DORCHESTER, BOSTON.      BLESS THE DAUGHTER (BUT FUCK THE FAMILY).

☆

November, 1959

The Night of the Arthritis Telethon

TV Special Produced by NBC

      Mikey Donovan wished he didn't have to work tonight of all nights. In an alternate world, his ass was imprinted in the center of his couch, a grease-stained box of freshly-delivered pizza was on the table, and he could focus solely on the television set. But alas, it was a Friday night so there was no way to get out of it.

      At least he could turn it into a party.

      That was a silver lining.

      Doc Magiligan's had erupted with chaos around seven o'clock. Nothing out of the ordinary, especially when something exciting was happening on the television set (the single screen that was stationed on the far side of the room, kept together by duct tape and stubbornness). Usually, it was boxing, football or baseball that got the whole neighborhood together. Rarely had a comedian been the one to get everyone in a frenzy. 

      But this comedian was special.

      This comedian was from home.

      Since he was a eighteen and a high school dropout, the bar had been his in all but name. The owner, a Protestant Ulster who was about ninety-nine years old (give or take a few decades), possessed the lease, but everything managerial came down onto Mikey. It was easier for all parties; Doc could remain the recluse he's always been since the 19th century, back when he was just a clam digger running away, and Mikey could be in charge of (mostly) everything without any barriers in his way.

      It's not that he liked the responsibility, he treasured it. He had never been accountable or resourceful when it came to school; his teachers didn't think so, his parents didn't think so, hell even a military recruitment officer who paid a visit to his homeroom senior year didn't think so. But being counted on for a job was different, because without him, none of it would run right. That pressure was enough to get him out of bed in the morning and not become a lazy lay about, hopping from one mediocre job to another, like a lot of other men in this city.

      Mikey held some sense of pride being at Doc's Magiligan's. No one in his family found it a respectable job by any means, because it was a bar, but also because none of them knew the extent of work he did when he was here. The older he got, the more he realized he didn't care. He knew who he was and was not. He couldn't be like his older brother Joe, who served in the military, came back home as the one guy who didn't get his brain scrambled, and became a family-man with an ever-growing list of mouths to feed. As much as he loved the man, he didn't want to be like his dad, jumping from marriage to marriage with an unapologetic smile on his face, acting as a well-to-do patriarch one minute, then disappearing into a depressive mist the next. 

      Maybe one day, Mikey would want some kids of his own, an upgrade from an apartment to a house, and a ladder that would lead him to a career boost. But he was twenty-eight coming on twenty-nine and yet that Big Day train wasn't any closer to stopping at the station. 

      "What the hell's the special?" J.R. roughly inquired as he approached the bar. A glitter of snow sprinkled across his cap and onto the floor as he shook the fabric away from his head. His crinkled eyes were zeroed-in on the gigantic chalkboard that was near the entrance. 

      Valerie's Vodka Visionary was written chiefly in chalk. A rudimentary sketch of a highball glass with block ice and brown liquid was drawn below it. Bright-red cherries surrounded the rim of the glass. 

      In school, Mikey's art teacher said that while he didn't have much talent, he had motivation. This was a good example of that.

      "Smirnoff with cherry brandy, dry vermouth, and cola." explained Mikey, the classic style of drawn out "A's" and dropped "R's" slicking his voice. "Cherries to garnish."

      J.R. cocked his bad eye towards him. "The fuck's a garnish?"

      "You know, like a topping." The younger man shrugged and wiggled his fingers, as if adding a dash of salt to a meal. "You put it on top to complete the drink."

      "Oh, Mr. Fancy-Pants, now suddenly gives a fuck about garnishing?" He snarled. "Why can't a drink be a drink? Why do we have to girly it up?"

      "Because tonight's the night my sister becomes a star on television." Mikey patiently said. "It's a fancy sort of night."

      "Sounds like a hangover in the making." J.R. grumbled. He paused, then took a seat at the bar counter. "Give me a double."

      Mikey smirked and added nothing more as he went to fetch the ingredients. The establishment itself was nothing special. A ground-level pub with a few apartments upstairs. Broad windows that mostly encircled the property. Sleek, sable hardwood walls and a matching floor with stains that had been there longer than Mikey's been alive. The actual counter was long and L-shaped with dozens of stools lined up. Behind the counter was rows of liquor bottles; next to those cabinets were fridges containing cheap beers and even cheaper wines. 

      Plastered across the walls was the history of the neighborhood. Old photographs of families, and abandoned businesses, and corners of the city that didn't exist anymore. Cut-out passages of textbooks that described Boston's involvement in the Revolutionary War and the causalities that resulted. Torn immigration papers detailing government stamps, hospitals back in Ireland, and birthdates. Passport snapshots, expired Green Cards, even a International Certificate of Inoculation and Vaccination, as approved by the World Health Organization. 

      Dorchester natives' entire stories could be found on these walls. For someone like Mikey, who grew up here, enveloped by foreigners with love and hatred for the old countries, none of these things were really special. Hearing migrant tales was practically bedtime stories for him. However, once in a while, his eyes would catch a detail that he never saw before: a ripped-out Certificate of Marriage, underlined verses from the Book of Exodus, a faded Euro bill with people's names written across.

      It was enough to make him wonder and sprout curiosity. Maybe not everyone in this town was the exact same.

      It's not like his own family's imprint wasn't to be found. Diagonal from the front door, on a specific section of the wall, was a In Memoriam collage of sorts. In the midst of the abstracts was a eulogy from the New York Times dedicated to his late brother-in-law. It was the longest accolade Mikey had ever seen printed for someone, but Mark was a celebrity after all. Next to that laminated column was a medium-sized polaroid of his and Valerie's wedding day.

      Every time he swung by that area to move boxes or fix the circular table positioned below, Mikey couldn't help, but linger. It was inarguably a wonderful photograph: the couple caught during a moment of the reception, Mark in a neatly-pressed suit, Valerie looking more grown up than she'd ever looked in a tulle dress that reached down to her ankles. He remembered that day clearly — being his sister's wedding and all, but also his first time in New York City — and was unequivocally stunned by how unabashedly happy Valerie looked. 

      It's not that Valerie was a bum who walked around miserable, but Mikey hadn't realized how there was a whole other layer of bliss she could tap into. Every time he thought it that, or at the photo, he wondered how much he didn't notice about her.

      "Mikey! When the fuck is Valentina gonna come on?" Frank called out from his table. For this occasion, everyone — whether they were seated at the bar or at a high-top or regular table — was turned towards the television box. Static-laced broadcasting of ballerinas, singers, and fake cowboys had been on continuum for a while now, but no sign of Valerie.

      "She didn't say." Mikey casually remarked. He slid the special towards J.R. and raised his eyebrow at Frank. "Don't worry, she'll be on eventually."

      The man slapped his hands onto his thighs. "When? I haven't got all fucking night."

      "And what the fuck do you have going on later that's so enticing?"

      "Listen, wiseass —"

      "You chose to come here —"

      "You may think your family's hot-shit around here —"

      "I don't recall saying that —"

      "But the planet doesn't stop spinning —"

      "Ironic coming from a guy whose family always wants you out the house —"

      "All I asked was a simple question!"

      "Nobody can hear the TV with you yapping!"

      "I'M TALKING HERE!"

      "WOULD YOU WATCH THE GODDAMN SHOW AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

      Frank growled something in Gaelic — something about how he hoped a house would fall on Mikey, he couldn't be sure exactly, his strong suit was never in Celtic languages — but dropped back down in his chair without pretense. Mikey huffed, his unsteady heart beat slowing to a delicate rhythm, and made his way over to Charlie.

      "You want a refill?" He asked cheerily. 

      "Sure thing, boss." The dock-worker nodded. He pushed his empty can of Mackeson's. It was his third of the night.

      "Which sister is this again?" Marco loudly said from the other end of the counter. His eyes were half-closed. "I know it's not the schoolgirl. The housewife or the hot one?" 

      Mikey's head shot up. "What are you, insane? You want to fucking die?"

      Marco lifted his arms in defense, before plummeting his head onto the wood. Thankfully, his beer didn't topple to the ground and make a mess. 

      "Don't mind him." Giovanni, his cousin, dismissed. He stood up from his table and walked over to pat his family member on the back. Marco didn't budge; rumbling snores could be heard. "Alcohol isn't his friend." 

      "He says shit like that again, I'll kick his ass." threatened Mikey.

      Giovanni nodded shakily in understanding. Mikey chose to walk away from the situation, but in the back of his mind, he knew he would probably still kick Marco's ass. Just not now. Probably during a commercial break.

      "Why is everyone trying to rile me up tonight?" He muttered to himself while wiping down the counter.

      "Don't mind 'em, boss." slurred Charlie as he opened his fourth beer. His eyes were becoming glazed. "They just hate when someone else from home is successful, you know? Makes 'em realize the excuse of being 'stuck' somewhere is bullshit."

      Mikey hummed and bent over to the fridge to get his own beer. He took a long swig and looked over to watch the television from afar. The phonebank was lined with various adventurous characters and the host was repeatedly thanking the watchers for the onslaught of unstopping donations. It was hard to deny, after seeing the other stars they congregated for this special and how much money the network had raised, that this was a big deal.

      Anticipation was pulsating rapidly in his veins for Valerie's performance. Nevertheless, Charlie's words echoed in his ears, an irritating gnat of unwavering noise.

      Underneath the gruffness of the man, it was his sister's inexorable vocals permeating. A memory resurfaced. Valerie lounged across the rickety picnic table in the backyard of their father's house, flat on her back, staring up at the midnight stars. They kept passing a joint back-and-forth. 

      "I trip over people I hate every day. That's how small this neighborhood is." Valerie had croaked with wry, thin lips. "Suff-o-ca-tion central! I'll die if I'm stuck here for the rest of my life."

      This must have been when she was in high school, not long after Dad and Cher vehemently proclaimed no support would be given for her to attend college. Or maybe it was after all that hullabaloo, right before Valerie took that gig at that music magazine and joined Gene on her national tour. Mikey couldn't be sure — all he could distinctly remember what how he thought that marijuana made her too honest.

☆

      At exactly three in the morning, Mikey counted five cousins of his that were tanked and asleep on the floor.

      The telethon had ended four hours ago, but the drinking resumed long after that. Celebrations were in order for how well Valerie and her partner, Mrs. Maisel, did for their first television broadcast. By morning, most people wouldn't even recollect the punchlines or sharp quips, but the legend would live on. A Southie from their own inconsequential hole of the Earth made it on air. There had not be another moment like this since his older sister, Gene, made her debut on The Milton Berle Show earlier this decade.

      Exhaustion slyly creeped into Mikey's bones, threatening to drag him down, but thankfully, he possessed enough willpower to clean up. A few telephone calls had already been made; a mixture of pissed-off wives or disappointed, grown children arrived to heave their inebriated relatives into a car. He knew there was more calls to make, but the fact that he was related in some way to almost everyone left behind made him want to push it off until the last minute. Or just leave them at the bar. As long as he was back before tomorrow night, nothing was at risk for being stolen.

      Above the front door, the bell rung.

      The Donovan turned around to inform whoever walked in to fuck off. The warning died instantly. His older brother was staring back at him, black bags hung below his eyes with a contradictory grin.

      "The hell you doing here?" He questioned loudly, twisting back around to continue cleaning the inside of cloudy beer mugs. His eyebrow cocked teasingly. "Is Maggie wearing you down? I thought the dead of the night was the perfect time for couples to fuck, because the kids are asleep."

      "Fuck off." Joe jerked his chin towards the sleeping patrons. "Cousin Cillian's here."

      "Yep."

      "So is Cousin Declan."

      "Attaboy."

      "And is that your Aunt Deidre under the sofa?"

      Mikey twisted around briefly. "Huh, I hadn't noticed her there." He shrugged. "But yeah, the whole family — your half and my half — are here. It's a real fabulous reunion."

      Joe draped his jacket across the surface of a stool and sat down. With the brass pendants lighting them above, Mikey could see that his brother was still wearing a pair of navy blue, flannel pajama pants and faded Boston Bruins tee-shirt. He was surprised not to see him in wire glasses and camouflage slippers. It would complete the ultimate Tired-Father-of-the-Year guise.

      "You want a sleeping agent?" asked Mikey. He held up a bottle of Jameson with only a quarter leftover. "It'll make getting the kids up for school tomorrow more interesting."

      The older man hesitated, then relented. "Just a finger. Less than a finger, actually."

      He did what he was told and poured himself a twin. "Did you see Valerie on the TV?"

      "Hmm." Joe hummed and took a swift sig. His flattened lips were boosted into a small grin. "She was pretty damn funny, wasn't she?"

      "Yes, she was." answered Mikey. "I didn't know she was funny-funny like that."

      "No?"

      "Well, she's funny like...sarcastic. Or being a smart-ass." He chuckled sardonically. "But I didn't realize she was funny like a comedian. Not enough to make it into a profession." 

      The other man hummed again, not agreeing or disagreeing. "She's always been smart though, at least in a book sense. Common sense, not always." He cleared his throat. "I guess you gotta be smart in order to string a punchline together."

      "I would imagine." Mikey then quipped. "I wouldn't know. I'm just funny by nature."

      "Funny-looking, you mean."

      The atmosphere faded back into quietude. From far back, Deidre's snores were enough to rival any man's. Outside of the bar, snow was beginning to stick onto the windows. A hazy white was coating the air. The roads could barely been seen. 

      "I'll be interesting to see if she takes off after this." Joe shrugged. It didn't feel normal to see such a self-conscious essence fall upon his big brother's broad, always self-possessed shoulders. "You know, like Gene did. She might actually be able to be something big."

      Mikey nodded and briefly turned back around. He poured more whiskey into his glass. 

      A pause, then: "Do you think we failed her?" 

      Something steely struck Mikey's spine. His narrow face coiled remarkably; hunches formed at the tops of his arms. The barricades in an imaginary military base were already rising.

      "The hell does that mean?" He pivoted back towards his brother. His spindly figure appeared even taller. "Failed? What does that even mean?"

      Joe dragged his hand down his face, catching in the black stubble that painted his jaw. It was clear this had been on his mind since he entered Doc's, maybe even since before then. "Watching her tonight just got me to thinking — did we do right by her? Growing up, I mean. It just feels like to me, Valerie could've gotten here sooner if we had been more supportive of her."

      Mikey scoffed. "She didn't even know she wanted to be a comedian until two seconds ago. Besides, all our lives, it was never about Bob Hope or the Marx Brothers, it was Fannie Hurst or Kate Chopin or whatever depressed, melodramatic author she had discovered in the adults-only part of the library."

      "That we know of." Joe's voice dimmed to a more muted tone. "You didn't ever get the feeling that was more to her, but that she always hid it away?"

      Whatever rebuttal that messily cultivated on Mikey's tongue disappeared, before a syllable could be heard. The muscles of his throat was straining to the max. He focused on continuing the cleaning that had been interrupted. "Yeah, sometimes. But you know how it was for all of us — our parents were so loud and volatile that there was no room for us kids to even hear our own voices."

      "Valerie had it worse though, because she got Cher full-time after Serafina died." said Joe. "I had my mom — you and Gene had your mom — but Valerie was on the receiving end of the Cher Pescatelli, Wicked-Stepmother treatment. Who could thrive in an environment like that?"

      "It's not the Olympics. Nobody gets a gold medal for being more fucked up than the rest of us. We all had our shit to deal with." Mikey dismissed and made a jerky movement as if to walk away. He stopped himself before his feet lifted from the hardwood.

      To his own ears, his expulsion sounded flat. Mikey sighed heavily. "She did survive, though. And she made it to New York City, and has a job at a newspaper, and is now on television. So clearly everything worked out the way it was suppose to."

      "But could it have been better?" Joe couldn't help, but probe further. "Couldn't the road be less tough?"

      "What are you? Robert Frost? The roads are always tough for Donovans." He bitterly snickered. He looked at his brother; a stare morphed into a sharp glare. "Did you bring this up just to stir the pot or is there a reason for all the existential bullshit?"

      It was the first time during this conversation that he had noticed how perturbed Joe looked. Not with Mikey's refusal to engage, but with himself. The weight of his past decisions was revealing itself as a mighty burden.

      "I just wonder if me and you could have protected her better." He revealed quietly. "When shit was going down, did we do our best?"

      Mikey maintained the steady pattern of his breathing, even when his lungs were collapsing instead of his chest.

      He had no choice, but to dig through the memories of their youths and the years after. Most of the time, in order to keep himself sane — and not histrionic like other members of his family — he harked back to only the good stuff. Schooltime antics in the hallways in between classes, summer trips to the beach and Italian-spreads across picnic tables, weekends spent together at their collective father's house. Those nights as children where they stayed up all night, sneaking downstairs to eat leftover gelato from the fridge, hiding behind each other's shoulders when watching a scary picture on the television box.

      Valerie, like his other half-siblings, was a constant in his memories. He used to chase her around the whole neighborhood, determined to leave a rosy welt on her arm, then determined to make up for it with a trip to the ice cream parlor. They'd go to the local movie theater and watch a comedy while munching on popcorn; on the walk back home, they'd recite the lines together. He was sure, if she was here right now, they could still mimic the movements from the hypnotized guard from Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.

      Mikey knew how to make her laugh. Everybody else's patience might run thin when he's around, but through and through, Valerie loved his sense of humor. It was something they could bond over; when the 'adults' in the room were fighting or there was drama with Dad and Cher or if something else had gone terribly wrong, their eyes could meet and they could share a ghost of a laugh. 

      That's how he measured himself as a man — could he turn a dark moment into a light one? He didn't know how else to be or if he could extend himself to be anything other than a joker. He was comfortable in his role and there wasn't many times he felt like anyone in his family expected more from him.

     Sometimes though, if Mikey thought hard about it in the corners of his reminiscence, Valerie would look up at him as if she wanted him to be her savior. To make her childhood, the bad parts, especially in the later years, a little more bearable.

      It made him shiver to consider that. Did Joe get those same looks? Did Gene? Was there always this unspoken demand to be each other's protectors, even against their own parents and step-mothers? Mikey had never banked on that from Joe or Gene. In this neighborhood — in this family, better yet — every man was his own island. The only job was to look out for yourself.

      "We did our best with what we knew." Mikey lowly replied, unable to look at anything, but the ground. His heart was starting to constrict tightly; when he recalled Valerie's heartbroken reaction to Dad and Cher's unwillingness to support her through college, all he did was make a joke about how universities were too wasp-y for an Irish Rose like her. He didn't even offer to try to change their minds.

      Joe couldn't say anything else. Mikey curtly jerked his head a couple of times, trying to nod, trying to compose himself from a discussion that seemingly dived off the deep-end. "Let's cut this shit out. I'm not drunk enough for it." He swallowed the remainder of his drink. He slammed his hand aggressively against the counter. The thwack echoed against the walls. "C'mon, let's wake these fuckers up and head home."

      His brother joined him without protect. They started the grueling process of grabbing everybody off the floor — whether they were related to Joe, or Mikey, or both of them — and calling up their respective spouses to pick them up. In the morning, both men would be tired and annoyed, but would move on from it, because there was no other choice.

      Joe would get ready for work while Maggie made breakfast and wrangled the kids from their beds. Sleepy-eyed and still in their pajamas, it would be hard while looking at their beautiful faces for Joe to think about the past. Nevertheless, it would crawl back in eventually.

      Mikey would sleep in until noon, ignoring the latest batch of mail and rinsing his mouth out with Listerine. The local news channel would be turned on; meanwhile, he would debate — for the forty-fifth time — whether to call up his ex-girlfriend, Bonnie. Just to catch-up, maybe meet up for coffee, knowing where it would eventually lead. He would try his best to push this conversation out of his mind forever.

      Both men would put it on their to-do lists to call up Valerie and congratulate her on an epic turnout on NBC. Eventually, they would call.

☆

This is the house that built me
and I'm gonna burn it down.

This is the river I crawled from
and I refuse to drown here.

And bless the strippers
but fuck the men.

And bless the berries
but fuck the farm.

And bless the daughter
but fuck the family.

What is a home
if not the first place you learn to run from?

You've got to bite the hand
that starves you, and in doing so

Praise the place that birthed you.

Birthed you fucked up.
Birthed you ugly, and interesting,

and ready to scream.

— Courtney Love Prays to Oregon, Clementine von Radics

☆

⋆ This was completely unplanned. Nowhere in my outlines did it mention writing an interlude that doesn't include Valerie, only her two emotionally fucked up older brothers back in Boston, questioning their life choices due to how fucking funny she is.

⋆ But I was inspired and I figured it couldn't hurt 🤷‍♀️

⋆ It ended up being more difficult to write than I initially thought, because I kept questioning how these two guys would interact and talk about these things. They're masculine, straight dudes in the 1950s. How emotionally mature are they to reflect on past decisions and their fucked up childhood? But you know what, in my universe, they're got more than one brain cell and they can be pensive when alcohol's involved.

⋆ I'm also always fascinated by scenes where supporting or non-supporting characters provide characterization of the main character that's unbeknownst to the audience, contradicts what's previously been established, or offers a perspective that puts the protagonist in a different light. From what we know as readers - due to previous chapters - Valerie actually did show interest in comedians when she was growing up. Did her brothers just not know that? Did they forget about it? Did Valerie never really discuss with them about her fascination with comedy? Did they just chose to focus on the fact that she loved reading?

⋆ Consideration also needs noted when it comes to the fact that Mikey is half-siblings with everyone, but Gene. Him and Valerie didn't grow up in a singular household together; sometimes, Mikey would be with his mother, other times he would be with his father (hence the mention of the weekend sleepovers). So there's a lot that Mikey, and the others, don't know or missed out on, because they didn't really grow up with Valerie - more like alongside her.

⋆ Also, if anyone forgot the family dynamics, here's a recap: Domhnall (Papa Bear) married/divorced his first wife Orla, and had Joe (the oldest); then Domhnall married/divorced his second wife Evelyn, and had Gene (second oldest) and Mikey (third oldest); then Domhnall married Serafina and had Valerie (fourth oldest); when she died, Domhnall married Cher and had the twins, Patrick and Irene (twins; the youngest batch).

⋆ Mikey is played by the beautiful Mike Faist and Joe is played by the heartthrob Kyle Chandler

⋆ Next chapter we're back to our regularly scheduled program. Final episode of season two! Plus the return of Lenny!

⋆ The cocktail, by the way, is one I made up based on my rudimentary bartending skills. It sounds like a rocket launch and a hangover waiting to happen. Feel free to make it at home and tell me how it tastes!

HISTORICAL NOTES.

⋆ In the late 1800s/early 1900s, a handful of Irish immigrants who came over to the U.S.A. started off as clam diggers back home. It doesn't sound like a very enticing job.

⋆ The International Certificate of Inoculation and Vaccination, as approved by the WHO, is an actual type of document that you can find images of online. I guess they were like vaccine cards for the 20th century.

⋆ Mackeson's is a popular stout beer that still exists today (I don't know a single person to drink it). It actually was marked to be nutritious due to its milk content and was recommended to mothers who breastfed in the 1900s. I shouldn't have to say this, but don't drink alcohol while breastfeeding or during pregnancy. You can get your calcium requirements from other sources.

⋆ "The Milton Berle Show" - also known as the "Texaco Star Theater" - was a variety television show from 1948 to 1956. It changed titles in the final season. Milton Berle, nicknamed "Mr. Television", was the host. If you've seen the film Saturday Night that released earlier this year, he's played by J.K. Simmons. Supposedly, an asshole in real life.

⋆ Boston Bruins is the city's hockey team

⋆ Bob Hope and the Marx Brothers were all famous comedians while Valerie was growing up

⋆ Fannie Hurst was a famous novelist known for discussing social issues in her novels. Unfortunately, I've heard that a lot of her books are out of publication at this point.

⋆ Kate Chopin was a famous writer known primarily for "The Awakening", a 1899 novel known for exploring motherhood and feminism. The title of that book is the name for the prologue of this story and includes a quote from it as well.

⋆ Robert Frost was a poet known most famously for "The Road Not Taken"

⋆ "Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein" was a horror-comedy film from 1948. You can look up the scene that Mikey refers to with the 'hypnotized guard' (it's the one where Frankenstein is awakened by Dracula). It's a fairly silly film, tbh