A Reading Life Special Event
"Bobogue" a short story by Eddie Stack
Irish Short Story Month Year III
March 1 to March 31
Eddie Stack
Dublin
In an act of supreme generosity Eddie Stack has sent me 22 short stories to post for Irish Short Story Month. I offer him my great thanks for this. I intend to share all of these short stories with my readers. He is a master story teller with a deep understanding of Ireland.
Press comments on his work
Press comments on his work
Praise for Eddie Stack’s writing
"Mr. Stack's fiction is versatile and engaging...a vivid, compassionate, authentic voice...securing (him) a place in the celebrated tradition of his country's storytelling.”
New York Times Book Review
“This second collection of short stories by Eddie Stack has a wonderful sense of unreality, of weirdness among Irish characters and of downright fun.”
Irish Emigrant
“Eddie Stack’s stories jet back and forth across the Atlantic, contrasting small town Ireland and big city US. Every time they land, the author seems to test the borderline of what might and might not be possible in downtown bars, crumbling dance halls and drizzly farms. The result is a remarkably consistent collection of short stories.
Ian Wild, Southword
"Boboque" is one of my favorite Eddie Stack short stories!
"Bobogue"
by
Eddie Stack
The locals were wary of
Bobogue. Children whispered that she was a witch; adults said she was odd, that
there was a stain in her blood. Thirty years old or maybe more, she’d never had
a job and drew Social Welfare as an unemployed poet. She lived a few miles
outside town, on a small dysfunctional farm with her brother Paddy, another
unemployed poet.
Twice a week, Bobogue traveled to town on an old red Vespa. In
custard-coloured sailing jacket, wild black hair blowing in the wind, she took
her time, often halting to smell flowers, pick berries or talk to a horse in a
field. The Vespa was seldom road-legal, so she parked it out of harm’s way, in
Duffy’s Lane at the edge of town. From there she walked to Maguire’s
Supermarket, the post-office, the dole office, the newsagents. If it rained —
and she didn’t understand why she did this — she browsed in the chemist’s shop,
soaking up the smells and reading the instructions on medicine packages. But
never bought anything. Last call before heading home was Harbour Hotel for a
cup of coffee, two cigarettes and a view of the sea. On the return journey she counted the words
she’d spoken during the expedition, like they were spent coins. A dozen was average, but once she did it in
seven, which was a record. If a trip involved conversation of any length, she
didn’t bother counting the words, but that seldom happened.
The weather was unseasonably
warm for May — ‘pet-weather,’ the old people called it. Bobogue sipped coffee
in the hotel bar and watched the early summer activity — a sailing boat
maneuvering in the harbour, children fishing from the pier, three orange kayaks
being launched on the slipway.
Jason Berry watched her from the counter while he sipped gin
and tonic. As if feeling his eyes on her, Bobogue slowly turned and squinted at
him: a stranger. Jason thought she was smiling and flashed a grin. She turned
away and looked out the window, one eye on his reflection in the glass.
A few weeks afterwards, they
met in Maguire’s Supermarket. Bobogue was picking up a few cans of Guinness for
her brother when Jason docked beside her. and said,
“Hello.” She nodded.
“Know much about wine?” he asked.
She shook her head and moved away.
Later he saw her biking home
and saluted her. Bobogue glanced back, puzzled.
After that, he scanned the streets for her whenever he was
passing. Once, driving through with his wife, he saw her outside the post
office and almost honked.
June twelfth was Bobogue’s
birthday and she celebrated with an Irish coffee in the Harbour Hotel. She
looked out the sea-view window, lit a cigarette and got lost in a tangle of
thoughts about age and death. Jason watched her from the counter. Finally he
took his drink to a neighbouring table and spoke.
“Hello there, enjoying the view?”
“Yeah.”
“Beautiful around here.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re local, right?”
She nodded and sipped her drink. A waiter left another one
beside her.
“It’s on me’” Jason said.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I’m Jason.”
He offered his hand and she shook it meekly, blushing a smile.
“I’m Bobogue.”
“Nice to meet you, Bobogue. What a lovely name. What does it
mean?”
“Just a name,” she
shrugged.
Jason moved to her table. Fair and fit, with bronzed face and
expensive watch, he looked like a model in Sunday magazine. She lit another
cigarette. He praised the beauty of the countryside, the friendliness of the
people. Then he asked,
“What do you do?”
“Write poetry.”
“Really? I thought there was something different about you. I’m
in IT. Computers. Software.”
She nodded.
“Have you any poems published?”
Bobogue shook her head, tapped ash from her cigarette and
inhaled deeply. A line of poetry came to her and she smiled and felt a little
light-headed when Jason called another round. The third drink had her humming
and the world lit up. Words began to flutter like butterflies in her heart and
she said, “You’ve made my birthday.”
After two more Irish
coffees, Bobogue was sitting in the passenger’s seat of Jason’s white Volvo,
sunroof open, stereo playing the Waterboys. She directed him through the narrow
roads of the peninsula, her head bobbing to the songs. Bobogue navigated him to
a cul-de-sac, near a monument to the ill-fated Spanish Armada. They crossed the
sand dunes to a small beach and Bobogue ran to the water, threw off her
clothes, and waded naked into the waves. Jason muttered ‘Jesus,’ and sat on a
black rock.
They made love in a grassy hollow above the beach and it was a
fast act. Bobogue was naked and Jason’s pants were at his knees. He turned away
from her almost immediately and when she tried to caress him into giving more
he said, “We’d better go, I’ve things to do.”
Five times in two weeks they
made love in that same place. She’d park the Vespa in Duffy’s Lane and wait in
the hotel until he arrived. Her brother Paddy noticed she spent more time away.
She had become almost loquacious and sang self-penned love songs when she was
at home.
Jason became elusive and her mood changed. She occasionally
caught glimpses of him or his car, but could never meet him. Almost daily she
was in town, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes in the hotel, circling the
waterside pubs like a spinning top. A few times she came home drunk, once with
a swollen jaw from a bike fall.
Nearly six weeks passed before she cornered Jason outside the
post office. He said work was hectic, but he hadn’t forgotten her. In fact he
was delighted to see her and suggested they go to the hotel for a drink. After
a few, they drove to the little beach on the peninsula and made love.
“I need to see you more often,” Bobogue whispered. “At least
once a week. You can come to my house. My brother won’t mind.”
“Look,” said Jason, pulling away, “I’m really busy. When things
quiet down I’ll have more time.”
“Can’t you make time?”
“I’m not God.”
The drive back to town was fast and bumpy. She wanted to know
more about him: What was his work number? His mobile phone number? Where
exactly did he live? Did he like her? Why wasn’t he answering her questions?
“I’m tired,” he said impatiently. “There’s a lot going on at
work, I told you that.”
He dropped her outside the town and sped away. The evening was
warm and the tide was full and calm. A couple of white yachts returned to
harbour, and a rust-sailed hooker docked at the quay with a group of sunset
watchers. People strolled on the pier and Bobogue heard a ceili band play
through open windows of the hotel. Outside waterfront bars and cafes, couples
in shorts and t-shirts sat at tables. She wished Jason and herself might do
things like that: dine at sunset on seafood and champagne.
When she got to the Vespa, Bobogue couldn’t find the ignition
key and retraced her steps, peeling the ground as she backtracked. No luck, so
she figured the key was either in Jason’s car or at the beach. She walked home
and stayed up late, searching in drawers and tins and bowls for a spare key she
had put somewhere safe. No sign of it. She lit candles and offered a prayer to
Saint Anthony as a last resort. Bobogue slept without inspiration and in the
morning got a screwdriver and headed into town.
She was admiring the view at the top of Hogan’s Hill when she
heard a car approach from behind, and her face brightened when she recognised
the white Volvo. She flagged him joyfully, but Jason changed gears and passed
her by. There was a woman in the passenger seat.
“Hey!” Bobogue shouted after the Volvo. “Hey!”
In the car, Jason’s wife muttered, “Christ, that woman gives me
the creeps. She came to my writing circle a few times. She’s absolutely
bonkers. We had to ask her to leave. I told you about her, she used staple her
poetry to the lampposts in town. The police had to stop her.”
Jason swept down the valley, and Bobogue paled as the car telescoped
away He had ignored her. And he was with that stuck-up blow-in from the writing
group. It struck her they might be husband and wife. She got weak and sat on
the ditch.
Bobogue knew Jason’s
surname, but couldn’t find his telephone number in the directory, and enquiries
had no listing for him. She went demented and Paddy wondered if she was in need
of help. She broke two chairs on the kitchen table one night, and spent hours
screaming and swearing at the fire. Then she wept for a few days and slowly
slipped into blue silence.
The tourists had thinned out
before Bobogue spotted Jason in Maguire’s supermarket one evening. She crossed the store to confront him but he
vanished. Another time she saw him get petrol at The Rock filling station but
he sped away as she approached. Matt the
mechanic told her he lived down around Seafield.
Bobogue swore that no matter how long it took, or how many
roads she traveled, she’d find him. Weekend after weekend, when workers rested
at home, she trawled through Seafield, Barrtraw, Skyline and Trawroo for Jason’s
car. She peered into driveways, scowled at the designer houses with SUVs,
Mercs, BMWs and Saabs. No white Volvo in the Blow-in Belt. But Bobogue
soldiered on.
As the weather got wintry, she wore leather gloves and a parka
for the cold. In mid-December the roads were icy by sundown and one Saturday
she skidded twice coming down Skyline. She stopped at Maguire’s Supermarket and
got a six-pack for Paddy and a soldier of whiskey for herself. Christmas songs played
over loudspeakers and the checkers wore Santa caps. Every few minutes the voice
of Paddy Maguire interrupted the music with bargain announcements for turkey
and ham, whiskey, cigarettes, and mince pies. Bobogue was bagging her purchases
when a shiny black car pulled outside. She saw Jason get out and hurry into the
store; he didn’t notice her in the hooded parka.
Jason left the bottle of
wine and carton of ice cream on the passenger’s seat and pulled out from
Maguire’s. He liked his new car. He toyed with switches and controls, played a
U2 CD, balanced the speakers. Over the weekend he’d hook his iPod to the system
and he’d have music all the way to heaven.
When he spotted Bobogue’s Vespa peeping out of Duffy’s Lane. He
drove faster, hoping to avoid her. But turning down towards Kilmore, Jason
thought he heard a rustle in the seat behind. Twisting his head, he caught a
blurred movement with the corner of his eye, just before Bobogue grabbed him by
the neck. He made a gurgling cry as the car swerved out of control. It mounted
the ditch, screamed through hazel and birch, until stopped by a stonewall.
Jammed against the seat
by a huge air bag, Jason moaned and wept. Bobogue climbed from the wreck and
into a haze of smoke and road dust. Metal winced and creaked; one headlight
beamed cock-eyed across the frost-white fields.
Uneasy on her feet, Bobogue walked towards town with blood on
her face and hid in the ditch when cars approached. She had reached The Rock
filling station when an ambulance sped by in a whirl of blue noise.
The streets were empty and
the Church was full for Saturday night Mass. In the quiet, crisp darkness,
Bobogue retrieved the booze she’d stashed in Maguire’s wheelie bin and headed
to Duffy’s Lane. She smoked two cigarettes and had a few slugs of whiskey while
staring at the stars. She mounted her red Vespa and it started on the second
turn. Sore and slow on the icy roads, Bobogue rode home at ten miles an hour, a
poem rising in her heart.
End of Guest Post
Author Bio
Eddie Stack has received several accolades for his fiction, including an American Small Press of the Year Award, and a Top 100 Irish American Award. Recognized as an outstanding short story writer, he is the author of four books —The West; Out of the Blue; HEADS and Simple Twist of Fate.
A natural storyteller, Eddie has recorded spoken word versions of his work, with music by Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill. In 2010, he integrated spoken word and printed work with art, music and song to produce an iPhone app of The West; this was the first iPhone app of Irish fiction.
His work has appeared in literary reviews and anthologies worldwide, including Fiction, Confrontation, Whispers & Shouts, Southwords and Criterion; State of the Art: Stories from New Irish Writers; Irish Christmas Stories, The Clare Anthology and Fiction in the Classroom.
A natural storyteller, Eddie has recorded spoken word versions of his work, with music by Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill. In 2010, he integrated spoken word and printed work with art, music and song to produce an iPhone app of The West; this was the first iPhone app of Irish fiction.
My great thanks to Eddie Stack for allowing me to post this story.
This story is the sole property of Eddie Stack and is protected under international copyright laws and cannot be published or posted online without his permission.
Mel u
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