Free Finnie Walsh by Steven Galloway

augmented with a tiny, but palatably present, amount of Irish cream. My mother and Louise had decided to stay inside because it was deadly cold outside. We could see them through the window playing cards in the front room. My mother had a glass of orange juice and Louise had milk, which I doubted had been supplemented in any way.
    We had just raised our glasses while my father was searching for something toast-worthy to say, when a snowball hit him squarely in the head. Miraculously, he managed to avoid spilling his whiskey as he dove for cover. A veteran of many snowball fights myself, I likewise sought protection, my eyes searching the dimly lit street for our attacker.
    Although his aim was good, Mr. Palagopolis was not one for stealth. He stood on the sidewalk, shaking his fist and screaming. “Too far, Bob Woodward! You’ve gone too far!” He was once again missing his claw and was having considerable difficulty constructing another snowball to hurl at us.
    “What’s wrong, Mr. Palagopolis?” my father shouted, keeping his head down.
    “You know damn well what’s wrong. You got my claw again. Third one since September.”
    “What’s he talking about?” my father asked as a snowball whizzed by his head. For a one-armed man, Mr. Palagopolis had fantastic aim.
    “I think someone’s stolen his arm again.”
    “I didn’t take your arm, Mr. Palagopolis.”
    “Sure, that’s what you want me thinking. I know you’re the only other one who needs it. Got to be you.”
    “But we’re missing opposite arms.”
    Mr. Palagopolis had his arm cocked, ready to throw anothersnowball. He paused for a moment, thinking, then lowered his arm. “We are?”
    “Sure. Look, I’ve got my right arm and you’ve got your left. It wouldn’t even fit me.”
    Mr. Palagopolis dropped the snowball and ran up the driveway to the steps. My father cringed, expecting to be hit again at close range. Instead, Mr. Palagopolis looked at his missing arm, confirmed what my father had told him, then slumped down on the steps. “I’m so sorry, Bob Woodward. It’s just that every time I get a new arm somebody takes it from me. It’s getting me mad.”
    My father stood up and brushed himself off. The front door opened cautiously as Louise and my mother poked their heads out.
    “Mary, would you please get Mr. Palagopolis here a glass of what I’m having?” my father asked. My mother nodded and disappeared into the house.
    “It’s just that a man should have two arms, or at least one arm and one claw, and for some reason I can’t seem to manage either.”
    “It’s not right, Mr. Palagopolis. We should both have two arms.”
    “You can call me Pal, Bob Woodward. People call me Pal.”
    “Sure, Pal. You can call me Bob.”
    “I do, Bob Woodward.”
    My mother returned with a glass of whiskey for Mr. Palagopolis. He took a big gulp and sighed. “I miss my arm, Bob Woodward. Been 30 years and I still miss her.”
    “I miss my arm too.”
    “Between the two of us, we have enough arms for one whole man.”
    “You know, Pal, you’re right. That counts for something.”
    “Bad thing we can’t loan them off.”
    My father leaned his head to one side and a small smile upturned his lips. “Sure we can.”
    “We can?”
    “Sure. Stand up.”
    Mr. Palagopolis stood up. My father stood behind him. He placed his arm where Mr. Palagopolis’ arm should have been, moving it as he thought appropriate.
    “Jesus!”
    “Sure! Just pretend that it’s your arm; have a good time. For the next little while, it
is
your arm.”
    Mr. Palagopolis shifted his drink from his left hand to his right and took a sip. He adjusted his hat, reached into his pocket and removed a cigarette. He lit it and puffed contentedly, tapping the ash with the tip of his right index finger. As he took another sip of his whiskey, several tears ran into his bristly moustache. “Thank you, Bob Woodward. Let me be your arm now.”
    I don’t know how long this went on.