The Turing Option

On tiptoes he crossed the tiny room, the wood cold on his bare feet, warm on the rag rug by the door. Five years old, he could look out through the keyhole now without standing on a book. Pressed his eye close.

“This letter came a few weeks back.” The man with the accent had red hair, freckles. He looked angry as he waved the piece of paper. “And there’s the postmark on the envelope. Right here, Tara, this village. Do you want to know what it says?”

“Get out,” the heavy, phlegmy voice rumbled, followed by a deep cough. His grandfather. Still smoked twenty a day. “Can you not understand the simple words — you’re not wanted here.”

The newcomer slumped back, sighed. “I know that, Mr. Ryan, and I don’t wish to argue with you. I just want to know if these allegations are true. This person, whoever it was, has written that Eileen is dead—”

“True enough, by God — and you killed her!” Uncle Seamus was losing his temper. Brian wondered if he would hit this man the same way he hit him.

“That would be difficult since I haven’t seen Eileen in over five years.”

“But you saw her once too often, you twisting sonofabitch. Got her with child, ran out, left her here with her shame. And her bastard.”

“That’s not quite true — nor is it relevant.”

“Get away with your fancy words!”

“No, not until I’ve seen the boy.”

“I’ll see you in hell first!”

There was a scrape and crash as a chair went over. Brian clutched the doorknob. He knew that word well enough. Bastard. That was him, that’s what the boys called him. What had this to do with the man in the parlor? He did not know; he had to find out. He would be beaten if he did. It didn’t matter. He turned the knob and pushed.

The door flew back and crashed against the wall and he stood in the doorway. Everything stopped. There was Grandfer on the couch, torn gray sweater, the cigarette end in his lips sending a curl of smoke into his half-closed eye. Uncle Seamus, fists clenched, the fallen chair behind him, his face red and exploding.

And the newcomer. Tall, well dressed, suit and tie. His shoes were black and shiny. He looked down at the boy, his face twisted with strong emotions.

“Hello, Brian,” he said, ever so quietly.

“Watch out!” Brian shouted.

Too late. His uncle’s fist, hard from years in the mine, caught the man high on the face, knocked him to the floor. Brian thought at first that it was going to be one of those fights, like on Saturday night outside the pub, but it wasn’t going to be like that, not this time. The newcomer touched his hand to his cheek, looked at the blood, climbed to his feet.

“All right, Seamus, maybe I deserved that. But just that once. Put your fists down, man, and show some intelligence. I’ve seen the boy and he’s seen me. What’s done is done. It’s his future I care about — not the past.”

“Look at the two of them,” Grandfer muttered, holding back a cough. “Alike as two pennies, the red hair and all.” His temper changed abruptly and he waved his arms, sparks flying from his cigarette. “Get back into your room, boy! Nothing here for you to see — nothing here for you to hear.

Inside before you feel my hand.”

* * *

Incomplete, disjointed, adrift in time. Memories, long forgotten, disconnected. Surrounded and separated by blackness. Why was it still dark? Paddy Delaney. His father.

Like slides in a cinema, flickering and quick, too quick to see what was happening. The blackness. The slides, suddenly clear again.

A loud roaring, the window before him bigger than any window he had seen before, bigger even than a shop window. He clutched tightly at the man’s hand. Frightened, it was all so strange.

“That’s our plane,” Patrick Delaney said. “The big green one there with the bump on top.”

“747-8100. I seen a pitcher in the paper. Can we go into it now?”

“Very soon — as soon as they call it. We’ll be the first ones aboard.”

“And I’m not gonna go back to Tara?”

“Only if you want to.”

“No. I hate them.” He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Looked up at the tall man at his side. “You knew my mother?”

“I knew her very well. I wanted to marry her but — there were reasons we couldn’t get married. When you are older you will understand.”

“But — you’re my father?”

“Yes, Brian, I am your father.”

He had asked the question many times before, never really sure that he would really get the right answer. Now, here, in the airport with the big green plane before them, he believed it at last. And with the belief something seemed to swell up and burst inside him and tears welled out and ran down his face.

“I never, never want to go back.”

His father was on his knees, holding him so tightly that he could barely breathe — but that was all right. Everything was all right. He smiled and tasted the salt tears, smiling and crying at the same time and unable to stop.

4 February 12, 2023