“That was the bad man who made Mum go away to heaven?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m glad you hurt him.”
Tommy returned, saw Grace, and asked Mary to distract her one more time.
“God damn your anger.”
“Is he goin’ to be all right?”
“He’s never going to be all right; you don’t seem to understand that.”
“I mean this knock to his head.”
“The doctor’s just arrived to examine him. But Patrick wants you to leave right now.”
“Just as soon as I know he’s going to be—”
“He wants you to leave now, and he doesn’t want to see you ever again. Brian, your son Patrick asked me to tell you to stay away from him from now on.”
“He just said that now?”
“He said this was your last chance.”
Brian motioned to Mary to bring Grace to him.
“We’ll drive to Dublin now an’ fly home on the first plane we can get on.”
“I’ll send word about what the doctor says about this head injury.”
“An’ you’ll pray for me.”
“Without ceasing.”
On the plane ride home Brian told the stewardess to bring him two whiskeys. When the plane landed in LaGuardia there were six small empty bottles in the seat pocket before him, and he had three full bottles tucked in his coat pocket for the flight to Winnipeg.
The first whiskeys soothed Brian’s pain; the next whiskeys fueled his anger. He loved and adored Maureen, and she deceived him, perhaps betrayed him. When he looked at their daughter sleeping in the seat next to him, he became angrier still, and drank another.
By the time they landed in Winnipeg Brian was drunk and dazed from believing that Maureen was IRA, that the money used to build the camp was IRA money, and that it was a stain on all they had built together, the two of them, with Joe Loon and his clan, and Dutch.
In the wake of his first wife Deidre’s death, when his pain was not just the sadness of the world spoiled, when it was compounded by profound shame and guilt, he found comfort in the bottle. He looked for it there again, first thing and all day.
The comfort he found in a bottle a day led Brian to decide he wouldn’t open the Great Lodge at Innish Cove the next season. He intended to ask Dutch to contact all of the guests who had booked reservations and let them know about Maureen passing and to share with them Brian’s sincere apologies that the Great Lodge at Innish Cove wouldn’t open again until the following season, Spring of 1960.
But those intentions didn’t last long. When he met with his accountant and attorney they walked him through the business’ finances and their tally of the obligations he would have regardless—a substantial land lease payment, for starters. He understood he had no choice, and that he needed the cash flow or risked losing everything. He would open. He had to.
That meant he had to cut back on his drinking; he couldn’t maintain this pace in camp. He moderated, a bit, some of the time; he told himself he would cut back even more when he needed to, when the opening of the new season approached, now that he had his drinking under control.
And when Grace was in bed, when she was deep in sleep, he would finish the bottle he started earlier as he took up cursing Maureen O’Toole all night long until he cried his sorrows for Maureen Burke, his Lady Girl, and finally passed into a fitful sleep, dreaming of dangers lurking in shadows.
Dutch saw what was happening to Brian and tried to find ways to care for him. He figured out how every incoming guest could be notified about Maureen’s passing. Since each guest had to check in at the NOA offices in Kenora before they boarded their bush plane to Innish Cove, he told Brian it would be handled there, that before each guest boarded a bush plane they would be told Maureen died, in peaceful circumstances, during a visit to Ireland.
When Brian realized he wouldn’t have to continually explain to everyone all summer long what happened to his wife, and that he wouldn’t have to deal with their shock and their natural curiosity and their demanding questions about the circumstances, he was able to moderate his drinking even more, much of the time.
Chapter 10
Hemingway’s Trophy
It promised to be an extraordinary event, and Brian’s anticipation was growing. Ernest Hemingway had arrived on the last bush plane in to the Great Lodge at Innish Cove the day before, accompanied by three friends. Their arrival was expected, but they had surprised Brian when they unloaded a large wooden crate and promised a great unveiling, in the dining hall after supper the next day, and all in honor of dear Maureen’s passing. They told Brian that all he had to do was introduce them in the morning to the best handyman in camp and then stay out of the dining hall until supper.
The first evening the Hemingway foursome was in camp Brian joined them in the pub and was surprised to find how strong his memories were of his wife caring for this man, how she had pampered him and how she anticipated his needs, so subtle, so graceful. And throughout she had let him know she respected his vigor. Brian was pleased to remember her calling him Papa as she held his arm, and when Brian went to bed that night it was with rich, full dreams of his Lady Girl.
His anticipation of the big event that night with Papa Hemingway and with his guests in attendance called upon Brian to take an extra drink or two during the afternoon to be ready, to play Big Irish, the exaggerated version of himself he knew the writer and his guests would enjoy. Brian found he was playing Big Irish more often; it was helping him make it through this first season without Maureen Burke at his side and with Maureen O’Toole’s secrets haunting him.
Hemingway’s boat was usually one of the first back, and Brian timed his drinking so he was filled with the spirits that brought a full smile and deep laughter to the tired old man. Brian met his boat at the dock, and they stood together telling stories while the bustle of guests and guides swirled about them, pleased to be in their presence, listening when they could.
When the Hemingway party left the dock to head to the Great Lodge to check on preparations for the evening, Brian watched the writer’s slow and uneven gait and remembered again how his wife had been so quick to help the old man feel less like an old man, and he was eager to spend more time with his Lady Girl during the unveiling that night, then again in his dreams.
The last of the boats were in. Guests were in their cabins showering and napping, and drinking. The guides were putting away supplies and cleaning their boats. With the upcoming celebration of his Lady Girl on his mind, Brian headed to his house. He walked up the path through the trees, sharing hellos with guests sitting on their cabin porches and stopped in the Great Lodge kitchen, showing himself in case he was needed. He wasn’t, so he picked up the path behind the Great Lodge that led past the Chapel up the rise to his house.
As he approached the Chapel he was surprised by a strong impulse to stop and go in, and to sit at the statue his wife loved.
He had been avoiding the statue since the camp opened. It was where his wife asked God to bless the innocents. He had heard it as the sweet devotion of his Lady Girl when she said it. Now he knew it as Maureen O’Toole’s confession and penitence.
The pull was strong to stop, but he was eager to see his daughter—he saw so much of his Lady Girl in their child—so he resisted and headed up the private path to his house.
This was the first summer, the summer she’d turn six, that Grace O’Malley had the run of the camp. She had already gotten into and out of every kind of trouble and was quick to learn what she should from each close call. Little Stevie, seven, was always by her side, guiding her away from some of her most daring inclinations and often part of her rescue team. Mary had a mother’s watchful eye for both of them, and all those who lived or worked there knew it was their job to help take care of the two children.
New daily patterns were emerging that season, adapting to the absence of Maureen’s presence.
In the late afternoon when the boats started com
ing in from the day spent fishing the River and its lakes, Mary would find the children and keep them with her. Then she stopped at the Lodge kitchen to provide extra help during peak supper prep or when the camp was filled with guests; the children still enjoyed playing together under the table, and Grace loved it especially; it often felt as if she was spending time with her mum then and there.
Grace heard her mum’s voice in the sounds of the busy kitchen.
After Mary’s kitchen help was no longer needed, she would serve their portion of supper and take it up to the house where she and Brian and Grace and Little Stevie shared their meal in the small dining room.
After supper, Brian spent an hour with his daughter, alone in her bedroom while she got ready for bed, asking about her day and listening to her stories, singing songs together, and laughing and talking about Gracie’s mother when Grace chose to, and she always did, before he headed down to the Great Lodge to host his guests.
Because the Great Lodge’s pub and billiards lounge were filled every night with guests needing Brian’s attention, Mary and Little Stevie had moved in to Brian’s home so she could help look after Grace; it was a temporary fix that had lasted the first full month the camp had been open, and it was working well for Brian.
Once he left Grace behind in Mary’s care his Big Irish character came out to play, to fuel the guests’ enthusiasms and enjoy them for himself. To forget everything but the fun of stories told well and men’s free laughter.
Mary enjoyed taking care of Grace, and she loved her mastery of the new work Brian was asking her to do, helping him manage the camp. She missed her family and friends at Joe Loon’s village, but living out of the spare bedroom with her son was working fine for her as well.
She told Joe Loon, and later she told Brian, that she took it all on as an act of devotion for her departed sister.
Upon entering the Great Lodge Brian looked for and found the evidence of what he suspected had been transported in the shipping crate; high on the dining hall wall a large sheet covered what he figured was one of Hemingway’s African safari trophy heads. A regular and favorite guest’s black bear head that had been moved to make room at the most prominent spot for this new mount, at the head of the dining hall. The crate had been large and long, and the cloth that hid the head hung six feet or more.
Guests finished eating then collected in the pub and the billiards lounge. The guests who had eaten in the first supper seating were returning from their cabins. Hemingway reclaimed his corner, near the fireplace, and was there with old friends and new. The tables were being cleared and the floor was swept.
Drinks were flowing; the laughter was building.
Brian was behind the bar checking inventories of beer in the cooler. When a guest walked up, Brian stood and summoned his grand Irish brogue greeting and offered to pour him any one of the Irish whiskies he chose. “Ya’ can’t be wrong, each carries twilight’s magic, yeah. An’ on such an auspicious occasion as this, it’s on the house.” He sent the guest back to the growing celebratory energy of the room with a smile, promising to join them in a moment. Brian knelt again, checking the cooler, and the guest stopped short, looked over the bar at Brian’s big back, and asked, “So then, where is Maureen hiding out?”
Brian stood straight up in surprise and smashed the top of his head on the edge of the shelf that held the row of Irish whiskey bottles. He staggered and nearly fell from the blow that sent an electric shock down his neck, and the question itself knocked him off balance and he gripped the bar to right himself. He hurt most from holding in the roar of angry pain.
“Ow. Brian, that must have hurt… you okay?”
When Brian heard the man’s genuine concern, and though he was still woozy from hitting his head, he realized he mistook the question. This wasn’t someone sneaking up behind him, someone emerging from Maureen O’Toole’s shadow life to torment him, letting Brian know that he knew she’d never been found. No, he realized late, this must be the first guest who somehow got through Dutch’s notification system. This guest was simply wondering where Maureen was, and why she wasn’t there for this unveiling in her honor.
So Brian explained that Maureen had passed. Watching the raw emotion take control of this man’s face, his sadness and his embarrassment, Brian struggled to maintain his own composure as he tried to sooth the guest’s pain, for Brian was beginning to feel raw himself.
“I’m so sorry.”
It helped to stay in character, the Big Irish.
“We all are. T’was not another like that woman in all the world.”
“I don’t know what else to say; I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, well, we wouldn’t be here now, would we, no, no, none of us, any of us, none of this, if it weren’t for that… for her, yeah, an’ what she did, to make this… look, I regret that you found out so, like this, right now, but if I cause ya’ no offense an’ if ya’ don’t mind, I don’t really…” and Brian had to leave right then; he felt the Red Bull Demon overtaking Big Irish, so he retreated through the swinging doors to the kitchen, leaving a concerned guest behind.
Brian kept going, through the kitchen out into the night and he found the darkest corner behind the Great Lodge where he tried to hide from what was rising fast and coming on strong out of his misinterpreting the guest’s innocent question: all the questions that attach to the memory of Maureen O’Toole, his wife as IRA soldier fighting… fighting how? Not in battles but in ambush? Secretly hiding bombs? Kidnapping? How many? When? She had remarked about the coincidence that she had been in Ireland visiting her mother at the time of the massive arms raid on the Ebrington Barracks arsenal; he heard it as her teasing him then, and recently decided, knowing her brilliance, that she must have been a part of it, perhaps a leader of it, perhaps the leader of it. These questions with no answers made him angrier at her and even angrier at himself.
Now the Red Bull Demon was in full control.
He drank deeply from his flask and returned it to his boot. In a deep low growl he said “God Bless the Innocents,” and he spit out a bad taste in his mouth. Then he turned to face the log wall he had been leaning against. He retrieved his flask and took one more deep drink, draining it. With the flask back in his boot he assumed a fighter’s posture. “I wonder how many innocents died to build this feckin’ place.” His head hurt and he wanted to obliterate the pain so he quickly stepped forward into the head butt he delivered against the wall with all his might, with full purpose, and he hit so hard he knocked himself out, crumpling to the ground where he lay, in the darkness, unconscious.
Inside the Great Lodge guests were drinking and laughing and smoking pipes and big cigars while admiring the sweeping array of ten point buck heads and twenty five pound northern pike mounted in fighting poses, and all the other trophies and framed photographs. Someone had started a pool for guests to guess what was hidden under the sheet. It was easy to figure it was a sharp horned antelope; some guests guessed it was an eland, others a sable, and others a gemsbok. The guest who just learned of Maureen’s death found his friends and tried to figure out how he didn’t know what everyone else knew. Papa Hemingway was collecting himself to lead the ceremony and looked around for Brian, and when he didn’t see the big man he asked a friend to find him to let him know he was ready to begin.
Just then, and for no apparent reason—perhaps one too many curious guests lifted it for a peek—the sheet that covered the animal head slipped, and slipped, and then floated to the floor, revealing Hemingway’s trophy. The guests cheered when they saw it.
Mary sat up with a start. She had fallen asleep in a chair in the living room after putting Little Stevie and Grace to bed. There was a reason she woke suddenly, she knew it, and she quickly checked on the children. They slept curled in two little balls, side by side, peacefully. She often allowed them to sleep together in her bed, and she was fine sleeping on the pallet of blankets and pillows on the floor set up for Little Stevie.
Before she went back to
sleep Mary had to find what awakened her. She returned to the chair to recapture the feel of it. Perhaps there was something going on at Joe Loon’s village? No, it was closer than that, much closer. She returned to her bedroom and awakened Little Stevie, picked him up, and carried him to the living room. “You need to be awake. I must go to the lodge kitchen and check on something for the morning. You stay awake here until I get back.”
In a small and sleepy voice Little Stevie said, “Yes, nimaamaa.”
“You are awake now son. You must care for your sister Grace.”
More alert, Little Stevie repeated in a more serious voice, “Yes, nimaamaa.”
She slipped on her boots and headed out to follow the path through the dark forest, looking, listening, searching for an understanding of what had awakened her so.
As Mary headed down the slope, This Man emerged from the sacred birch grove just behind the Chapel. With him was the spirit of the great warrior of the River, Mathew Loon. They were joined by many of the spirits of those who burned on the funeral pyres that once covered this shoreline with ash. Together they sang for a new spirit that was also an old spirit.
They had been waiting for this new visitor who was also an old visitor for some time now.
Mary sensed their presence as she drew near; she was led to the door of the Chapel, and believing she was awakened for this, she entered. When she did, she felt welcomed. Mary was drawn to the bench that sat in front of the statue of Joseph and his son Jesus. She sat there, as her sister Maureen had done, day after day.
This Man and the warrior spirit of Mathew Loon and the spirits of the Ojibway who died from the white man’s pox waited at the sacred birch grove, the trees watered by the tears of those who watched their family members and clan members burn while waiting for their own time.
As Brian became aware he struggled to sit up. He didn’t know how or why he was on the ground in the middle of the night. He shook his head to clear the fog but stopped from the pain of it. He thought he was supposed to be inside this log building, but he couldn’t recall why. With one hand on the log wall for support he tried to stand, but he couldn’t, not yet. He was shaky, his head hurt, his neck hurt. He touched his head, just above the hairline, at the source of the new pain; his fingers were sticky and bloodstained when he pulled them away.
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