“Thank you, Vic,” I said, shaking her hand. “Thank you for having me.”
“Thank you for coming and joining us. It freshened things considerably.”
We biked back to the campus. The air was soft. We rode beside the River Shannon and three white swans watched us pass. They stood on a sandbar and one dug at something on its side with its pumpkin beak. A new web of moonlight threw itself over the water and the current carried it only a second before tossing it aside and continuing on its way.
* * *
I went back to my work the next day and for almost a week afterward I kept my head in books. I read and made plans for travel and connected, for the first time, really, the scope of the Blasket story as it fit into the Irish mainland. I read a good deal about the actual day in 1953 when the boat came to remove the remaining twenty-two islanders. The seas ran at the shores so roughly that the islanders were forced to abandon their household goods—as meager as they were—on the strand where I had picnicked with Nora and Seamus and Ozzie. Only weeks later, when they traveled on a fair day to tend their sheep, did the islanders bring to Kerry the remainders of their belongings. The image of household furniture sitting on a beach and waiting to be claimed was a haunting one and I searched several catalogs and everywhere online that I could think of before I finally found a photo of that artifact. Some of that furniture, I realized, likely belonged to my father’s people.
I began to dream about the Blaskets after that week of concentrated study. The dreams focused on small, trivial details. The flip of a felt roof when the wind brushed it back; the paint used to mark the sheep that roamed all over the island; the tuck of a gull as it bent to the wind and fell through the air with a loud, raucous call. Scattered dreams. I sometimes fell asleep at my desk and that, I knew, marked a cautionary line that I had crossed. My lifelong tendency was to immerse myself in a project to the exclusion of everything else. It made me a disciplined scholar and teacher, but it also pushed me toward reclusiveness. In the past, I lived in self-selected isolation, not antisocial exactly, but in too close comfort with my own company. It could be dangerous, I knew from experience. To counteract it, I forced myself to take long walks along the River Shannon in midday, rain or shine. I did stretching and light yoga beside my desk. It was during one of those yoga sessions, in the middle of a downward dog, that Daijeet returned.
I stood, flushed, embarrassed that my butt had been in the air when he arrived. If he noticed, he didn’t seem to care.
“I brought you a salmon,” Daijeet said, swinging a large cooler onto his desk. “Caught this morning. It’s a good one, too. Twenty-three inches. You do like fish, don’t you?”
“I love fish. Thank you.”
I went to his desk and watched as he opened the top of the cooler. He had three fish inside on ice, all of them silver as clouds. He picked one up and held it for my inspection.
“Got this one on a midge,” he said.
“What’s a midge?”
“A tiny fly. You’re supposed to be impressed by that.”
“I am!” I said, laughing.
He set the fish back in the cooler. I saw again his resemblance to a bear, a chunky, rounded figure who happened to love all things British. Paddington, maybe, or Winnie. He pulled a roll of plastic bags from his pocket and set them on his desk.
“When you head home, just take one in a bag. I recommend you eat it right away. That’s the way it will be best. You live on campus, right?”
“Yes. Dodge Hall.”
“There you go. Take whatever one you like. I’ve promised the other two to some friends.”
“Thank you, Daijeet. That’s going to be a treat.”
“I recommend cooking it as simply as possible. No sauces except maybe a little lemon. Fish this fresh deserves to be its own taste.”
“You’d be welcome to join me, Daijeet.”
He pursed his lips. He was adorable in a kind, gentle way.
“I have a date,” he said. “With my supervisor at the fisheries division. It’s a bad idea, I know, but he’s too cute to resist.”
He was gay, I realized. I didn’t know him well enough to be surprised, or confused, but the truth was I hadn’t twigged that. Understanding his inclination, however, I worried that he thought I had asked him to my house for dinner out of a boy-girl sort of impulse. I blushed. I felt my scalp get warm under my hair.
“That’s exciting,” I managed to say. “Have you known him long?”
“Just a few months. We’ve been circling each other like sharks. Technically, we work together, so it’s dodgy whether he should ask me out. But we’re not edgy, we two. We’re old, pokey fishermen. No dance clubs for us, unfortunately.”
“Well, I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”
“Neither can I.”
He smiled and put the cooler next to his desk. I smiled, too, and went back to my desk. Out of some stupid impulse, I picked up my phone and texted Ozzie.
What’s the best way to cook salmon? I texted.
The little legend blinked on to say the message had been delivered. But no message came back at me. Not that night, not that weekend, not until seven days later.
14
“Let me get this straight,” Milly said over Skype, her smile leading her words. I sat on my couch and watched her. “You’re mad at him because he took you at your word that you didn’t want to get tangled up in his business, right? But now that you texted him, you expect him to text back.”
“I’m sick of men.”
“Which is why you’re texting him.”
“Don’t be logical, Milly. I hate when you’re logical.”
“Just listening and responding,” she said. “You sound a little lonely.”
“Not really. I had lunch with the bicycle girls. They’ve been welcoming.”
“But a man is a different proposition.”
“Maybe. Probably not. Who knows?”
It was good to talk to Milly. We had missed each other for more than a week, leaving messages and trying to catch each other. She had gone to Western Massachusetts to help her mysterious benefactress install an art piece at Mass MoCA. They had been gone for three days and then had driven to Montreal on impulse to visit a lavender farm. She had seen fields and fields of lavender. It had been stunning, she said. It had been almost more than her eye could accommodate. Now she was back and we had set up a date to Skype. She wore a big, black sweater and heavy slipper-boots and her hair looked like squirrels had decided to winter there.
“You’re probably horny,” Milly said, sipping from a ceramic mug of tea. “That’s half of the world’s problem, you know? Everyone needs more sex. It would make us all relax.”
“I have done a lot of research. That’s coming along great.”
“And you’re still horny. Horny is not work-related, dearie. Horny is a different thing.”
“And I need to travel. I need to get out of Limerick and poke around. I need to go to Dunquin, where they settled some of the Blasket families. They built them cottages.”
“Call Fish-boy and tell him to take you places.”
“His name is Ozzie.”
“Fish-boy suits him better. You have two fish-boys, don’t you? You have Ozzie and you have Paddington Bear. Did gay Paddington bring you more salmon?”
“I’m never talking to you again.”
“Oh, sweetie. It just started snowing.”
She turned away, then she lifted her laptop and carried it outside. I knew everything about her studio. I knew it had a deck overlooking a small, overgrown section of forest. She held the screen toward the line where the trees met a meadow swatch. I watched the snow fall. I knew exactly how that felt. I knew the softness some snow brought with it, and how it made a small ticking sound on leaves sometimes, and how the grass would turn white and pale in the moonlight. It made me miss New Hampshire. It made me miss the East Coast of the US and the inevitable winter that came and made everyone cross after they had all fallen in love w
ith it first. I missed old Yankee men in red wool hats with ear flaps.
“First snow always makes me cry,” Milly said, turning the laptop camera around to her again. “I wish you were here, Kate.”
“I do, too. But I like being here. I guess I’m just a little topsy-turvy right now.”
“Any word from your mom?”
“Just a text. She’s in Italy looking at sailboats.”
“Will she come up to see you?”
“Not as far as I know. She could change her mind, but it depends on Ben. Maybe they’ll sail up here.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I nodded.
“Mom is not a sailor type,” I said.
Milly slipped back onto her couch. She picked up her tea again. In the same instant, a text-notification came in from Ozzie Ferriter. It flashed on my screen, then faded before I could read it. It said something about boats and out of touch and then it disappeared.
“Ozzie just texted,” I said. “How’s that for timing? That’s some weird juju.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he’s been on a boat fishing.”
“See?”
“My mother and I are both dating sailors. Lord save me.”
“You’re not dating,” Milly said. “It doesn’t have to be dating.”
“Then it’s just exercise?”
“Something like that.”
We signed off a little later. I didn’t read Ozzie’s message at first. I didn’t want the temptation of eagerly writing him back. I made myself get up and clean the kitchen. I had been lax about that. Then, on a roll, I cleaned the rest of the studio. It didn’t take long. It occurred to me as I worked that maybe Ozzie had texted that he was going to drop by. After being deliberately careful with it, I grabbed the phone and read his message.
Was out fishing. Who r u?
I want to see Gottfried.
When?
This weekend.
He’s busy but I’m free. Friday afternoon?
Yes, please.
The letter worked?
Maybe.
Three Friday afternoon. Anything you don’t eat?
Zebra.
I’ll have a day planned for you.
Is Gottfried really busy?
I’ll bring him. He’s a teenager already.
See you Friday at 3.
I put the phone down. I wondered what in the world I had done.
* * *
Inner dialogue for 2.5 days, nights before sleep, brushing my teeth, dull, quiet moments in the study carrel:
What are you thinking? What do you expect? He’s going to want to sleep with you. Is that what you want? Be careful what you wish for. Jeans, probably. A top and a sweater of some sort. I need to shop. No, I don’t. I am on a budget. A night bag? Who calls it a night bag anymore? This is ridiculous. He’s cute, and he’s tall, and he smelled like a lamb last time I stood next to him. He jumped on a donkey and jumped off. He has a boat. He has a truck. If you show up with a night bag, then he assumes you are planning to stay over. That was not the agreement. It’s snowing in New Hampshire. I want to see snow. I should bring a backpack. I could put things in a backpack. Things I’ll need and a book and a charging cord for my phone. A toothbrush. Hairbrush. I should tell someone where I am going. Elsa. She would understand. He quoted Joyce. He knows Joyce’s work. That’s a plus. That’s a big plus. He doesn’t seem military. He seems the opposite of military, whatever that is. Hippie. Not hippie. No one is a hippie anymore. Crunchy, maybe. Sleeping with Abe was like borrowing a cup of sugar from a neighbor. Is good sex good love? Is good love good sex? Argue clean, sex dirty, someone said. Gottfried is a teen. He’s planning a day. That’s good. Layers. I should bring layers. It could get cold at night. Will we be together at night? He said a day. Not sneakers. Trainers, they call them here. He kissed me against the wall. He kissed me hard. You asked him to take you out. You did. You can pretend you didn’t, but you did.
* * *
He did not show up at three on Friday. He did not show up at three thirty, either. He showed up at 3:47, his hair wild, his clothes dirty from work. A dark stain covered his hands in spots and his jeans bagged at the knees. He wore a knee brace on one knee and something like wood chips dangled in his hair. He had a small leather case of some sort attached to his belt, and it took me a moment to see it contained a tape measure. So he had been building something. And time had gotten away from him. He showed up dirty for a date, which was a signal of some sort.
He grinned when the door opened.
I felt furious. I felt furious that I had devoted time to thinking about what I would wear, what I should bring, when he, in his own good time, showed up like a guy heading out for a beer with his buddies after work. We were out of balance already.
“Please don’t look at me like that, Kate,” he said. “I know, I know, I know, it’s exactly what I didn’t want to have happen. Exactly. Please forgive me. I know I look a mess, but I have a good excuse.”
“This is a mistake, isn’t it?”
“Being late? Or going out together?”
“Both. Everything. I don’t know, Ozzie. What are we doing?”
“We’re going to have an afternoon together. I’m sorry. I am. Please, let’s start fresh.”
Was this going to be the pattern? I wondered. If he couldn’t arrive clean and on time for our first date, was it likely he would be better on our tenth or twentieth? And didn’t I sound like the bitch of the north wind? I needed to check that, I realized. I needed to prune it back. Did my irritation come from putting too much emotional weight into this single date? Probably. I forced myself to take a deep breath. Ozzie grinned again.
“You look nice, at least,” he said.
“I thought we kind of had a date.”
“We do, Kate. We do. I was in the middle of something and I had to see it through. I should have texted. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
“I sound like a shrew, don’t I?”
“A little bit.”
“You’re not filling me with confidence.”
“I get that. But I had a dream about you. In the dream, I could reach my hand through you. What do you think that means?”
“It means you should see a doctor.”
“I mean it. I could reach straight through your body.”
“That could be creepy. You’re not driving a white van, are you?”
“No, just the old truck. It didn’t feel creepy in the dream. It felt as if we couldn’t be closer.”
“I can’t tell what to believe about you, Ozzie. You confuse me. What was on the other side?”
“What other side?”
“When you put your hand through me, what was on the other side?”
“A bologna sandwich.”
“Seriously?”
“No, nothing really. Just air. We were up in the air.”
“I don’t need a big distraction right now.”
“How about a small distraction? I could maybe do that.”
He grinned again. Then we almost kissed. I saw it come into his eyes and I watched, unsure, as he stepped inside. We stood for a moment close together. I couldn’t resist him. Not really. He knew it and I knew it and we were both doomed. He bent down and grabbed my backpack and told me someone in the truck wanted to see me.
“Gottfried?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Gottfried works.”
“I really am sorry, Kate. Truly. It was inconsiderate of me.”
“Yes, it was.”
“That’s a little shrew-y. I think maybe we should kiss. Just once to get rid of the date jitters. What do you think?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s bad form to talk about a kiss. We should just kiss.”
“You’re talking too much.”
“How big a kiss?”
“Now you’re talking way too much.”
He kissed me. It was soft and gentle. I had to go onto my toes. When I cam
e back onto my solid feet, I knew that I was lost. At least for now. At least for a little while. At least until he didn’t show up in dirty Carhartts and dirty hands and have a for-god’s-sake cute puppy waiting in his truck.
I ran up the stairs and checked the apartment one last time. Stove off, lights off, windows closed against possible weather. When I came back down, I saw him framed against the doorway. I admit my heart did a small dance. He looked like the man you wanted waiting at the bottom of a stairway.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
He put his hand on the small of my back as he walked me to the truck. His hand could not have sent my spine more sensations if it had been a spider.
Gottfried met me at the truck door. He smooshed his head out of the small window space to give me kisses. I kissed him back, then gentled his head back through into the interior. Ozzie held the door open for me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Shove him over. Gottfried, give her some room.”
Ozzie leaned across me. He pushed Gottfried slowly into a down position. Then, turning slightly, he kissed me again. This time it wasn’t gentle. He kissed me and slid his hand onto my thigh and that was deliberate, and that was okay, and I put my hand on the back of his neck.
“Forgive me?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
He pulled back and slipped out the door. I bent down and kissed Gottfried. I told him he was getting to be a big boy. And he was. He had clumsy big paws and a black, shiny nose. He still smelled like a puppy, so I left my nose buried in his neck fur. He nuzzled me back.
Then Ozzie slipped in and we headed out for our day, for sex, maybe, for I couldn’t guess what. As we drove off, I saw the River Shannon glinting between the trees.
* * *
We made out on a cliff overlooking Dunquin.
We had stopped to let Gottfried have a break. We took him for a walk along the Dingle Way, a circular hiking trail that ran around most of the Dingle Peninsula. Ozzie knew about it. He said it would be a good place to walk a dog.
So we did. And it was a good place. The day had settled into an autumn bath of sun and wind and clouds. The Dingle Way on that part of the peninsula worked along a rugged set of cliffs that looked out over Dunquin. I knew Dunquin by reputation. It was the location of the Blasket Museum. I had planned to visit it, but I had been too fixated on my research. Ozzie said he knew someone who could give us a private tour. He said Bertie Janes, one of the docents, had been one of the last children to have been born on the Blaskets. Now Bertie earned his living telling the story of his birthplace. Nora Crean connected to Bertie in some way. Ozzie did not spell out the connection, but it sounded as if Bertie would be happy to help us.
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