Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  He didn’t dare kick the swollen wooden door for fear it would fall to bits, and so he pushed his thigh against it, his jeans absorbing most of the wet, the warmth the beer had sustained within dwindling to nothing. He pushed a little harder, and the door groaned, shifting a quarter of an inch. Another push, another quarter of an inch; he shoved with his hip and the door yawned open. Seamus stepped into the hallway and flicked the light switch. There was a quick flash of illumination before he was plunged into darkness again, to the accompaniment of a steady dripping sound coming from upstairs.

  “Ah, Jesus,” Seamus hissed. “That’s all I f…”

  Forcing the front door closed, he edged along the hallway, to the cupboard under the stairs and the fuse box. The damned thing had tripped. He pushed the switch down, only for it to instantly spring up again. Once more, same result, and Seamus gave up. If he could have been bothered to find his torch, he might well discover it was only a blown fuse, but what did it matter? There was only him to worry about, and he was ready for his bed. Thinking ahead, he grabbed a bucket from the back porch, went upstairs and, between listening and waiting until water hit him, located the leak. He put the bucket under the constant drip, ambled off to bed, and crashed out.

  <<< >>>

  For a moment, Seamus lay in the dark, staring at the dull charcoal ceiling overhead, and assumed his own snoring had awoken him. It was likely, given he’d gone to sleep on his back, for he’d heard it plenty of times over the years.

  Seamus, roll the fuck over, will ya?

  Ah, the wonders of sharing digs with cowboys.

  He rolled onto his side and pointlessly glanced at the black square of what should have been the clock’s LED.

  “Phone,” he said, reaching one arm over the side of the bed to search his clothes—he’d left them on the floor—grappling with his jeans pocket to free his phone and catching the unlock button in the process. He squinted at the blinding screen, his intention to check what time it was instantly lost when he saw the missed call notification. His vision was blurred, but he could still see that it was an international call, USA…

  “Paddy?” That was his first thought, but no, it couldn’t be; it was a 620 area code: the Flint Hills in Kansas. Seamus sighed heavily and flopped onto his back, his arm dangling over the edge of the bed, phone still on his upturned palm. What do I do? Call back? Ignore it? What’s for the best? Who the hell knows? I don’t anymore… The phone slid from his hand, and he let it drop to the floor, where it landed with a gentle thud.

  <<< >>>

  “Morning,” Seamus greeted the other farmhands as he climbed up into the back of the minibus, and a chorus of mornings came back at him. He took his seat next to the door, where there was a little more space to accommodate his six-foot-four frame. “How are we all this morning?” he asked generally, attempting his usual bright and cheery, when in truth he felt miserable as sin.

  “Aye, all right,” Michael responded with a nod. At nineteen years of age, he was the youngest of the lads, whereas Seamus, at twenty-seven, was the eldest. The rest were in their early twenties and they worked only as hard as was necessary to live. Given the chance, they’d turn up late and go home early, which was why Seamus suggested putting on the minibus for them: to ensure they all did a full day’s work.

  Young Michael was a different kettle of fish. He was saving up for a road trip across the States, and spent all day, every day, bombarding Seamus with questions, but he’d be grafting at the same time. He was a little on the shy side, though, and without Seamus’s usual early morning banter to kick-start him, he remained quiet, as did everyone else, until they arrived at the farm.

  “Are you all right, Seamus?” Michael asked, almost jogging to stay alongside on their way out to the field they’d been harvesting for the past week.

  “I’m fine, thanks, Michael,” Seamus said. “Wish this feckin’ rain’d let up, though.”

  “Yeah,” Michael agreed. “Does it rain like this in America?”

  Seamus chuckled. “Depends where y’are, Mike. It’s a big old country, is America.”

  Michael smiled and nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

  “How much you got saved so far, then?” Seamus asked.

  “Eighty-six pounds and forty-one pence.”

  Seamus raised an eyebrow and said not a word. The poor kid only earned a pittance and had to pay his keep, but at the rate he was going he’d be lucky to make it to Dublin for the plane.

  Once they reached the field, Seamus moved the tractor into position and set the crop conveyor belt running, and they went to work, lifting cabbages and cutting off any bad leaves. Michael worked steadily at Seamus’s side, asking the occasional question as it popped into his head, but otherwise saying little. They had their tea break on the move, hoping to get an early finish, stopping at midday for a quick lunch at the pub down the lane.

  “There ya go, fellas.” The landlord put the last pint on the bar as they came through the door. It was their usual routine: couple of jars, a burger, and back to work.

  “Cheers,” Seamus said, picking up the closest pint and glugging thirstily. The rest of the lads followed suit and wandered off to the pool table, while Seamus remained at the bar.

  “You’re quiet today, Seamus. What’s up?” the landlord asked.

  “Just tired. Got a leaky roof and the fecker was drippin’ all the damn night. And didn’t I get up this morning and kick the bucket?”

  “You look alive and well to me, so you do. I say well…you look like shite.”

  “Yeah, thanks very much. Think I’ll go join the lads, see if I can’t get a few more insults thrown at me.”

  Seamus gave the landlord a wry grin and went over to the others, who were already well into the first of the three games they got in every lunchtime. He watched one of them take a bad shot and accidentally pot the black, the clunking of the ball as it rolled its way through the machinery of the table setting Seamus’s teeth on edge. The landlord was right: he was dog-tired and probably did look like shite. He’d barely slept after the missed call, trying to decide whether to return it or not. His mind played tricks on him, one minute convincing him it was urgent and he should call back, the next telling him to stay strong. He’d made the move. He’d come back to Ireland. That’s what he’d wanted all along.

  He had wanted it. Ever since Mam died, his sights had been set on coming home. He’d only stayed for Paddy’s sake, and now that Paddy had Aidan, there was nothing to keep Seamus in the States, although it took no longer to get to his brother now than it had from Kansas. Never mind that he’d already made the decision before he knew Aidan even existed. No. It was a good decision. He was just—

  He already knew, before he pulled his phone from his pocket: same Kansas number, same caller. His thumb hovered over the red button. Reject the call. Reject the call.

  He answered.

  “Seamus Williams.”

  “At last! I thought I was calling a wrong number. Man, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “Er, yeah. Yours too. What’s up? Has something happened?”

  “Nothing new. I just…”

  The rapid-hard thump of Seamus’s heart filled the pause, two seconds, three, four, and more. He drew breath to speak, but there was nothing to be said. Or nothing he should say.

  “I miss you, Shay.”

  Chapter Two:

  Damn Responsibilities

  The first call had been a drunk dial. Thank the heavenly father that Seamus Williams hadn’t picked up. Lord, the shit that might have come tumbling out of Chancey’s mouth. Now he was dead sober, but only slightly more composed. Had he really just said he’d missed Seamus? He tried for a laugh. It sounded as fake as it felt. Well he had missed Seamus. Nothin’ wrong with that.

  “You gonna say somethin’?” He knew he was putting on the accent. Drawing out his vowels, droppings his ‘g’s. His grandmother—who was from south Texas and who had an accent so deep it was digging itself a hole to the centr
e of the Earth—used to yell at him when he’d get lazy with his words.

  You jus’ sound ign’rant, Chancey Bo Clearwater. Full name, cue snickering cousins, and young Chancey sank down low in his chair, ashamed at the way he sounded despite the fact they all talked just alike. The accent followed him when he moved to Oklahoma, where he picked up a whole set of strange ‘O’s, and even having lived in Kansas now for the better part of his life, it was still there underneath, waiting to crop up in stressful situations.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you, that’s all.”

  “Surprise.” He was trying for friendly, for calm. Trying to keep the I wanna put my fist through the wall and did you really mean to let me find out through Lulu? out of his voice.

  “Isn’t this call costing you a thousand dollars?”

  “Skype. On my phone. I bought minutes, y’know?”

  “Is that right, then?”

  “But I didn’t think. It’s probably charging you, too.”

  “It’s fine.”

  Is it? Seamus sure as hell wasn’t saying much. There was a long pause as Chancey considered his next move. He’d called because he’d wanted to talk. Not talk. Not like that. Nothing to say on that front. Seamus had made it all as clear as crystal dropped in the mud when he’d left his parting message with Lulu down at the pool hall, Rack ’Em. In a last-ditch effort, Chancey said the only thing he could think: “Boss Tina asked after you the other day when I went around for work.”

  That got a laugh out of Seamus, which gave Chancey more relief than he cared to admit. “She was always easy to charm.”

  “Damn straight she was, and your pay check reflected it, if I recall.”

  “I dunno what yer talkin’ about.” For a moment Seamus sounded like his old, jovial self and Chancey leaned against the kitchen table, pleased by what he heard. “We were all paid fairly and equally and—”

  “And never ever under the table.”

  The work he got at some of the private ranches wasn’t his favourite: feeding the horses, mucking stalls, cleaning tack—basic stable hand stuff, but he’d take it any damn day of the week over working a dude ranch or a luxury resort ‘ranch’. How many times had he put on a ridiculous costume, thickened up that accent, and invited all y’all city folk to join me for a mosey on this here trail?

  Menial jobs and piss-poor pay beat having the dignity drained out of him.

  “What have you been up to, Chance?” Seamus asked. “Besides working at Tina’s. You still playing pool?”

  Was that subtle code for did you get my message? Well, hell, it wasn’t much of a message anyway. Whether he got it or not didn’t really matter.

  Chancey’d come in for a game after a long, shitty week up at the Rabbit Hills Ranch. It was one of those ‘working’ ranches where guests could pay one hundred dollars (on top of the price of their room) to polish buckles and oil the leather on saddles. And kids were welcome. Chancey struggled with kids. He could never accurately guess their ages, which made talking to them impossible. Either he was putting on his baby voice to ten-year-olds, or he was trying to talk politics with pre-schoolers.

  The evening in question, he’d come off a fourteen-hour shift at Rabbit Hills and all he wanted to do was take the edge off with a few beers and a game. He wasn’t expecting Seamus to be at Rack ’Em necessarily. But sometimes they ran into each other there when they hadn’t worked the same ranch that day. Chancey might have been hoping, though. And when he’d asked Lulu for a beer, he might also have said, “Seen any of the guys around lately?”

  “Lookin’ for someone in particular?” she asked.

  “Just been a while since I saw Seamus Williams.” Was she looking at him suspiciously? He thought fast. “Man owes me twenty dollars.”

  “Well, hon, I think you’re gonna have a helluva time getting him to pay up, what with him going back to Ireland.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. Came in about a week ago and paid off his tab. Said he was headin’ home. Bought a round for everyone. Said to tell you ’bye if I saw you. Glad you reminded me.”

  Chancey rubbed the back of his neck, remembering how stupid he’d felt as he nursed his beer. Seamus had his number. There was no reason to leave a half-hearted goodbye with their mutual acquaintance when he could have left a half-hearted goodbye via text.

  “You there, Chancey?”

  “I’m here.” What was the question? Oh, yeah, pool. “Sure, I still go down to Rack ’Em sometimes.” He didn’t mention Lulu, though. “Things aren’t the same without you trying to wind up the group with a rousing drinking song.”

  “You Americans don’t sing enough.”

  “We never knew the words. Put on some old Alabama or Sawyer Brown and I’m pretty sure the whole pool hall would have been singing along.”

  Seamus’s laughter was rich and warm; just hearing it made Chancey feel as if the man were living up the street, and not half the world away.

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Chance.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to—”

  “Dad!” came the curious and impatient voice of his daughter from outside his door.

  For a moment, Chancey froze, his brain stuck between two thoughts: hang up on Seamus or keep Dee out of his room. And then he awkwardly eased into the discomfort. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Just talking to an old friend.

  “Hold on, Shay,” Chancey said, putting the phone down on his knee. “What, Dee?”

  She popped her head into the room and flashed him a smile, all braces. They’d been down to the orthodontist in El Dorado only yesterday, and Dee’d had her braces tightened and the bands changed out. Lime green and dark green. She’d wanted pale green as well. The girl loved green.

  “Where’s the keys to the mule?”

  “Right where they always are.”

  “Nope,” she replied with a shrug. “And I wanna go see if I can find Little Bit and the baby.” Then as if the thought just dawned on her, she offered, “You could always let me take the truck out.”

  “Last time you did, you backed it into a tree.”

  “I won’t back up, I promise.”

  “No, you won’t,” Chancey agreed. “’Cause you aren’t taking it out without me.”

  Dee sighed dramatically. Yep, kiddo, it’s hard being thirteen. “Then can you take me out, please?”

  “I’m on the phone.”

  She looked down at the cell on his knee and back up at him. She blinked. She chewed her lip. He could see the gears moving in that clever brain of hers. She was trying to think of her argument, something other than but Da-a-a-a-d…

  So while she wrestled with the thought, he picked the phone back up and said, “Seamus? You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  Dee’s sigh could have blown out the windows. “Well, will you at least take me out when you’re off the phone?”

  He half-nodded at her which was enough to get her—grudgingly—to leave him to finish up his call. She didn’t bother closing the door on her way out, but it didn’t matter. The magic of the call was broken. He could almost feel the way Seamus had stiffened on the other end.

  “Was that Dee?”

  Seamus had only met Deidra in person the once, at the Salina rodeo when he was up that way on a purchasing trip with Tina. Chancey had always thought they’d get a chance to all sit down and have a meal together, get to know one another better… But what the hell did that matter now?

  “Yep,” Chancey said, then pushed on, replying to old familiar pleasantries that Seamus hadn’t bothered to make. “She’s liking her teachers, going to try out for softball maybe this year, but you know her heart belongs to the junior rodeo. She’s doing well on the circuit. She’s got a friend she does team roping with, and then she does barrels, of course.”

  “I thought she was a dancer?”

  Seamus remembered that? Chancey must have said it one time, offhandedly at that. Or as offhanded as they could be with each other after things g
ot weird.

  “Yep. She takes dance classes as well. Girl wants to be everything. Figure, let her keep trying on interests while she still has the time and energy.”

  “Good thing she has you to give her the opportunities.” He didn’t say it sarcastically, but Chancey felt the weight of the words, regardless. He wasn’t sure he’d been doing right by Dee in any which way—but he was determined to keep on trying. That meant more of those ridiculous Rabbit Hills Ranch jobs, and it meant not telling Seamus what was really on his mind.

  “Guess I better take the kidlet out before she has a conniption.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Little Bit had her calf. I think Dee’s ready to name him, so we’re going to go looking for them.” And she’s conning me into letting her drive, he thought.

  “Be well, then, Chance.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You too.”

  Chapter Three:

  On the Homestead

  There was one thing to be said for Chancey’s phone call: it had prompted Seamus into finally making a start on fixing up the cottage. Or maybe it was the sleepless night under a far-from-sound roof—hard to know for sure, seeing as they coincided. Either way, Saturday morning he was away to the builders’ merchant for the necessary supplies. He’d prioritised the twenty-odd jobs, top of the list being the roof, which he’d discovered, after a second night of torrential downpour, had more holes than his mam’s old tea strainer. It’s silver, Seamus. Don’t you be puttin’ it in bleach now.

  He chuckled to himself at the memory, letting it play through as he drove into town. They’d always had ‘real’ tea when Mam was alive, and she was right about it tasting better for having space to brew and infuse. Of course, Paddy had nabbed both the strainer and the teapot, the latter of which was still in daily use. It was a battered old stainless steel thing, which was so stained it looked more like it was made of copper.

  On that last visit to Paddy, Seamus had been sorely tempted to bleach the pot, like he’d always done when they were kids. There was something rather wonderful in seeing the dull, brown steel come up all shiny and new, even if the same couldn’t be said of bleaching a silver tea strainer. Still, he only made that mistake once.