Chapter 30

Rock Bottom

By Christmas 1905, after two years spent at the Home without reprieve, Pat was bored, resented the Home’s regulation of every aspect of his life, and missed the Ward and Kennedy’s. He would have quit the Home altogether, had he the wherewithal to live on his own. He left by train on December 14 and stayed with his son, Mame, and Annie, who had divorced her husband and returned from New York.

In addition to the historic sources of conflict that marred his relationships with his son and daughter, he annoyed them endlessly by forgetting things just said, repeating himself, and by his lack of hygiene. He sat all day in a soft chair, arguing and criticizing when he wasn’t nodding off. He consumed his food with offensive noises and spilled it on the table and floor. Nights he returned home from Kennedy’s drunk, loud, cursing, and hostile. Bob was torn between anger and pity seeing how feeble his father had become; finally, at Annie’s insistence, he pressured his father to leave his home two days before Christmas. Pat took a room in the same ramshackle boarding house on Commercial Street that he had stayed in before, the Lighthouse Lodging, a stone’s throw from the Erie Canal.

The atmosphere at Kennedy’s was the same as ever. Pat clowned. He told stories. His imitations of chaws from the Ward drew laughs and new stories from his mates. Within minutes of arriving, he was one of the old gang. His drinking soon caught up to and, in most instances, surpassed the Kennedy regulars. Pat could hold his whiskey, they all said, better than ever, at least for the first few hours. Then he was drunk, slurring his words, staggering to the toilet, and after the closing-hour weaving his way back to the Lodging, where he stumbled up the stairs to his room.

There, he fell onto his bed fully clothed and immediately fell asleep. Slamming doors and loud arguments jarred his rest and jerked him into semi-consciousness throughout the night. The same routine went on for two days.

On Christmas, he was roused out of bed around noon, too late to go to mass. Christmas afternoon he went first to see John and Johanna and their children on Alabama Street. He brought no presents and made no excuses for his failure to do so. Instead, he made a grand show of giving each of the children half dollars and wishing them a Merry Christmas. Not wishing to embarrass her uncle, Mary, the oldest at thirty, accepted the money. John, James, and Katherine followed suit, despite the fact that all four were employed, paying board, and proud of the adult status they had achieved at home and among friends and coworkers.

They could see he had been drinking heavily and was suffering from a hangover. He hadn’t bathed since Bath. His smell repelled them. His clothes were disheveled and dirty. They sat as far away from him at table as they could. His stature as their father’s brother, the memory of many happy times together, of his stories and jokes and the games they had played together kept the family from simply showing him the door. He spent an hour with them. He toyed with the food Johanna placed before him, rambling nonstop about Bath, the Belgian horses, and his trips around the Finger Lakes region. He barely mentioned PM or asked them what was happening in their lives.

Instead of imploring him to stay on and spend more time with them, the family was silent when, after dinner, he excused himself and left. Johanna was in tears the moment he was out of sight. John couldn’t hold back his disgust at his brother’s derelict state and his sadness as he remembered better days in this very house. The girls cried with their mother. The boys shared some of their father’s feelings. They all sensed a deep sadness underneath Pat’s gay banter. They drew deep breaths of regret to see him walk out into the bitter cold of a Buffalo winter and its piercing winds in just an old suit coat. Yet they were relieved that he was gone.

He walked north on Alabama and crossed the tracks that split the Ward. A half hour later, he arrived at the home of his son. Mame had prepared a traditional dinner: ham dotted with cloves; cabbage, carrots, and potatoes all cooked together; Irish soda bread; and apple pie.

The family was still sitting around the table over glasses of porter and whiskey. Most of the leftovers had been removed to the kitchen. Pat paused before entering, summoned up his courage, put on a smile, and burst in the front door.

He was met with polite coolness by Bob and Annie. Bob, at thirty-six, still sported a full head of wavy brown hair. Annie, ten years younger, was in the full bloom of her womanhood. Mame was still mourning young John’s death and at Christmas time, her pain was the keenest. Carrying her youngest son, Robert Jr., on her lap, while four-year-old Catherine played at her feet, she nonetheless bade Pat sit down and poured him a glass of whiskey. No presents were passed to him or vice versa. Pat repeated the same tales he had told at his brother’s, but he could see he was unwelcome even on Christmas in his own son’s home. Deeply hurt once again, he left for Kennedy’s within a half hour.

Fortunately, Kennedy’s was only five minutes away on Ohio Street. Three old timers shouted Merry Christmas as though he were a long-lost brother. In effect he was. These men had spent more time together over many years than they had with their own brothers. Many had spent more time together than with their wives.

By mid-January, he returned to Bath $10 poorer and with no more in his pocket than a punched rail ticket.

The next day, Doctor Potter summoned him in for his annual physical. Potter greeted him cordially. “Good morning, Patrick. Tell me, how did you spend the holidays?”

“I went home to Buffalo and spent a few weeks with family there.”

“Would you please walk out in the hall and climb the steps to the second floor?” Pat did as he was asked, struggling to lift his legs going up and holding on tightly to a railing while taking one tread at a time coming down. He was breathing heavily as he reentered the office and his face was flushed.

Pat disrobed and stretched out on the examining table and Dr. Potter looked him over from head to toe. He listened to his heart, pushed his fingers firmly into his side, stomach, and back. He peered into his eyes, ears, and throat. He then stood silent for a few seconds, totally exasperated, and at a loss as to what to say.

“How old are you, Pat?”

Unprepared for such a question, he thought, “Surely, the doctor knows how old I am.” Still, Pat answered, haltingly. “Um . . . sixty . . . uh, sixty-one in a coupla months.”

“I would have thought you were at least seventy.” Pat had no answer.

Potter continued. “Pat, you are in an extremely weakened state. You have the appearance of a very old man. Your heart and digestive system are diseased. You no doubt suffer stomach pains after eating, and more than likely you eat little. Your stomach, arms, and legs are swollen. Do you notice yourself becoming confused at times, forgetful, maybe even thinking about taking your own life?”

Pat did not answer.

“What has happened to you?” Potter was barely holding his anger in check. He had been seeing many men just like Pat and could not believe the extent of alcohol abuse among Civil War veterans. He was particularly struck by the rate of alcohol abuse among Irish veterans, who made up a quarter of the Home’s population.

“Well, I stayed downtown and ate meals back in my old neighborhood with family and friends. Maybe all the walking did me in.”

“You told us the same thing once before. Now again, your vital signs are poor. Your face is ashen. Your flesh is pale and your eyes jaundiced. Your ankles are swollen and make it difficult for you to walk. You reacted sharply to a poke in either side.

“I suspect you went back to drinking a great deal, even though you promised otherwise. Tell me the truth! Were you drinking heavily in Buffalo?”

Pat angrily rolled off the examining table. “Sure, I had a few beers, but nothing I couldn’t handle,” he said, storming out while tugging his coat on as he went.

At the canteen that evening, he ran into PM and complained about catching hell from Doctor Potter. “That doctor is like all the rest of those WASP bastards. They think they’re better than us and can tell us how to live our lives. Well, Potter is full of shit and can’t tell me what to do.”

Dolan shook his head and stared hard at his old friend. “No, Donohue, you’re the stupid shit, if I ever saw one, and I’m not about to stand by anymore while you drink your life away.”

Dolan glared at his old friend, turned on his heels, and left without finishing his beer. Pat was stung and shocked. His best friend had never talked to him like that. He spun the events of the last day around in his head, growing more hostile toward PM and Dr. Potter as he did.

Pat spent the next four days in bed. He got up only to go to meals and use the toilet. He was too sick to work and did not visit his beloved Belgian draft horses, which he had combed down almost daily for years. Evenings, he walked to a bar just off the campus on Belfast Road, which led into Bath. He sat alone in a stupor and drank six whiskeys before the bartender cut him off. Finally, after a few evenings of this behavior, Pat fell off his bar stool and could not stand up. He lay on the floor, muttering curses and inanities.

The bartender notified the Home administration. Two orderlies were sent to carry Pat to the hospital and into a ward reserved for long-term alcoholics. Pat fell into a fitful sleep and woke up not knowing where he was. He got out of his bed, started yelling obscenities and banging into his neighbors’ beds.

Orderlies grabbed him and threw him in bed. While one held him down, the other forced a dose of ether on him, attached restraints around his wrists, and fastened them to the bed frame. In that forced sleep, Pat settled down and the restraints were removed late the next day. For three days, Pat behaved well in spite of suffering withdrawal symptoms. On the third evening, however, in the middle of the night, he began to sweat, tremble, and scream at devils he saw standing over him.

He was moved to a private room and restrained once again. Shouting violent curses and talking gibberish, he pulled with all his diminished strength against the restraints and kicked at invisible objects. His legs, arms, and stomach swelled and his heart weakened. His skin turned pale grey and his breathing became deep and irregular. Feverish, he suddenly suffered extreme pains in the chest and left arm and could do little but whimper and whine.

Dr. Potter wrote on Pat’s chart the next day that he was suffering through delirium tremens and had probably had a heart attack. He had no medicine to counteract either condition, except laudanum.

PM was not allowed into the alcoholic ward, but he talked to the hospital staff several times in this period. Shocked at what he heard from the nurses, he went in to see Dr. Potter.

“Dr. Potter, what is happening with Pat Donohue? Is he going to live?”

“Mr. Dolan, I don’t know. I’ve seen many cases just like him. Some live; some don’t. His illness is complicated by his heart condition. He’s getting the best care we can give him, but it isn’t much.”

“Has anyone notified his family?”

“Yes, last night, but they were told there was little point in coming to see him. He’s not conscious and can’t talk.”

For three days, PM returned twice a day to inquire about his friend. Pat’s condition changed little over that time. Then on the fourth day, he rallied. The next day, to make room for another critical case, he was transferred out of his private room and back into the alcoholic ward, where PM found him unable to carry on a conversation. One of the few things Pat could say was, “I’d like a beer.”

Each day thereafter, Pat grew stronger. After two weeks in the hospital, he asked to be released. Dr. Potter and Dr. Haskell, who had replaced Dr. Babcock, conferred together and called on him.

Pat was sitting up in bed. Dr. Potter began the conversation. “Well, Pat, you are one of the lucky ones. Somehow, you survived the DTs and a heart attack. We would like to release you, if you feel well enough to take care of yourself. Are you at that point?”

“Yes, doctor. I am walking to the toilet without any help from the nurses or orderlies. I’d like to get out of here, maybe go home for a while.”

Dr. Haskell weighed in. “I don’t think you are ready to go home yet. You are confined to the grounds. The guards will not allow you onto the Belfast Road. We’d like to bring your family here to visit you. Would that be alright?”

Pat nodded.

Dr. Haskell and Dr. Potter had come up with a strategy they wanted to try on Pat.

Dr. Potter called Pat Dolan in. “Who might have the most influence getting your friend to make a positive decision about his life?”

“That’s a tough one. He’s a real bullhead. Let me think about it for an hour and come back, if you don’t mind.” Dolan had hesitated to answer as he usually did to his friends, half-cocked and with a smart remark. He was not used to talking to educated people, especially doctors, whom he viewed with awe and shyness.

“Let me say with all the authority I have as a physician, Pat’s heart has degenerated to the very point where any further drinking will close it down altogether. His mind is confused and he will descend into total senility if he continues drinking. His liver is not filtering alcohol. Any intake of alcohol will poison his whole system and he will die a horribly painful death.” He stopped and drew a deep breath. “Have you ever been with a dying alcoholic? Your friend is at death’s door.”

Shaken, Dolan left and returned after lunch, naming “Robert Donohue and Millicent Hastings.” As Potter wrote down the names, PM continued his commentary on his best friend. “Pat destroyed his relationship with his son long ago. In fact, his son threw him out of his house a few years back,” he explained.

Then he paused to recapture the words he had prepared before returning to Dr. Potter. “Millicent Hastings brought Pat as close to giving up the drink as any person I know. Not even his wife, Mary, could pull that one off. He likes Millicent a lot. If anyone can convince him, she and Bob are as close as it comes in this life. But she too has been hurt badly by Pat.”

“PM, will you contact Robert and ask him to come to Bath as soon as possible? I’ll talk to Mrs. Hastings. I’m including you with them. Perhaps the five of us—you, me, Dr. Haskell, Bob and Millicent—should get together and work out our approaches.”

Within a week, Doctors Potter and Haskell convened the group in a sitting room near their offices. Robert entered the room dressed in topcoat, a two-piece suit, high-collar dress blouse and tie, and hair parted down the middle, as had become the style. He was a small, husky man with a shy, relaxed demeanor. Millicent was present but unsure that she wanted to be.

PM and Robert greeted one another awkwardly. Sensing Robert’s coldness toward him, it occurred to him that Robert was blaming him for much of his father’s drinking and hanging out at Kennedy’s. Though he had not seen Robert in years, he silently acknowledged that he had some right to feel as he did.

Potter welcomed and thanked all for coming. “Let me get right to the point. You know why I’ve asked you to come. I am certain all of you share misgivings about Patrick. No alcoholic leaves family or friends without negative feelings toward him. I know his drunkenness has gone on for many years.”

He paused for a moment, reminded by his description of Patrick, that his father had been alcoholic and abusive. The memory of it was still somewhat unsettling.

“You may not have wanted to see him ever again. But we have a human life here; one that I, and I hope you, believe has much to give if he is sober. His sobriety is the crucial question.”

Dr. Haskell interjected. “Let me say something at this point, and I apologize to Dr. Potter for breaking in. I think I know what you were going to say, Dr. Potter, since much of the burden of caring for men like Patrick falls disproportionately to you. We have an enormous problem of alcohol abuse among veterans here at the Home. We have used the WCTU, and in certain cases they have been successful in convincing a few of our men to give up drinking altogether. We are still searching for new methods for curbing this abuse. What you are participating in with Patrick could, if successful, become another weapon in our arsenal.”

Dr. Haskell stopped and Dr. Potter continued. “Let me start by describing Patrick’s condition. His heart has weakened considerably over what it was just three years ago when he entered Bath. While in the alcoholic ward, he suffered a heart attack three weeks ago.”

At this point, Dr. Potter looked down and read from Pat’s medical chart. “His blood pressure is low. His eyes and skin are yellowed and his whole body swollen, signs of cirrhosis of the liver. His muscle tension is flaccid. He is eating little but has gained weight from all the liquid that his body has produced because of cirrhosis. His head has shrunk, so perhaps his brain has lost mass. He is often confused as to time and place. His color is ashen, which indicates a slackening of metabolic processes.”

Then he looked up once again and continued. “He was rescued from death’s door by two nurses, who attended him eighteen hours a day and hand-fed him.”

Dr. Haskell spoke up. “Your friend is in what is being called these days ‘a severe state of depression.’ If he begins drinking again, he will die a tortured death unless a heart attack or pneumonia takes him first. The question is, does he have the will to live? Can he stop drinking altogether?”

Dr. Potter concluded. “Robert, you may have some doubt about your ability to reach your father and in truth there is reason to believe he can no longer be reached by anyone. Millicent, you may have similar thoughts.

“Here is our reasoning. Robert, Mr. Dolan has told me that your father has always wanted a closer relationship with his only son. I believe he is profoundly disappointed that he has never had it. I think he sees himself as a dismal failure at being the head of your childhood family.”

Bob had been looking at the floor throughout much of Potter’s discourse. He drew in a long breath before responding. “I’m not sure what my father believes.” Shaking his head, he went on. “He is very proud and headstrong. He was not a caring father to me and was very jealous of my relationship with my mother. He caused many problems for my sisters. They are badly confused women and failed at their marriages, I believe, because of him.” His voice rose and cracked with emotion as he spoke.

“My mom was deeply hurt many times by my father’s drinking. He was abusive to her and to me when he was drunk. In her last year, she left him and nearly died in an apartment house before we were able to bring her home to die.” Dolan knew this was the lie her children made up to cover the embarrassing break-up of their parents and his mother’s death in a second rate rooming house.

“She was buried in a pauper’s grave in Holy Cross Cemetery. I think he sent her to an early grave and I find it damn difficult to forgive him.” Millicent and PM were stunned by what Bob said and the deep emotions flowing from him as he said it. No one spoke for several seconds. Then Bob broke the silence with words that surprised them a second time. “But still, I’d like to have a father worthy of the name.”

The doctors took his statements as no worse than what they had heard from many other such cases, maybe less.

Dr. Haskell, who had a degree in psychology as well as medicine, spoke. “Robert, it may well have been that your mother found in you what she sought in your father, and so grew very close to you. Mothers often become close to their first-born sons. He resented you and felt hostility toward you that he could not fully admit to himself. Can you understand what I am saying?”

Robert nodded. “I do, but above all it was the drink that drove my father out of control and made him act the way he did. When he was sober, he really wasn’t a bad father. He was easy-going and full of fun. It’s hard for outsiders to understand how attached the men of the Ward become to their saloons.”

“I am sure you are correct, Robert. If you can, over the course of a couple of days here, start to establish a filial relationship with your father; it might help pull him out of his depression. I know that is asking a great deal, for as you said, alcohol has a terrible grip on him. Let me add forcefully, your relationship must be honest. Your father must seek forgiveness from you and your sisters for what he did to your mother and you three, and he must renounce drinking for the rest of his life.”

Bob stood silent and not a little dubious about what the doctor was asking of him. His face expressed his pain and reluctance to risk another attempt at relating to his father. He was there, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be or that his father would or could respond positively to him.

Dr. Potter broke in. “Millicent, you worked many hours with Patrick and a genuine friendship seemed to arise for a period between you. There is no doubt in my mind Patrick likes the company of attractive women. He has often flirted with nurses here in the hospital. That’s why I chose two female nurses to provide him with individual care. Is there anything you might say to Patrick that would appeal to his manhood?”

“Perhaps there is, Dr. Potter. I’ve been thinking more about Patrick these last days after hearing he was close to death. He was a big help to me while gardening and to our WCTU group when we were off making presentations. We all hoped that coming with us, hearing our presentations, listening to other men like himself, he would see what alcohol was doing to him. We were deeply disappointed when he didn’t.”

Haskell thought to himself, She is saying “we” when, I sense, she really means “I.”

She lowered her eyes and seemed to be looking into the past. “He’s a charming and engaging storyteller, I must say. He is most gentle with flowers and with his Belgian horses. So he can still make a contribution to the Home if he wants to.”

“But obviously no one needs a drunk, Mrs. Hastings,” Potter interjected. “So what Dr. Haskell said to Robert, I repeat to you. He must renounce alcohol whole and entire for the rest of his life and mean it.”

Potter turned now to the last of the three people he had brought to the Home. “Patrick Dolan, thank you for persuading Millicent and Robert to appear today. You may have the most difficulty remaking a relationship that is honest and enjoyable and yet does not depend on drinking. You and Donohue have been, as you said, ‘drinking mates’ all your lives. If you are going to continue your friendship, it cannot include alcohol. Your one advantage is that you seem to have made a break with your past. You might be able to show him the way.”

Later that day, the five of them crowded around Pat’s bed while the two nurses gently awakened him and propped him up with pillows. They had separated his bed at one end of the ward away from the others and partitioned it with screens. He was clean but gaunt and had grown a scraggy, two-inch beard. Millicent and Bob did not recognize him at first glance.

The object of all this attention looked up and whispered weakly, “Saints of God, where am I?”

“You are still with us, Pat,” said Dr. Potter with a smile.

“We will leave you with your son for a while. The rest of us will be in to talk to you as your strength allows.”

They said good-bye and left father and son alone.

Robert stood awkwardly for a moment and then sat down in a chair vacated by one of the nurses. “Dad, how are you feeling?”

“Not so great, son. I’m weak as a kitten. It’s great to see you.” Then he paused, searching for the right words to say to a son who was showing great concern for him in spite of the terrible way Pat had treated him over half a lifetime.

He reached for the heart of the matter. “I still miss your mother. I know you don’t think I treated her the way I should have and I didn’t, but I loved her very much.”

“I know you did, but your relationship went from bad to worse over the years. That’s hard to understand, Dad, because Mom was a beautiful woman, a good mother and wife, as far as I’m concerned.”

“It hurts to hear you say it, but you are right. I made all kinds of excuses for the way I treated her; they were as empty as an old grain elevator. How I’d like to have those years back! Your mother was a gift from God.”

“How did you replace her once she was gone?” asked Bob.

“The same way I did when she was alive. With Kennedy’s and whiskey. How stupid! I wish I had died in the war.”

“How could Kennedy’s and whiskey replace Mom? How did that work for you?”

“I’m embarrassed to even think about it,” replied Pat. “I have no answer. It was dumb and only made me worse to you three. And I treated some really wonderful people here at the Home the same way, people who were only trying to help me.”

Then the two lapsed into silence and tears came to Pat’s eyes. “I even treated my brother like he was shit.” He paused and then blurted out, “Right now, Bob, I’d just as soon end it all.”

“Dad, you’ve got plenty of reasons to live if you want to make things right, plenty of ways to help others. You have talent and love you could give us all. You’re only cursing God and all he gave you when you talk suicide.”

“Can you stay for a day? I want to talk to you more, about us and your sisters, but I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Thanks for coming, Bob. I feel a bit better already.” The obvious concern of his son coming from Buffalo in spite of Bob’s hostile feelings toward him moved Pat deeply. That night, Dr. Potter arranged for Bob to stay at the Home.

The next morning, Pat ate more than he had eaten in weeks. Just as Nurse Gibson was leaving, Bob walked in.

“Hi, Dad, you’re looking a bit better! How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling stronger this morning.”

Nurse Gibson added, “You were just the tonic to bring him around.”

Pat finished his breakfast with a few pleasantries before speaking in earnest. “I want to talk some more about you and me.” He began and then faltered. Breathing heavily and choking back strong emotions, Pat asked, “What do you think I could do to make it up to you in some small way for the lousy father I was?”

“Dad, I was thinking about that last night and this morning. Mary Alice was crushed by the loss of her son, John. She was lost in melancholia for two years. Two years! Well, God has His ways. A new baby’s coming. We’re going to name her Katherine, after your mother and our Kate, my sister, if it’s a girl; Patrick, after you and your father, if it’s a boy. Isn’t that the old Irish way, Dad?”

“That is great news,” replied Pat. “I’m so happy for the two of you.”

“You get well and I will bring the children and Mame to see you, or you can come home to see us. But I have to be honest with you. Why do you think we fought over the years?”

“I think the drinking had a lot to do with it. I know I wasn’t myself when I was drunk. I wasn’t close to your mother, and you were. I’m really embarrassed by what I did and I’m sorry for it.

“Her dying without me alongside her, her refusing to see me on her deathbed fills me with guilt. To lose her love . . . well, I’ll never get over it. All I can do is to ask you to forgive me.”

“Nothing would please Ma more than to hear you say what you just said and to see you and me become friends,” said Bob. Big tears welled up in Bob’s eyes and in his father’s. The sight of his son’s compassion for him overwhelmed Pat.

“I know, son. I know I should have made your mother happy. She deserved to be, but I just would not give up Kennedy’s.”

Father and son were quiet for a minute, sharing grief for what was lost in their lives together and for a woman who had suffered a shortened lifetime with a drunk.

“I have to be leaving soon if I’m going to catch the train to Buffalo. I’d stay if you think we have more to say to one another. I want you to get well and I’d do anything in the world to make it happen.”

“No, I want you to go home and get to work for that beautiful wife of yours and my grandchildren.”

“Dad, I suspect I have deeper feelings for you than I ever knew I had. I would love to have my children come to know their grandfather, but I have to say, it can’t happen if you go on drinking. It’s that simple.”

“Son, I’m going to get control of myself, above all—above all—no drinking, not a drop. Please pray for me, son, and write. I’ll write back, I promise. I mean it, even though I never really learned to write very good. I do want to see my grandchildren and get to know them and Mame.

“We didn’t get to talk at all about Minnie and Annie. I know I’m the reason their lives are so messed up.”

“Annie asks about you, Dad, but I think she feels you disowned her and want nothing to do with her.”

“It’s true. I did disown her when she married that Jew, but I’ve met a lot of different kinds of people here at Bath and I’m learning to accept them. I would love to hear from her. Please tell her for me.”

“I will, Dad.”

“And Minnie? What about her?”

Bob grimaced and shook his head. “I hear nothing new about Minnie.”

Pat sighed and looked down at his lap. “Does that mean she’s still on opium?”

“Yah, I’m afraid it does.”

“I feel like I’m the cause and I hate myself.”

Neither could think of anything else to say.

Nurse Gibson reappeared, shaking both men out of their momentary funk. “I dearly hope I’m not intruding,” she said as she entered.

Bob sighed and his face relaxed. He smiled gently. “Not at all,” he said. “I, um, must be going, anyway.”

“Son,” Pat said as Bob stood up, “thanks for coming. I can’t wait to see the grandchildren.” Just before leaving the room, Bob turned, raised his hand to his forehead, and with a hopeful smile, saluted his father.

“Goodness, Mr. Donohue,” Nurse Gibson said as she busied around the bed. “You finished everything on your tray and you kept it down.”

“I guess some of my appetite is coming back,” Pat declared.

“Sleep awhile, Mr. Donohue. Mrs. Hastings will be around shortly,” said Nurse Gibson, whom Dr. Potter had put in charge of showing visitors in to see Pat when he was able to receive them. A smile came over Pat’s face as he slipped into a deep sleep.

Millicent came in an hour later and sat by Pat’s side, wanting to hold his hand, but not wanting to at the same time. She gazed on his bearded face and watched him breathe. She admitted she had been deeply hurt by this man, more deeply because she cared for him. He had betrayed her trust and affection, something she did not extend easily to men.

She spent the time in thought about the way she had acted toward Patrick. I say the Our Father every night at bedtime, an old habit learned from my mother, and the words ‘Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors’ haunt me. I need to forgive not only Pat but my son as well. Oh Lord, loosen the bonds of hate around my heart so I can truly love, she said to herself.

After a time Pat awoke. “Mrs. Hastings, how long have you been here?”

“An hour, Mr. Donohue! You slept well. I hope you’re beginning to feel a little stronger.”

“I am, indeed. I’m surprised to see you here, but there’s no one I would want to see more.”

Millicent blushed and changed the subject. “Mr. Donohue, it was always clear to me how fond you were of the Ward and Kennedy’s, but I never saw how many things you covered up with your drinking. I learned a lot from your son.”

“I’m afraid I was hiding a whole lot of stuff I collected like a ragman over a lifetime, things that happened, things I did, people I hurt, hurts I imagined. I just threw them all in my wagon and carted them along.”

“So,” said Millicent, “what caused the wagon to stop so suddenly and bury you under its junk?”

“Mrs. Hastings, alcohol just gets to a man after he drinks a long time. I know one thing. I told myself I could drink because I was Irish and had to work in such miserable conditions. I’m too ashamed to tell you how I treated Mary and Bob and the girls.

“I told my son that I was never going to touch a drop again in my life. It will be my way of making up a little for all the harm I did.”

“Sounds like you are about to make a break with your past.”

“I’ve wasted a good part of my life. If you will let me, maybe I can do something to help you the way I used to. Most of all, Mrs. Hastings, I want you to be my friend. Could we do that?”

“Mr. Donohue, is it time we become a bit less formal? Would you call me Millicent from now on?” “I will, Millicent . . . if you’ll call me Pat.”

Millicent leaned over, pulled Pat into her bosom and gave him a long and tender hug. Pat blushed and mumbled it was the best medicine he’d ever had.

That afternoon, when PM visited his friend, Pat was sitting up in bed.

“You’ve made a remarkable recovery, Pat. What’s got into you?”

Pat smiled, relieved that he had not lost his best friend. “Well, you’re looking good.” PM’s hair was neatly cut and combed and he was clean-shaven, except for a small mustache and goatee, the new look he had adopted for the new man.

“What are you thinking, Pat, after talking with Bob and Mrs. Hastings?”

“I’m thinking I’ve got some real friends and if I want to keep them and go on living, I need to make a break with the past. ”

“You wanna talk about it?” He removed his hat and sat at the end of the bed. PM wore a clean, pressed uniform and had polished his shoes. He leaned back, wanting to hear all about the change coming over Pat.

“What you said to me weeks ago hurt bad, but I know you meant it for my own good. I am a real shit. I’ve done a lot of harm I gotta undo”

PM laughed a little at Pat’s reaction. “Let me tell you, Donohue, me lad, I did a lot of thinking about what I said to you. If you need changing, so do I.”

“PM, I need your friendship. You’re my other leg. Are we a sad pair of chaws, or what?” The two sank into silence.

Then the PM that Pat knew so well exploded. “I want to shave that ugly mug of yours. Who do you think you are, Moses on the mountain? Can I come back later with me brush and shaver?”

Pat smiled and nodded. “That would be good, but hone it a bit first, lad.”