Jaysus. Weren’t you afraid?
She considered this. No, she said, perhaps then but not anymore. Sure there’s nothing to be scared of anymore.
Why do you think he did it?
I don’t know, probably because of all the talk. All the talk that she was hoorin around on him.
Do you believe that?
What difference does it make what I believe? She pulled at the blankets angrily. I barely remember her. She closed her eyes and I stared at the angle of her blue-veined neck, the livid white scar beneath her chin. She said, Go to sleep. I turned my head into the crook of her breast and shoulder and listened to the rain, imagining what might be passing before her closed eyes, and Cait tossed her head in irritation. Jaysus, Michael, be still, would you. The blankets grew warm beneath our bare undersides, and, after a while, Cait fell asleep. Listening to the rain and to Cait’s breathing, feeling her body wrapped within my own, I stared up through the slats and raindrops shimmering there at the edge of the roof and the gutter, at the edge of night, and felt all the things we could not say pressing down upon us.
Brendan lay on a ratty, threadbare settee in a pair of ridiculous-looking casts. He smelled stale: of sweat and sleep and old beer. One bare bulb hung from a ceiling cord in the center of the room. Each time Brendan moved, the settee sagged further and further beneath him so that it seemed as if it might swallow him completely. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, but it was useless; he cursed and groaned and sipped from a bottle of Guinness.
Brendan’s wife, Sheila, sat in a chair by the fire breast-feeding Darragh, their youngest. Aunt Sheila often joked that the boy was two going on six; he looked that big as well, with a head on him that could break rocks. His legs and arms were covered in raw-looking flea bites.
Sheila drank from a bottle of ale as she fed; a cigarette smoldered in a full ashtray on a side table next to her. Every time Sheila spoke, I looked up and saw her shriveled breast and felt my face growing red.
Brendan told Sheila to get up and put on the kettle for tea and she told him to do it himself, couldn’t he see she was feeding the babby.
Babby me arse, Brendan muttered, it’s a sick connection you have with the boy.
You shouldn’t be talking that way about your own son, Brendan Dolan, Sheila scolded.
I never saw a Dolan that looked like that, Brendan said and gulped from his bottle. When Sheila didn’t move, he shouted, Would you put the effin kettle on! Put him on his feet and give him a bottle of something, for fucksake, he should be drinking out of a cup, not sitting on your lap sucking on your tit.
Margaret! Sheila crowed, Margaret!
My cousin’s footfalls banged on the stairs. She came into the living room but didn’t look at us.
What you want? she asked.
Put on the kettle so’s we can all have a cup of tea.
Margaret stomped to the kitchen.
And say hello to your aunt and cousins!
Hello! Margaret shouted.
Say it properly, Margaret!
Don’t be at me, sure you’re always bleeding at me. Leave me alone and I’ll make the tea, so.
On the mantel were bottles full of sailing ships, half a dozen replicas from the Spanish, British, and French armadas. The fireplace was painted gold, the center tiles above the flue cracked and blackened as if from some intense heat. I imagined the flames curling out of the grate and licking at the walls and Brendan and Sheila in a drunken stupor with the babby wailing and the children screaming and neighbors banging at the door. The only thing nice about the place was the wallpaper. It was red-and-gold filigree with velvet fleur-de-lis, but even that was darkened by dirt.
Sheila shrieked. She thumped Darragh’s head and pushed him off her, so that he began to wail. She squeezed her breast, scrutinized the distended nipple, and then put his mouth back on her. I stared at Brendan’s legs stretched over the edge of the settee looking like white bolts of cloth.
How’re your legs? my mother asked. Brendan shrugged, gulped from his bottle of Guinness. He’d broken both feet and both legs, shattering them the way a wedge driven into a splint of wood will shatter the length of it. I saw him still, lying on the road and laughing between the sobbing and the pain. He’d be in the casts for months, and then six months of rehab across in Wexford City, perhaps longer. The whole thing had only been for a bit of craic, but now the Gardaí were after him for slandering an officer, indecent exposure for showing his privates to Katty, and willful destruction of public property for the damage he’d caused to the road.
Mother shook her head. Flashing Katty Kinsella, what’s next?
From way up there, sure what could anyone see at all, sure wasn’t it just for the gas.
Oh, my mother said, and a right gas man you are, Brendan Dolan. Too bad you didn’t land on that hard head of yours.
Sheila cackled instead of laughing, and then broke into a wheezy coughing fit. She handed Brendan her cigarette and he inhaled deeply. Sheila grinned and showed us what was left of her teeth. In some strange way I was sorry for her; I was sorry for the both of them. I knew my mother could not stand to see her brother this way. She sat stiffly at the end of her seat as if she might, at any moment, have to make a dash for the door. She often said that marrying Sheila had been the ruin of Brendan; I thought that perhaps they were the ruin of each other and that it was ruin they welcomed and embraced. At least they were together, and that was something more than what my mother had.
Where’s the tay? Brendan asked.
He needs as much looking after as the babby, Sheila said, as if Brendan had not spoken at all. Don’t you, my big wee mucker.
Lay off, for fucksake.
Sheila leant over and, crushing Darragh against her breasts, tousled Brendan’s hair; Darragh woke and began crying. She plucked the cigarette from between Brendan’s lips, sat back by the fire, and took a deep drag. She squinted at the babby as if it were a stranger, exhaled smoke slowly out the side of her mouth. And what are you going on about, my good man? she said, and pushed his head down to her breast. When he found her nipple, he was quiet again.
Men and children. She shook her head and sighed. Well, I suppose you’d know all about that, Moira.
No, Sheila, my mother said. I shouldn’t suppose that I would.
Oh. Right, right. I didn’t mean anything by it.
Of course not.
Never mind now, Moira, Brendan said. Sure, here’s Mag with the tea. Ahh, for fucksake, Margaret—where’s the effin biscuits?
We have none, Daddy. I told you yesterday, we have nothing in the house. Margaret dragged her long black hair out of her collar and sighed. Her face was flushed; I thought she looked pretty.
She glared at me. And what are you looking at, boy? she said and thumped across the room and back up the stairs. I could hear her banging around up there and then a door slammed.
So, Michael—Aunt Sheila leant close and whispered as if she had something important to say. She scratched at her calf where her nylons were torn, and a patch of scaly pink skin shone through, looking raw and sore. I’d heard that happened to old women who hadn’t the strength to move away from the fire when it got too hot. She placed her hand on my knee and kept it there, kneading relentlessly. She smelled of stale sweat and urine and nappies. Her teeth were rotted away; when she grinned the two front ones shone black as obsidian.
My mother passed an envelope over to Brendan. Thanks, Moira, I heard Brendan say. This will help tide us over until I’m back on me feet. You’re an angel, a real fucking lifesaver.
That’s the last of it, Brendan. That’s all I have.
Oh, I understand, Moira. I understand.
No, I don’t think you do—that’s money saved from the hay, from me knitting, from the few drills of potatoes we dug up, and from what else I’ve been able to hoard away over the years—that really is the last of it.
Well, like I said, Moira, I’ll begin paying it back to you straight away. The lads say there’s work some
thing fierce in London. Once these casts come off, once me legs are right, I’ll have the money back to you in no time.
So, Michael—Aunt Sheila breathed in my ear. She smelled ripe. Her white breast flopped before me and I stared at the red swollen tip—I hear you’re going with Mag Delacey’s young one?
February 1981
It was dusk and I wandered the fields down by Greelish’s cottage checking my snares. They were all empty but for one, outside a burrow at the base of a high loamy bank shadowed by overhanging trees and gorse. The rabbit was only dead a short time, its white chest turned rust with blood, its eyes and mouth black with flies. I paused, wiped my hands, and slowly rolled a cigarette with tobacco from Oweny’s pouch, the Old McGwyer’s Brown that smelled of him. I was an expert at rolling them now, now when I no longer had him to share them with.
As I pulled the brass coil from the rabbit’s bloodied neck, I heard a motor gunning down the old lane toward the cottage. I climbed the slope with the rabbit dangling from my hand, stepped through thorns and bracken, and peered across the sedge.
A van backed up to the side of Greelish’s, by the old cowshed, and I was surprised to see Uncle Brendan stepping out of the cab, hobbling slightly, his familiar black cap pulled low over his brow. I wanted to laugh as I looked at him. He left the van idling and blue smoke feathered the air; the smell of petrol and oil drifted up the hill. He began unloading the contents of the van into the shed, dipping low beneath the collapsing capstone, large tarp-wrapped bundles in his thick hands.
The small doorway was just large enough for a cow to pass beneath, small enough to keep wind and rain out. Uncle Brendan disappeared and when he emerged again from the darkness, straw matted his clothes, stuck at crazy angles from his cap. He did this a dozen or more times and then, securing the door of the shed behind him, quickly climbed into the van, spun it around in a tight circle, tires spinning up muck, and rattled back down the narrow laneway.
It took a long time before the sound of his motor was gone. I stared at the shed door, then looked at the rabbit dangling from my hand, at its raggedy, gaping neck. I knelt and worried the knife into its fur and, with a ripping sound, cleaved it from crotch to chest. Its entrails steamed onto the bright green grass.
When I was done I wiped my hands clean, took the rabbit up by its legs, and hurried home, a dusk-mist spilling quickly behind, and the small packed bones of the rabbit’s soft blood-speckled head banging against my side.
We were coming by car into town from the Rouer when Lugh, weaving his bicycle almost into the ditch, brought the news. Dear Lord, my mother said, and my uncle Brendan who’d been singing stopped. He rattled the gears and brought the car slowly over the rise. The sky was purple and bruised but just above the tree line it was becoming bright. As we came down the hill, we could see the flames toward the northeast, at the bend of the river beyond the docks, and Lugh was right: the Grand Hotel was burning.
The fuckers, they’ve done it, Brendan said. They’ve really done it.
Mary Mother of God, my mother muttered.
We watched entranced as Brendan took the turn onto the Waterford road. Across the river, people were milling about on the quay, and as the hotel came into view, Brendan slowed the car and stared at what was occurring a quarter of a mile or so up the river. Cars and cattle lorries were stopped on the bridge.
Brendan pulled the car over to the edge of the riverbank, and we walked to the center of the bridge, where more people had gathered. I noticed Martin Delacey and my teacher, Mrs. Murphy. They were pointing to something in the water. It was John Longley’s boat, and it was on fire. Flames had reduced it to almost nothing. Loose from its moorings at the hotel, it drifted down the river and was turning aimlessly in the water. From the top of the town came the sound of fire engines. I squeezed the sleeve of my mother’s jacket but she said nothing. Brendan moved over to other men in from the country who whispered and nodded amongst one another.
The boat moved slowly toward us, and on it I was sure I saw movement: two shapes falling and collapsing in upon themselves—a moment of struggle, and then nothing. The boat spun in wider and wider circles. The timbers cracked and splintered in the heat.
Ma, I said, there’s someone still on that boat.
No, no, there’s not. She was silent. The flames licked down to the waterline. The main s’l split and fell hissing into the gray water that shone white with fire. Sure, there can’t be, she said. Dear God, there can’t.
Brendan came back from talking with the men. He was grim. It was those bastards all right, he said. The lads were saying three of them came down from the North last night. They’re probably already back beyond the border.
I looked at John Longley’s boat, then I looked about the bridge, scanned the banks of the river and the quay for anyone who was not familiar.
We’ll probably hear it on the news this evening.
Mother stared at him. Not like this we won’t. Are you thick? Do you think they called it in? Cop on, would you. This is out and out murder, and they can’t call it anything else. They know that. They’ll never claim responsibility, the cowards. And I doubt your friends will talk either. Mother waved him away. Go back to your lads, with their big talk. They haven’t a clue. Next it will be themselves.
Now, Moira, sure they’re no friends of mine.
Mother grunted, tossed her head, and turned back to the river.
I noticed that people began to look ill—a gray pallor covered them, and it took me a moment to realize that it was the ash and soot in the air, the hot cinder falling almost invisibly.
We watched as the boat spun beneath the bridge, felt the heat upon our skin as the flames leapt up to the guardrails and licked at the mortar. When the boat passed out of view, we crossed to the other side. There was no hurry or excitement. A strange and sad silence had fallen over everyone, as if this was some tragic but inevitable end, and everyone was helpless before it.
The remains of the boat moved out into the open waters. The flames had died somewhat and I imagined I saw John Longley’s blackened body curled around what was left of his wife and the small shape of his daughter. Their skins glowed wet and resinlike, their contorted mouths screamed without sound; and I sensed that I could smell them.
Do you see that, Ma?
There’s nothing there, Michael. Will you stop, there’s nothing to see.
But there is, I persisted.
People began praying, their hushed voices punctured only by the sirens of the fire engines and the Guards approaching along the river road.
Mother shook her head but continued to stare anyway. That poor, poor child, she said. Those savages, those bloody savages. She thumped the rail uselessly with her hand until the flesh turned red. My uncle tugged on her sleeve like I had done and led her back to the car.
People watched the boat until it was a burning speck down the river. When I looked up, night had fallen completely and the orange halogens upon the bridge were lit. I didn’t recognize the faces around me; they were all strangers. Everything looked the color of ash and bruise. Even when the Guards came, people were reluctant to move. The Guards were wearing dark cloths across their noses and mouths and their voices were muffled.
They cleared us off the bridge. The smell of cordite and ash, sulfur, and the sweet stench of paraffin came off their clothes; it filled the air and I wanted to vomit. I walked back to the car, passing people I knew, yet as I went I recognized no one. Not one person called out to me, or touched me in greeting, or told me what they’d seen or perhaps that the boat was merely an empty boat and that John Longley and his family were safe and protected by the Gardaí in the barracks up the town. We would see him on Sunday at Mass, or at the next Grand Ballroom dance. Perhaps he’d gone to the Curragh for the horse races, or was coursing the dogs in Cork. But no one said anything at all. They all crossed the bridge to Rowan, or to the country, as silently and deliberately as if they were strangers to one another.
When I looked, there
was no glimmer of reflection in their eyes that they had seen what I had seen, but I also knew that in that lack of recognition there was an unspoken familiarity. In it was the timeless silence that bound us all.
all the way from america
April 1981
Only on the Thursday before Easter was my mother eager, excited even, to attend church, and we knew it was for the Maundy foot washing. She wanted to see Father O’Brien bent over someone’s foot, washing it with water from a white porcelain basin. The big face on him turning red with the effort, the spittle caked at the edges of his mouth, as he stroked the wrinkled and callused, corn-encrusted foot of some poor country woman or knacker with the gout.
That morning I’d seen her lugging the lavatory bucket from the outhouse down to the bottom of the field, where she burnt the waste. She was wearing her Wellingtons and the yellow rubber gloves she wore when she went mad cleaning the house. Her small body swayed from side to side with the weight of the toilet. Cows came closer to the fence thinking she might have something for them. I could hear her voice from the top of the field, filled with good humor. Go on, out of that, Pat. I smiled. She sometimes called the cows the names of old friends. She would say, Now, will you look at the gob on that one, it’s pure Willie Ryan, and that one there, sure it might as well be Brid Long standing there herself. I never saw people in her cows no matter how hard I looked, but I was glad that such a fancy might take her away. She was in a good mood to be playing with the cows so relaxed, and I went to get the mop so that the shed would be clean when she returned with the lavatory bucket.
From the shed she was a small bending figure in Wellingtons and a housecoat; I saw the yellow gloves in movement and then a spark, paper and tinder igniting, an orange flame, and smoke began to rise from the pit, pale and ashen, into the low gray sky.
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