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However, by Wednesday evening, when she pulled her car to a stop in front of his modest house, she still had no idea what to say to him or even how to begin.
Her heart was in her throat as she went up the walk, especially when she saw movement behind the window blinds. Before she reached the front porch, the door was hauled open. Irish, looking ready to tear her limb from limb with his bare hands, strode out and demanded, “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck is your game?”
Avery didn’t let his ferocity intimidate her. She continued moving forward until she reached him. He was only a shade taller than she. Since she wore high heels, they met eye to eye.
“It’s me, Irish.” She smiled gently. “Let’s go inside.”
At the touch of her hand on his arm, his militancy evaporated. The furious Irishman wilted like the most fragile of flower petals. It was a pathetic sight to see. In a matter of seconds he was transformed from a belligerent pugilist into a confused old man. The icy disclaimer in his blue eyes was suddenly clouded by tears of doubt, dismay, joy.
“Avery? Is it…? How…? Avery?”
“I’ll tell you everything inside.”
She took his arm and turned him around because it seemed he had forgotten how to use his feet and legs. A gentle nudge pushed him over the threshold. She closed the door behind them.
The house, she noted sadly, looked as much a wreck as Irish, whose appearance had shocked her. He’d gained weight around his middle, yet his face was gaunt. His cheeks and chin were loose and flabby. There was a telltale tracery of red capillaries in his nose and across his cheekbones. He’d been drinking heavily.
He had never been a fashion plate, dressing with only decency in mind, but now he looked downright seedy. His dishevelment had gone beyond an endearing personality trait. It was evidence of character degeneration. The last time she’d seen him, his hair had been salt-and-pepper. Now it was almost solid white.
She had done this to him.
“Oh, Irish, Irish, forgive me.” With a sob, she collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around his solid bulk and holding on tight.
“Your face is different.”
“Yes.”
“And your voice is hoarse.”
“I know.”
“I recognized you through your eyes.”
“I’m glad. I didn’t change on the inside.”
“You look good. How are you?” He set her away from him and awkwardly rubbed her arms with his large, rough hands.
“I’m fine. Mended.”
“Where have you been? By the Blessed Virgin, I can’t believe this.”
“Neither can I. God, I’m so glad to see you.”
Clinging to each other again, they wept. At least a thousand times in her life, she had run to Irish for comfort. In her father’s absence, Irish had kissed scraped elbows, repaired broken toys, reviewed report cards, attended dance recitals, chastised, congratulated, commiserated.
This time, Avery felt like the elder. Their roles had been reversed. He was the one who clung tightly and needed nurturing.
Somehow, they stumbled their way to his sofa, though neither remembered later how they got there. When the crying binge subsided, he wiped his wet face with his hands, briskly and impatiently. He was embarrassed now.
“I thought you might be angry,” she said after indelicately blowing her nose into a Kleenex.
“I am—damn angry. If I weren’t so glad to see you, I’d paddle your butt.”
“You only paddled me once—that time I called my mother an ugly name. Afterward, you cried harder and longer than I did.” She touched his cheek. “You’re a softy, Irish McCabe.”
He looked chagrined and irascible. “What happened? Have you had amnesia?”
“No.”
