Table of Contents
For my keepers and my brothers
foreword
Frank McCourt
There are pictures to prove that the four McCourt brothers assembled on the 5th of September, 1996, at Ireland House, Fifth Avenue, for the launch of Angelas Ashes, a memoir of our collective miserable childhood in Ireland. There we are, gray and/or white, sliding into the high-maintenance stage of life. There we are, Frank, Malachy, Mike, Alphie in descending order of age and ascending order of common sense. Were with our nearest and dearest, were in suits and ties, we radiate the well-scrubbed look butter wouldnt melt. After I had read an excerpt from the book each of the brothers says something and we sing Barefoot Days, a kind of family anthem.
Youd never guess from these pictures that we hadnt all been together at once in the same room since Christmas, 1966. Youd never guess how careful we were to avoid a repeat of that night of hard words that hurt and flying fists that never found their target. A student of racial stereotypes might have said, Ah, the Irish. Theyre at it again with the drinking and brawling. Excuse me, is this a private fight or can anyone get into it?
Only Malachy escaped that fateful evening. He had dropped in earlier with his wife, Diane, and her parents, John and Berenice. They said how nice everything was: the tree topped with a sweet little white angel; the cat wandering around with his little red Christmas bow on his neck; the aroma of a standing three-rib roast beef wafting from the kitchen; my wife, Alberta, dispensing drinks and appetizers; my mother arriving with a Swiss friend, Violet. Very nice, said John and Berenice to Malachy. Such a pleasure to see people enjoying Christmas and each other. They were sorry that they had to go to another Christmas dinner. Wished they could have stayed with us, so comfortable, warm, relaxed. Maybe next year.
They left as the Clancy brothers were arriving, the brothers at the height of their famePaddy, Tom, Liam. My brother Mike came in with his wife, Donna, and Alphie trailed behind them, alone. It was, Hi, lovely tree, brought you something, have a drink. It was, Hi, God that smells good, Im starved, yeah, Id sure love a drink.
I look back on that night and realize that most of our guests had already imbibed on empty stomachs and that might explain the little brotherly brush fires. Certain guests were already snapping at each other (Hunger? Thirst? Christmas?) and my brothers and I began taking sides. Alphie erupted, I hate all this family fighting, the four of us always fighting. Theres always one fighting the other three or two fighting the other two and Im sick of it, sick of it. It was admirable the way he sorted out the mathematics of the thing and to prove it he brought his fist down on a shelf of precious cargoScotch, Irish, vodka, ginwhich went crashing to the floor and when I said, For Christs sake, Alphie, brother Mike sprang to his defense, told me to get off Alphies back. I invited him outside, where we were about to go at it when a car filled with jeering Christmas revelers so enraged us we chased it down the street till it went through a red light and we lost it and forgot what we were fighting about and returned to the apartment singing Silent Night.
My wife, Alberta, barked at me that I had no business leaving the party like that when she was having so much trouble with one of the guests rolling around the floor there in some kind of fit. Brother Mike joked that the guest was probably hungry and I took him seriously and knelt on the floor offering her a roast beef sandwich. Tom Clancy said, What the hell are you doing giving a roast beef sandwich to someone in the throes of an epileptic fit? and his brother, Paddy, said, When did you become an expert on epileptic fits? and that led to another sibling battle, Clancy style, with Liam strumming away on his guitar and singing The Leaving of Liverpool.
There was a yelp from the living room and Mike said, You gotta see this. What I had to see was my mothers friend, Violet, on her back under a fallen Christmas tree, cursing the cat who was in a corner pawing and chewing on the little white angel, which he had captured by somehow knocking over the tree. Mike lifted the tree and I helped Violet back to the couch beside my mother, where Violet said, Ve dont do this kind of thing in Switzerland. Ve sit under the tree and sing Christmas carols, and my mother said, We sing Christmas carols, too, and then beat the shit out of each other.
People were already leaving the party, expressing their dismay over our uncouth behavior, all of us, the whole McCourt family, and that other gang, the Clancys. People were saying, Well, I never, and promising never to return and that was okay with me because the apartment looked like a war zone. How was I to know that when Michael left, shaking his head, we four brothers would drift so far apart geographically and every other way that we wouldnt be in the same room again for another thirty years?
Writing about my brothers is a dangerous occupation, dancing through a minefield. They talk about me: I know they do. Alphie was right. Two of us will talk about the other two and three will talk about one. When we learn that Mike drove his car into a wall in San Francisco we say, What the hell is he thinking of, driving his car into a wall? Or if we hear Alphie didnt drive his car into a wall anywhere we might say, What the hell is he thinking of, not driving his car into a wall?
It doesnt matter what you do or dont do: there will be talk.
In the matter of drink I have to be careful. I could avoid the topic altogether but its there, like Catholicism and dandruff, and all I want to do is rise up and tell the world I have three brothers who dont touch a drop. Im saying this and living dangerously, because one or more of said brothers will bark in high dudgeon, What the hell. Weve done other things in life besides not drink, and I whimper because when they don the mantle of dudgeon they can be fearsome.
I touch a drop myself, a little wine with dinner, as they say, not because I love the stuff but because it gives work, keeps people employed, enables decent men and women to buy shoes and birthday gifts for their loved ones. My brothers take a dim view of my philanthropic nature, of course, and ask why I cant bestow money directly, and I can only reply that their sobriety has rendered them clear-headed beyond my understanding.
Malachy and Alphie have lived for decades on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Mensa plateau, and the neighborhood does things to you. (Disclaimer: Ive moved to the Upper West Side myself and await the moment of enlightenment.) My brothers Malachy and Alphie might have a greater appetite for tofu than Mike and I. Theyve been advocating yoga for years and are drawn spiritually more to the foot of the Himalayas than to the altars of Rome. Im more of a Rome man myself. I dont know where Mike stands; though I have a feeling he doesnt give a fiddlers fart.
My brother Alphie may be the only Irishman ever to have opened a Mexican restaurant in Manhattan, Los Panchos. That was a time when the Upper West Side was still pioneer territory and panting for the refried beans and enchiladas. Oh, Alphie had a grand time with his Mexican restaurant and he, his own boss, could saunter up the block to see Lynn, his wife, and their baby girl, Alison. When a magazine gave the restaurant a review that was between enthusiastic and rave Alphie didnt know what hit him. Yuppies stormed the place and brought their mothers. Under the awning in the back lovers quaffed their Coronas and plighted their troth. Alphie was riding high and why not? He could have been a solicitor in Dublin but he escaped. All he had to do was pass a few exams and appear before the board which would determine if he was respectable enough and intelligent enough to enter the exalted world of Irish law. But what Alphie quickly realized was, yes, it isnt what you know its who you know and theres a streak of integrity in my brother that erupts in a kiss-my-arse attitude.