Jack’s Candle
Short Story
by Kenneth M. Kapp
If anyone was going to do it, get their name up in lights or their picture on a large poster or billboard, it was going to be Jack. But back when we were kids, he was plain John Aloysius Ignatius Reilly without a hint of fame or fortune in his future.
~ * ~
John Aloysius Ignatius Reilly was born to a Jewish mother and an Irish father. He was five when he received his nickname after setting fire to the family garbage. There was never any real danger; John was mischievous – not stupid. The garbage was in the family dustbin out against the front stone wall which ran up beside the road. It should have been no big deal; the wall was old and moss-covered and the bin was solid iron. The wall was not going to catch fire and, besides, John Aloysius Ignatius Reilly had a pail full of water at the ready just in case. It was left over from his sandcastle building days and maybe he thought a fire would be one way to extend its life; I never thought to ask back then. When we were teenagers he did confide in me that his mother wasn’t ready to donate to any church drive in case they had another blessed accident like him.
No matter, the fire was more of a smoke, stinky matter and wasn’t going anywhere. The metal can was new enough not to have holes or a rusted bottom that could provide for a draft, allowing a poor fire to prosper. And since the Reilly's were of necessity frugal, there was little by way of paper or fool scraps to feed a real fire, just kitchen waste – and judging by the smouldering smells that weaselled their way through Mrs. Murphy’s kitchen window, not of the freshest or the best. It was Mrs. M who picked up the phone and politely told her neighbour to look to her son.
“Mrs. Reilly? That be you there? Well best be looking to your garbage up by the road. I’m thinking that fine son of yours is making potatoes in a camp fire up by the bins.” And saying nothing more, Mrs. M slammed down the phone, nodding that she’d be sure to tell Mr. M that night that the Jews were still trying to destroy civilization or at least their little slice of Ireland. And with that pleasant thought she got back to making Shepherd’s pie with the weekend leftovers. I’ll serve it up with a pint of Bass. For sure it will make the story all the better. She didn’t have much use for Jews, forgetting of the Briscoes, father and son, who served as Lord Mayor of Dublin. And had she been reminded, she’d just remark, “Aye, shows the Irish have a fine sense of humour, it does.”
So Mrs. Reilly, Sarah being her first name, dropped her eggs in a bowl where the grated potatoes, chopped onions, matzah meal, and freshly ground pepper waited – it was Chanukah, and Mr. Reilly often said he married her for her latkes. Then she ran outside, her apron strings flapping behind like the little sheep in the rhyme. She quickly sized up the smoke, the pail of water, her son, and then the lid of the bin leaning against the wall. Quickly, then it was, she spilled the water in the bin. Grabbing the lid with one hand, she slammed it tightly on the can, while with the other hand she pulled her son, her first born, her only son, to the side.
Looking him squarely in the eye, she yelled at him – it was only rarely that she yelled. The usual lament of the neighbourhood was “Sweet Jesus!” but being that she was Jewish, it was one she usually shied from, especially since it was Mr. Reilly who was always going on about Sweet Jesus this and Sweet Jesus that, but this time she couldn’t help herself. Him, the very Mr. R, himself claiming to have rescued her, his very own heart, from the Montags und Dienestags of her Zade Jonathan, her grandfather of blessed memory, who was always dragging her along to the small schul in Dublin’s poor Jewish ghetto. “Mondays and Thursdays when we read from the Torah scroll,” was what Mr. R had heard from this same Zade when he went to ask for a blessing for their marriage, Sarah being noticeably with child. And Zade saying that only if they promised to teach his eynikl to-be the alef-bet. “My grandson, he should learn the Hebrew alphabet.” And wasn’t her John Aloysius Ignatius named after him as sure as the sun rises in the East over Jerusalem? And here was her John innocently watching the garbage burn. If ever a Sweet Jesus was called for, surely this was the time. Sarah was indeed flustered.
“Sweet Jesus, Jack!”
And there it was – Jack! And a Jack once cried out was never going to go back into the box. She stamped her right foot and yelled again, “Sweet Jesus, Jack. What is it that you’ve gone and done this time?”
John cast his eyes up to heaven praying to hear an answer; perhaps Jesus would inspire him. His prayers went unanswered nor was inspiration coming from the Holy Mother Mary.
And then his eyes sparkled, realizing his mother had called him Jack, avoiding the John as in Jonathan, his Zade’s name, his very own Zade of blessed memory. Jack then he’d be; it wasn’t the once he had heard his mother complain about moving out of the city to the suburbs when it was not the case of changing your place to change your luck, but of her moving not to hear the wagging tongues about the premature birth of a 7 pound 5 ounce boy five months after the third posting of their wedding banns. John being too young at that time to remember hearing the back and forth of his mother and her parents.
“Mr. Reilly, I don’t know what you were thinking, moving us this far out. Any further we’d be in Wales. It’s a funnier language than even Hebrew.”
“Well, Sarahle,” Mr. R answered, “but they do read it the right way and the pages start where they should, not like your holy books with letters going right to left and pages back to front. And I gave my word that our John Aloysius Ignatius Reilly would learn your alphabet even if I have to recite, ‘alef, bet, gimel, dalet’ until my ears fall off.”
So John Aloysius Ignatius Reilly tried it on, “Mom, it wasn’t me that did it. It was Jack.”
Sarah was having none of it, “And where is this Jack then standing now?”
“Why behind me, Ma. He’s hiding.”
“Well, turn around then and we’ll see for ourselves, won’t we.” She was willing to play along. “Come on out, Jack. No sense hiding.”
Mrs. R put her hands on her hips. John swallowed – his mother was really mad. “It’s my shadow, Mom. I was only joking.” And then he was inspired, it was as if wisdom sprang not from Athena’s head but his very own. “What happened was I came outside with a Chanuka candle and was too busy reciting my alef-bet. I tripped on that stupid lid from the garbage bin and the candle fell in.”
His mother tapped her toes. “And you happened to have a pail of water along?”
“I was going to water your flowers.” He thought that was worth a try.
“In the middle of winter? Jack, enough. You go up to your room until supper. Four pages of the alef-bet in your best handwriting. We’ll see what your father says when he gets home. And don’t think latkes, sour cream, and homemade applesauce is going to save you from a spanking.”
After supper, and after Mr. R had finished his second pint of Guiness, Sarah told him about the fire, certain though she was that he had already heard the story at least three times before he walked in the door.
“Would you believe that Jack,” since by this time she had decided that her Jonathan was more of a Jack than a John, “claimed he was distracted reciting the alef-bet.”
Mr. R chuckled and then he laughed, pushing his empty beer mug across the table. “Be a dear, this calls for another pint. It’s funny, backward letters making for a backward boy.”
He sipped the foam off the top of his mug and called his first born, his only born, son to him. “Well, Boy-o, best you be reciting the alef-bet for us. Just keep away from the Chanuka candelabra, some of the candles still be burning.”
Jack swiped his finger across his plate capturing a smear of sour cream left on the edge. He sat up and popped his finger in and out of his mouth.
Mr. R was having none of it. He mimicked Zade Jonathon. “Nu, Jack Reilly zagn die alef-bet, recite the alef-bet.” And then he laughed until his sides hurt.
John popped his finger in his mouth for the second time. His mother came to his rescue. “John, be a good boy and help clear the table. Then you can go upstairs and get ready for bed.”
When John was at the sink, she whispered to Mr. R. “Best not to encourage him with your laughter. It’s not funny.”
But Mr. R thinking that it was indeed funny, an Irish boy being told in Yiddish to recite the Jewish alphabet, just laughed and repeated his request, “So nu, Reilly, zagn die alef-bet. It really is funny. Who’s to even think Reilly’s a Jewish name?”
~ * ~
However, a good story is a good story and soon it seemed that everyone in their corner of Ireland knew of Jack and the alef-bet. In school, he was often asked to stand. “Master Jack, can you please recite the alef-bet.” And since everyone laughed, Jack was pleased and as he told me later, saw his way forward in life.
~ * ~
Funny is as funny does. Twenty years later I was on my way to purchase tickets to a play in Dublin’s theatre district and was not surprised when I saw a large poster with Jack Reilly’s name announcing that he be on stage at 9 and 11 PM, Friday and Saturday nights. There was a picture of Jack holding a candle and across the bottom of the poster: “Reilly zagt die alef-bet.”
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