“What is Bent Benny doing here?” Declan asked Ana. Bent Benny was a familiar figure. Bent and crippled, he pushed his cart full of empty bottles and cans around the village. Some of the kids made fun of him.
“Matthew and Kate usually have them over for Christmas dinner,” said Ana.
There were seven of them around the kitchen table for dinner. Then Miss Ritter came downstairs, wearing a blue dress and silver earrings, and then there were eight. Bent Benny’s real name, Declan discovered, was Benjamin Oberman. Matthew and Kate called him Mr. Oberman.
They ate dinner and there was a lot of talk.
Matthew was unusually talkative. He said, “Christmas always reminds me of when I first met Kate.”
“You met in Ireland, of course,” said Miss Ritter.
“It was at a ceilidh—an Irish dance,” said Kate, “a few days before Christmas.”
“She was the prettiest girl there,” said Matthew.
Kate smiled.
“It snowed that night,” said Matthew gloomily, “and the snow was general all over Ireland.”
Kate and Mr. Oberman laughed.
Declan recognized the famous line from James Joyce. It was the final line of “The Dead.” He remembered Miss Reardon, his literature teacher, explaining how snow had something to do with death, or the lack of love in the world, he couldn’t remember exactly which. Right now he didn’t care.
Mr. Sawchuk said, “When I was a young man in a logging camp up near Rupert, our Christmas dinner was eaten by a grizzly bear. It was a good dinner, like the one here today, roast turkey with all the trimmin’s. The bear must have been woke up outta his hibernation by the noise of the trucks and the saws, and smelled the food and come barrelin’ in just as we were all sittin’ down to eat. We got outta there pretty fast, you bet. Then some of the men wanted to shoot it, but most thought it’d be a bad thing to go killin’ on Christmas Day, so we let it alone and we waited until it’d gone away. We ended up eatin’ pancakes’n syrup for Christmas dinner.”
Everyone laughed.
Mr. Oberman started to tell about a Christmas in a prisoner-of-war camp. Declan got up. “Excuse me,” he said. He pushed back his chair and left the table and went outside and sat on the porch.
After a while, Kate came out and sat beside him. “Are you all right, Declan?”
“It’s all the talk. Makes me restless, that’s all.”
They sat together in silence.
After a while, Declan said, “Go back in. I’m all right.”
Kate nodded. “You’re just restless. You’re all right.”
“I think it’s more than restless. I feel trapped here. You and Matthew and Ana and Thomas have me trapped. And Pender school and living here and all this Christmas stuff makes me feel like I’m in this huge steel cage like a . . . “ He clenched his fists.
Kate said nothing. She put her arm round his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
Declan got up and walked down off the porch. Before he headed for the beach he turned to Kate and said, “I’m out of the cage in a week, Kate, remember that!”
Later that evening, Declan, Ana and Thomas were left alone with the last of the fire in the living room. It was late, almost time for bed. Matthew and Kate sat in their favorite spots in the family room-kitchen, talking and drinking tea.
Declan said, “I think I could guess why you ate none of the turkey, Ana.”
“I’m sure you could. I saw you noticing. Ever since Harper, I think of how we eat other animals.”
Declan gazed sleepily into the red centers of the burning logs.
“It’s not as if we couldn’t eat other things instead,” said Ana.
“I like turkey and stuffing,” said Thomas.
Ana laughed. “We know you do, Thomas. You had more than everyone else put together.” She made a circle in front of her stomach with her hands and arms and made her eyes pop.
Thomas laughed.
Declan was still gazing into the fire. “What are you thinking about?” said Ana.
Declan made no reply.
“You’re thinking about next week. About going back, aren’t you?”
Declan nodded. “That’s right.” He was mesmerized by the fire.
“We were all praying you would stay. Prayers are not always answered.”
“You know I can’t stay.”
“You don’t care about us, do you?” Ana sounded angry.
Declan looked at her. “I do care about you. All of you.”
“Then why go back? You’re happy here.”
“You know why.”
“Will you go back to your old house?”
Declan shook his head. “Somebody else will have it now. The rent hasn’t been paid for months.”
“What about your things?”
He shrugged. “Mrs. O’Malley probably cleared everything out.”
“Then where will you go?”
“Matthew and Kate want me to go to Kate’s sister. She’s married and they have two kids. Her name is Bernadette McGuire. Lives in East Belfast, nice house and car.”
“Will you go there?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I can take care of myself. Mrs. O’Malley will give me a bed if I need one.”
Ana and Thomas went upstairs to bed. Declan threw another small alder log on the fire and sat, watching it burn away to nothing.
Chapter Twenty-three
The morning after Christmas Day was gray and cold.
Declan slept late. When he got up, Kate was sitting in the kitchen alone, reading a magazine, a cup of tea on the table beside her. “Ana and Thomas have gone into town to the indoor swimming pool,” she said. “I didn’t let them wake you. They waited for you until it was time for the nine-thirty bus. Make yourself some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then help yourself to tea or juice.”
Declan poured himself a cup of tea. “Where’s Matthew?”
“Working. He’s behind on his TV repairs. Maybe you could take him a mug of tea when you’ve finished your own.”
Declan found him with his head in the back of a TV. “Kate sent tea.”
Matthew heaved a sigh and put down his soldering iron. He took the tea. “Thanks.”
Declan turned to go.
“Would you sit with me for a minute or two, Declan? There’s something I need to tell you.”
Declan sat up on the bench and waited while Matthew settled himself beside the electric heater with his tea.
“You’ll soon be on your way back to Ireland.”
Declan nodded. “That’s right.”
“You’re still bent on leaving us then?”
“Yes, Matthew, I am. That was the deal.”
His uncle nodded thoughtfully and stirred his tea.
“About your return ticket.”
Declan said nothing.
“I booked your flight for Tuesday the fifth. Midweek is cheaper. That okay?”
“That’s fine.” He waited. Then: “What do you want to tell me?”
“It’s a terrible hard thing for me to talk about.”
Declan waited.
“I want to tell you about Liam.”
“My da? What about him?”
“I want to tell you about the time . . . “ Matthew paused and started again. “Liam was two years older than me. When he died, he was only thirty-five. That may seem old to you, but your da died a young man. He died the year your sister Mairead was born, leaving Mary, your ma, with a newborn baby and yourself. It was 1981.” Matthew paused and sipped his tea.
Declan said nothing, waiting for him to go on.
“Your da was a member of the Provos, the IRA. So was I.”
“You? In the IRA? I don’t believe it,” Declan said with a sneer.
Matthew’s face was tense. The hand holding the mug of tea trembled.”Well, you’d better believe it,” he said, with a quiet, unaccustomed force.
Declan watched his uncle for a few moments, in silence, and then h
e said quietly, “I know about my da. He was IRA. My da was a hero. Shot by a gang of filthy Protestant militants. An Irish martyr.”
“Your da was shot, that’s right. But it wasn’t the Protestants who shot him.”
“Then it must have been the English!”
Matthew shook his head. “We were national liberation fighters. IRA! The Irish Republican Army! We were proud. Your da held rank: he was the second-in-command under the Chief himself. Me? I was a nobody in the bomb squad.” Matthew looked up at Declan as though waiting for him to make a sneering remark. When Declan said nothing, Matthew said, “The police found explosives and mercury tilt switches in a laundry hamper in the laundry room shared by several houses on your da’s block. Nobody knows how they got there; I think the police probably planted them. We’ll never know. Your da and your ma were picked up for questioning—’lifted’ as we used to say.”
“It’s still lifted,” said Declan quietly.
Matthew stared at the mug in his hand. “Your ma was pregnant with Mairead, and she was never the strong woman in those days. She suffered from headaches, and a weakness would come over her, and she’d have to lie down, and your da would feed her soup and talk to her. He was a good husband. He did the best he could.
“When your da and your ma were picked up by the police, your da begged them to let your poor mother go: she wasn’t strong, she could suffer a miscarriage. You understand what I’m talking about, Declan?”
Declan nodded.
“But the police kept her. You were only three years old. Kate and I took care of you while your da and ma were in the police cells.
“After a couple of days the police came into your da in his cell and told him your mother had confessed about the explosives. She had done no such thing, of course, but Liam believed the lies the police told him, that she’d broken down under the questioning. He begged them again to let her go.”
Matthew put down his mug on the bench. “The possession of explosives is an automatic life sentence in Ireland.”
“I know.”
“Your da knew for certain that the prison would kill your poor ma. And what about the baby? The police were ruthless. They would let her go on one condition, they said. Your da would work for the police. He would pass on information about IRA activities. The police would use the information to save lives. That’s what they said. They would cover him. No one would be arrested. Your da agreed. He had no choice.” Matthew stopped and looked into Declan’s eyes. “Your da became an informer.”
Declan felt the rage rise in him. He leaped off the bench with clenched fists. “You’re a liar, Matthew! My father was no tout for the police! You’re lying!” he snarled. “I don’t believe any of it!”
“Listen to me, Declan. I’m telling you the God’s truth, and when I’m finished you can believe what you like.”
“What are you two talking about in there?” It was Ana and Thomas back from their swimming.
“Leave us be for five minutes,” shouted Matthew.
When they had gone, Matthew said, “Your da became a spy for the police. Nobody knew. Nobody guessed. He gave information about IRA attacks on the Brits, information about bombs, everything. He couldn’t get out of it. If he stopped the flow of information then the police would tell the IRA on him. And you know what that would mean. Instant execution. The IRA always kills informers as a lesson to others, always. No informer goes free. So far up to then they’d executed at least a dozen of their own men for informing on them.” Matthew gave a bitter laugh. “They’ve shot many more since.”
Declan could hardly hold still. He clenched his fists and clamped his jaw tight.
Matthew took his time. His voice was slow and deep. “The police kept their word at first. They arrested nobody. Then the IRA came up with a plan for a major hit on the British army. It was to be a big bomb. If everything went right it would wipe out half a battalion. Liam was the only one who knew of the plan besides the IRA Chief and the bomb squad, which included me. But the Brits were waiting for them. The bomb squad was stopped in the early hours of the morning, the bomb in their possession. Nobody escaped. The Brits should have arrested them—an automatic life sentence—but they didn’t. They put the four men up against the truck and shot them.
“There was only one way the Brits could have known. Somebody had informed. But who? The IRA picked your da up for questioning. He confessed. They kept him three weeks. Then they shot him.”
“That isn’t true,” said Declan through his teeth. “My father was killed by a gang of Protestant militants! You made it all up! I don’t believe it! My father was never a traitor, I don’t care what you say!”
“It was no dishonor! He did it out of love for your mother, Declan. But they tricked him. They swore they’d kill no one. ‘It was to save lives,’ they said. It was no dishonor to your da. They didn’t keep their promises. If I had a family I’d have done exactly the same myself.”
Declan was trying not to let Matthew see him cry, but he couldn’t help himself. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “And what were you doing in all of this, Matthew? Maybe it was yourself who was the tout! Not my da. Didn’t you just finish saying you were in the bomb squad? Then how was it they shot them all—four men—shot up against the truck you said—and you weren’t there? How do you explain that, Matthew? Why weren’t you there doing your job? How is it you’re alive today if you were such a big liberation fighter?” Declan felt himself trembling.
Matthew shook his head sadly. “I was their first suspect, right enough. Your da saved my life, Declan, and that’s the truth of it. He knew the bomb squad would be arrested and sent to jail for life—he never expected the Brits to kill though—and he came to me on the morning of the hit with a job to do. I was to go to Derry with a package for the Chief of Operations there. It was urgent, he told me. I went as ordered—your da was the number two man in Belfast, remember—and I delivered the package.
“When I returned to Belfast the next day it was in the papers. Four IRA men found with a bomb and shot while trying to escape. That’s what the papers said. The Brits lied: the squad never tried to escape; how could they? They were surrounded! Later, when the IRA picked up your da for informing, I knew. I knew it was my own brother who had saved me, sending me away to safety on a fool’s errand. He wanted to save me from jail. He didn’t know he was also saving my life. I knew then that he was the informer.” Matthew looked at Declan. “I should have died that day with my squad.”
Declan glared at his uncle. “You’re alive today,” he said between his teeth, “because my da died.”
Matthew nodded. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the garage floor. “After your sister was born, we left Ireland, Kate and I, that very same year Liam was shot. We’d had enough of it. I didn’t want the same thing happen to Kate that happened to your ma.”
“You were the cowards! You ran to save yourselves! And you’re making it all up about my da! He was no informer! He was no traitor! It’s you who’s the traitor, Matthew! You!”
Matthew stood up awkwardly. “In God’s name, will you listen to me . . . “
Declan tried to say more, but nothing would come out.
Matthew gripped Declan’s arms in steel fingers. “They’re both wrong, Declan, don’t you see that? The IRA and the Protestants are both wrong! They’re killing each other! What good does it do? Violence isn’t the answer! Don’t go back there, Declan. Stay here with us. You’ll never stop the madmen of the world from killing each other. You’re not like them, Declan. You cannot go back to all that!”
Declan found his voice. He wrenched himself out of his uncle’s grip and fled from the garage, screaming.
Chapter Twenty-four
He ran blindly.
His heart burned with rage: rage for his uncle; rage for his own helplessness; rage for the lies and the hatred in the hearts of the adult world; rage for the insane absurdity of it all; rage for a merciless God.
He saw his un
cle’s truck, its keys hanging from the ignition, and he threw himself in and slammed the door. He pushed his foot down hard on the clutch and turned the key. The engine started. He pumped the accelerator. The engine stalled. In a black frenzy he snatched at the choke knob and tried again. The engine roared to life. He looked out the window. Matthew was running toward him. His foot still on the clutch, Declan pushed the gearstick forward into first and let out the clutch too fast. The truck leaped forward, and he was away, taking part of the cedar hedge with him.
He twisted the wheel wildly, heading out onto the road that led to the ferry at Langdale, the back of the truck fishtailing out of control. He wrestled the wheel, trying to steady the truck’s erratic flight, but only made things worse. The engine roared. The truck bucked and leaped away from him, over the road and into the ditch, nose first, and came to a sudden and complete stop with its back in the air.
He sat stunned by the impact, chest jammed tight against the wheel.
The next thing he knew was that his uncle was pulling him out of the truck and dragging him up out of the ditch and onto the side of the road. He struggled against Matthew’s grip. “I’m all right. Let me go!”
He straightened up.
“Are you hurt?”
“I told you. I’m all right.”
He looked at the truck angled down into the ditch, its nose submerged under two feet of water, its tailgate lifted high in the air. It would need a towtruck and a winch to pull it out.
He limped to the house and up the stairs to his room. The door had no lock, so he closed it and wedged the back of a chair under the knob so no one could get in.
After a while Kate came up and knocked on the door.
“Go away,” he said.
She tried the door. It remained firmly shut.
“Are you all right, Declan? Let me in a minute.”
“Go away.”
She went.
A few minutes later Ana knocked. “Declan, let me talk to you, please!”
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