The Walking People

by Mary Beth Keane

  Greta watched through the gritty window of the stationery store as the dog walker gathered his leashes tight around his fist and moved on down the street. Michael plucked Julia up and over his head to his shoulders.

  "No, Johanna. Not yet," Greta said, and without saying goodbye, she hung up the phone.

  With Julia across the street at the Cookes' apartment and Michael and Eavan asleep, Greta stretched out on the couch and folded her arms behind her head. It was the perfect time to read the letter from Ireland, but she couldn't quite get up the energy. What was Johanna doing in Ballyroan? She hadn't been home in fourteen years, and to not have mentioned it seemed odd. The letters came and went. Sometimes they wrote as often as once a month, and sometimes four or five months would go by. They'd spoken on the phone a handful of times since that morning in 1967—Christmases, birthdays—but Julia quickly got too old to talk on the phone to someone she didn't know without asking a hundred questions later. By the time she could talk properly, she was like a sponge for all that was spoken or even felt inside the apartment. She's like a willow witch, Michael said once, except instead of searching for water, she watches us with those big eyes to figure out what's going on. Johanna had eventually stopped asking to see Julia, but Greta felt that she could get the notion in her head again at any moment. Once, out of the blue, when Julia was five, they received a letter from a lawyer who'd been hired by Johanna to pursue joint custody. Littered throughout the letter were the terms custodial, noncustodial, visitation, and something called a parenting plan. Every night for two weeks, after Julia went to bed, Michael and Greta pored over the letter to try to figure out what it meant.

  "They mean to confuse a person," Michael had said. "That's part of it."

  "Well then, they're doing their job," Greta said, looking again at the glossy navy blue lettering at the top of the page, the address in San Francisco.

  "What do we do?" Greta asked, wishing that Johanna had brought the letter herself so Greta could take her by the shoulders and give her a shake. She had a good mind to write and tell Johanna that even from the other side of the iron gate of the kindergarten playground, she could tell what Julia was feeling by the way she held her shoulders, the way she held her arms at her sides. Every afternoon, Greta stood waiting for her, watching the child's back as she reached with the others for the highest rung of the monkey bars.

  "Ignore it," Michael said, folding the letter into quarters and passing it to Greta. "She'll come to her senses."

  And he was right. Two weeks later they got another letter from Johanna, apologizing for the lawyer, explaining that she'd been through a rough patch recently, a failed romance, a raise in rent, a job she described as more boring than being cook at poor Mr. Breen's.

  "I got talking to this lawyer who came in to the restaurant for a drink, and he turned my head a bit about the whole thing," she wrote. "I would be a good mother now, but I'll never hire a lawyer again, Greta. Never. That was wrong and I'm sorry. I've always said it's up to you, and it is. And it would be a shock to her now, I suppose. Getting to know another mother."

  "Damn right it would be a shock," Michael had said when Greta showed him the letter. "That one must be out of her mind."

  And as usual, Greta moved to defend her sister. She was young when it happened. She was so full of ideas. She was terribly confused. Michael didn't know what a turn it must have been to her.

  And you? Michael always asked. Were you not young? Were you not full of ideas? Wasn't I?

  It was different for me, Greta said. She said it the night they got the apology letter from Johanna, and she'd said it on a hundred other occasions.

  Ah, Greta, Michael always came back, that's what I'm trying to tell you.

  Soon after the lawyer incident had passed, they decided it was time to come to some kind of decision.

  "Come as an aunt," Greta said to Johanna over the phone. "Come as Aunt Johanna and it won't confuse her, and let's take it from there. Can't we do that?" Lately Greta had been dreaming of speeding trains. Sometimes, to stop the train, she hung from the side and put her foot along the ground to slow it with friction. She'd seen that on Julia's Saturday morning cartoons. Sometimes the trains plunged off cliffs into the ocean, the tracks never turning away. Sometimes her train just sat in the station, empty, while all the other trains pulled out. Julia was talking in full sentences and smart as a whip. It was now or never. Michael felt it too. The air inside the apartment had changed. Greta could see the decision pressing down on his features in the quiet way he came in from work and opened a newspaper or stared off into space when he said he was sleeping. Calling Johanna "Aunt" was the solution she and Michael had discussed and agreed on. Johanna was within her rights when she said she wanted to see the child, but still, having her back in the apartment she'd left so abruptly—returned from a milk errand that had lasted so many years—made both Michael and Greta nervous. Boundaries would have to be erased and drawn all over again.

  "You mean not tell her who I really am? That I'm her mother?" Johanna asked when Greta told her the plan.

  "Yes, Johanna. Say you're her aunt, and she'll understand that that's why she doesn't see you."

  "Well, how long then until we tell her the truth?"

  Greta felt the same white heat travel through her body that she'd felt that night so many years earlier, hiding on the road while Johanna spied on the traveller camp.

  "That's what I'm telling you. That will be the truth. That's it. She's starting to notice the trips we take to talk on the phone, and even the letters. It's time we told her something, and this is what we decided."

  "What do you mean will be the truth? It's either the truth or it isn't."

  Greta stayed silent, waited.

  "Well, I don't know if I can do that," Johanna said.

  "Then we'll have to wait until you can."

  Greta dozed off on the couch, and when she woke, Eavan and Michael were still asleep. She turned to look at the clock. They'd gotten a telephone installed in 1973, the year Julia started fourth grade, and in a few minutes Julia would call from the Cookes' and ask if she could eat over. Greta would say no, she could not eat over, Julia would ask why, and Greta would say because I said so. That's not a reason, Julia would say. Well, it's my reason, Greta would say, and then she'd think of Lily saying no to the dances in Oughterard because it was no good for girls to be on the road like horse's shite. It happened like this almost every Saturday.

  Once, Julia arrived home after a Saturday afternoon at the Cookes' and announced that she'd already eaten. "It's not a big deal," she'd added, flipping her hair and skipping off to her room before Greta could say a word.

  "Yes it is a big deal," Greta said, following her in.

  "Why?" Julia asked. "Why is it a big deal?"

  But Greta didn't have a reason. It just was. She couldn't say why except that it gave her a feeling like the time she realized she was the one who'd left the gate open for the new calf to escape. Warm in her bed with Johanna grinding her teeth next to her, she had heard the calf bawling into the dark as Big Tom and the boys searched for her. Lately Julia was demanding explanations for everything, and when those moments arrived, Greta felt more than ever that she was playing a pretend game and that Julia would announce at any moment that the game was up. Lily would have given the girl a belt, Greta knew. Two or three smart slaps to the back of the legs, and that would be the end of it. Greta had smacked Julia a few times when she was little, always on occasions when Julia scared her so much she didn't know what else to do. Don't run out into the street. Don't open the door to strangers. Each time, the child's shock was plain on her face, her mouth a round and soundless O until she caught her breath and the wailing started. Good for you, the older women in the building said. And if she starts with the curse words, give her a smack on the mouth.

  At five o'clock the phone rang, just as Greta knew it would. Imagine! Only twenty-five steps across the street and using the telephone to ask. And knowing full well Eavan a
nd Michael were probably asleep! Greta jumped up from the couch and ran to the kitchen to catch it before the second ring.

  "Hello," she said, a statement. No question of who was calling.

  "That you, Greta?" It was not Julia.

  "Yes?" the line crackled.

  "It's me. Did you get my letter?" A dog barked in the background. Greta could make out the thin clink of teacup returned to saucer at the other end of the connection. She quickly added the hours ahead and wondered where Johanna could be calling from. Norton's closed at four o'clock in the winter.

  "Johanna? Is that you?" Greta said. "No, I didn't see any letter." Too much to explain, getting it but not wanting to open it yet. She wondered if Johanna ever had to work up the energy to face things, or if she just plunged right in. "Is something the matter?"

  "It's Mammy. She's sick, Greta. She's had a stroke. She can't talk yet, and the doctor still can't tell how much she'll recover. Are you there?"

  "I'm here. Where is she now?"

  "Galway. I'm there now at a B and B. She'll be here at least another week."

  "Another week?"

  "It's been nearly a week already."

  "A whole week? Why didn't—"

  "We wanted to wait and see. We thought she'd be up talking after a few days and tell us what she wants herself. Sorry. I should have called sooner. But I was in Ballyroan for the first two days and you know the phone situation."

  Silence, except for the occasional rush of static on the line. Greta had so many things to ask she didn't know where to begin. Where was she when it happened? Was there pain? Did the doctor come out to Ballyroan or did Tom bring her to town?

  "And Tom called you to come home?"

  "No. It's a strange thing. I was coming anyway for a visit. It happened just before I arrived. I took the bus from the airport to Galway, and Tom met me there to tell me. I wrote to you right away and dropped it in the post."

  Greta heard the locks slide in the door, the door pushed open, Julia drop her bag on the floor. "Anybody here?" Julia called out in a stage whisper once she'd gotten past the closed door behind which Eavan was sleeping. She was a good girl.

  "You don't seem surprised I'm in Ireland," Johanna said. "Anyway, we've gotten in touch with the boys. Padraic is tied up, but Jack is going to try his best."

  Greta waved Julia away from the kitchen.

  "His best to what?" Greta asked.

  "To come, Greta. What do you think we're talking about?"

  "But she'll be all right, won't she?"

  "Well, she might and she mightn't. I think he's coming just in case."

  Julia stalled at the open refrigerator and pretended to look for the date on the milk.

  "I'm breast-feeding," Greta said. "Eavan's only twelve weeks."

  "You could bring them. Bring them both. We'd all love to see them. And Michael too, if he has the time off."

  Michael did not have the time off. There was no such thing as time off. Either you worked and were paid for it, or you didn't work and were not paid. He'd taken a week off when Eavan was born, and with the threat of a layoff always looming, he could not afford to take any more time. She flashed to Julia, tugging down her Lee jeans to do her business in the fields just as Johanna and Greta had. It seemed not only out of place, but impossible.

  "So you dashed off the letter before you saw her? Then what's all in it? It's thick enough."

  "I thought it didn't come yet."

  Shit, Greta thought. "It came today, but I'm just after walking in the door from work." Julia turned from the fridge and mouthed "Aunt Johanna?" Greta nodded and shooed her out the door.

  "I started the letter on the plane and added to it when I saw Tom," Johanna said. "If it's a question of the fare, I'll be glad to help pay for a ticket. Julia will be an adult fare now. We could half it. Eavan can sit on your lap."

  "Wait," Greta said, and leaned against the counter. "Just wait a second. I have to think."

  Johanna waited.

  "How bad is she?" Greta asked.

  "Bad. If she was going to make a good recovery, she'd be partly there by now."

  "How's poor Tom?"

  "Worried. He was here yesterday but had to go back to feed and milk. He's looking for someone to look after the place for a few days."

  Julia came back into the kitchen and poured herself a tall glass of juice. She took a fork off the drying rack and mimed eating, then raised her eyebrows. She rubbed her belly and groaned. Greta picked a dishrag off the counter and whipped it at her until she left.

  "Why are you home, anyway?"

  "I told you. A visit. Look, things aren't going so well in California anymore. The restaurant closed, and I haven't found anything else yet. I needed a break."

  Another failed romance was Greta's first guess. Or maybe she'd just gotten antsy doing the same thing day in and day out. Brush your teeth, rub the washcloth, go to work, make your dinner, go to sleep. It wasn't what Johanna had in mind for herself when the packet boat carried them across Galway Bay to the ship anchored off the shore. Maybe she'd figured out what Greta had already figured out, that even when you find yourself living in a better place than the one you left, the people around you will still want to be someplace else. Listening to her sister breathe into the line, Greta realized that she might be hearing Johanna admit to failing at something for the very first time. She'd failed at being a success in America. In Conch, she'd be the subject of gossip whispered behind cupped hands. Years ago Johanna Cahill had abandoned a sister and a new baby in America, they'd say. And look at her now.

  Or maybe she hadn't failed. Maybe she'd just gotten sick and tired of California the same way she'd gotten sick and tired of Ballyroan. Maybe after a few weeks at home she'd set out for Germany or Australia. Or maybe she'd head back to America and start all over again with a better plan.

  "Well then, it doesn't sound as if you should be offering to halve plane tickets. Are you strapped?"

  "Not at the moment." A pause. "I'll stay here until I think of the next step. Poor Tom, Greta. You should see the cut of him. And the cottage! I barely recognized it. The boys' room and the whole western gable is totally—"

  Greta didn't want to hear about the cottage, though she couldn't say why. She declined the information just the same as if she'd plugged her fingers in her ears. "Aren't there loads of restaurants you could work in?"

  "We're not talking about me. We're talking about Mammy. Now, what do you think? Will you come?"

  "Look. I just don't know. I could bring Eavan I suppose, but Michael works nights, and I don't like the idea of Julia here alone."

  "I said bring her," Johanna said. "Please, Greta. Just bring her."

  Eavan began to cry and then abruptly stopped. Julia had picked her up.

  "I'll call you tomorrow," Greta said. "Four o'clock your time." She took down the number and said good night.

  "What was that all about?" Julia asked when she returned to the kitchen carrying Eavan. "Crisis?"

  Greta nodded.

  "She's always having a crisis. Is that why we never see her?" Julia turned and bounced Eavan out of the room.

  It couldn't be a trick, Greta told herself. They wouldn't take it that far. And Lily would never go along. And Johanna would never jinx Lily by making up a story about a stroke. And they weren't a family for tricks or lies. Not toward each other, at least. Okay, once, when Johanna went out to get milk and never came back. And yes, maybe when it came to night fishing or tucking a thing or two into a purse when the boxes in the Bloomie's back room were overflowing. But not when it really mattered. No, the stroke was real. The danger was real. The B and B in Galway and Tom's worry were real. Jack coming all the way from Australia might be real and might not. The most real thing was that Johanna wanted to see Julia. And so did Lily. And now they were together, pulling her in the same direction.

  The heat came clanking up through the pipes again. Mr. Ackerman knocked on the door to say that his radiator was leaking. As usual, he stood on
his tiptoes to look past Greta and into their apartment. Greta told him to put a towel down and promised to have Michael up there as soon as he woke.

  "I don't have an extra towel for that. Why should I use my towel? Then I have to do laundry a day early? Is it my fault the radiator—"

  "Hang on a second." Greta let the door close as she rushed down the hall in search of a spare towel. She plucked a damp one from the laundry. "Use this," she said when she returned to the door and Mr. Ackerman's impatient stare.

  Eavan started crying again. Greta changed her diaper. In the kitchen, Julia boiled water for pasta. She broke the spaghetti in half before dropping it in and then twisted the cap off a jar of sauce.

  "There's salad," Greta said, striding into the kitchen with Eavan tucked into the nook of her left arm like an American footballer.

  Julia dove headfirst into the fridge to search for that bright orange dressing she poured over anything in the vegetable family. Her bum wagged under the fluorescent light.

  "What's the news with Aunt Johanna?" Julia asked as she pulled a mostly empty bottle of French from the back of the bottom shelf.

  "Nothing. The usual. Work. Life." Julia was like Johanna in some ways. She was a perceptive girl. She might notice the similarities first thing if they ever met. Even now Julia was watching Greta as she began to eat. Her fork poised in midair, she chewed her food slowly, her left hand flat against the table, as if feeling for signs of a coming train, some telltale tremor where bodies connected to solid ground.

  "Did she want you to go somewhere? You were talking about airfare. Does she want us to go to California?"

  "Ireland," Greta said as she arranged Eavan in her carry-seat. Julia's face fell. The prospect of California was more exciting than Ireland, which, as far as Julia could tell, was full of rain and cows. California on the other hand was full of music, beaches, suntanned boys. No one in her class had ever been farther west than Ohio, except for one boy who was born in Colorado but moved to New York as a baby. Outside, a car squealed to a halt. A taxi, Greta guessed. Maniacs. When they were finished eating, Greta cleared the table and Julia got out her textbooks and the artillery of colored pencils she used to underline and make small notes for herself in the margins. Greta took Eavan to the couch for another feeding. Once Eavan had her fill, Greta burped her and put her down once more, even though she knew she'd pay for it around two o'clock in the morning. She told Julia she was going to for a quick sleep.