Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

  “Oh, please, Mum. Think of all the Hollister I could buy. Please . . .”

  But Kate would not relent. Even Mannix tried worming his way into Kate’s affections, pressing her to forgo her reservations and let him do some weekend hours at the nightclub. “Kate, just think of all those outlets, all those bags and shoes that you could buy.” His eyes twinkled, his face creasing into a grin. Kate remained firm.

  “The lady’s not for turning, Mannix. Anyway, this visit to New York is a cultural visit,” she said. Kate didn’t consider herself a consumer of high-street fashion, preferring instead to purchase pieces from fashion students at exhibitions or put together ensembles from charity shops.

  She was grateful things had settled down with Mannix’s new job. She should stop calling it his “new” job. He’d been there now since March, quite long enough to consider himself reasonably established. The calls and text messages that signaled many a hasty departure didn’t happen anymore. Although Mannix was scathing about his boss and not enamored by the job, it paid the mortgage, and he seemed to be on top of things. He’d even gone back to circuit training with the rowing club, something he’d let slide earlier in the year.

  Kate couldn’t help thinking that since September, ever since New York was mentioned, their relationship had stuttered into calmer waters. It had been a while since they’d worked as a team, toward a common goal. The forces that had strained their relationship were receding, leaving behind a warm intimacy and a sense of rapprochement.

  For the past few weeks, they’d been dog-earing pages from the Dorling Kindersley guide in bed at night, or printing off articles from the Web, and discussing them over a late-night glass of wine. Yes, she thought, as she filled the dishwasher after their meal, things had certainly taken a turn for the better.

  And just as quickly, out of the blue, it all changed. It was two days later—when Spike turned up.

  • • •

  It sounded like an argument. No—argument was the wrong word. A heated exchange, then. She was in the kitchen, looking for a clear plastic bag to put toiletries in for her carry-on luggage. Mannix had offered to go downstairs and get the doorbell. Curious when he didn’t return, she went to the doorway leading out to the small landing and the stairwell. They were deep in conversation, Spike leaning back against the handrail, one foot wedged against the opposite wall. Mannix sitting on the steps almost at eye level with his brother. His back was turned.

  Anxious not to be seen, Kate edged back a little, ears cocked.

  “No, Mannix. This is serious hassle.”

  “Welcome to my world,” Mannix replied.

  “I’m being threatened, Manny.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” Mannix said again.

  “Fuck it, Mannix. This is serious shit. They mean business. You can’t honestly say that you’d really like to trade places.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “Anyway, I thought you had your situation under control.”

  Spike was whispering.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Look, they know where I am. I need to lie low for a while. They’ll find another club. It’s just that the way the Bolgers see it, it’s time to return the favor.”

  “Fuck sake, Spike. It was a few lousy packages. I thought they’d forgotten and it’s hardly a fair trade anyway.”

  Kate felt herself go cold. The Bolgers. A notorious criminal family. So Spike was involved with the Bolgers. Spike was gung-ho, but getting involved with the Bolgers—this was nothing short of insanity.

  “Ask her, will you? For fuck sake, Manny. You’re my brother!”

  Ask who what? Kate held her breath.

  “All right, all right!” Mannix hissed. “I’ll ask her. But she’ll probably go completely mental. She’s already up to ninety about cleaning the house. We’re off in a few days, you know.”

  The sound of a downstairs door opening.

  “Oh, hi, Uncle Spike.”

  It was Fergus.

  Poor Fergus thought his uncle Spike was really cool. Time for Kate to make her presence felt. She went to the top of the stairs.

  “Oh, hi there, Spike. Come on up.”

  “On our way,” said Spike breezily. As he straightened up, he managed to knock a photo frame from the wall behind him, sending it sliding down the stairs.

  “Leave it. I’ll get it later.” She tried to hide her annoyance.

  Back in the kitchen, Kate offered Spike a coffee. A beer and he’d be there for the rest of the night.

  “So Spike, to what do we owe the pleasure?” She tried not to sound too catty.

  “Just thought I’d call around and see what you wanted me to do for your American guests.” Spike was smiling broadly. “It’s next Friday you’re off, isn’t it?”

  God, he was smooth. She wasn’t sure who was smoother—Mannix or Spike. She should really have listened to her mother.

  “Only seven more days and eleven hours to go, Uncle Spike.” Fergus was cutting himself some cheese squares.

  Kate would take him up on his offer. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind showing them around the house, show them where the central heating controls are—that sort of thing. I’ve made out a list. It’s on the notice board.”

  Spike was smirking now. He thought her far too organized. Too uptight. “And what about keys? House keys, car keys?” He looked at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “I could drive out in your car to get them, and drive them back here to Curragower Falls. Céad míle fáilte and all that.”

  “Well, if you’re sure . . .” She hesitated.

  “Consider it done.”

  “Are you staying to watch the match, Uncle Spike?” asked Fergus.

  “Man U?”

  “Who else?” Fergus grinned.

  “I’ve no electricity in my flat, so I’d love to.”

  “No electricity, what happened?” Mannix asked.

  “Dunno. Sparky says it could take a couple of days.”

  “Well, you obviously can’t stay there in the dark, now, can he, Kate?”

  Jesus, they were some double act. Both looking at her now, innocently.

  “Of course not.” Okay, she’d play their stupid game. “Of course you can stay, Spike,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “You’re some woman, Kate. Mannix is a lucky man,” said Spike.

  Really, what chance did any unsuspecting woman have against Spike? He was utterly convincing. And just how many unknown little cousins did Fergus and Izzy have out there now, she wondered to herself. Kate left them to their match, Fergus wedged between his two idols, happy with his bowl of cheese squares.

  Kate retreated to the stairwell and set about dusting the photo frames and rehanging the one that Spike had knocked over. It was the one of their wedding, with bridesmaid, best man, and her mother on the edge of the bridal party, trying her best to manage a smile.

  Kate balanced the frame on the picture hook as she scowled at Spike’s dimpled face grinning back at her. Unable to find the hammer, she’d tapped the nail as deeply into the wall as she could with a spanner. She hoped it would hold. There was no point in asking the men for help. They were busy bawling at the TV screen. Cries of “Send him off!” “The ref’s a bollix!” “You absolute muppet!” and “Come on, Man U!” were coming thick and fast from upstairs.

  As she worked, only one name kept going round Kate’s head. The Bolgers. Whatever was going on, Mannix was mixed up in it, and all evening she’d been asking herself, did she really want to know? What had she gained by eavesdropping? All she’d done was disturb her newfound calm. Whatever it was, the brothers could sort it out for themselves. This time, she was going to bury her head in the sand. But she wasn’t going to be taken for a fool.

  Later that night as she turned over to go to sleep, she looked at Mannix, who was poring over
a New York guidebook.

  “I’m not stupid, you know, Mannix.”

  “I know you’re not, Kate,” he replied.

  • • •

  Seven days later, at 2:30 P.M. local time, Aer Lingus flight 102 touched down at JFK. It was Mannix’s second transatlantic trip that year, having been in Boston on the training course in March. Kate had been as excited as the kids about the flight. The last time she’d been on a plane was three years ago when she and Mannix went to see the rugby in Rome. Her mother had moved in to look after Fergus and Izzy. Her mother didn’t come to the house at Curragower Falls too often and she’d been glad of the opportunity to get to know her grandchildren.

  During the flight Kate had watched a movie, but her mind kept wandering and she tried not to fret about the Harveys and their holiday.

  Of course Limerick couldn’t be compared to New York. Oranges and apples, her mother had said. But she hoped that Hazel Harvey would be pleasantly surprised by the many positive changes in the city over the last fifteen years. Unlike Mannix, Kate didn’t feel a blinkered passion for Limerick, but she did bristle when outsiders criticized the city. And she certainly loved her own little pocket of it, that sliver of shore by the Shannon.

  Once they’d cleared immigration, Mannix led the charge to the luggage carousel. Caged for six hours, he was now suffering a surfeit of energy. He marched ahead, with Kate, Fergus, and Izzy trying to keep up. Kate had enjoyed Mannix’s attention on the flight. He knew how much work she’d put in over the last week and how she’d suffered Spike’s company for six long days. It was true what her mother said. Guests were like fish. After three days, they go off. What had annoyed Kate most was Spike adding his boxer shorts to the family wash without even asking. He had no idea of boundaries.

  Halfway through the flight Mannix brought it up. “Kate—thanks for Spike . . .” He’d rubbed her hand, which was on the armrest between them. “It was a tough few days.”

  “I assume he got the electricity back?”

  “That’s all sorted now.”

  “Strange, wasn’t it,” Kate had remarked, “I mean how the nightclub downstairs was grand and the flat upstairs kaput?”

  “Different circuits, I guess,” Mannix had said.

  Now, as they hovered over the carousel, Mannix shuffled from foot to foot looking impatiently for their luggage. He ran his hands through his hair, fidgeted with his phone, and shot it repeated looks of irritation.

  “Found a mobile provider?” asked Kate.

  “Not yet, it’s scanning.”

  “You’re not having withdrawal symptoms already—what’s the panic? We’re on holiday . . .” Kate linked his arm and leaned her head against his arm.

  “No panic, Kate. Just a few little niggles at work . . .” His fingers mauled the phone.

  Mannix reported to a guy he considered to be inferior to him in almost every way. Add to that the fact that the guy was younger than him, and it was a recipe that didn’t do much for Mannix’s ego. He’d bemoaned the fact that he had to dumb down his résumé to get the job in the first place. But it was the times they lived in. Too many overqualified people looking for too few jobs.

  As Fergus helped his father pile the suitcases onto the trolley, Kate suddenly felt uneasy.

  “We can trust Spike to meet the Harveys at the airport? He wouldn’t mess that up, would he?”

  “No, of course not,” Mannix snapped, the sibling bond between them now invoked.

  Another thought then struck her.

  “God, he wouldn’t try to hit on Hazel Harvey, would he?”

  “Oh, come off it, Kate!” Mannix pushed the trolley through the sliding doors.

  “Why ever not? She’s good-looking—blond, petite . . .”

  “That’s daft, Kate. Why on earth would Spike do that? From what I saw on Skype, she looks just like you!”

  Kate raised an eyebrow. “And what does that mean? That I’m not attractive enough for someone else to hit on?”

  “Of course not. Stop fooling around, Kate. Anyway, for one thing he’s not into blondes.” Mannix waved for a taxi. “Brunettes and dark-skinned girls are more to Spike’s liking.”

  If only Mannix knew, she thought to herself as she got into the taxi.

  The driver of their yellow taxi had quite stilted English, and had only recently arrived from Damascus. Still, he managed a stab at a commentary as they drove through Queens.

  “It’s just like on telly,” said Izzy, looking at the wooden houses with open gardens.

  “Flushing Meadows, sir . . .” The driver pointed it out to Mannix. But Mannix was still grappling with the phone.

  “You like Federer, sir?” the driver asked him.

  “Yeah. Yeah, he’s great.” But Mannix wasn’t really listening.

  “A legend,” Fergus joined in from the back, next to Kate and Izzy. “Federer is an absolute legend.”

  Awhile later they drove over the Harlem River. The driver was now directing his stilted commentary to Fergus, who wanted to know the landmarks.

  “Can we see the Empire State? Can we see it yet?” Fergus edged forward, straining the seat belt.

  “No, sir. We’re uptown, in Harlem. The Empire State is in Midtown.”

  Lackluster blocks were characterized by dull red brick and functional cheap signage over the commercial units. Groups of people straggled the pavements, moving with little sense of urgency or purpose. They looked like they were hanging out rather than going anywhere.

  Ten minutes later, the character of their surroundings changed.

  “Broadway,” announced the driver, looking in the rearview mirror.

  Mannix was still texting. Finding herself irritated, Kate leaned forward to speak through the opening in the Perspex partition between the driver and the backseats.

  “This is Broadway, Mannix!” she said with exaggerated enthusiasm.

  “Fantastic, isn’t it?” he said without looking up.

  These buildings were beautiful in a way she hadn’t expected. Huge, ornate, imposing. In European terms, New York was in its infancy, and yet these buildings had all the grandeur and elegance of ancient Paris.

  “Wow, awesome,” said Fergus, head craning back. “Look how high that building goes!”

  “Are we nearly there?” Izzy whispered urgently in her ear. “I’m dying for the loo.”

  “Is there far to go?” Kate asked the driver.

  “Nearly there, ma’am.”

  They entered a narrower street and immediately the neighborhood changed again. The street was darker, leafier, and numbered canopies graced the entrances to the buildings. The feel was residential. They cruised past a pocket of restaurants and a café. The steps leading up to the grand brownstone buildings were decked out with hollowed-out pumpkins and Halloween decorations. The taxi turned right and seconds later they pulled up outside a five-story apartment building across the road from a tree-lined park.

  A uniformed doorman emerged from the canopied doorway and bustled about as Mannix paid the taxi driver.

  “The O’Brien family, I presume?” said the doorman, smiling broadly. “I’m Du Bois.”

  “You okay with that, young miss?” He took Izzy’s suitcase.

  “Welcome to Manhattan,” he said once inside the airy lobby with its wood paneling and marble desk. “The Harveys are on the top floor. I’ll take you up—a very nice apartment too.”

  Kate felt sure this was something of an understatement. She looked at Mannix, raising her eyebrows.

  “The toilet?” came Izzy’s strangled tones as Du Bois pushed open the heavy oak door to the Harveys’ apartment.

  “The restroom is down the hall, fourth on the right, young miss.”

  As Izzy jiggled down the hallway, Du Bois showed them around. The space afforded was at least three times that of their house in Limerick. The
home-exchange site hadn’t done it justice, unable to capture the generous scale of the rooms or the height of the ceilings. The apartment was even more tasteful and elegant than it appeared on-screen. The French windows that led out to the small balcony provided a panoramic view of the park, the river, and what Kate surmised were New Jersey skyscrapers in the distance. Kate wondered at the cost of such an apartment with its open aspect in this vertical city. She worried even more now that the exchange seemed unfairly balanced in their favor.

  As Du Bois escorted them from room to elegant room, the heavy scent of fresh-cut flowers lingered in the air. There, in a simply cut crystal vase on the island in the kitchen was an artful arrangement of long-stemmed tiger lilies. An envelope leaned against the vase. Kate suffered a sharp pang of regret. She thought back to the bottle of supermarket wine and the welcome card she’d left on her own kitchen table.

  Opening the envelope, she quickly scanned the headed notepaper:

  Dear Kate, Mannix and family,

  What a pity I won’t be here to meet you. From our conversations I feel like I know you already. By now Du Bois will have shown you around. He will be only too happy to oblige with any queries or advice—he’s my right-hand man!

  I’ve left a list of restaurants on the sideboard in the hallway together with the car keys should you choose to travel farther afield. By the way, the Italian on West 74th is a great neighborhood restaurant. Nothing fancy, but it does a great calzone.

  Am so looking forward to our trip to Ireland. I haven’t been back in fifteen years.

  Have a wonderful time! And don’t forget the Circle Line—highly recommended.

  Best wishes,

  Hazel

  “What a lovely welcome,” said Kate, comparing it with the bald welcome card she’d left at home. She should have made more of an effort. “She seems like such a warm person. Oh, I really hope she enjoys her time in Ireland.”

  “Not as much as me . . .”

  “What’s that, Du Bois?” Kate turned round.

  Du Bois was picking a hair from his lapel. His expression was solemn. “No one deserves a vacation more than Mrs. Harvey.”