SUDDENLY ROURKE CAN'T FORGET | Episode 2

... in which an unexpected contact from the Midwest causes Rourke to remember an old flame ...

II

The mid-January week was a good one for Padraig Declan Rourke, Esq., now retired from Hill, Reiter, Rourke, and Blaschke, LLC, attorneys-at-law.  A foot of snow had fallen on suburban Washington, D.C., beginning on Sunday afternoon, and by Monday morning the city hibernated temporarily:  schools closed, liberal leave for Federal employees, public transportation on a revised, shorter schedule, and snow plows beginning the task of clearing the streets.  The Washington metro area mostly shut down when that much snow fell.  So Monday would be a lazy day around Chateau Rourke, at least for him.

Connie, his somewhat younger and much more energetic spouse, was still working as an administrator for a large U.S. government contractor.  Her driving off to an office complex for the day was in some ways a blessing, giving Rourke unencumbered days to daydream, read copiously, nap, go for walks, and play the guitar.  She normally insisted on cooking dinner when she got home, but Rourke tried to have everything else ready:  table set, flowers arranged in a vase, wine chilled or decanted, and water glasses filled and deployed on the table.

This snowy Monday, however, she was working from home, but busy enough that she only came up for air briefly at the noon hour, then returned to her office upstairs for more video conferences and Slack conversations.  Rourke admired her stamina, and was trying not to miss her.

Rourke took his water bottle into his own cozy, book-lined den after lunch, and sat at the computer to return e-mail and check favorite online news sites.  Copious numbers of e-mail messages awaited him when he logged in, most not urgent, and some "delete before reading."

But one message stood out, from an unfamiliar source:  the "From" line read:  "Alan T. Douglas."  The name rang a bell, but Rourke decided to open the message before trying to remember the identity of the sender.

The message read:

Omaha, NE

14 January

To:  Padraig D. Rourke

Dear Mr. Rourke,

I am looking for a man called Padraig Rourke who once lived in Omaha, Nebraska, in the 1970s, and may have known a cherished relative of mine.  This Mr. Rourke was a Creighton law graduate, and worked as a bartender during his college and law school days.  Would you be this person?

If you are not this Mr. Rourke, please accept my apologies for intruding on you, and wasting your time.  You should feel free to delete this message.

But if you are this same Mr. Rourke, or know where I might find him, I would welcome a response by return e-mail.  I think I have some information that may be of interest to Mr. Rourke.

You may write me at this address, or call or text me on 402-886-2307.

Sincerely,

Alan Douglas

Alan Douglas, thought Rourke... Franny Walsh's husband, no, widower, perhaps the man I saw with Franny and a tow-headed boy in the Hong Kong airport back in 1989.  Since he learned about Franny's death, Rourke had imagined over many years a set of conversations with Alan about Franny, and now here was a tentative line to achieve exactly that. What to do? thought Rourke, and when?  Best not to overthink this, Rourke old son, he thought, so he touched the "reply" button, and began to write:

McLean, VA

14 January

Dear Mr. Douglas:

You have just done something very courageous, and I admire you for it:  reaching out in the modern equivalent of a "cold call" to try to find someone who might be important to you. 

I am indeed the Padraig Rourke who lived, studied, and worked in Omaha in the 1970s.  I'm embarrassed to say that I have not been back to Omaha since September 1982, but I spent nine good years there, and have fond memories of the city and many of its people.

I assume that you are the Alan Douglas who married my friend Franny Walsh, at some point in the 1980s, I guess.  I am painfully aware that Franny passed away in October 2007;  I confess to still being in denial about that.  You must feel much worse, and I'm sorry for that.  It took me about five years to find out that she had died.  Yes, I'm still sad about it.

Could we talk on the telephone, or even do a video conference?  I have lots of questions about Franny's life and last days, and I may be able to tell you some things about her life in the 1970s that you may not already know, and almost certainly should.

But let me leave it there.  I'll put your telephone number in my phone, and promise to answer it if you call;  if you prefer that I call you, I'd be happy to do that.  Just give me a date and time.

Thank you for reaching out.  Let's see what the two of us can make of your kind act.

With best wishes,

Padraig Rourke

Rourke re-read his message, but decided not to change a word.  He pressed "Send," and the e-mail sailed back into the ether, to Omaha, and to Alan Douglas.

Rourke logged off the computer, drained his whisky, and went to the kitchen.  He washed, rinsed, and dried his whiskey tumbler, replacing it in the liquor cabinet.  He then walked into the living room and sat in his reading chair.  Rourke fell asleep quickly, and dreamed of Franny Walsh and days gone by.

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END OF EPISODE 2 of Suddenly Rourke Can’t Forget

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