"Waiting for a Miracle" By Eddie Stack - A Short Story

A Reading Life Special Event

Irish Short Story Month Year III

March 1 to March 31

Eddie Stack

Dublin

"Waiting for a Miracle"

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

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

Waiting for a Miracle

by 

Eddie Stack

Over the clanging and hammering of the building site, workmen heard a scream and when they went to investigate, Moscow Honan was lying on his back near a dump truck. His hard hat was by the front wheel and he howled, trying to lift himself on his elbows. Ten men or more surrounded him and a young carpenter dialed 999 on his mobile phone. Pete Mac, the foreman took control and knelt beside his fellow worker.

      “Don’t move Moscow,” he whispered, “don’t move.”

      More men gathered around and Pete took off his jacket, rolled it in a pillow and eased it under Moscow’s head.

      “What happened?” he asked quietly, “Where are you hurt?”

      Moscow tried to mutter but cut into a scream.

      “There’s no blood,” someone noted.

      “His back might be broken,” an old bricklayer whispered, “he looks like Johnny Fox when he fell from the crane.”

      The ambulance blared into the site and paramedics jumped out and went to Moscow. They took his pulse, looked into his eyes but could get no sense from him. Carefully they lifted him on a stretcher and put him into the ambulance, slammed the door shut and sped down Sea Road to the hospital. The workmen watched the flashing lights until the ambulance sped over Boherbwee Hill.             “Did anyone see what happened to him?” Pete Mac asked, but nobody had.

A site-office clerk phoned Moscow’s wife with news of the incident and Pete Mac and an engineer followed the ambulance to the hospital. Moscow was in critical care unit when they got there and they sat in a bare yellow waiting room, near a small aquarium. The engineer stared at a goldfish that stared back at him and the foreman read a woman’s magazine.

      Mrs. Honan arrived with a neighbour and the men stood up and stammered how sorry they were for her troubles.

      “Please God everything will be fine,” the engineer said in a soft voice.

      A nurse with a kind face came and took Moscow’s wife aside.

      “He’s stable,” she whispered, “we’ve sent him down to X-ray. We can’t discern any injuries apart from a bruise on his left hip.” The wife nodded, went back to the foreman and whimpered.

      “What did you do to my Moscow?” He shook his head and looked at the engineer.

      “We found him on the ground. . .nobody saw what happened to him,” said the engineer.

      “If he’s not all right, ye’re in big trouble,” she warned.

For days, doctors and nurses tested Moscow, X-rayed him, scanned him and computerised him. They found no injuries and yet he moaned and groaned like he was in terrible pain. He was injected, given painkillers, given a drip. His wife sat beside his bed and held his hand. Flowers and cards arrived from his fellow building workers; a case of Lucozade came from the local pub and grapes from the football club. When anybody inquired of his condition, his wife shook her head and sighed,

      “I’m afraid my poor Moscow will never be the same again.”

He came home in a hospital wheelchair, his head slumped into his chest. When friends called, Mrs. Honan said,

      “He’s not able to see anyone. Say a prayer or light a candle for him. I’ll let ye know when he’s cheered up a bit.”

      Mr. Hickman, a lawyer who specialised in compensation claims, was the only one outside of family who was allowed to visit the invalid. He asked what happened and Moscow shook his head

      “I can’t remember anything. I just remember being in the hospital.”

      The lawyer nodded. Moscow wept.

      “I’m completely shagged. I can’t even get up outa bed for a piss.”

      “You’ll be grand, you’ll be grand,” the lawyer said.

      He had read the doctors’ reports; they could find nothing wrong apart from a small purple bruise on his left hip. They were puzzled as to why he was disabled.

      “I think he should see an independent specialist,” Mr. Hickman recommended to Moscow’s wife.

      The patient was taken to a private clinic in Dublin and spent a week there. The specialist could find nothing out of order and when speaking to the lawyer on the phone he said,

      “It might all be in his mind.”

      “Does it matter where it is?” the lawyer asked, “If he can’t walk, he can’t walk.”

After two month of letters and meetings with Mr. Hickman and specialists, Mrs. Honan said,

      “Lourdes is the only hope, “maybe he’ll be miraculously cured.”

      The building workers collected five hundred fedros and gave it to her and the V de P gave two hundred more. Moscow’s old darts team held a fund-raiser; neighbours collected door to door; shopkeepers put donation boxes on their counters and enough money was gathered to send him and his wife to Lourdes for two weeks. Thirty friends and well-wishers accompanied them to Shannon Airport and Moscow feebly raised his hand in thanks before his wife wheeled him into the departures lounge.

      “We’ll pray for ye all,” she told them with a blessing of her hands.

Moscow was brought to the baths every day and immersed in the cold water with hundreds of sick and infirm. His wife sent home blessed postcards and bought dozens of souvenirs that proclaimed “I prayed for you at Lourdes”. Back home, the town waited for word of a cure. Praying hard as Moscow, they scoured newspapers and listened to the radio for news.

      A crowd of supporters went to the airport to welcome the pilgrim home, hoping he’d walk through the arrivals door. Saddened by the sight of him slumped in the wheelchair, they clapped and cheered.

      “It did him some good anyway,” his wife said, “he’s not as depressed as he was.”

     

Settled back at home, Mrs. Honan doled out medals, souvenirs and bottles of holy water. When she ran short of the sacred aqua, she filled baby whiskey bottles with tap water so that no caller left empty- handed. The lawyer received a glass statue of Our Lady of Lourdes and Father Linnane got a music box that played “Ave Maria”.

      “We were hoping for a miracle,” she told the priest, “but it wasn’t our turn.”

      “God is good,” Fr. Linnane reminded. “He has a special place in his heart for Moscow.”

Mr. Hoffman, the building contractor was served with a claim for 3 million fedros on behalf of Moscow and he raised his eyebrows and passed it on to his insurance company. Letters fluttered between lawyers and Moscow was asked to attend for medical examination. Teams of doctors and specialists examined him for days on end, but found no reason why he could not walk. The insurance company wrote back to Moscow’s lawyer and firmly disputed the claim.

      “Take them to court,” the wife said, “if it costs me every penny I have, I’ll get justice for my Moscow.”

      “We’re all behind Moscow,” Mr. Hickman said, looking her straight in the eyes.  Holding his gaze like a laser light that went all the way to the back of his skull, she said,

      “And no foal, no fee.”

      That night, neighbours heard shouting and banging of doors coming from the Honan home.  The following night the racket erupted again and when they heard off-key singing, a neighbour said,          “That sounds like Moscow.”

      Others who heard the singing also thought it sounded like him. Some wondered if Lourdes had helped him and others wondered if the strain of the lawsuit had triggered his spirit. But when Mrs. Honan wheeled him up to the front of the church for Sunday Mass, he looked slumped as a scarecrow in a rumbled blue suit and tweed cap shadowing his eyes. There wasn’t a stir out of him when Fr. Linnane offered up prayers for his recovery.

A holy friend of the family recommended Moscow go to Fatima and Fr. Linnane was roped into raising funds. He hinted to Mrs. Honan that maybe it was too soon to be knocking on heaven’s door again, but she reminded him that God had a special place for Moscow. A man from the local radio station interviewed Mrs. Honan and a reporter for the Champion wrote a story about her husband. Thousands of fedros were donated and Mrs. Honan said, “If Fatima doesn’t work, we’ll bring Moscow to Medjugorje.”

      A stream of postcards flowed to the town from Fatima and pictures of Moscow at the holy shrine were printed in the local papers. There was no miracle and when they returned home Mrs. Honan announced, “We’re very disappointed, but we know that no prayer goes to waste.”

Fr. Linnane heard a whisper from a priest that Moscow and his wife were spotted dancing and carousing at Club Blanc a Blanc in Fatima.

      “No, Jack,” he said to his informant, “it couldn’t be them…it must be another couple…I know the Honans.”

      “I’m only passing on what I heard from the Miracle Bureau — you know how they keep track of things, just in case. They probably have photographic evidence.”

      “But surely it’s all irrelevant…you know…I mean he wasn’t cured…he’s still in the wheelchair.”

      “As I said Tom, I’m only passing on what I heard.”

     

Fr. Linnane came to visit and Mrs. Honan sat him by the fire and made tea. She gave him bottles of holy water, medals and a statue with a holy relic. He thanked her and asked about Fatima and their time there. Serving tea she whispered,

      “Father, I’d tell this to no wan else but yourself...Moscow lost his faith in Fatima.”

      The priest shuddered. Heaviness enveloped the room and he found it hard to breathe.

      “Good God!” he muttered after a few seconds. Mrs. Honan poured him a glass of brandy and explained.

      “When there was no miracle, he gave up on God. It breaks my heart to hearing him cursing Holy Jesus and the apostles.”

      “Good God,” repeated the priest, “good God. Should I have a word with him?”                  

      Mrs. Honan sighed.

      “He’s a bit depressed today. It wouldn’t be a good time to talk to him. But d’you know what I was thinkin’?”

      She looked Fr. Linnane straight in the eye and bore a tunnel through into his brain that made him dizzy. He heard her say,

      “If there was anything at all that you could do so he gets a good compensation, I’d say he’d come back to the rails...as far as he could. He’s given up on the miracles.”

      “Well…I can pray...I’m always praying for a recovery.”

      “Maybe you could pray for both…work two miracles.”

On a sunny afternoon, some weeks later, children whipped spinning tops in the town square and two traveling musicians played fiddle and accordion at a street corner. Fr. Linnane was returning home from stroll by the river when he saw two well-groomed men in suits and tight haircuts leaving Peter McCabe’s. They shook hands with Peter and the curate heard them speaking as they left him.

      “And don’t forget to read the literature,” said one.

      Seeing the priest, McCabe closed the door quickly. The men nodded to the pastor and he read the nametags of their jackets: Elder Charles Jones, Elder Samuel Hicks. Mormons. Competition. The priest slowed his pace, stopped and looked at the televisions in the window of Harney’s Electric Emporium. Tens of TVs played a John Wayne movie, The Quiet Man. Fr. Linnane stood and watched Wayne drink whiskey with a leprechaun. Every now and the priest glanced down the street and watched the Mormons go door to door until they turned Gallery’s Corner. He winced when John Wayne got into a brawl, and moved on to the presbytery for his tea.

Mrs. Honan greeted the Mormons with a real Irish welcome and invited them inside. She seated them around the kitchen table and served tea and homemade scones. They liked the dainties so much, that she insisted they have the recipe and got a pen and wrote it out for each of them. She let them talk until they tired and then Elder Hicks asked if she had any questions. Mrs. Honan looked him in the eyes, told about Moscow and how hard it was to keep the show on the road. They sympathised and she wondered if they had any sort of charities that helped out hard cases like hers. Elder Jones opened a notebook and wrote out details; his companion gave her booklets with pictures and explained more about their church. Mrs. Honan wondered if they’d like to see Moscow and they said sure, and followed her up a narrow dark stairway. She knocked gently on his bedroom door and spoke quietly, “It’s only me.” Mrs. Honan turned to the Elders and whispered, “

      Stay here. I’ll have a word with him first.”

      Minutes later she returned and said,

      “He’s a bit tired but ye can talk to him.”

      The drapes were closed and the room was dark and warm, with a heavy odour of take away food and cigarettes. Elder Jones coughed and Mrs. Honan muttered,

      “God bless you.”

      Moscow was raised on pillows, blankets half up his chest. The preachers introduced themselves and he wheezed,

      “Ye’re welcome to Ballygale, what can I do for ye?”

      “Well Sir,” said Elder Hicks, “we’d like to tell you about our wonderful church...”After a few minutes, Moscow interrupted the rap and asked,

      “Have ye any hymns? Isn’t it ye that have the great choir?”

      “Yes sir,” smiled Elder Jones, “the Tabernacle Choir, Salt Lake City, that’s us.”

      “We saw ye on the Discovery channel,” said Mrs. Honan, “we got the satellite when poor Moscow had the accident.”

      “Give us a hymn,” encouraged Moscow.

      “Do,” added his wife.

      “Well we don’t have great voices,” chuckled Elder Hicks.

      “Come on now,” coaxed Mrs. Honan, “all Mormons have great voices. Go on, a hymn’d cheer up poor Moscow no end.”

      “Go on,” urged Moscow, “anything at all, ‘Silent Night’ even.”

      Elder Hicks had a fit of coughing and Elder Jones said,

      “This room is very stuffy. . .it’s not good for your health Moscow.”

      “I’ll open the window,” Mrs. Honan said, pulling back the brown drapes and letting light into the room. Moscow shielded his eyes and swore. She swore back and let down the window to the stop.

      “Now,” she said, “give us “Silent Night”.”

      “Go on,” ordered Moscow.

      After a shaky start, “Silent Night” filled the room and headed out the window and up the town, to meld with fiddle and accordion music coming from Looney’s pub.

      “Beautiful,” praised Mrs. Honan, “absolutely beautiful.”

      “Ye’ll have to give us another wan,” Moscow pleaded.

      “What about ‘Faith of Our Father’?” wondered his wife.

      “I’m afraid we don’t know that one,” Elder Jones said.

      “Ye must know the ‘Adeste’,” Moscow hoped. Elder Hicks coughed and Mrs. Honan handed him a glass of water from the bedside table.

      “Have ye any song about that prophet ye were talkin’ about?”

      Elder Jones looked at his watch. His companion cautiously sipped water from Moscow’s glass.

      “Wan for the road,” Mrs. Honan said.

      “Don’t rush them,” her husband chided.

      The Elders looked at each other.

      “Maybe ‘Golden Gates of Heaven’?” Samuel suggested.

Crows were flocking over the town for their evening aerobatics when the Salt Lake preachers left Honan’s and Cissy Goggins calculated they had been there for nearly three hours. She told Fr. Linnane the following day at confessions, but he knew already. On Sunday, Mrs. Honan went to church alone and sat up in the front pew where she used be with Moscow. When she caught the priest’s eye, she shook her head sadly and he turned around and raised his hands up to heaven.

      During the week she met Fr. Linnane on the street and urged him to prayer harder, because a court date had been set to hear Moscow’s compo claim. Judgment day was nigh. The priest asked how Moscow was bearing up and she said, “Wan day good and another day bad.”

      He didn’t mention the Mormons.

On the countdown to the court date, different Mormons visited Moscow.  They always sang for him and said they were there to give the Honans strength. Elder Hicks often came with Elder Bates, and Elder Shultz sometimes accompanied Elder O’Brien. Moscow liked Elder O’Brien, an Irish-American who answered the bedridden man’s queries on polygamy. Moscow followed up his train of thought with Elders Hicks and Bates, but they were less forthcoming.

      One evening Shultz mentioned to Mrs. Honan that Moscow might be drinking and she inhaled sharply and whispered.

      “He’s going’ on the dry when this is all over.”

      Ernest Shultz smiled and said affectionately,

      “Moscow’s a good man, and he’s got a great woman.”

      “I get a bit worried when he talks about the polygimmick thing.”

      “There’s very little polygamy Ma’am, only in remote areas.”

      “We’re remote enough around here.”

The week before the court case, a choir of Mormons came twice, and almost every night neighbours heard drunken singing, regular arguments and wall thumping coming from Moscow’s house. One night they heard Mrs. Honan shout.

      “Only for me you’d be still drivin’ nails for Hoffman.”

      Moscow’s reply was slurred but audible:

      “I should have left you in the shit house with Farley.”

Court day was like an American movie, with all the sleek shiny cars, and strangers in dark suits zipping up and down the stone steps of the hall of justice. A couple of photographers skulked around limestone columns and a mini bus of Mormons sang hymns on the lawn. Townspeople gawked at the spectacle. Lawyers in grey wigs and bat-wing cloaks flew in and out through doors and Mr. Hickman pulled nervously at the hem of his waistcoat.  He looked down Parliament Street and saw Moscow’s entourage approaching.

      A burly youth with a shaved head and a white medical coat pushed the wheelchair. Mrs. Honan walked beside her husband, linked by a sister home from England, The medical aide was her lover. Behind them walked Mrs. Honan’s two brothers, in Manchester United tracksuits, a peroxide blonde in fur waistcoat and bare midriff, between them.

      Moscow’s head was slumped forward and he looked fragile as a fledgling, fallen from a nest. His approach caused a flurry of whispers and then tense silence. Hickman trotted down the steps to greet his client and cameras began clicking and whirring. Hickman whispered that the insurance company was willing to settle for 100K. “Tell ‘em to stick it,” Mrs. Honan muttered and he trotted back up the steps, where lawyers looped around him. 

      Mr. Hickman twitched anxiously as Moscow was pushed up a special timber ramp that covered the stone steps of the courthouse. The lawyer advised Mrs. Honan that the offer had increased to 120K. Shaking her head, she continued walking towards the door of the Court No 1. Before she reached it, Hickman was back with a better offer: 150K.  

      “My Moscow is worth more than that,” she said in a hurt voice.

      “Take it,” he pleaded, “there’s no evidence that there’s anything wrong with Moscow...”

      “Moscow’s fucked, man,” one of her brothers said.

      “We’ll all be fucked if we don’t settle,” Hickman muttered.

      “200K,” Moscow whispered.

      “Shut up,” his wife elbowed.

      “Stay there a minute,” Hickman ordered and hurried back to his team.

Mrs. Honan’s sister passed around chewing gum. Elder Hicks and Shultz joined them. They tapped Moscow on the shoulder and Shultz prayed,

      “Moscow, may all your trials soon be over,”

      “Amen,” Mrs. Honan’s family answered, in harmony.

      Hickman came back and whispered in her ear,

      “Get these people out of here...”

      “They’re Moscow’s friends...”

      “Get them out of here. . .Judge Rainman’s wife ran away with them. . .Final offer 180K...”

      “I’ll take it Moscow,” pleaded, “tell ‘em I’ll settle. . .”

      “Could you squeeze another 20K out of them?” Mrs. Honan asked.

      “Not a chance…take it.”

      “I told you I’ll take the fuckin’ thing,” Moscow hissed.

      “I’ll be back,” Hickman said and returned to his team for another conference.

      A clerk announced that court would sit in five minutes. Moscow began having little waves of panic in his stomach, even though he had taken a few fingers of brandy and a couple of Valium for breakfast. A concoction of scents and body smells wafted around him...beer, deodorant, perfume, cologne, bacon and pudding, sweat, holy books, law books, money. His vision blurred and he toppled out of the wheelchair and hit his head against the courtroom door with a loud crack.

      Mrs. Honan screamed and her sister screeched. The brothers threw the wheelchair aside and bent over him. Hickman hurried across the lobby, a flock of lawyers rustling after him. Moscow’s Salt Lake friends held a protective ring around the fallen man. Hickman tried to wade through, calling an ambulance on his mobile phone. Mrs. Honan wailed and swore. Her brothers shouted, and Mormons prayed zealously.

Hickman stopped talking on the phone when he saw Moscow on his feet, brushing the medical aide aside. He looked dazed and took a few steps. His wife wept and hugged her sister for comfort.

      “Fuck you Moscow,” she wailed, “fuck you! You were never any good for anything.”

      “Moscow! Lie down for fuck’s sake,” his brother-in-law pleaded.

      “What are you talking about?” Moscow asked, “Who are you?”

      “Take it easy Moscow,” Elder Shultz said, “take it easy, walk slowly and trust in the Lord.”

      “Halleluiah!” Elders rejoiced.

      “What’s goin’ on here?” Moscow asked, the crowd giving him space.

      “You’ve awoken from a dream!” Elder Hicks called.

      “Trust in the Lord, Moscow!” Elder O’Brien cried.

      Photographers clicked as Moscow walked away from his distraught wife and in-laws. Hickman came up to him and asked,

      “Moscow? Do you know me? Are you alright?”

      “No on all counts. Where the hell am I?”

      “You’re in Ballygale…Moscow, Moscow, listen to me.”

      “Where the hell is Ballygale? And why are you calling me Moscow? My name is Jack Lennon. I’m supposed to be getting married today but I seem to have turned up at the wrong courthouse with a crowd of lunatics.”

       He trotted down the courthouse steps, agile as a goat, and Elder Shultz cheered, “Praise the Lord, Moscow!” Lawyers jotted down notes and took pictures of the fleeing man with their mobile phones.

      “Fuck you, Moscow!” his wife swore, “you were always a fucking idiot!”

 End of Guest Post

End of Guest Post

I offer my humble thanks to Eddie Stack for is wonderful generosity in allowing me to post this and 22 other stories for Irish Short Story Month.  Stay tuned for a short story a day for the next 20 days from Eddie Stack, one of the masters of the form.

This story is covered by international copyright laws and cannot be published or posted online without the permission of the author, the sole owner of this story.

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.

                                 

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.

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