The Dead Republic Read Online Free PDF Page B

police were Irish - the normal ones.
    —We’ll make him English, said Ford.—Keep it simple.
    —We wanted them to do it, I said.
    —What?
    —Burn the creamery, I said.—The reprisal came after what we’d done. That was the whole point of it. We knew they’d run amok.
    —The Black and Tans.
    —That’s right, I said.
    —The Tans were Limeys.
    —And Scottish and Welsh.
    —We’ll stay with English.
    —We hit them, I said.—And they came back later and took it out on the town.
    —You’re on the bike, he said.—Dust.
    I shrugged.
    —There must have been, I suppose. It wasn’t paved or tarred or anything.
    —Dirt track.
    —Not dirt, I said.—Not like here. There was grass down the middle.
    —Got that? said Ford.
    —I grew up in Wyoming, said the guy.—I’ve seen some grass. He looked up and smiled.
    —They got rebels like Henry in Wyoming? said Ford.—The Wyoming Republican Army?
    —No, said the guy.—But I haven’t been back in a long time. Who knows what’s brewing there right now.
    —Nothing much, is my guess, said Ford.
    I could hear the anger, just behind his teeth. He sank further into his chair. He was angry with me; I was sure of it. But he was staring at the man with the pen.
    I looked at the pen. DUST! It took up half the page.
    Ford stood up. His teeth were fighting. He held his side of the desk. He was going to upend it. He already had it an inch off his side of the floor.
    Meta Sterne was there now, going past me. She handed Ford a note.
    —What’s this?
    —Read it, she said.
    He read. He looked at her.
    —Okay, he said.—Okay.
    He sat down. He nodded. She turned and left. Ford still glared at the other guy.
    —Henry, he said.
    —What?
    —Cheer me up, said Ford.—One rebel to another.
    —What? I said.
    —You’re on the bike.
    —Okay.
    —With the Miss O’Shea.
    —Yeah.
    —She’ll need a name, he told the other guy.
    —Alright.
    —Mary, said Ford.—Or Kate. I like that one. Something Irish. He looked at me again.
    —Don’t worry, he said.—It’s your story. We just need to call her something, for the script.
    He pushed his hat up off his forehead.
    —Now, he said.—Make the old man happy.What’s she wearing? I was wearing my riding britches; she’d made me wear them. She wore her Cumann na mBan uniform.
    —I can’t remember, I said.
    I looked back at him.
    He knew what I was doing: I was reclaiming my life. And I knew what he was doing. He was making me up. There were two stories being dragged out of me.
    —Does she sing? he said.
    I gave him that one.
    —Yeah, I said.—She sings.
     
     
     
    I lay back on the bed. I enjoyed the certainty and softness of the mattress. I unstrapped the leg. It came off without a whinge. I took it away, and there was nothing there in its place. I’d never felt the ghost of the real leg. And that was grand. There were enough ghosts in my life. I needed a rest.
    I leaned over the bed and lowered the leg to the floor. I saw the Saturday Evening Post , where I’d thrown it. I saw the coastguard. I poked the cover with a big wooden toe. I lifted it slightly, then more. The paper came with the foot. I swung the foot out and the paper dropped open.
    Two flat pages, four tight columns. And the name of the story. The Quiet Man .
    I didn’t read it.
     
     
     
    I asked Meta Sterne what she’d written on the piece of paper she’d handed to Ford as he got ready to throw his desk. This was four days later, the 1st of December. I was standing in the little office in front of Ford’s.
    This was new - or it felt new. Starting a conversation. Being interested. Remembering. One day followed the last one.
    —I didn’t write anything, she said.
    —Was it blank?
    —No, she said.—It wasn’t. He wrote it.
    —You gave him his own note.
    —Yes, I did.
    —For fuck sake.
    —Don’t lose your temper, she said.
    —I’m not, I said.—I’m grand.
    —That was the note, she said.— Don’t lose your temper . And look.
    She slid