Free The Wake (And What Jeremiah Did Next) by Colm Herron Page A

fussed at the flowers and the rest. Tulips were the ones she always tried to get up, you’d have thought they were the only flower there was. And the colors, green, cream, orange, white, red, every color you could think of nearly except. Blue was it? Blue I think. I never remember seeing blue. Where did she get them when they weren’t growing here? I’ve seen them standing up there proud and erect all times of the year. Imports from Holland? When it’s spring again I’ll bring again tulips from Amsterdam. Not any more she won’t.
    What’s that they’re playing now? Christ I don’t believe it. It is. It’s the fucking Flower Duet. I don’t want to hear it. I need to sleep. Well, maybe just a wee bit, maybe just a minute.
    Under the dense canopy

Where the white jasmine

Blends with the rose

On the flowering bank,

Laughing at the morning

Come, let us drift down together,

Let us gently glide along

With the enchanting flow

Of the fleeing current

On the rippling surface.

With a lazy hand

Let us reach the shore.
    Her eyes were shining now. “Forget about all the other things. I love you.”
    “And I love you too.”
    “Sleep,” she said. She fondled my face and shoulders and when the alarm went off her hands were still on me.
    Mellifluously a voice told the story of the music. Nilakantha the Brahmin priest goes from his home to attend a gathering of the faithful and leaves behind his daughter Lakme and her slave girl Millika. The two maidens go off hand in hand towards a river in search of blue lotus flowers. As they approach the water they disrobe and Lakme removes her jewelry and leaves it on a bench.
    The music came again, sinful, sinuous, insinuating, sin through every orifice. She stood in front of me in diamond drop earrings, Jesus, diamond drop earrings and hot pants, nothing else, turquoise blue.
    The bed wasn’t the best and I was nervous. Understandable of course. I didn’t mind Maud lying one flight down in the corner of the kitchen up to her eyes in mass cards because she could hear nothing, her three hours were up and her soul gone west. An empty shell. No, it was the living I was thinking of, the reverent mother in there in the next room whispering away at her novenas, ear cocked, every sound in her sights. I knew I should be careful but time was short: the song only lasted five minutes, six minutes max depending who was performing. So caution to the winds I went for it, squeezing it all into the four and a half minutes or whatever it was, me and the bolster as if there was no tomorrow. Or rather, knowing there was tomorrow and tomorrow was the start of the dry season. Because the minute we’d parked Maud over at the head of the women’s aisle for the night and got through the prayers for the happy repose etcetera I’d be heading for wee Father Finucane behind the curtain and clearing out the clutter with him God help me as my go-between. Between me and my Maker. For I am resolved with the help of Thy holy grace never more to offend Thee but to amend my life Amen. Oh yeah? Yeah, this time it’s for real. One last heave and that’s it. She wasn’t whispering the novenas anymore. No, when she got to Saint Jude patron of hopeless cases she was nearly shouting them.
    +++++
    This is the last will and testament of Maud Abilene Harrigan. I hereby revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions made by me. I appoint my good neighbor Veronica Coffey as executor of this will and direct her to pay my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses.
    To his lordship Most Reverend Doctor Neil Farren, Bishop of Derry, I leave twenty-seven acres and three roods of land, my four local residences and the sum of £95,000.00 stg (ninety-five thousand pounds sterling). For the upkeep of the altar and future renovations to Saint Eugene’s cathedral I leave £750,000.00 stg (seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling). To my good neighbor and executor Veronica Coffey I leave my terra-cotta Child