I will and I must get married for the humour is on me now'

Others join in the chorus; there is laughter and talk mingled with the music as people drift closer to the little group of players.

The humour is on me now, oh, the humour is on me now,

I will and I must get married for the humour is on me now!

Be quiet you foolish daughter, and hold your silly tongue,

You're better free and single, and be happy when you're young,

But the daughter shook her shoulders as she milked her patient cow,

Saying 'I will and I must get married, for the humour is on me now!'

The tin whistle player takes over the verse. He has a tenor voice, true and fine, and as Irish as the harp on the bottles of beer. Greg rolls his eyes but just plays.

'Sure who are you to turn to me, that married young yourself

and took my darling mother from off the single shelf?'

Sha, daughter dear go aisy, and milk your patient cow

for a man may have his humour but the humour is off me now!

Someone comes up behind Greg—Sarah, with ginger beer in hand. He can just see her out of the corner of his eye. Her fair face is flushed and she sings along, her clear bright alto filled with enjoyment. When her hand comes to rest on his shoulder it feels warm and gentle; for once he doesn't flinch away. He knows she won't hurt him.

'Well, indeed I'll tell my mother the awful things you say,

Indeed I'll tell my mother this very blessed day!'

Sha, daughter, won't you have a heart, you'll start a fearful row

'So I will unless I marry for the humour is on me now!'

The crowd has the chorus down by this point and they all join in. Greg can hear Roz somewhere behind him, horribly off-key but in a great mood by the sound of it.

Sha, if you must be married will you tell me who's the man?

And quickly she did answer: 'There's Liam, Pat, and Sean

A carpenter, a tailor, and a man to milk the cow

For I will and I must get married for the humour is on me now!'

Gene's strong baritone joins in on the chorus, and someone picks up a second guitar to strum along. Greg catches a glimpse of Chelsea Butterman cradled in her father's arms with her head on his shoulder, fast asleep despite the music and noise.

Well, if you must be married will you tell me what you'll do?

'Sure and I will,' the daughter said, 'the same as ma and you,

I'll be mistress of my dairy and my butter and my cow . . .'

and your husband too, I'll venture, for the humour is on you now

The musicians know the final verse and Greg joins them to make the rafters ring. It's corny and stupid and he can't help but admit this is great fun, to give in to the simple delight of some silly, harmless good times.

So, at last the daughter married and she married well-to-do

And she loved her darling husband for a month, a year or two

but Sean was all a tyrant and she quickly rued her vow,

Saying 'I'm sorry I ever got married for the humour is off me now!'

Oh the humour is off me now, oh, the humour is off me now,

I'm sorry I ever got married for the humour is off me now!

[H]

"Were you thinking of Jim when you chose that song?" Sarah asks some time later, when they are at home in front of the fire, tired but content. Gene wanders in from the kitchen. He bears a plate with a massive chunk of apple cake and ginger marmalade. He sits next to Sarah, picks up the cake with his fingers and takes a huge bite off the top of the slice.

"Why would I . . ." Greg sits up a little. "He's with someone."

"Samantha," Sarah says. "She's moved in with him. He sent me a text message."

Greg is silent. The comfortable glow of the evening's enjoyment fades in the face of this news. He didn't tell me.

"Remember he's been asked not to call here," Sarah says. Gene finishes off the cake and gets to his feet.

"Stop being so admirably discreet. You don't have to leave," Greg says. Gene licks his thumb.

"I'm still getting used to sleeping in a real bed," he says. "Good night," and he is gone, headed soft-footed into the kitchen and then upstairs.

"Wilson has access to my cell phone," Greg says when he and Sarah are alone. The pain is there now, it waits patiently in the shadows, as always. In reflex he rubs his thigh and stops when he feels the pads under his fingers. He didn't call me, he thinks. He's involved in trashing my treatment, but somehow this feels worse. I didn't expect it.

"Greg," Sarah says quietly. He won't look at her. "You may find that without your physical pain to distract you, other, older pain will come up." A flash of something—fear, he thinks—no, it's more akin to terror-goes through him. His gut tightens hard. "It gets easier. Like telling me about the voices. It's difficult at first because the pain scares you. But it does get better. You can talk to me about anything. I'm here to listen and to help in any way I can, whenever you need me. Remember that."

Later, as he lies in bed, in the dark, his thigh a soft flutter of ache he can easily ignore, he takes the hurt Wilson probably tried to inflict with this indirect method—typical of him, so it's likely true-and inspects it with caution. Why do this? And why with Sam, of all people? According to him she was a stone-cold, emotion-robbing, soul-stealing bitch. How did they meet? Couldn't have been by chance. She found him somehow, got his attention, told him what he wanted to hear . . . now they're shacked up. A new thought enters his mind. They're going to get married. It's exactly the kind of thing Wilson would do. Something impulsive, something to please her . . . someone to fill the emptiness now that I'm not there. He wasn't the only one without close friends. Wilson might be able to count Cuddy, but that was more about work and the need to schmooze the boss than anything else, whether either party wanted to admit it or not.

He didn't call me. He doesn't need me. Greg waits for the pain to shoot up his leg and into his head, but instead he feels an odd ache in his chest. It is small but persistent, and sharp. For a few moments he wonders if it isn't angina or even an incipient coronary, but eventually reason kicks in. So this is what Sarah meant. Trite and stupid as it sounds, this is heartache. Not that he hasn't ever felt it before, but it wasn't like this. In the past he'd been able to bury it behind other things. Now it's out in the open; it shivers like a naked little boy curled up in a pile of leaves under a cold, barren moon. He doesn't like it much. In fact he feels like he wants to cry; he's surrounded by sorrow and bewilderment and to his horror, a growing anger.

I can't be angry with them, he thinks in a murky sort of panic. If I let myself get mad, if I resent them, I'll lose them forever, just like I lost Stacy . . . like I might have lost Mom. The rational part of him knows this line of logic is utter horseshit, but still the idea overwhelms, terrifies him. He can't wrap his mind around it; it looms over everything, sends him into a cold sweat every time he tries to puzzle it out.

Half an hour later he knocks on Sarah and Gene's bedroom door, embarrassed at this action, but in need of it too. After a few moments Sarah comes out, bundled in her old bathrobe, and pulls the door shut behind her, then goes downstairs. Greg follows her, ashamed of his impulse to wake her and talk. She chooses a chair by the banked fire and waits for him to sit down opposite her before she speaks. Her soft voice is calm, reassures him without condescension, though she looks tired and some of her hair has escaped its braid in a riot of curls. "It's okay, Greg. I'm listening."

He looks at the floor, thumps his cane softly on the carpet as he picks it up and lets it drop. He wants to talk, but he's afraid if he does everything will spill out and he'll lose control.

"Take your time. I know this can be tough." There is no unctuous undertone, no false attempt to soothe him; she is matter of fact and simple, two things he usually finds of comfort. For answer he rises and prowls around the room, ends up by the fireplace. To tell her what he feels is a high wall he can't scale. Besides, even if he could he's not sure what's on the other side. He rubs his thigh and is astonished when a desire to rip off the electrodes surges through him. He fingers one, tempted to follow his impulse and at the same time ashamed to even consider it.

"That kind of pain is easy," Sarah says quietly. "You can numb it with drugs or alcohol, and it takes care of the other hurt you're feeling too. But it only works for a little while, and it doesn't treat the underlying cause. It's palliative."

"I know that!" he snaps. "Why do you think I went through everything at Mayfield and here too? Just for the hell of it?"

"Why did you do it?" Sarah asks. He glares at her.

"Stupid question. My actions are self-explanatory."

"Tell me anyway," she says. He doesn't answer her, unable to speak about what drove him to such a desperate decision. "Do you remember what you said to me, after your overdose?" Sarah asks finally. "You said you didn't want to hurt any more. I think that's why you came to therapy. If that's true, then talking with me about what hurts will help. I promise you, it will."

He stares into the dying fire as silence settles over them. "All of them," he says, "everyone . . . they . . . I . . ." and he cannot go on. The pain rises, chokes off his words, sits in his chest like an unexploded bomb. He leans his forehead against the mantelpiece and watches the embers blur into a single fiery mass. He blinks, tries to send his tears back to their source. I won't cry over this, he tells himself. I won't let them down by being weak. I can't.

"What about everyone?" Sarah's tone is gentle. Greg shakes his head. He cannot go further than this, he knows it. To do so is to risk a fall, no sense in attempt to scale that impossibly high wall.

After a time he hears Sarah get up. He flinches, waits for her to vent her anger at this pointless effort. Instead she comes to stand next to him. "It's all right," she says. "You've done enough for now. Go to bed, get some rest. We can talk tomorrow, if you like."

He turns his head to look at her. "I can't," he whispers, and knows she will understand what he's saying.

"Not right now. But maybe in the morning or after supper, or the next day, or the next," she says. "This is not a linear process or anything on a schedule, Greg. It happens how it happens. You have all the time you need to do this, and you do it in your own way." She falls silent a moment. "May I touch you?"

He gives a reluctant nod. Her hand comes to rest on his arm, that butterfly-light contact he's come to know well and maybe even like. "You've made tremendous progress since you came to treatment. You should be proud, very proud. I know I am." The emotion in her words loosens something inside him, some sense of inadequacy or guilt, he's not sure what it is and he doesn't care. He just wants it gone.

"Proud of what?" he snarls. "Losing my job, ending up in the nuthouse, overdosing on narcotics . . . a guaranteed pathway to success, absolutely."

("You always were a fuckup, Greg. You always will be, far as I can tell. Good luck with medical school. I feel sorry for anyone who ends up as your patient. Better hope whoever hires you has a damn fine malpractice lawyer.")

"That's your father talking," Sarah says. "He was full of it. I'm the one who went to school and took all those psychology courses, not him, and I say you've worked hard to recover your sanity and sobriety. Not many people would have the strength and the courage to do what you've done. So yes, I'm proud of you. As for the rest . . ." She steps forward and gives him a soft hug from behind. Her slender arms hold him as if he's a prized possession; it's an incredible feeling, to be cherished whether he wants it or not. "We'll work on it tomorrow, if you like. Good night."

After she has gone upstairs he sits in a chair by the fire, struggles to consider what she's said. He's way beyond tired now and his heart still aches; his head is a mass of contradictions, and it seems like the happiness he found earlier in the evening happened a thousand years ago. A part of him longs for the easy equation of drugs, alcohol, numbness; he'll probably always have that desire in the back of his mind, hell, even in the front of it. But another, larger part of him wants the pain gone, no matter what he has to do to make it happen. Enough, he thinks at last. I'm tired of this. Just . . . enough.

When he goes to bed finally, it is to dream of an ancient wall as it meanders over a forested hill, and his hands stained with his own blood and smears of earth and moss as he struggles to remove the sharp-edged fieldstones, one by one.

'The Humor Is On Me Now,' lyrics and music by Richard Hayward