Rosewater and Soda Bread

by Marsha Mehran

  In the end, Father Mahoney had decided against the autographed piece of train track, opting instead for what he found on page 26 of the color catalog, a product that promised him freedom, if only temporarily, from his daily collar:

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  As a special introductory bonus to its pirate radio kit, Penzance Productions was throwing in two cassette tapes of sample clips from some of radio's most piquant programmers, including those legends of the disc jockey arena Casey Kasem and Wolf-man Jack, as well as an hour tutorial called “The Art of Segways” by no other than Dick Clark himself.

  Father Mahoney felt utterly powerless against such a bargain; he placed his order that very day.

  Reaching into the vestry's scroll desk, the priest grabbed a butter knife perched on a crumby tea plate. He turned back to the boxes before him, boxes of infinite possibilities, and tore voraciously through the first silvery cross, the masking tape coming deliciously undone. An excited guffaw escaped his lips as he gave a little hop.

  Fergal Mahoney, of one-parish Ballinacroagh, former warm-up man of comedic revues large and small, was ready to launch on the waves. The Irish airwaves. Ahoy and away!

  “YOU'RE NOT TO BLAME A BIT, now, Joan. I never thought that Evie Watson was much to look at, to be honest,” Antonia Nolan opined, reaching for another digestive biscuit, which crumbled duly upon entry into her mouth. “Far too like a foundling, like something they pulled out of the bottom of a well, if you ask me.”

  Saturday afternoons, as always, found Ballinacroaghs Bible study group huddled in the dusty environs of the Reek Relics shop. Milky tea and plain digestives served to fortify the ladies, along with a regular diet of gossip and prayers.

  Currently the topic was one of Joan Donnelly's twin sons, the elder by three minutes, and his affair with the junior hairstylist at Athey's Shear Delight.

  Joan sniffed in contempt. “Far be it from me to give my opinion on a co-worker,” she started, pausing dramatically when she saw teacups poised in the circle around her. “I'm only at the salon half days now, but I still have my professionalism to keep.”

  Dervla Quigley pursed her lips. “You're among friends, Joan. Don't hold back on your feelings. Purge if you need to, so.” She nodded at her sister, Marie, who remained as she usually did, silent and concentrating on her uneaten digestive biscuit.

  “Purgin won't be necessary,” said Joan. “But a mother knows what a mother knows—that snippet won't be right for my Peter, that's what. From the moment they got together I was unhappy about it all.”

  “Sure, I hear her people are from the North,” commented June Nolan.

  “She could hail from Timbuktu, for all that matters. She can't look after my Peter like he deserves.” Joan sipped at her white tea and continued. “He's got to think of Michael as well. The poor lad's been off to the wayside ever since those two got together.”

  “At least you can say he sowed his oats. It's time for the proper way of things, from this moment on,” said Dervla, no doubt thinking of her late husband Jim's tendency to sow voraciously and well into his sixtieth year.

  “I'll say this about Evie: she may be a bag of bones, but at least she's not some street Arab like you know who.” Joan shook her head in relief. “Thanks be to God that little floozy didn't get her claws into either one of my boys.”

  Antonia agreed. “Sure, it's not five minutes that Thomas's boy is down from Dublin she doesn't have him to the Beach, doing God knows what.”

  June commiserated. “Cheap, that's what. No faith to guide her.”

  “That's what happens when you're brought up a heathen.”Dervla uncrossed and crossed her legs, placing a hand over the Bible on her lap. “You'd think those three had a scent for our men, all the way from wherever it is they came from.”

  “Iran,” Marie Brennan whispered from her corner.

  “The wild-beasted desert, that's what,” her dominating sister interjected.

  The clink of teaspoons gave way to a momentary pause. The gathered women drank their tea in deep thought. Another round of digestives was in order before June spoke up.

  “I hear that Marjan's now making the rounds,” she huffed. “Got her eye on the Muir clan, from what Siobhan tells me.” June arranged her knobby cardigan around her large center with an indignant air. “As if a man like Julian Winthrop Muir would give the time of day to the likes of her. Imagine!”

  “My Peter says he's moving into the Hall with his men Monday at daybreak. Going to patch the big house up to all its former glory. Think of it now, a proper family in these parts again.”

  Dervla looked over her cup with disdain. “You can keep your big house empty, for all the sin it brings. Those Muirs have a lot to be shameful for, starting with that Julian there. Julian Winthrop Muir.”

  Her sister looked at her quizzically.

  “Don't look at me with those big eyes of yours, Marie. As if you don't recall that summer clearly.”

  Assumpta Corcoran leaned in, followed by the rest of the women. “What summer was that, then?”

  “The year of my Jim's passing, God rest his precious soul. July 1965.”

  Antonia squinted her eyes, traveling back. “Nineteen sixty-five … July.” She sat up. “Oh, now, that Muir boy.”

  “That's right, that Muir boy. Sort and the same. The whole clan of them staying in Jarleth House up on the Bay. He and his Dublin kin did a right number on that poor laddeen from Clare.”

  Antonia nodded now, remembering. She turned to the other women. “Strung the boy up on a tree. Left him naked and hanging from his limbs the entire night. Near caught his death, that young one. What was his name?”

  “O'Cleirigh. Dara. Island Gerry's boy.”

  “That's right. O'Cleirigh. The boy didn't say boo for a whole year after the torture.”

  “The shame,” said Dervla, shaking her head. “And not one of the guards doing mite about it. Makes a person want to take the law into their own two hands, it does. Vigilents law, that's what they call it in America. Isn't that right, Marie?”

  Her sister nodded. “Vigilante,” she corrected, softly. “Vigilante law.”

  “That's what I said. Vigilantes. Taking matters into their own hands. It's what needs to be done at times, ladies.”

  The women of the Bible study murmured their agreement and reached for more digestives.

  A KNOCK CAME FAINTLY through the bedroom wall, causing Estelle to spring up in her chair. She scanned the room in alarm, her eyes passing from the bed to the door and back, adjusting to the limited light.

  When the sound came again, she quickly covered the girl's bare legs with the down-filled duvet and moved around the foot of the bed. By the time she reached the bedroom door, Marjan was already in the hallway.

  “Estelle! Oh, thank God. I've been knocking on the front door for a while. Are you all right?”

  Marjan stooped to place the heavy basket of food she had brought on the ground. She blinked to readjust her eyes to the dark passageway, which when lit showcased a gallery of framed sepia and cream photographs.

  “Oh, darling. I forgot you were coming,” Estelle whispered, closing the bedroom door softly behind her. She moved down the hallway, tiptoeing nearly.

  Marjan followed. Even in the diminished light, she could tell her friend looked drained of every last ounce.

  “I brought the gormeh sabzi I promised,” she said. “And some chickpea cookies. I made an extra batch.”

  She was about to tell Estelle about the pistachio halvah she had al
so packed when the old widow's peculiar behavior stopped her.

  Bringing her index and middle fingers up to her pursed lips, Estelle blew a silent shush and shook her head. She then waved her left hand back and forth as if swatting a stubborn mayfly.

  Before Marjan had a chance to speak again, Estelle pushed her gently into the nearby kitchen.

  The room's periwinkle blue cabinets and daffodil-colored walls compounded the cheerful effect of the interminable sunshine streaming in from a large south-facing window. The light revealed purple shadows under Estelle's eyes, casting shadowy wrinkles not usually seen on her vibrant Mediterranean face.

  Estelle lowered her fingers from her lips, but not before Marjan caught a glimpse of the state of her hands: sandpaper red, they were stiffened into large, immobile claws.

  “I knew you weren't feeling well,” Marjan said, guilt flooding over her. “I should have come up to see you last night.”

  Estelle tsked. “I am fine, darling. It is not me that is sick.” She might have sounded more convincing had she not begun to sway on her heels, her bandy knees wobbling dangerously.

  “You need to sit down,” Marjan said, pulling a kitchen chair beneath the widow. The old lady sank into it immediately, sighing with relief.

  “I wish you had told me how you were feeling sooner.” Marjan grabbed the tin kettle off the stove and filled it up in the sink. She positioned it back on the front burner, the gas licking its sides until it burnt out a bright orange-blue flame. “You promised me you'd call whenever you felt this weak,” she said, turning to her friend.

  “You look tired too, darling.”

  Marjan waved away Estelle's concern. “Not at all. The café's been really busy lately. That's all.” She opened a cupboard and took down a large ceramic mug. “You're the one who has to take it easy. All right?”

  Estelle was so tired that her eyes seemed to forget their ability to blink.

  “Estelle?”

  The widow shook her head abruptly. “Oh, sorry, darling. I think I just fell asleep with my eyes open.” She smiled weakly.

  “Let's forget about the tea,” Marjan said. “I want you to get into bed and I'll bring you a cup of hot milk. Come on now.” She prodded Estelle's arm.

  “No, no. I have to tell you something. Something about what is in my bed,” Estelle insisted. “Sit, sit.” She patted the wooden hearth chair next to her.

  Marjan bit her lip and settled reluctantly into the seat. She turned to the widow, who without further ado began her story. The story of the mermaid on the shores of Clew Bay.

  “IN THE INLET?” Marjan asked, as Estelle concluded her tale.

  Estelle shook her head solemnly. “Terrible, absolutely terrible. I could not believe it myself, but it's true.”

  Marjan looked down for a moment. It was too much to take in. “Do you think someone did something to her?”

  “I think this at first. I was about to call the guards, but then I look more.” She paused. “I look at her body, at her belly, and I saw more.”

  Marjan frowned, missing the meaning behind the widow's words. “So this girl you found, you think she was trying to kill herself by drowning? In the Bay?”

  “A person can kill themselves in many ways. It is not always physical, you know. You can kill your heart, your hope, your future, if you don't believe that life is a gift.”

  Estelle paused, aware that her explanation was more enigmatic than she had intended. She peered into Marjan's puzzled face. “I don't know if she was trying to kill herself, darling,” she said. “But I am very sure she was trying to kill her baby.”

  CHAPTER IV

  BEING THE MIDDLE-BORN had its advantages, Bahar told herself. There was so much more scope for the personality, if you really stopped to think about it. Without the responsibility that came from being a trailblazing eldest, or the encumbrance of always playing the baby, a middle child could really find the freedom to discover her true self. And, if occasion called for it, to properly reinvent herself, as she, Bahar Aminpour, was getting ready to do in a few months' time.

  Bahar stared at the bowl on the table before her. Twenty radishes, washed and piled one on top of the other, sat ready for her knife. As she always did when prepping vegetables, she took a moment to square her shoulders, draw a deep breath, and observe the task at hand. When she was ready, she reached over and plucked one of the pinkish bulbs. With a snip of her sharp paring knife, she set about making a quick incision into its magenta skin, her lips pursed with concentration.

  Round and round the blade went, producing petals that opened one on top of the other, white against the red. Ribbons fell from the knife's edge, curling around her crossed legs. And so it went until all twenty were done, the radishes cleared of their perky heads, their bodies floating in a bowl of chilled water like a delicate bouquet. No longer ordinary root vegetables, they were now brilliant roses carved to blooming age.

  The radish roses made pretty garnishes on the many cheese and herb plates that went out during the hungry hours of afternoon. They were also tangible, not to mention edible, proof of one of Bahar's greatest talents to date: hands that were extraordinarily agile, and arms of immense strength.

  She had first noticed the power of her hands and arms as a nurse, working at the Green Acres Home for the Newly Retired. Switching intravenous tubes with the speed of a master seamstress while holding down the likes of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound grafter turned geriatric convalescent had earned her the respect of her colleagues; the coveted title of Most Valuable Matron was hers for two years straight. In constant demand throughout the nursing home, she was most wanted in the Alzheimer's Suite, where her ability to soothe patients with the mere lock of her elbows left the burliest of male nurses speechless.

  The respect of her workmates had not transferred itself into any friendships, however—a fault that Bahar now considered entirely her own. Instead of mingling with the interns and happy-go-lucky nurses at Doc Watson's Pub, she had opted to roam the streets of London's antiques district alone, dreaming of the day when her own house would be filled with dainty Victorian décor.

  She had turned herself into a recluse, hidden her heart from her workmates—even from her own sisters, if she had to be honest about it. She just hadn't been ready to share that organ, torn as it was, with anybody back then.

  Bahar placed the paring knife in the empty bowl and wiped her hands on a tea towel. She paused for a moment, glancing at the kitchen doors, before reaching inside her apron pocket.

  The edges of the small laminated card felt smooth and correct along her fingers, an effect that was quite soothing to her usually overwrought senses. She pulled the card out halfway and turned it so she could read its message in the dying afternoon light:

  Our Lady of Knock, Queen of Ireland, you gave hope to your

  people in a time of distress and comforted them in sorrow…

  The card came from the village of Knock, not thirty miles from where she sat, here in the kitchen of the Babylon Café. Bahar had not been there herself, though it was very much a destination in her immediate future, she was sure of it.

  According to Father Mahoney who had given her the prayer card, a pilgrimage to the Shrine was as necessary to the system as an annual climb up Croagh Patrick, both journeys a sign of commitment to the new life she was taking on.

  It was at Knock, after all, where the Blessed Virgin had once appeared, wearing a brilliant rose crown.

  “When the Blessed Virgin first graced the village,” the priest had said, “it was the English who wanted to claim her, Queen Victoria herself sending in her fancy envoy. But it was to the Shrine that the Pope made his visit in the year 1979, not to the throne of England. It was on Knock that he bestowed his Golden Rose—on the Irish!”

  Bahar returned her gaze to the message, feeling a shiver of pleasure run up her spine.

  Ask and you shall receive, seek and you shall find…

  She sighed. The delicate calligraphy was imprinted on her mi
nd, words learned by a heart growing more constant with every passing hour. That muscle would soon be as strong as her slender but powerful arms.

  Like she had done with the good old radishes, Bahar Amin-pour would soon carve out her own rosy little spot.

  The time was just about right, she told herself. Not yet, but soon enough.

  “ONE CHEESE AND HERB PLATE with barbari bread; two abgushts and a plate of angelica fava beans. Mains: chicken kebabs for two, lamb and cherry rice, and a yogurt and cucumber dip, no bread, to go. That's for Maeve Cleary She's on another diet.”

  Layla swung backward into the kitchen with a tray of empty plates. She left them on the sink counter and turned to Bahar. “What's that you're reading?” She walked over to the kitchen table. “A note from your lover?”

  Bahar scowled. She slipped the laminated card back into her apron pocket and pulled her hand out just as fast.

  “Give me your pen,” she said, thrusting out her empty palm.

  “Why?”

  “I'll take over the orders. You can stay here with those instruments of torture.” She pointed to the three stockpots simmering on the green stove.

  Layla shook her head. “No way. Deal was I do the front of house, you do the food. For once.”

  “That was before Marjan was gone for three hours. Where is she anyway? You'd think she'd have the courtesy to call.”

  Bahar moved toward her younger sister with a determined gleam in her eye. She reached for the pen behind Layla's ear, but not before Layla pulled it out.

  “I don't know where she is, but I'm doing the orders,” Layla said, waving the pen above her head.