Wednesday Night at McDougald's

John walked into McDougald’s, the corner bar where his father and grandfather had at one time been regular customers. He was surprised to see that the bar was still in business. Over the last forty years, A lot had changed in the neighborhood where he grew up. A strong Irish American neighborhood had become far more eclectic. Black, Hispanic and natives of India having replaced the Kelly, O’Brian and Ryan clans, who fled to the suburbs.

There were two neon signs behind the bar that he had never forgotten. While neither of them lit up anymore, somehow, they still stood out. One was a Shaefer Beer sign. Shaped in narrow glass tubing, the sign read, “Shaefer, the one for fun.” The other said Jameson above a shamrock with the words Irish Whisky below it.

John checked his watch. It was just after eight o’clock. He was happy to see that the bar was quiet. Only a few old timers sat watching baseball when they weren’t bending their elbows. He was a bit surprised that all three of the men, sitting quietly; were not engaged in conversation. Then he noticed that the men all had smart phones which they inspected after each sip, as if they were performing seemingly synchronized movements, lifting and lowering their phones, as part of a marching Army band.

John was dressed in what once might have been called a collegiate style; carefully combed hair, button down shirt, Italian chinos, wire-rimmed glasses and cordovan penny loafers. No one would mistake him for a regular customer. Recently divorced, he had too much time on his hands.

He also noticed that two of the men were drinking boilermakers, something he hadn’t seen since he was a boy who had occasion to sit at the bar with his father. He remembered now how he would ask for a mug of ginger ale and a shot glass full of Coke to imitate what the men at the bar were having, which was beer and whiskey, of course.

“What’ll it be mister?” The bartender certainly looked like a cranky sort. He had a full head of silver hair and a thin, well-kept mustache. “You from around here?”

“Used to be. A long time ago,” John said. “Do you have Corona Light?”

The bartender rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Is that what you want?”

“Yes sir. In a pilsner glass, please.”

“Why not?” Again, the bartender rolled his eyes. He didn’t get many requests for light beer. Sure, when Miller Lite was introduced, way back in ’75, light beer had its moment. “You look familiar. When did you live here?”

“Well, I was 16 when I left. But people have always said I was a double for my father, John O’Neill, Senior. Maybe you knew him?”

“No kidding? Sure, I knew Johnny O’Neill. You sure do look like him. That head of red hair is a dead giveaway.” The bartender turned around and opened a drawer. He sifted through several items before pulling out an old black and white photo. He handed it to John. “Your old man right? That’s me standing next to him.” He nodded, perhaps remembering the day the photo was taken. “I went to his wake. Thirty-some-odd years ago, I think.”  

“That’s right. Thirty-six years ago, to be exact.” John returned the photo and sipped his Corona. 

“Name’s Milt, kid. What brings you back to Bloomfield?”

One of the other patrons tapped loudly on the bar with his empty mug. “Another round, shaky.” Milt walked over to where the man was sitting and gave him a refill. Milt suffered from Parkinson’s. His tremors were intermittent.

“I was hoping to learn a bit more about my father. My mother took my brother and I to live in upstate New York, Buffalo, when my father started becoming abusive. She never told him where we were and he never looked for us.”

“Well, I remember your mother moved to Buffalo, where your Uncle Mike moved after the fire.” He paused, trying to think. “It was a long time ago. But I do remember your mother, Sandra, right?

“Yes, Sandra.”

“Yeah, I remember her. Pretty girl. Kind of shy.”

“Hey! Barkeep. My throat’s getting’ dry down here.” It was the man at the other end of the bar. Milt gave him a dirty look to go with the refill.

“Your dad worked for a bread company. He drove a delivery truck, if you can believe that. He was fond of whiskey in those days.”

“Dugan’s bakery, That’s right. Did he drink on the job?”

“Wait a second. I didn’t say that. I kind of remember though, that when the bakery closed its Newark operation, he got laid off. He wanted to work here, but old man McDougald said no. I remember overhearing McDougald say to his wife, “Hell, he’s one of our best customers. Why would I hire him?”

“I see. Any idea when that was?” John asked.

The elderly, bearded man sitting closest to John had been listening. “I sure do. It was 1988. I worked in the factory, making the bread your old man delivered.”

John turned to the man. “Oh, did you know my father?”

“Not really. I seen him around town now and then. People in the neighborhood steered clear of him. He could be a nasty drunk.” The man raised his mug to take a drink but stopped just before his lips touched the glass. “Sorry.”

Milt opened another bottle of Corona and placed it in front of John. “On the house kid.” He took a close look at the younger man. “You drink a lot?”

“No, thanks for asking.”

“I’ve been standing behind this bar since I was twenty-one. Every once in a while, hardly ever these days, somebody like you shows up.” He wiped the bar top with his damp rag. “What exactly is it that you want to know?”

John swallowed what was left in his glass. He picked up the fresh bottle and refilled it. “My mother’s brother, my Uncle Mike, died a couple of months ago. I was with him a few days before he died. He said something to me, something I wish he’d taken to his grave.”

Milt nodded. He walked to the other end of the bar to talk to the customer with the parched throat. He stayed with the man and started a conversation about the ballgame. John sensed that Milt had suddenly become uncomfortable. Did he have an idea of what Uncle Mike had said? It seemed that he did know.  

On the day before pneumonia ended his life, John visited his dying uncle. The man had been good to him and his brother. His mother never divorced his father, so Uncle Mike looked after her too. The man was not shy about his feelings about John O’Neill, Senior. “A drunk and a skirt chaser without a conscience,” was his favorite description of his brother-in-law.

Sandra had died just eighteen months ago. John came by to thank his uncle one last time for all he did for the O’Neill family. They were alone in Mike’s bedroom. “Sit down, John. I want to tell you something.”

John sat on a straight-backed chair that was situated close to the bed. “What?”

Mike adjusted the nasal cannula that supplied him with oxygen. “My older sister, Sandra isn’t your mother. Your late aunt Nora, my baby sister, was your mother.” He paused to let his words sink in. John’s face had turned white. “Did you ever notice when you were growing up that you were Nora’s favorite nephew? She always gave you better gifts than she gave your brother. Took you places too. She drank herself to death thanks to your miserable old man.”

John was shocked. He knew his uncle hated his father. But until that moment he was sure his uncle didn’t hold it against him. “What are you talking about? You’re wrong! Sandra is my mother.”

“Of course she was, and she was the best mother a guy could ever hope to have, John.” Mike had a sudden coughing fit. He was gasping for breath. His eyes were filled with panic. He tried to sit up. And then he collapsed. Still, he managed to whisper a few last words, before he passed. “But your Aunt Nora was your mother.” He clutched his chest and said, “Sorry, kid.”

Mike’s daughter, Ann, having heard the awful coughing, had run up the stairs. She walked into the room and shrieked. “He’s gone?”

“I think so.” John waited until the coroner arrived and pronounced the man dead. Not sure what to say, he decided to ask his cousin, about her father’s last words.  “Did your dad ever say anything about my mother? Like she wasn’t my mother?”

“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ann was the last surviving member of her family. John had nowhere else to turn. His younger brother had married a Canadian woman and moved to Canada years ago.   

John caught Milt’s eye. He raised his pilsner glass and drained it. Milt walked the length of the bar and pulled another Corona out of the refrigerated bin.

“No, no. I’ll take a ginger ale, please,” John said. “My uncle told me my aunt is my real mother, or I should say birth mother? Do you know anything about that?”

Milt placed the ginger ale on the bar. “John, do you have any relatives left in Bloomfield? I mean isn’t that better than talking to an old bartender with a leaky memory?” He filled a plastic bowl with peanuts. “What about your brother?”

“No, I haven’t spoken to him in years. My brother doesn’t know anything.”

It was just after nine o’clock. The place was getting busy. The local high school basketball team’s game was over. The school was located just two blocks from the bar. Husbands and wives were streaming in, eager for a drink, a burger or chicken wings.

“Can you stick around? Things usually quiet down around eleven.”

John looked around. Instinctively, he searched the room for familiar faces. There were none to be found. He offered a courteous hello to the woman who sat on the stool next to his. Jet black hair, wearing a lot of jewelry and too much perfume, she looked like she was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Sitting to her left was her boyfriend, a heavyset guy who looked like he could have played tackle for a football team once upon a time.

“Did you see the game?” she asked.

“No. Who won?”

“We did! It was so exciting. Donnie and I are celebrating. We both went to Bloomfield High. Can I buy you a drink, handsome?”

Before he could decline, the boyfriend, who had been listening, said, “Lynette, are you trying to pick this guy up?”

“What do you care?” She responded.

John sized up the situation immediately. There was one more stool open five stools away. He got up and took it, never even glancing in Lynette’s direction.

“Pussy!” she yelled.

John looked at Milt. He shrugged. “They don’t actually live in Bloomfield. Not anymore. Christine likes to get Donnie into fights.”

“Why do you let them in here?”

Milt leaned in close and whispered, “She’s the owner’s mistress.”

John laughed. Eleven o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. The place was finally empty by 11:15. Milt was busy cleaning up the mess left by the rowdy crowd. John got off his stool to stretch. He decided to help the old man. He cleared tables the way he once did as a busboy while he was working his way through college.

“Thanks kid. I’m bushed.” He motioned for John to sit at one of the tables he’d just wiped clean. He went to the bar and poured two healthy portions of Johnnie Walker Black, which he brought to the table. “Now, here’s everything I remember, understand?

John smiled and nodded. He understood.

“Your mother and your aunt left town. I never knew where they went, but I remember your father telling me he thought they went to Camden.” I don’t remember the year. Your father came to the bar every night for dinner. Always the same meal, hot roast beef sandwich, mashed potatoes and, of course, boiler makers. Mind you, he didn’t always get drunk. He always said, Sandra will come back to me.”

The men lifted their rock glasses and saluted each other before taking a drink.

“Here’s the hard part. About nine, maybe ten months later, they did come back. They had a baby boy. Your father brought that baby in here the same night his wife came home. She was with him. He was so proud.” Milt took a gulp of Scotch. “That’s all I know.”

John sat quietly for a moment. “Did my aunt ever come here?”

“Never when I was working. I think she did her drinking in Belleville.”

“Doesn’t it make just as much sense to conclude that my mother was pregnant and my aunt went with her to keep her company?”

“Anything is possible, but if you’re mother was pregnant, why leave town?” Milt asked. He looked down at the table and noticed that people had been scratching their initials on it as well as some inappropriate words and drawings. The neighborhood, and the world itself had certainly changed and not for the better. He took a deep breath. “Listen, John. Your father made a mistake one night. I’m sure he was drunk and I doubt he ever forgave himself. He stopped drinking for a while.”

“So, it’s true?”

Milt spread his hands out then lifted his glass. He waited for John to join him. “Yeah, I think so. Your Uncle Mike was always a jerk.” He shook his head.

“Thanks for leveling with me.”

“There’s something I think you should know about your father. Your Uncle Mike did everything he could to make your father’s life miserable. For your sake and his sisters,’ he never said a word about what happened, but he tried to get your father fired from the bakery. Your father’s car took a beating too. Nobody ever saw him break the windshield or the headlights. Tires were slashed, too but everyone knew who did it.” Milt took a deep breath.

“My father never went after him?”

Milt smiled. He wanted too. But Mike had friends. Your father wasn’t stupid, you know?”

John nodded. He finished off his Scotch in one swallow. 

Milt continued. “Then, Mike got burned in a fire. He was living alone on the second floor of an old apartment house. This was before he moved to Buffalo. You knew that right?”

“Yeah. Something about falling asleep with a lit cigarette.”

“He should have died in that fire, and he would have if your father hadn’t been walking by the place and seen the smoke. Trust me, he knew what was happening and who was screaming. He ran up a flight of stairs and half dragged and half carried Mike out of the building.” Milt swallowed his Scotch and made a quick sign of the cross. “He threw him on the lawn and beat out the flames, while some black lady who lived in one of the apartments smothered the flames on your father’s legs with a blanket.”

Your father knew that Mike had it in for him.” Milt bowed his head for a moment.  “That didn’t matter to your old man.” Milt paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. He hadn’t retold this story in years. “He hurt his back carrying your uncle down those stairs. He was always in pain after that. That’s about when his drinking got out of control.”

“Did you tell me that story to make me feel better?”

“Kid, I wish I had that power. But I’ll tell you something. One night, after your Uncle Mike moved to Buffalo, we were alone in the joint and I got up the nerve to ask your dad why he did it.”

The men inspected their now empty glasses.

“He said, if you have to ask a question like that I’m beginning to wonder about you.”

John stood up and went behind the bar. He opened the drawer that held his father’s picture and pulled it out. He threw two-hundred-dollar bills next to the register and grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker. He walked back to the table with fresh, ice-filled rock glasses. “Mind if I keep this picture?”

Milt shook his head. “It’s yours, kid.”  

It was John’s turn to pour.