The Dead of Achill Island

by The Dead of Achill Island (retail) (epub)

  Right on time, at 8:00 p.m., the lights in the hall dimmed and the curtains opened, revealing the set: the interior of a rundown pub located on the outskirts of a village on the coast of Mayo. It’s an autumn evening around 1900. There’s a bar, a few pieces of banged-up furniture, and shelves sagging under the weight of bottles and jugs.

  As the play opens, Pegeen Mike is planning her wedding to Shawn Keogh, a timid milksop who is her cousin. Apparently, marriageable men are in short supply on this wild stretch of the coast.

  In comes a boisterous trio led by Pegeen’s father, who owns the pub, and two of his drinking companions. There’s talk of a stranger heading this way; he may be a dangerous criminal. Shawn is so afraid that he runs out the door and out of his coat, leaving Pegeen’s dad holding it for him, drawing laughter from the audience.

  It’s a great sight gag, and it prepares the way for Christy Mahon’s entrance. Bobby Colman certainly looked the part as he stumbled onto the stage, his hair mussed, clothes soiled and wrinkled from sleeping rough, cheeks unshaven and streaked with dirt.

  Bobby—that is, Christy—announces he’s on the run from the police, and everyone in the pub gathers round, eager to hear his story. What crime did you commit, asks Pegeen’s dad—was it larceny?

  No, says Christy, something bigger than that.

  Did you chase after young girls?

  I’m a decent lad, he protests.

  Attack your landlord?

  No, he says, those are everyday crimes.

  Did you marry three wives?

  Not even one, he answers.

  At that, Pegeen perks up. Teasing him, she claims he’s done nothing at all and raises a broom to chase him away. Christy bursts out that he killed his poor father for threatening him like that a week ago Tuesday.

  Instead of recoiling, Christy’s listeners gather around him. It’s not every day that a man kills his father. They want to hear all the gory details. Rising to the occasion, Christy relates how he was tired of his father bossing him around and how he hit him over the head with a spade while they were digging potatoes. He embellishes the tale as if he were spinning an epic yarn, and Pegeen is taken by him.

  In the next scene, Christy woos her and is in turn pursued by the Widow Quinn. The two women have a tug of war over Christy, much to his delight. At the end of the act, he wonders out loud why he never thought of killing his father before.

  There was an uneasy stirring as the audience tried to absorb these unexpected plot developments. While the laughter continued, it had a nervous edge.

  As the lights came up and the curtains closed for a brief interval between the acts, there was a buzz of conversation in the hall.

  “How do you like it so far?” Toby asked Mom and Dad.

  “When does Angie come on?” asked Dad.

  “I think in the next act,” said Toby.

  “The acting is excellent,” said Mom.

  I agreed. Bobby was doing a great job in a demanding role.

  “I still don’t understand what makes him so appealing,” said Dad, meaning Christy.

  “Let’s see what happens,” said Mom, patting him on the knee.

  While my parents were chatting, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was thinking of the Irishman who attacked his English landlady and was hidden by the Achill islanders when the police came looking for him. With Michael O’Hara on the loose, were islanders sheltering him as well? If O’Hara was the killer of Frank Hickey, was I in any danger from him? The events of a century ago suddenly felt contemporary, and this strange play, with its mixture of comedy and violence, was disturbing me to the bone.

  The houselights blinked and dimmed, signaling that we were ready for Act Two.

  It’s the next morning. Christy has spent the night in the pub and is sprucing up, admiring himself in a looking glass. Three gushing village girls come in bearing gifts to win his favor. One of them is Angie. There’s no mistaking her; her height gives her away. One girl presents Christy with eggs, the other offers him butter. Then Angie gets her moment. She’s brought a pullet that was run over by the curate’s car last night—in other words, roadkill. She pulls a rubber chicken out of her basket and says, “Feel the fat of that breast, mister.” It’s Angie’s only line, but she makes the most of it, getting a laugh. I mark her debut on the Irish stage as a success.

  As the act continues, the Widow Quinn returns. She and the three groupies prevail upon Christy to tell his story again. Each time he does, the tale becomes more exaggerated. This time he says he split the old man’s skull down to his gullet.

  As if on cue, there’s a rap on the door. Christy peeks out and staggers back. The audience gasps, for it’s the old man himself, head bandaged, but very much alive. Christy hides behind the door while his father berates him as a coward who got in a lucky blow and ran away.

  It was time for the intermission. The houselights came up, and the hall echoed to animated conversation as perplexed members of the audience headed for the bar.

  “Well, I didn’t expect that,” muttered Dad.

  Mom brushed aside his remark. “What did you think of our Angie?” she preened. “Wasn’t she great?”

  “She’s a natural on stage,” said Toby.

  “Did you hear the laugh she got with that rubber chicken?” Mom went on.

  “She did fine,” Dad agreed. “Is she in the next act too?”

  “There’s a crowd scene,” said Toby. “She’d be in that. I don’t recall if she has any more speaking lines.” He stood up. “I’m going to get something to drink. Does anybody else want something?”

  “If they have a Coke, I’d like one,” said Mom.

  “Me too,” I said.

  Dad said, “Let’s go over and say hello to Laura and Emily. See how they’re doing.”

  “I think I’ll wait here for Toby to get back,” said Mom. “I don’t feel like standing.”

  Dad and I jostled our way to the aisle and walked up a few rows to where Laura and Emily were sitting. “Oh, hello,” said Laura. “That was a surprise to see Angie up there. How did she get a part in the play?”

  “She’s been dating the guy who plays Christy,” I admitted.

  She looked surprised but not disapproving. “He’s very good. And cute too. Don’t you think so, Emily?”

  Emily nodded and offered a weak smile. She didn’t look well. Her skin was pasty and she seemed nervous.

  “Are you all right, Emily?” I asked.

  “I’ve been feeling a little queasy. It’ll pass.”

  “Can we get you anything?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be all right, thanks.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything serious,” said Laura. “She gets these moments when she’s nauseous and dizzy, but they don’t last long.”

  Seeing Toby approaching with two paper cups, I said, “When my stomach gets queasy, sometimes a Coke helps settle it. Would you like one?” I took my drink from Toby and passed it to her. She sipped and said thanks.

  We stood there for an awkward moment. Laura ventured, “It’s an odd play, isn’t it? I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “I don’t either,” said Dad.

  “I don’t care for it very much,” said Emily.

  “Maybe that’s because you’re not feeling well,” I said.

  “Maybe.” She looked down at the cup.

  The houselights blinked. “Time to get back to our seats,” said Toby.

  “We’ll see you after the play. I hope you feel better,” I said to Emily. But something was wrong, something that couldn’t be fixed by a Coke.

  “What did they think of Angie?” asked Mom, as we retook our seats.

  “They thought she was very good,” said Dad. “Emily’s not feeling well, though.”

  “Oh?” said Mom, looking toward her. We couldn’t say more, as the play was about to resume.

  Act Three opens with Christy being hailed as “the champion playboy of the western world.” He’s won the mule races on the
beach below. Pegeen, smitten by his fine words and athletic deeds, agrees to marry him—just as his battered father catches up with him. He knocks Christy down and tells the crowd that Christy’s story is a lie. Yet there’s another twist: Christy gambles on winning the crowd back by turning what was a lie into the truth. He picks up a spade and chases the old man out the door. There’s a great noise and a yell offstage—and then silence. Christy returns alone. What’s happened? Has he killed his father for real this time?

  I didn’t find out that night. Emily rose from her seat, crying “No! No!” She pushed her way to the aisle as if trying to escape the theater. She lurched over the feet of the man on the end of the row and fell, bringing the performance to a halt.

  After a moment of confusion, the actors withdrew and the lights came up. The director, a middle-aged woman, stepped to the front of the stage. She asked if there was a doctor in the house (there wasn’t) and announced that the play would resume after a five-minute intermission. Meanwhile, Emily had recovered sufficiently to get to her feet and shake off assistance. She stubbornly insisted she was all right. Aunt Laura and I had reached her side. “Take me home,” she said to her mother.

  I offered to come with them and took Emily by the elbow to steady her as we moved toward the exit. Passing our row, I grabbed my rain jacket and asked Toby to stay with Mom and Dad and finish the play.

  It wasn’t Christy I was thinking of as we left the theater. It was Claudius in Hamlet when he sees his crime acted out before his eyes and halts the play within the play. Was Emily’s reaction similar? Did she see herself as Christy when he raised his spade against his father? Or was she simply overwhelmed by the events of the past week? I had to find out.

  19

  RAIN WAS SO HEAVY that we stopped at the door, instinctively recoiling, but Emily was in no shape to stay. With one arm, I tented my jacket over her head; with the other I steered her outside and down the stairs. “This way,” said Laura, heading out ahead of us at a run, fishing in her purse for car keys.

  The slanting rain splattered against the hood I had made for Emily, as we staggered, bound to each other, toward Laura’s car. She had the lights on and the motor running, ready to move as soon as I could get Emily and myself into the back seat. In the second before the door closed and the interior lights went out, I saw Emily’s tight grimace. My body clenched in reaction, but my brain began its assessment. Was that rage on her face, or guilt, or devastation? I kept thinking of the line from Hamlet: “The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.”

  Blessedly, compassion and family feeling kicked in. I rearranged my jacket as a blanket over Emily’s chest and tucked the edges behind her. I sat by her, thigh to thigh, and warmed her hands with mine, murmuring the universal bromide: “It’ll be all right, it’ll be all right.”

  I saw my aunt looking in the mirror to check on her daughter. That very morning, she had wished I could comfort Emily, and her wish was coming true, but under unwanted circumstances. She hadn’t envisioned Emily falling apart in public.

  “See if you can get her to sleep,” Laura said. Emily was rigid, as if stuck on one emotion or one thought. Her mother was right: sleep would be a relief. But it didn’t come.

  When the car stopped in front of her house, Emily came to life, throwing aside my jacket and pushing me away. She stumbled out of the car, righted herself, walked quickly to the front door, and grasped the handle. When it didn’t give, she called, “Mama! Open the door!” Laura hurried, key in hand, while I gathered everyone’s belongings and closed the car doors. By then, they were in the house and Emily was shouting something like “Get out of here!”

  I hurried to the house, to come to Laura’s aid, but on the threshold I realized that I had misheard. Emily was saying, “Get her out of here!” Meaning me.

  I halted. Laura, with her back to me, replied urgently, “We can handle this, Emily. Calm down.”

  Emily saw me and pulled away from her mother. Aunt Laura turned. If she thought I had overheard, she didn’t let on. She walked toward me and thanked me for my help. I made the usual reply while handing over her purse, still open from the scramble to get out the house key.

  “You look better,” I said to Emily. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be—don’t.” In her agitation, she dropped the finger-sized old-fashioned house key. It clanged on the floor, startling us all.

  I picked it up and gestured for Emily to sit on the couch. “Maybe you spoke too soon,” I said, in the calmest tone I could muster. “Let’s sit and catch our breaths.” I took a chair opposite the couch, and Emily complied.

  Her mother remained standing and said, “We’ve ruined your evening already, Nora. Let me drive you home and we’ll give Emily some space. How about that?”

  Emily nodded, but I stayed seated and said to her, “I think it would be better if we stayed with you a while. You’re not yourself yet. And besides, Toby’s coming for me when the play’s over. He’ll take my parents home and come straight here.”

  Mother and daughter looked at each other, without speaking. I let them be. After a time, I said to Laura, “Maybe it would be a good idea to make Emily some tea.”

  Emily shook her head and said, “No, no. Stay here, Mama. I don’t want anything.” Laura went to sit by her.

  “What upset you?” I asked. “Was it something in the play?”

  Laura replied, “Of course it was something in the play. All that talk of beating a man over the head. Neither of us needed to hear that.”

  Over her mother’s protest, Emily said, “They treated it as if it were funny. It’s not funny. Not one bit.”

  “No, it’s not,” I replied, pushing ahead, “not after what happened to your dad. The play must have made you relive that night, but maybe what you need is to talk about it.”

  Laura shot back, “You know more about it than we do. You actually saw the place where it happened. We weren’t allowed to see even that.”

  “Yes, I saw the crime scene, but I don’t know what drove Uncle Bert into the night to a place it’s hard to walk in, even in the day. What you told the guards doesn’t make sense to me. He may have liked to walk in the Deserted Village, but not in the dark. It’s not a place for an evening stroll. Something must have happened to send him out there.”

  “It was an argument,” said Emily.

  Her mother flinched. “Bert and I . . . had a few words,” she said, her voice faltering.

  “About what?” I asked. Laura paused and looked questioningly at her daughter. With a nod, Emily signaled her permission.

  “The business. It’s ruined,” said Laura. “I’d just found out.”

  “Bert told you that, the night he died?”

  “No, he was too much of a coward to tell me. The business is a shambles, and he didn’t tell me.”

  “Are you sure it’s that bad?” I asked. “Uncle Bert didn’t get where he was without organizational skills. He wouldn’t let his affairs become a mess.”

  Laura was too dignified to say I didn’t know what I was talking about, but her face made the statement for her. She paused, and I sensed she was calculating whether it was worth the effort, or safe, to explain things.

  “When I met Bert, it looked like his business was expanding. He owned rental properties, and he made a profit from them, but he wasn’t content with a steady income. He craved the excitement of building. At first it was housing in the city, then shopping malls in the suburbs, then towers of offices in the financial district. He was always moving ahead of his actual wealth, mortgaging one property to build another. I don’t know when he realized he’d hit a wall. Maybe he never let himself know. But he reached the end of his credit with the banks a long time ago. He’s been funding his building projects with a Ponzi scheme, and it’s crashing as we speak.”

  “I had no idea,” I said. “You always looked so prosperous. Did you keep some personal money separate, so you could cover your expenses even if the business went do
wn?”

  “Ha!” she blurted. “I wish.”

  “Then how did you keep it all going?”

  “He kept it all going by pulling the wool over my eyes. I believed in him. We met when I was getting a grip on my husband’s estate. Doug had invested in one of Bert’s projects. Bert advised me to leave the money there, and then he convinced me to bankroll another project, and before I knew it we were married and I let him manage our money. I suppose I realized he had a credit line to every account Doug and I once shared, but I really didn’t give it a thought. I raised Emily, tended Bert, entertained his clients, and served on boards. There was always enough money in the accounts I drew on. Meanwhile, Bert was steadily depleting the funds that Doug left me. Bert built his reputation for financial genius on Doug’s money.”

  “It must have been a significant amount, if it bankrolled Barnes Properties.”

  “It was. And it should have ensured stability. But here we are, and the company’s crumbling.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. This time, she let me offer sympathy. My hand rested on hers as I asked, “What does this mean for Emily?”

  Laura pulled back her hand, drew it to her chest, and clasped the other hand, in a gesture of pent-up anger. Her pale cheeks took color. Then she spoke directly to Emily, who woke as from a stupor to listen.

  “I’ll never forgive Bert for what he’s done to you. I thought it was so generous of him to bring you into the business, but now I see he’s brought you down with him. It’s worse than that. He doesn’t have to face anything. You’re left to manage the collapse of his empire.”

  Emily sat up straighter, bracing herself with her hands on the cushion. She said, “I don’t know if I can, Mama. I don’t know scat about the money! Daddy wouldn’t let me near the financials. He said my job was to woo new clients and keep the old ones coming back. I was never put on the management team, and I never saw the books. Daddy said it was better that way, because the top guys wouldn’t worry that the little heiress was going to take charge.”