{"id":663,"date":"2016-05-26T14:50:28","date_gmt":"2016-05-26T14:50:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/?p=663"},"modified":"2020-10-09T22:58:00","modified_gmt":"2020-10-09T22:58:00","slug":"last-rites","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/2016\/05\/26\/last-rites\/","title":{"rendered":"Last Rites"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

By\u00a0Mary Ann McGuigan<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

“He saw the point she wanted to make. That he\u2019d be a good father. This was what she wanted to believe, that you can be hollowed out, your insides left for the beasts to pick at, and then fill yourself up with good intentions and middle-class dreams.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

By\u00a0Mary Ann McGuigan<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pete Donnegan looked better than he did when Conor took him to the hospital. They had parted his hair, and there was a slick Brylcreemed finish to it that his father would never have troubled to achieve. Conor wanted to straighten his collar again, but he couldn\u2019t. They were all looking at him. They wanted to close the coffin. It was time. But Conor couldn\u2019t move yet; he was still waiting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sudden weight of his brother Peter\u2019s arm across his shoulders took Conor back to his father\u2019s apartment. That\u2019s how he\u2019d gotten his father to the bathroom, the old man\u2019s arm pulled across his shoulders, his own arm around his waist, the way GIs carry injured buddies off the field in the movies. The old man had gotten so thin, but he was so heavy, as if the thing that holds a person up, the force that fights gravity were gone, his will gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou mustn\u2019t think bad of him, Conor,\u201d Peter said. But Conor didn\u2019t think in those terms. He thought of the feel of his father\u2019s loose skin when he rubbed the washcloth up his arm, the way the flesh stretched and pulled, the deathly color, like a shadow over him, over both of them. He disliked shaving him, being so close: the gray whiskers, the cleft in his chin, the mole by his lip, his breath sour, mixed with his last cigarette. Conor could almost taste it still. And his eyes\u2014absorbed in something, something inside of him that Conor couldn\u2019t know. The old man looked out at him from there, but Conor didn\u2019t feel seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Peter pounded Conor\u2019s back like a comrade. \u201cCome, Conor,\u201d he said. He thought Conor was having a hard time with this, having to part from his father. But Conor could hardly wait for this to happen. This was the goal that got him through it: knowing that it would have to end, that the man couldn\u2019t last. A month or two, Conor thought. What\u2019s a month or two? The firm could spare him for that long. Things would get itchy if he stayed away much beyond that, when the quarter ended, but he\u2019d hit the ground running when he got back. He had a right to family leave just like anybody else. So what if he didn\u2019t have a family of his own anymore. That wasn\u2019t his doing. Julie was the one who left, not him. After yet another final discussion, her line was drawn: Either they start a family or they start another life\u2014separately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Revolting as it was, staying with his father was as good as any distraction Conor could come up with. At least he\u2019d get his father out of his system. It would be over with, out of his head for good. Moira and Bridget and Maggie wanted nothing to do with their father. Liam, with his drinking, was having a hard enough time keeping his own family together. Peter felt bad for the old man, but he\u2019d already done his part. Peter and his wife had even nursed him while he recovered from the accident, when the truck hit him. But when Donnegan recovered, he was as nasty and drunk as he\u2019d ever been. No one would have blamed Conor if he\u2019d backed away. But he couldn\u2019t get himself to do that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Donnegan had an apartment on the Concourse, the rat hole of a place he found when Peter threw him out. Conor cleaned the place up the first couple of days, felt good about doing it. He had this right-thing-to-do attitude about the whole business at first. The man was a drunk, a drifter, a waste as a father, but Conor would be a good son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so he was, but now they wanted Conor to go outside with the others so they could close the lid. Didn\u2019t they know it was ridiculous, he thought, keeping him from this sight? There was nothing about this man he hadn\u2019t wiped or smelled or seen or lifted. Nothing. But they wanted him outside now, as if there could still be something private left. When Conor lifted the old man\u2019s legs to wash him, he\u2019d break wind. It was weeks before they could joke about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They directed Conor into the first car with Kate and Bridget. Maggie and Moira got in, too. More cars followed, filled with cousins and nieces and nephews who didn\u2019t know much more about the man than his name. When his Uncle Tommy died, Conor was fourteen. Maggie was in high school. Donnegan and his brother Pearce staggered in from the funeral. They sang songs most of the night. It wasn\u2019t a bad night, considering how drunk they were. Nothing smashed. Nobody bleeding. But Maggie wouldn\u2019t serve them dinner, wouldn\u2019t even stay in the same room. She\u2019d made some kind of decision by then. He wasn\u2019t in her life anymore, she told Conor. She\u2019d carved him out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor\u2019s first few weeks with his father were the worst. He would lie there at night, wondering why he\u2019d come, remembering the gym near his house, going there late for a late swim. He called Julie a few times in the beginning. She was the only one who didn\u2019t give him a hard time about what he was doing. After a while, he couldn\u2019t call anymore. He belonged to death. He thought of her skin, but he could feel only his father\u2019s, spoiling everything else. September came. October. His father wasn\u2019t dead. He had to eat. Conor had to cook. He\u2019d get sick. Conor had to clean him. They listened to baseball together on the radio. \u201cYou want to listen to the game, Dad?\u201d \u201cGo ahead,\u201d his father would say. \u201cPut it on if you want,\u201d as if he were indifferent about it. But it had to be an act. Nothing meant more to him than baseball. Baseball made him talk. The only real conversations he and Conor had ever had were about the Yankees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s how Conor thought the talking would start. With baseball. Something, anything\u2014somebody throwing himself into a fence for a fly ball or digging his cleats into a thigh for a base\u2014would break the silence. And then maybe the man would get around to asking Conor about his life. Or maybe he\u2019d finally get around to figuring out what went wrong with his own. Conor would have welcomed anything that would get them past feeling like they were waiting for a bus. But the Yankees were in the cellar and the old man had nothing to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Beside him in the limousine, Kate was asking Peter if he\u2019d come to the house up in the Bronx, bring the kids. Peter yessed her. He\u2019d never go. Peter kept his distance, didn\u2019t get involved anymore. He sent cards. He called when he heard Conor was taking a leave from his job though, upset about it. Conor was surprised Peter knew what firm he was with anymore. \u201cWeren\u2019t they talking about making you partner soon? What are you doing this for?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m doing it for me,\u201d Conor said, because he didn\u2019t have an answer. \u201cForget it, Conor. It\u2019ll never register with him. There\u2019s nothing there. He hasn\u2019t got a clue.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Five days before Donnegan died, Conor had given him a haircut. Weak as he was, the old man still managed to curse him when he pricked his neck with the scissors. Two days later, after they took him out, Conor made his father\u2019s bed. He stopped afterward, in the middle of the bedroom, lost, like he\u2019d forgotten something. He lifted the blanket, felt underneath, heard the sound of the rubber sheet he\u2019d just put on without thinking. His father hated the sheet, cursed Conor for putting it on, insisted he was no invalid. But that\u2019s what he was. He hadn\u2019t walked to the bathroom since before New Year\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Liam and Peter were talking. Conor watched their mouths moving. He had the same sensation he\u2019d had for months, that he couldn\u2019t talk, couldn\u2019t make sounds. It was the feeling you get in a dream when you\u2019re trying to scream for help and you can\u2019t make the sound come out. It was not a new feeling. He\u2019d had it as a kid all the time. In school, he was always surprised when people heard what he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the holidays Conor woke in the mornings fearing and hoping his father would be dead. Conor was waiting for something and he couldn\u2019t leave or let his father leave until it happened. On Christmas Eve, Conor went out and got them a tree. It was a skinny-looking thing, but he dragged out the box of decorations from the closet in the back room and put some on. The ornaments were just cheap shiny K-Mart crap, but they had more power than Conor bargained for. He had memorized everything about them\u2014every bead, every ball, the silly snow-topped starry skies painted on dark blue glass, the weightless feel of them in his palm, his mother saying careful now while she held the string of lights by one end, reaching as high as she could to hand them to him on the ladder. Every box had two or three balls missing, casualties of his father\u2019s holiday rages. Conor couldn\u2019t believe these things were ever special to anyone, brought out for a holy night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor finished trimming the tree and brought his father out to the living room to show him. He touched a branch. \u201cPitiful-looking thing,\u201d Donnegan said, as if he could really see it, but Conor knew his sight was pretty much gone. \u201cWe could say the same thing about you,\u201d Conor said and they laughed. They couldn\u2019t find anything to say for a while. The tree became their television. They just sat, breathing it in. Then the old man started his stories, the ones he\u2019d tell when he wasn\u2019t plastered yet, tired old stuff about the war, about his brothers and their barroom brawls. When he got to the one about Conor\u2019s grandfather, Conor thought he\u2019d heard it before, but this one was different, and he suspected it was true. \u201cYour grandmother sent me out to bring him home that night. Christmas Eve. He was drinking at the tavern. She wanted him home. Don\u2019t ask me why. He was happy enough where he was, and the rest of us would have been just as glad to leave him there. But she sent me to get him, so I went. He told me to sit down at a table and have a soda. He was just going to have one more. I sat there, listened to Eddie Cantor, played with my straw. The place was nearly empty, stuffy from the noisy heat. I put my head down on the table, watched my spitballs shoot across. Next thing I know, the bartender, Ernie, is shaking me. \u2018Wake up,\u2019 he says. \u2018I\u2019ll take you home. Your old man forgot ya.\u2019 \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor didn\u2019t say anything. So maybe the old man thought he didn\u2019t believe him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAsk your Uncle Bill. He\u2019ll tell ya. Grandma ripped into him good that night.\u201d Donnegan let out a grunty laugh, but Conor didn\u2019t think it was funny. He wondered whether his father really did. The story could just as easily have been about Conor and him. In fact, one time Donnegan got so drunk he left Moira on the beach. They found her with the lifeguards, who told Conor\u2019s mother the girl had begged them not to return her to her father. This was what Conor couldn\u2019t make Julie understand. Parenting was not something he\u2019d experienced too often and certainly not something he was equipped to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Donnegan started coughing badly and Conor told him he\u2019d take him back to bed if he wanted. The old man waved him away, as if he didn\u2019t want anybody fussing over him. But Conor wondered afterward if his father found some comfort by the tree. He said he liked the scent of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou want to talk?\u201d Conor said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy? You got something you want to say?\u201d The man\u2019s surliness, predictable as it was, still got to Conor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. I mean talk. Like family. Like we mean something to each other.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s eating you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, forget it,\u201d Conor said. He kept quiet. Donnegan asked him to light a cigarette for him. Conor got his Camels. There was no point in telling him no anymore. He put one in his mouth and lit it for him. His father drew hard on it, and Conor sat down next to him, looking at the smoke, avoiding his father\u2019s eyes. \u201cDid you ever want anything for me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you talkin about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m talking about plans. Hopes. Things you want for a person. For a son, for Chrissake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Donnegan made some kind of sound, took another long drag, in deep, out slow. \u201cYou made your own plans,\u201d he said. Despite everything, it amazed Conor that his father had nothing to say. He couldn\u2019t even fake it, come up with some platitude about always wanting the best for him. Conor knew he was delusional to expect any answer at all. The old man wasn\u2019t going to prop him up, pretend things had ever been any different than they were.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They finished the cigarette and watched the tree without trying anymore. Later, when Conor put him into bed, his father said, \u201cI\u2019ll tell you one thing. It was never this I wanted. To have you wiping an old man\u2019s ass.\u201d That familiar, nasty edge was in his voice and Conor didn\u2019t want to take this any further, but he couldn\u2019t help it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen what was it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you want? Bedtime stories? What do you expect to hear? Do you think I could have changed anything?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you ever try?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTry. Right.\u201d Donnegan shook his head, exasperated. \u201cFor fuck\u2019s sake, Conor, life ain\u2019t some college boy\u2019s curriculum. It ain\u2019t about setting goals and stickin to a plan. Some lives get fucked up, and they can\u2019t get fixed,\u201d he said, his words nearly buried in a series of coughs. When his throat cleared, he seemed to be trying to find words, a way to explain. \u201cConor, I\u2019m like . . . like a man in a cage, except there ain\u2019t no key. And all that \u2018lettin go\u2019 shit they feed you in AA is a lot of  horseshit. Or maybe for the lucky few. I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut you stayed sober for almost a year. That had to mean something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSober. Yeah. You know what sober feels like? Like you survived a flood and you\u2019re waitin to get plucked off a roof. But instead everybody keeps telling you you\u2019ve got wings, use them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know it must have been hard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man tried to sit up, his arms trembling. \u201cYou really want to know what you were to me? You were another accusation, another thing I couldn\u2019t do right. Do you think I wanted to be around more of that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor knew he had to stop listening. He turned to go, got as far as the door. He wanted to take a walk, stand outside on some noisy street and let chaos have its way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy do you put us through this, Conor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Dad,\u201d Conor said. He really was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSome things . . . some things get damaged, and they stay damaged.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s all right, Dad. You don\u2019t have to say anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not all right. It was never all right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor imagined returning to his side, touching his hand. He didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf you want to hear me say I\u2019m sorry, I can do that. I\u2019m sorry,\u201d his father said, but the words came out angry. \u201cBut for the life of me, I don\u2019t see what good it does.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father closed his eyes, sank into the pillows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the living room, Conor stood beside the anemic tree. One of the balls\u2014a silver-topped cone-shaped thing, red and gold trim mostly worn away\u2014had slipped off its skinny branch and landed askew on the one below. He took it off the tree. He thought about taking the whole thing down, packing it all away, but what would be the point of keeping any of this? His father would be gone by the time Christmas came again. Why had the old man saved these things to begin with? He kept them in an old trunk, Peter told Conor, wrapped inside a huge army coat he hadn\u2019t worn since he got back from France. Faded, brittle tree ornaments. Unlikely heirlooms. It dawned on Conor that his father couldn\u2019t see the sorry dull shape they were in. The last time he\u2019d been able to see them they were probably still worth keeping. Maybe they even sparkled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He thought of the Christmas shows Bridget made them put together. A thin, faded blanket hung across the corner of the bedroom, tucked into the tops of the windows on each side, creating a triangle of secret space backstage. Bridget was doused in their sister\u2019s perfume, dancing in her mother\u2019s high-heeled shoes before the curtain. A long, slim umbrella had become her cane. Moira directed the lamplight with the shade, keeping Bridget within its circle. Conor stood in the bedroom doorway, laughing, inattentive at his post as lookout. He didn\u2019t see their father coming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man\u2019s entrance was sudden, insulting. Bridget and Moira scurried to another corner of the room, but Conor was in his path. The man reached down for him, picked the frail child up by the back of his shirt and smashed his face. The boy didn\u2019t cry out; only a pathetic whimper came, a useless defense. The room filled with the smell of his urine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Their father\u2019s face was grotesquely angry: blind eyes wide open, impotently searching, lips spread in a frightening resemblance of a smile. He bit his tongue; the shimmering tip protruding between his teeth. Moira didn\u2019t wonder about his anger. She supposed that their very presence was its cause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He let go of Conor, cursing, shouting incoherent threats. His arms sliced space before him as he moved toward the stage. His huge bulk entered the abandoned spotlight. The curtain brushed his shoulder and he tore it down with his fists, kicked aside their props and toys until the magical space was once again the dismal corner of their bedroom. Only then did Conor cry out at what he saw. It was a foolish thing to do. For the man\u2019s anger was only half spent, and he turned toward the sound of his son\u2019s cries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maggie told him they wanted everyone to put their roses on the casket and go. The prayers were done. They wanted to lower him into the dirt. The cars were waiting. They had got a regular routine for this. But Conor couldn\u2019t move. It was cold and he couldn\u2019t stop shivering. He never did that. But he\u2019d been standing there a long while. They tried to move Conor away. \u201cHe\u2019s gone,\u201d Bridget said. \u201cIt\u2019s over.\u201d He understood what she was saying. But he couldn\u2019t step away. It was what he\u2019d been waiting for all these months, but he didn\u2019t want to leave. This is crazy, he thought. I thought I wanted this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor smelled Julie\u2019s perfume before he felt her next to him. She took his hand. Her presence brought him to his senses, triggered some knee-jerk desire to seem like he\u2019d gotten himself together. He stepped back, hesitated, then let her lead him away. They walked toward the path, away from the others. Her long coat was tawny cashmere like her hair. She wore sensible shoes that gave her little height. She held Conor\u2019s arm tightly, pulling him close, as if she knew this was where he belonged\u2014with her. But the Donnegans had not been so sure at first. \u201cAn Italian?\u201d Maggie said to Conor. \u201cShe\u2019ll have a hard time adjusting to this tribe.\u201d And she did. It was a foreign land, this family. They barely got together, even at holidays. They could let months go by without seeing or even talking to their mother. There was no need for Julie to comment on these things. The contrast to her own family\u2019s closeness was comment enough. She didn\u2019t try to decipher the Donnegans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had missed Conor and she told him so\u2014the way he soaked up every kindness like new, untasted flavors, the way he paid such close attention to life, as if to see how it was done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI admire what you did for your father, Conor,\u201d Julie said. \u201cI know it was difficult.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guess I had some business to finish.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOr something to get under way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor let out a breath, shook his head. \u201cThere was nothing getting under way with him, Julie. It was too late.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s too bad, but it wasn\u2019t about him anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at her, puzzled. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was about you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor waited for the rest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou and the kind of person you are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, delusional.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not the first to put yourself out when there\u2019s no chance of getting anything back.\u201d He saw a comical look in her eye, a grin forming. \u201cSure,\u201d she shrugged. \u201cParents do the same thing for their children all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He saw the point she wanted to make. That he\u2019d be a good father. This was what she wanted to believe, that you can be hollowed out, your insides left for the beasts to pick at, and then fill yourself up with good intentions and middle-class dreams. Conor was not like his father. That was clear. He had a career, people who relied on him, trusted him. But the rest was pretty muddy, because Conor was not Conor either, at least no Conor he recognized. At 43, he should have been solid enough to feel at home in his own skin. He knew that much. An identity should be more than an unending search, a series of false starts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen do you think you\u2019ll go back to work?\u201d Julie said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRight away. They want me at the conference. That\u2019s in two weeks. And I\u2019m going to have to come up to speed for the presentation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs it in Atlanta?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould you like some company? I\u2019ve got the vacation time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conor knew he should tell her no. He should tell her she was all wrong about him and what he was able to be. She couldn\u2019t see him, he thought, couldn\u2019t see past the happy endings she tacked onto their lives, like gold trim on a threadbare cloak. That would have been the fair thing, to tell her that not once for as long as he\u2019d known her had he felt like anything but an imposter. He mimicked her, like a dancer in the back line, trying to do what\u2019s expected. He could barely keep up. He was more comfortable alone, when he didn\u2019t have to worry about feeling inadequate. But she chose him, decided she wanted to know him. She believed that she did. But it was clear to Conor that she was creating him, oiling parts that hadn\u2019t been used, repairing the ones he relied on too much. The attention was heady. And no matter how much he feared that she would see some day that it had been misdirected, he was grateful for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So Conor didn\u2019t tell her no. He let her take his hand. If she wanted to do this, he\u2019d let her. But he didn\u2019t expect either of them to be fooled for long. Someday the damages done would have to be tallied, but not that day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She led him to her car, unlocked the passenger door for him. He got in carefully, one hand deep in the pocket of his coat, his fingers wrapped around the now-familiar surface of a weightless heirloom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Originally appeared in the winter 2007 issue of r.kv.r.y Quarterly Literary Journal.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a9\u00a0Copyright 2016\u00a0Mary Ann McGuigan<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Mary Ann McGuigan\u2019s short fiction has been nominated for the 2016 Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Sun, Image, Grist, Perigee<\/i>, and other literary magazines. Her young-adult novels, one a finalist for the National Book Award, have been ranked among the best books for teens by the Junior Library Guild and the New York Public Library. Crossing Into Brooklyn,<\/i> her latest novel, was published by Merit Press in 2015. <\/i>To learn more about Mary Ann\u2019s fiction, visit www.maryannmcguigan.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Listen to the audio podcast of “Last Rites” narrated by Matt Dedon here<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

By Mary Ann McGuigan “He saw the point she wanted to make. That he’d be a good father. This was what she wanted to believe, that you can be hollowed out, your insides left for the beasts to pick at, and then fill yourself up with good intentions and middle-class dreams.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-663","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/663"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=663"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/663\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5192,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/663\/revisions\/5192"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=663"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=663"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=663"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}