On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland

by Joseph Éamon Cummins

  ‘Fine. Bye.’ The line went dead.

  He switched to his best jeans and pulled a white shirt from the bottom of his pack. The boarding house’s old clothes iron did as good a job as his shaking hands would allow. By 7.30 he was ready.

  On the road toward Loch Doog, with over twenty minutes to spare and a fresh sea breeze blowing in, he allowed his senses to escape to the peaks running three sides around him. Along Main Street, Aranroe’s rainbow shopfronts gleamed, people passing by, leaving nods and smiles. This was a bright world, he felt, he was seeing it this way now despite his circumstances, an almost deserted world compared with the busyness of life in Phoenix.

  At Concannon’s Bar he climbed the hill, up to a lookout over Loch Doog. From nearby, traditional music floated, reminding him of a never forgotten life he once had. This, and the late sun in his face, carried him back to beach days and bottles of lemonade. How he’d loved Ireland back then, never-ending days bright until 10.30pm, even later, during school holidays, something he’d hated losing; playing street games at a time when most of the world was in dark, and the people in far-off countries, his sisters would tell him, even the head-hunters in Borneo, were already fast asleep; and he hadn’t even gone to bed yet the night before. He was lucky then, young and happy. Life was great, Ireland the best country in the world, and the last to go asleep. Everything was good until Ronan died. Little Ronan, ten years alive. Then not long after that, moving to America, to Newark, when he knew that Ireland, like Ronan, was never coming back. That’s when it all changed. Maybe that was why the blues came to dwell in him, the gloom so few suspected, out of what had happened in those long-ago days. But perhaps not, perhaps his troubles were bigger than loss or sadness or belonging.

  Suddenly he caught his drifting thoughts, drew his mind out of what was lost, forced it into what was to come. He needed nothing more, for how easily he drifted into reveries of the beautiful Lenny Quin, into wonder and hope, and things that scared him, those feelings he had never before felt, not in the real world. But now he needed to be practical, grounded; there were problems here to be sorted. He could handle it.

  Outside Horslips Hotel he chastened his inner chatter, slicked back his hair, and marched in through the big timber doors. It was still only 7.45. Plenty of time.

  From his seat in the lounge his stare swung between the deepening greys of the loch and the arched entrance through which she would soon make her appearance.

  Two hours later the loch was black, a void. The velour lounge seat was hard. He sat alone, his third coffee stale on the table. Still hoping for Lenny Quin. Another half-hour dragged past, then more. At 10.30 he left. Collar up, hands deep in his jeans pockets, he walked to the lookout over the water, then down the hill to his room.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning’s mist had descended before dawn and now greyed away the whole world. He fought out from under heavy blankets, shivering at the chill in the air. He dialled Dublin, willed himself to sound brighter than he felt. Kate would be disappointed, he knew that.

  ‘Tony! You’re not in trouble? Are you? I’d almost – ’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m on my way. See you around ten-thirty.’

  ‘I was so worried. I didn’t know what to think. I was expecting you – ’

  ‘I know, Kate, I know. Stop worrying, I’m fine. Psychologists are not supposed to stress out. I’m not who I was; I told you that. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘I’ll keep Ferdia up. He’s been asking the whole time: Is Uncle Tony coming today? You won’t get over how big he’s grown. Don’t get lost, Tony.’

  ‘I won’t get lost. And Kate, next time I get home, I promise, I’ll get to see you for much longer.’

  ‘Where did you get to anyway? I was expecting you before the weekend.’

  ‘Hiking. The mountains. Have to go now, Kate. The train will get me to Dublin around ten. I just have one thing to do here first.’

  Connecting with Kate always lifted him; this time was no exception. She never changed: strong, smart, spiritual, able to understand. A refuge still, as she had always been for him. Cutting his time with her wasn’t fair. Especially now, her marriage gone. But always a warrior, big sister, winning even when losing. One to emulate, not that he ever would. Ireland’s gain against the odds, America’s loss.

  The blur ceased. He had drifted, not been listening. ‘See you tonight, Kate, definitely, around ten-thirty.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see you, Tony. It’s been a long time.’

  He grabbed the water-proof cape and sou’wester he thoroughly disliked, and threw on his backpack. This day he’d be baptised in County Mayo rain, the first he’d seen. On Aranroe Hill the climb offered no vistas. Colours previously alive now hid, and sea and sky mixed into grey union. Intermittently his melancholy deepened, sank his thoughts into this fog of oneness that he could so easily belong to. But his mind denied him reflection; he had a pressing purpose in front of him, at the top of the hill.

  Shrouded in vapour, Claire Abbey looked like an old photograph, colourless except for smudges of amber in the Tudor-style windows. It was his first time to see it. It was a castle alright, that much was fact. Inside the portico he paused on the weather mat. An ornate world: antique furniture, tapestry sofas, oriental rugs, paintings, sculptures, a log fire scenting the air, and everywhere the look of wealth. A set to which he would never belong, he felt. So removed from the poor streets of his early life, from the land and the people it shaped; he’d take the unspoilt Sheffrey Hills and craggy Nephin Begs, any day.

  ‘Gloomy day out there,’ a friendly female voice said. ‘But we can’t complain.’ From beyond the marble-topped reception desk a young woman’s green eyes stared, black ringlets framing her bone-white face.

  He tried to hide his reaction but was already returning her warmth. ‘I’m here to see Miss Quin, please.’

  The woman smiled with unease, as though offering an apology.

  ‘Leonora Quin.’ He inflected the words with as native an accent as he was able.

  She leaned toward him, but pulled back as voices filtered out from an open office behind her. ‘I’ll just get the manager. Won’t be a moment.’ She paused conspicuosly, then left.

  ‘Something we can do for you?’ A tall, middle-aged woman spoke with a you-shouldn’t-be-here tone. ‘Is there something we can do for you?’ On her navy blazer a gold badge read: Ms C VanSant, Manager.

  ‘Yes, there is,’ he said, his voice an octave higher than he intended. ‘I’m Tony MacNeill, from the U.S. I’m here to see Miss Quin.’

  ‘She’s not in town today. Is there something else we can do?’

  He paused. ‘She’s due back?’

  ‘I have no way of knowing. A while, I would think.’

  ‘What does a while mean? Minutes? Hours?’

  ‘Sir, I’ve told you what I know. Now if there’s nothing else?’

  ‘Nah. Know what? I’ll wait. Here.’ He switched his gaze to the girl, her countenance still troubled.

  ‘Time to get back to your duties, Miss deBurca,’ the woman said, prompting the girl to move away, but not before her hand half-gestured to him.

  He removed his rain gear and sat onto the edge of a paisley sofa. In an open area to his left three elderly women reclined before a log fire. And from somewhere within earshot the buzz of celebration filtered through. He set out to investigate, finding a large group of well-attired revellers. None Lenny.

  He returned to the lobby. But soon the sleepless nights began exacting a toll. And he had yet another journey ahead of him, down to Dublin, to Kate. He opened the adjacent credenza and found what he wanted, Claire Abbey notepaper and envelopes. His third battle with the words satisfied him, as much as satisfaction was possible:

  Tuesday, October 5 1993. 5.45pm

  Dear Lenny:

  I have not been able to stop thinking about you. Please call me: Dublin 830 4744, just to talk. I’ll be there until 7am tomorrow, then I leave for America.

  If I
could put off going, I would. I can’t. If you cannot call me (please try) call me in Arizona, 602 231 3490.

  Or write me, 7070 North Wesleyan Drive, Phoenix, Arizona 85281, USA.

  I’d love to hear from you. I really would.

  Tony MacNeill.

  He wrote Lenny Quin – Personal on the envelope and placed it on the inner counter of the untended reception desk. Just then his glance diverted; in the distance the young, green-eyed girl caught his eye; once again she seemed to gesture toward him. At that moment a train of shuffling bodies spilled between them, headed by the celebrating couple. When it passed, the girl was gone. He waited another minute, confused, torn for time, and left.

  At 6.17pm he trudged into Aranroe train station, sent a half-wave to William, and boarded the 6.20pm express to Dublin. As the train started, his eyes met William’s through the open window. The old station master tipped his tattered de Gaulle cap. An instant later they both waved. Tony watched until William was no more.

  After the blackness of the tunnel, an almost-hidden Mweelrea barely showed. He pledged to climb to the summit, just like at fourteen he pledged to come back home, and here he was, thirteen years after, good to his word. Soon again another good-bye, he thought, another forced departure. He pulled his mind from the passing countryside, into reflection. Some things, he had learned, could be lost, even the sacred, and other things, he knew only too well, persisted and persecuted. He needed to learn how to let go, how to discard, and what to save. Yet even when he tried hard, as he had done since he got out, there were always pools to drown in, as Joel Vida had cautioned him; for him it was Jesus Pomental, then the unbearable trial, then Shift Commander King Kong Yablonski’s vile reign and bloody end, and his father’s death, and stinking prisons; these were the things that wallpapered his mind, he had to deal with them, put them each in their place, and move on.

  * * *

  Though Kate tried a number of times to get inside his head, he did not accede. To him the facts of his own life were not worthy of the few hours they would share.

  He said nothing of Lenny. They spent time reminiscing about growing up in the heart of Dublin. Birthplace of Shaw, O’Casey and Behan, as their father had always boasted. The city that of the five emigrant MacNeills only Kate had reclaimed, a decade earlier as a twenty-nine-year-old with a new counselling qualification. They recounted their exodus as children from the city centre to the north shore, five miles out, to woods and hills and Bull Island, all bunched together in one previously impossible-to-imagine place, and how soon they grew to love the wonders of never-ending fields, and lakes and tree-swings and apple- and pear-orchards ripe for robbing, and old haunted mansions and chestnuts, plus their first house of their own, which they never stopped prizing. They talked about sisters Violet and Patricia, now both settled in America, the middle two between Kate at the top and him at the bottom, about Ronan’s dying and how warmly they remembered him, short life that he’d had. And mother, now in Florida, in her mid-sixties, buying a new condominium and doing very well according to her infrequent letters. And poor dead father’s gambling: horses, greyhounds, anything that kept the bookies in big cars, and his life-long battle for trade union solidarity on the docks. They recalled warmly, too, occasional trips to their maternal grandparents’ tiny farm in Sligo, and watching the countryside roll by out of dirty bus windows.

  Kate and Tony’s spirits mixed easily, the closeness that had long tied them as strong as ever. In these hours his darkness became a lie he’d been telling himself. It seemed certain, as it always did with Kate, that he could start over, neutralise the catastrophic events of Newark and prison, chart a new life through the wisdom that comes out of dark experience. After everything, all the horror, he could do that. Through losing he could win.

  Then, all too soon, it ended, conceding only to time.

  That morning, without sleep, Tony MacNeill departed for America, reliving every instant of the fifteen minutes spent with Lenny Quin. Just the beginning, he pledged, there was more to come. For no fear inside him and no danger outside was bigger than her imprint on his mind. He’d pursue it to the end.

  2

  1994

  Late Summer, Phoenix, Arizona

  The sun prowled compassionless, baked pavements and paint, turned car metal fry pan hot, and exiled humans to pools and climate-controlled interiors.

  In the large rooming house on Wesleyan Drive spears of light lanced past the edges of the opaque window shades. Noticeably braless under a white CSNY T-shirt, Eva Kohler glared from the bed, her towel-turbaned head propped against pillows.

  Jorge Ravarro’s fingers had stopped flicking the pages, his attention now fixed on the handwritten notebook.

  ‘Jorge, Jorge, come here,’ Eva sighed. ‘That shit’s more interesting than me? You look cute in a white shirt, big Mr Parole Man.’

  He ignored her, as though lost in the words he was reading. Then he started reciting, rhythmless, in a hard Latino accent:

  ‘The seeds we’ve sewn still bloom in silence

  as each new day begins and ends – ’

  She sniggered. ‘Come here, I said.’ She stretched her arms wide.

  ‘Your problem, you know what, is you are not educated.’ he said. ‘You try listen, you hear? You listen:

  The seeds we’ve sewn still bloom in silence

  as each new day begins and ends

  though Arizona nights never seem easy

  to navigate single-handed

  without even a stranger on a pier

  or a flock of seabirds in the air

  – or you.’

  She screwed up her face. ‘Shakespeare?’

  ‘Shakespeare? He knew about Arizona, you think, eh?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? You go to Catholic school to learn that shit.’ Her voice turned breathy. ‘Like you, mister big, tough Catholic, Me-hi-cano officer.’

  He ignored her, and continued:

  ‘Some create suicides by jumping from bridges

  or rolling under trains.

  Others by blasting bridges of thought

  or derailing trains of communication.’

  ‘Morbiddd!’ Eva snarled, putting on a face. ‘Mr Jor-ge baby, come, come.’

  ‘It’s sad, very sad. I know it’s right what this man says.’ He paused, then went on:

  ‘Loneliness is so punctual now;

  It arrives on Sunday morning

  and stays the whole week through.

  I try to fight it off

  with poems and prayers

  when I can find someone

  to pray to,

  but not even – ’

  The door opened in.

  ‘Tony!’ Eva scurried off the bed. ‘You’re home early.’

  ‘What are you doing in my room?!’ Tony powered toward Ravarro.

  ‘Gringo, you sit!’ Ravarro thrust out his hand, behind it a rough stare. ‘This,’ he said, holding the notebook out of reach, ‘is better than I seen my whole life.’

  Tony grabbed for the book.

  Ravarro thrust his hand into Tony’s chest. ‘Back up! You watch it, you hear, Irishman. Back up!’

  Tony knocked his hand aside.

  Ravarro hardened his pocked face, stood square. ‘I read because I respect you; you write beautiful things. And is true what you say.’

  Tony’s swipe knocked the book to the floor. Their hands locked into each other’s shirt.

  ‘You want to fight me, your parole officer, eh? You loco. You get killed. I kill you. Or you get back for another ten years. You want that, eh?’

  ‘Fuck you, we’ll see who kills who,’ Tony said.

  ‘You make trouble, gringo, I shoot you. You die, you not die, bad trouble for you. You let go. Sit down now, eh? Eh?’

  ‘Hey guys, guys, for fuck’s sake, it’s cool, it’s cool. Come on!’ Eva shouted.

  Tony released his grip, pushed Ravarro’s hands away. He bent to pick the book from the floor; Ravarro kicked it aside. They grabbed eac
h other again, faces inches apart. Ravarro pushed hard, backed Tony across the room, forced him down onto a chair.

  ‘Son of a bitch. You are a smart man, but you don’t act like no smart man, you act like a dumbass. I say I like how you write, you want to fight me.’ Ravarro backed away. As he picked up the book he glanced at the open page and shook his head. ‘This day, in losing and finding you I have become you, and all before the sun. Very beautiful.’ He handed the book to Tony.

  ‘This day, in losing and finding you I have become you, and all before the sun,’ Ravarro recited again. ‘I will remember. I will say to a friend: the loco Irishman, he write this. But when I say to a woman, I say Jorge he write these beautiful words.’

  On no response from Tony except an unbroken stare, Ravarro turned to Eva. ‘Muchacha, adios,’ he said and made to give her a lip kiss. She offered her cheek. He hesitated, then accepted, firing a look at Tony. ‘You watch what you do here, gringo. And you put ice on your temper, eh? Or one day maybe I shoot you.’

  ‘Barrio pig,’ Eva said when he had left. ‘No class, doing a thing like that.’ She approached Tony, arms crossed to opposite shoulders. ‘I told him twice, I told him stop, when he was going through your shit, before you got here, but you know the fuck-ass he is.’

  He remained seated in the chair, said nothing.

  Eva’s expression changed, her arms fell away from her chest. Her well-preserved middle-aged body moved toward him, breasts swaying under her cotton shirt. ‘I said you were very, very, very satisfactory, to all his questions: what you do, your work, all that shit.’

  He ignored her. She moved closer and without warning pulled his head to her breasts. He yanked back. She dropped to her knees in front of him.

  ‘Tony, screw that dickhead wetback. Don’t let him bum you out,’ she said. ‘Snap out of it. You’re too good. Okay?’ With that, her hands were groping at him through his work shorts. He swore, swept her away roughly. She persisted. He sprang up, started to move away. She hooked her fingers into his waistband.

  ‘Y’know I adore you; you’re strong. I watch you on the weight bench all the time.’ He wrenched hard. She held tighter. ‘Y’don’t have to be scared of me, you little shit.’ Her arms encircled him, face jammed to his back, and she groped again at his groin.