Back in the bar, Cathy was sitting at my table. Transformed. I’d known a twenty-two-year-old punk with track marks on her arms. She jumped up, said,

“You’re back.”

Alongside the Irish greeting, she’d acquired a soft lilt. I preferred her Kim Carnes intonation.

More hugging.

She gave me the look, said,

“Coke.”

“Hey.”

“You can’t fool an old doper.”

“Why would I try?”

“Because it’s what addicts do…hide.”

I sat, took a hefty swig of my drink. God, it was good. Cathy leant over, wiped the foam of my upper lip, said,

“We have your room ready.”

“What?”

“Your first night, you have to be with friends.”

“I was going back to Bailey’s.”

“Go tomorrow.”

“Well, OK.”

She’d filled out. Her face was well-fed, shining even. I said,

“You look radiant.”

She went shy; I’d swear she blushed, though I think that’s a lost art. She said,

“I’m pregnant.”

After I did the congratulations bit, I said,

“I bought ye something.”

Her face lit, she asked,

“Show me.”

I gave her the first package. Like a child, she tore it open. A gold Claddagh ring bounced on the table. I said,

“I got ye both one.”

“Oh, Jack.”

I’d got them off a guy in a pub.

Cathy tried the ring. It fit. She called,

“Hon, come see what Jack bought?”

He approached the table cautiously. Cathy showed him the gold ring, said,

“Go on, try it.”

Didn’t fit so hot. He pulled a chain from beneath his shirt. I spotted a miraculous medal. He opened the clasp, slid the ring along the links, said,

“Daniel Day-Lewis wears one, figures it makes him Irish.”

The medal sat on the table, like an aspiration, leastways the coke thought so. Jeff said,

“Jack, you take it.”

“It probably belonged to your mother.”