Here is a preview of The Origins of Benjamin Hackett by Gerald M. O’Connor…Chapter 3…
Life was lived in the quiet moments; all the rest was pure bluster. I was paraphrasing of course. I hadn’t the foggiest who’d said those words, or whether they were ever uttered out of the mouth of anyone at all, and if by happenstance they had it probably was more succinct. But the thought cropped up in my head then, watching my dad visibly stutter less than the width of a jab away from me.
“There’s no way in hell I’m adopted,” I said.
“You are a bit.”
“You can’t be a bit adopted.”
Dad seemed to consider this for a moment, before shrugging and smiling wanly. “No…I suppose you can’t.”
“This is a pile of unadulterated nonsense. You’re both having a laugh, right? Some twisted revenge for me not applying to college?”
Dad reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out a manila envelope and laid it on the table. “This,” he said, tapping it twice with his index finger, “contains your adoption certificate. We decided to keep calling you by your birth name, Benjamin. Seemed the correct thing to do at the time.”
He held up his hand to hush me. “It’s the original document we received the day Father Brogan brought you here and made it all official.” He slid it over to me. “It’s yours now.”
I picked up the envelope and tore it open, unfurling the paper inside and laying it flat on the table. My eyes skimmed over the document, flitting from word to word—adoption, adoptees, dates, signatures and the official diocesan insignia on the envelope. They were all there, all the bureaucratic paraphernalia of the state and church.
I held his stare, neither of us flinching. “Am I really adopted?”
My throat turned to dust. Call it the formality of the letter, or the way the word cut short on his breath. I thought of Mam’s delicate frame and barley-blonde hair. We looked nothing alike. But Dad? He was meant to be the exception. We both towered over her. We both had lanky frames. Hell, we even shared that same terrible torture of walking on long, flat feet that no shoe, no matter the cut or cobbler, could fit comfortably.
Reams of memories of years gone by played on a loop in my head. “Sure, isn’t Benjamin the spit of his old man,” they’d said. “Dug from the same field, no doubt about it. Oh, he’s a Hackett all right, this fella.” And my parents had lapped it up. Like the time in Hay Street, in the bustle of market day, when they nodded in tacit agreement at some hunched-over old coot as she tousled my hair and told them how my curls were the carbon copy of Dad’s.
“But we look alike?” I said.
“You know we do.”
He leaned in closer, dropped his voice to a whisper. “Truth is, we’ve been secretly dying your hair since you arrived. You’re actually ginger.”
I shoved the table into him and threw my hands up. “Jokes? You think now is the time for messing about? For having a bit of a laugh?”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, showing his palms in surrender. “It just snuck out…but seriously, you’re not going to make a big deal of this, are you?”
“And why shouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s not what Hackett men do.”
“Well, I’m clearly not one of them, now am I?”
My comment flushed crimson high in his cheeks. He balled his hands twice and relaxed them flat on the table. “You’ve been long enough on the farm,” he said, quieter now. “Long enough to know that animals of all sorts adopt strays and nurture them as their own. And there’s not a blind bit of difference in them when they mature. Attitude is more in the rearing than the genes. You’re my son and a Hackett. Adopted or not.”
“So you’re calling me a stray animal now? Christ, Dad, you’re some piece of work.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. Don’t go all melodramatic on me now. We’ve enough histrionics happening outside already.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I think we’re allowed this one time to have a bit of a barney.”
“Well, you’re not. No son of mine is going to throw a tantrum over something like this. Adoption happens all over the world, every day of the week. Just because you came out of another doesn’t mean we’re not your parents. And let me tell you this now. If I hear any of that sort of nonsense when your mother’s about I’ll—”
“Ah, nothing.” He leaned back, folded his arms and studied his feet for a while. His standard move whenever his mood blackened. “You know,” he said after a while. “I never wanted to say anything. But your mam wouldn’t have it. Have you any idea how difficult it was for her to keep this a secret all this time?”
“And if it was such a burden on you two, why didn’t you relieve yourselves of it sooner?”
“Because we thought if you knew too soon it’d mark you, hang over you like a shadow looming large. Scar you for life. Father Brogan advised us to tell you early, but your mother thought it was best you didn’t know. She thought you’d settle better and handle it easier as an adult rather than a child. I don’t know…maybe we should have taken the priest’s advice and told you sooner?” He stroked his stubble and sighed. “It was bad enough you’d that birth mark on your face without lugging this around as well.”
“Nice one, Dad,” I said, and instinctively I felt for the port-wine stain on my face. I couldn’t help myself. It was an old habit, hiding behind my veil of fingers and thumbs. “An Angel’s kiss” Mam had called it when I was finally tall enough to catch sight of myself in the mirror. Even at three years of age I knew it’d be a burden. Angel’s kiss was such a pile of nonsense. It was more like ten of them took turns to give me a six-inch hickey from cheek to chin. I stopped wearing camouflage since the age of twelve. No matter how you applied the green-tinted clay, it always came out a weird shade of vomit.
“Okay so, Mister Automaton,” I said. “Tell me this, then…who are my real parents?”
“Not a clue. All we know is what’s in that letter, and we never felt a need to find out more. Do you?”
“Ah, I don’t know what I want to do with all this. I mean…who would? Springing it on me now after all these years with my head all over the shop.”
“Well, if you do, Father Brogan’s your man. He knows all about this revelation today. I expect it wouldn’t be a surprise to him if you turned up there later.” He pushed up and away from the bench. “Right so, that’s that.”
“Seriously? That’s all you’re going to give me?”
“Well, as much as I’d like to stay and chat the farm won’t work itself. Fancy helping me spraying weeds in the paddock?”
“What do you think?”
“Suit yourself, then.” He buttoned his overalls, swung his arms into his mac and zipped it up to his neck. With a hand on the door handle, he inched it ajar, before turning around once more. “You know, Benjamin. We’ve farmed this patch of land for near on ten generations. And do you know what I’ve learned from the three decades I’ve held it together? Tides come and tides go. Every bit of sand laying on the beach below us today will be somewhere else entirely tomorrow. Nothing stays the same. All this is just noise, a glitch in your life. By tomorrow, or next week, or ten years down the line, today will be a distant memory to you. Hell, you’ll probably even laugh about it.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well, whatever your plans are from here, don’t go leaning on your mam too much. Do what you have to do, but do it gently.” He fixed his cap on his head and held a finger up as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh, and make sure to collect Ella from Nell’s before you trot away into the day. And get her home before the high tide. It’s a spring one and it’ll cut the road off. If Ella misses her lunch, there’ll be hell to pay.”
I snorted. “And we can’t be having that.”
“Nope. You’re right on that point,” he said, the trace of a smile brightening his face. “You see? We are alike after all.”
Away up the yard he pottered, hands tucked into pockets, shoulders hunched forward, with a host of grey clouds looming above him. I raced upstairs and changed out of the flag into a plaid shirt and black denim jeans, and a whole load of questions kept buzzing about in my brain. One kept barging its way towards the front and trampling over the others. “What you gonna do, Benjamin?” it said, over and over again, mockingly.
I looked through the attic window and spied Mam down in the yard with pegs clipped to her blouse and her sheets being harassed by the weather. She must have sensed me staring because she glanced up and immediately gestured me down.
“You going out?” she asked, when I appeared.
“I am. Going to pick up Ella from Nell’s.”
“Thanks for doing that…” Her voice trailed off, and she turned away, and I knew she was lining up the sentences in her head.
“And then?” She picked up a duvet cover and laid it across the line.
“Then I’m going to see Father Brogan.”
A peg fell from her grasp, and she kicked it away across the yard. “I thought you might.”
She nodded over towards Dad. “Did he handle it okay? Explaining things, I mean.”
“I suppose so.”
I shrugged. “Just the one.”
“Ah, I’ll wear him up the road—”
“It was a pretty good one, though, in fairness.”
The wind stiffened. Wisps of hair slipped across her mouth. She tucked them back behind her ear, and her eyes met mine. She looked scared standing there and frailer than her years. “You won’t stop until you find them, will you?”
I shook my head. “I’m the odd man out. I have to find out why.”
And with that I turned on my heel and strode out of the farm and away from the people I thought were my family. The weather seemed to match my mood; a gale rose up and blew in my face. In the distance, the seas roared thunder.
I stopped by Mosses Point and walked out to the ledge where the whole sweep of the coast stretched out beneath me. The isle of Inis Saor stood less than a mile from shore as a tall and immovable mule of rock. Normally, a quick glimpse of the place would take the breath clean out of my chest, pulling any bit of foul mood with it. Not today, though. For some unknown reason, I thought of Dad, of him leading me into the fields with my wellies two sizes too big and the chill of dawn biting at my skin. I remembered the shakes I’d felt, as I stood rooted to his side with one tiny hand clutched in his. The black-and-white giants plodding toward us with their teats swollen terrified me.
“You have to be brave, Benjamin,” he’d said. “If they rush you, wave your hands, stand tall and make as much noise as humanly possible.”
And I did. I was only five, but I’d waddled over to the nearest one with my boots sticking in the muck, and I’d barked until they clomped the ground with their hooves and shied away back down the farm. When I’d looked at Dad he’d this honest-to-God warmth to his smile that had me brim with happiness.
“That’s my boy,” he’d said, like the big liar he was.
All the frustration in me erupted. I opened my mouth wide and screamed into the winds until my throat ran hoarse. One thought played over in my head—I’ll find my rancid parents. And when I do, I’ll punch them square in their goddamn noses. And with the fire in me stoked up nicely, I cinched my shirt closed and headed up the road to Nell’s.
Copyright © 2017 by Gerald M. O’Connor.
Reprinted with permission of Down & Out Books.