“Not jealous of Aislin. Of me. That I have someone and you don’t.”
“I was that,” Brian nodded. “Paris was rough, I admit. It was supposed to be a trip for you and me but it changed into a trip for you and her. Which made me feel more alone than if I was on me own, if you follow my drift. Falling in with the American bird got me over that, though.”
“The one on the ferry? She was only ancient.”
“That she was, but she was only brilliant for all that. I could talk to her about anything.”
“Jaysus, Brian, you talk to everyone about everything. At least that’s what everyone says.”
Brian could see that his sister was up to something. The table was laid when he walked in the door. “We’re going to have a nice welcome home supper,” Molly promised. “You and me and Da and Dennis.”
“I’m knackered. Think I’ll skip the meal and drop into me scratcher. Keep a plate warm for me.”
“I will not! I’ve been cooking the whole day! We’re going to sit down together, the four of us. And you’ll tell us all about your adventures.”
“I had none. There, that was easy.”
“Bri, what’s come over you? I was sure you’d be panting to tell us about France.”
“Here it is then. Colin met a Dublin girl two days after we got to Paris. Quite the dote. The eejit thinks she’s going to marry him. We were all sick on the boat coming over. That’s it. Whole story. Now can I have a kip?”
“Wash up and have a wee lie down. We’ll be eating at half six.”
The meal was one of the quieter ones any of the Beatties could remember. Brian fended off more of Molly’s questions; Dennis, Brian’s younger brother, had found a way to both chew and act sullen at the same time; and patriarch Jack Beattie seemed to be absent from his body.
Uneasily, Molly ventured, “I’ve been thinking . . .”
“You’re thinking? Mind you don’t hurt your head,” Dennis said because something of the sort was expected of him.
“Since Ma died,” Molly persevered, “there’s been a cloud over this family. A dark, broody cloud. And we’re going to do something about it,” she said firmly. “I’ve talked to a psychologist at the college. This Sunday afternoon at half three we’re going to have a Balloon Release. I’ve already invited Aunt Eileen and she’s bringing a bread-and-butter pudding—she’s making that for you, Da—and Ma’s favorite caraway loaf. And I’ve asked the Frawleys if we can use their garden chairs. So everything’s settled. There.” She sat back in her chair, eyes darting around the table as she waited for objections.
“What’s a balloon release?” Dennis asked sensibly. “Are you after renting a hot air balloon with a big basket and all? That’s a bleedin’ fortune gone—gone up in the air—if you ask me.”
“Not a hot air balloon,” Molly said patiently. “Regular ones, party balloons like. But they’ll have hot air in them. The whole notion is that we each have a balloon that we let go up into the sky.”
“A hot air balloon is overdoin’ it,” Dennis mused, “but a party balloon sendoff sounds a bit niggardly to me.”
Molly reddened. “I don’t like that word,” she said too loudly.
“Ah,” sighed Dennis, “you probably wouldn’t like a chink in his armor either.”
Molly said evenly, “The psychologist thinks we’re all angry with Ma and that’s why we’re . . . like we are.”
“It’s called grief,” Brian finally said. “She’s only just gone.”
“But it’s not that, you see. Grief is sadness and loneliness, and fear maybe. But we’re all angry. I felt it from you before you left, Bri. I feel it from Dennis and Da.” She looked nervously at her father. “I feel it in me. And we’re the kind of people who don’t talk about these things.”
“You seem to be making a profession of it,” Dennis observed.
Molly ignored him. “So we have to find a way to talk about it, is all. That’s what we’re doing come Sunday. We each say at least one thing that we’re angry with Ma for—it could be something recent or something that happened donkey’s years ago—and then we let the anger go. And then we can grieve.”
“Go way outta that,” Brian shook his head.
“We’re doing it,” said Jack as he pushed away from the table. “And there’s an end to it.”
Brian’s jaw hung open as he watched his father leave the room. Jack Beattie was the last man in County Lisburn he’d have thought would submit to such a show. Brian turned his attention—and newfound respect—to Molly. “You’ve got something on the old fella’. It’s only blackmail could make him agree.”
“He cares about his family is all,” Molly sniffed as she started to clear the table.
Brian looked at his sister, then at his brother. “Did I wander into the wrong house? Did the Beatties move away without giving me notice? Will someone tell me what is happening?”
“Ah, you know nothin’ ever happens round here.” Dennis slammed his chair into the table and blew out the back door.
“So tell me about nothin’,” Brian said to his sister, his eyes like rods into her.
“Dennis was arrested last week. And the week before. The first time was a boozer fight. He went looking for it. The second time he went looking for it too. Ever since Ma died, I heard tales he was cozying up to the Ulster Defense. And then he and a bunch of gougers trashed the makeshift shrine to Bobby Sands at the Busy Bee shopping centre. That was the second arrest. Which saved his life. He came that close to being dismembered by a Catholic crowd that came outta nowhere. Da’s been out of his mind with worry. Me too,” she added in a small voice.
“What’s this balloon thing supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Something. I hope something.”
Came the knock at the door on Sunday afternoon.
“Ah, Colin, sorry. This sendoff is for the family. And you’re that lucky you’re not family on this day of days.”
Colin was stunned. “But I am, Bri. I am family. Closer than blood. Who shared his last quid with you when you got fired from the grub store? Whose gaff do you take half your meals at? Who was there when you broke your tooth?”
“Who was the git responsible for the tooth breaking?”
“Who was there holding your head in the jacks when you got hammered and had a gawk after drinking your first poitin? You were only mouldy.”
“And who was the lad that stole that piss from his father’s press and dared me to drink it or lose me honor? I appreciate the sentiment, Colin, I do, but you should go home. You’re like a brother to me, it’s too true, but you weren’t like a son to me mother.”
“I got a letter from Aislin.”
“Aw, sure look it.”
Colin nodded. “A Dear Sean letter.”
“This soon? Who woulda believed it?”
“You, you pox.”
“Come on in then. You’ll have to sit in here while we’re all in the back garden for the exorcism.”
“At least you have a good day for it.”
Everyone was shifting uncomfortably on the folding chairs borrowed from the neighbor, not knowing what to do. They all felt foolish, even Molly, each grasping the string to a purple helium balloon, so they were looking down when the rain began, a fine mist.
“Ah, Ma,” said Dennis, eyes lifted skyward, “you’ve kept your sense of humor, I see.”
“We’d best press on if we’re doing this,” grumbled the senior Beattie. “I’ll get mine done with.” He cleared his throat. “Joan, you were me first love, me best and me worst love. If you didn’t have a temper in you that could scorch the devil himself, you might be here with us still. It’s murder thinking that every day, so I’m letting the thought and you go.” Everyone gasped—his was a much longer speech than expected. They’d been anticipating something more along the lines of “Cheers.” Jack Beattie re
leased his balloon.
“I’ll be taking my turn,” Molly said, breathing deeply and raising her eyes. “When Brian was born I wanted a sprog of my own. I pleaded and wheedled and you finally had Da bring me home a cloth doll with yarn hair. But I knew that was just a doll and I wanted a baby. So Aunt Eileen bought me a doll that had shiny pink skin and real hair for me to brush and eyes that closed when I laid her down. And she cried. I loved that she cried. But you hated it. You said it made your milk come. One day I’m in the kitchen and there you were with a screwdriver. You were sticking it into my baby’s back. You were taking out the batteries, I guess, but what I saw was you stabbing my sweet baby. And she never cried after that. Because she was dead. And you were fine with that. I forgive you for killing my baby, Ma.” Molly let her balloon go.
Almost defiant, Eileen said, “You were the best big sister anyone could have wanted. It was you that got me ready for school every morning and saw to it I was neat and clean and brushed and braided. The teachers thought you were hard and that I was the sweet, well-behaved one because you made me look sweet and you taught me my manners. I’ll never forget when I was in senior infants and somehow I forgot to put on my knickers one morning and the teacher said we were going to have PE that day and we would be tumbling on the mats and I knew it would be the worst thing that had happened in my life or ever would happen, that everyone would see me bum and all.” She reddened at the memory as though she were five years old and it was only yesterday. “I told the teacher that I had to talk to my sister and I still can’t believe she let me go over to the third form and your teacher let you come out to the hall. You took me into the bathroom and gave me your knickers. I knew you would fix it, but I didn’t know how. I always knew that if anything went wrong I could go to you, Joan, and that’s the hardest thing”—she choked back a sob—“knowing I can’t go back to you now or ever.” Eileen released her balloon. “You’ve caused the sadness and you’re not here to console me.”
Dennis said, “I’m up now, amn’t I? Grand.” He cleared his throat. “Ma, there isn’t anyone here you didn’t give a hard time, including your sister who you apparently taught to never speak ill of the dead. But we all loved you. And you loved all of us. And in the end, I guess that has to be enough.” Dennis let go of his string and gave a flick to the balloon to urge it upward. “Well, Brian, we’ve never known you to sit quiet. Now’s not the occasion to go mute. Get on with it before this mist turns into a lashing.”
Brian said, “I’m sorry, Ma, that I was a disappointment to you. Says I to you, says you to me.” He opened his hand and let his string go.
His relatives waited, knowing volumes more were to follow, but Brian lapsed back into silence. Suddenly Eileen shrieked, “Effing Christ!” before clapping a hand over her blasphemous mouth. She pointed heavenward. All eyes rose from Brian’s face.
The helium balloons, all of them, even Jack’s that had drifted up and away minutes ago, had been dragged down by the mist and were now massed together directly over Brian’s head.
“Like bleedin’ thought balloons in a comic strip,” Dennis marveled. “Dark broody purple thoughts.”
“Perfect,” said Jack, shaking his head. “Now we know you were listening, Joan.”
“Run for the house! It’s bucketing now!” Molly instructed needlessly.
When they looked out the window after an hour or so, the balloons were still huddled over Brian’s chair.
Come Here to Me
13.
Dublin did not take warmly to Betsy, literally or otherwise. It was like this: The weather was wretched, and the accommodations she found in the town originally called Dubh Linn, meaning Black Pool, were not all that accommodating. While she was relieved to find she had been right about Irish men keeping their distance, she was disappointed that the only conversations she’d had since her arrival were with the proprietress of her lodgings.
Beyond the front door of Mrs. Murtaugh’s B & B, the days were gray and damp and chilly for mid-July. Searching out nooks to duck into when the damp devolved into downpour proved surprisingly tiresome and time-consuming. Betsy was spending too much energy staying dry (in a manner of speaking) in pubs. This proved dangerous. She didn’t like beer, and while she didn’t consider herself a connoisseur of fine wines, the wines she tried in those establishments weren’t quite fine enough. She found the pub menus brief, all sandwiches, reminding her of breakfast at the merchant marine hotel, buttered bread with a slab of ham, or buttered bread with a slice of cheese and two slices of tomato, only this bread was not cut from a crusty baguette but fell out of a plastic sleeve, square and soft and flavorless except for the preservatives. She would start out determined to nurse her small glass of Irish whiskey until the rain stopped, but she was ending up either soaked or sauced.
Except for the mostly wordless barmen taking her orders, no one spoke to her. She had envisioned storybook taverns with flapping signboards proclaiming The Three-legged Wolfhound or The Flying Sow resounding with melodious voices raised in laughter or plaintive song. Maybe such places with such people existed somewhere, in charming rural villages where there were thatch roofs, and maybe there were dry, sunny days in those places too. She complained about the weather to Mrs. Murtaugh, she of the B & B, who quoted her husband, who was likely quoting someone else, “Summer is that week when the rain warms up a bit.” She directed Betsy to a compressed bookcase in the breakfast room. “Weather makes for readers. I’m a great reader, I am. This shelf is Take One/Leave One,” she instructed. “Some of the guests leave behind the books they’ve finished. Mind, I don’t allow just any old thing a place on the shelf. I read each one myself and decide if it’s worthy. Or just wordy.” Mrs. Murtaugh smiled and lowered her eyelids, pleased with this sample of her affinity with words. She didn’t look like someone who had spent her life indoors snuggled up to a book. Her skin was tight but coarse, like a top sheet tucked and taut over an unmade bed.
Betsy examined the top shelf: Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, The Thorn Birds, The Crystal Cave, and several Stephen Kings and Agatha Christies, signaling the tastes of the travelers who lodged with Mrs. Murtaugh.
“Now take a gander at the lower shelf. These stay on the premises, mind, permanent like, though you’re welcome to any while you’re in residence.”
Betsy’s index finger stroked the spine of the first volume, Ulysses.
“I can’t say I’ve finished that one myself,” Mrs. Murtaugh confessed, “though I’ve had at it five or six times.”
Betsy exclaimed, “Me too!”
“Those on that lower shelf would all have been written here. On our wee island.”
As Betsy’s finger grazed across The Poems of W. B. Yeats: A New Edition, Mrs. Murtaugh clasped her hands across her chest and intoned, “‘Now that my ladder’s gone/I must lie down where all the ladders start/in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.’”
Betsy stopped herself from asking,“Wasn’t Yeats an admirer of Mussolini?” and instead pointed to Dracula. “Bram Stoker was Irish?”
“In Irish droch ola means ‘bad blood,’” Mrs. Murtaugh nodded.
The next were An Béal Bocht and Dúil. “My husband,” Mrs. Murtaugh informed her, “himself could read Irish,” she said with pride. “Gone these four years now.” She made the sign of the cross upon herself. “And what about you? Traveling on your own and all and all. You’re too young to be widowed and too pretty to be a spinster. Where might your husband be?”
Betsy bristled, but she told her, “I’m divorced.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Murtaugh’s interest was aroused. “And did he keep the children?”
“I wasn’t able to have children.”
“Well, that’s a blessing. Under the circumstances, I mean.” She paused and then leaned in, dropping her voice though no one else was present, “And did he beat you?”
Betsy was sta
rtled into a laugh. “No. He slept around.”
“Oh. That.”
“That.”
“Well, you can be disappointed, to be sure, but you can hardly be surprised, now can you? That’s the way God made them.”
Farther along on the lower shelf she came to The Holy Bible (Betsy didn’t question its Irish pedigree) and The Collected Plays of Oscar Wilde. “I love Wilde,” she said. “The Picture of Dorian Gray—that was his only novel, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Murtaugh sniffed, “Mr. Gray had an honored place on the shelf but a langer from Suffolk made off with him. You should visit Merrion Square.”
“What’s that?”
“Where Wilde lived. One Merrion Square. Yeats had his accommodations on the Square as well. He won the Nobel, don’t you know,” she sniffed confidingly. “Quite a bit of the old Georgian red brick still standing. They used to be private homes when I was young, but they’re mostly offices now. And then it’s a quick hop to Kildare Street.”
“What’s there?”
Mrs. Murtaugh raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Where the government sits. Ach, you know, like Westminster. And you might just catch a glimpse of the Taoiseach.”
“Oh.” Betsy was debating whether or not to ask what this might be. From the narrowed look that accompanied the strange word, she was afraid it might be connected to the unwelcome topics of divorce or childbearing or philandering.
“If seeing the government buildings and where the writers lived isn’t your cuppa, then there’s always the Natural History Museum and the National Gallery right by. They’re all practically on top of each other.”
“Sounds perfect for my last day.” She shook her head. “Sounds like it should have been my destination each of these last three days.” Betsy wondered if it had been the weather in Dublin that had dispirited her or, rather, the looming prospect of returning home. She had found herself more interesting on this side of the Atlantic. She was having trouble picturing a divorced librarian who lived with her sister’s family as anyone she would want to get to know.
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