Ignoring her completely, Seamus altered his route, raced around her and the swings, toward a movement in the grass. Johannah relaxed. Her voice shook slightly. "It's only a rabbit. He was after a rabbit."
"He's a monster." Kate was crying. "He can't stay here. He'll kill one of us for sure."
"He was chasing a rabbit, Katie," her mother said gently. "All dogs chase rabbits."
"I can't believe you're defending him. You saw him. What if he'd hurt Evan?"
She'd climbed down from the side. Evan was clutched tightly in her arms. She kissed his cheeks and then his head. "Are you all right, love? Were you scared?"
The child squirmed in her arms. "Put me down, Mommy. I want to see the rabbit."
"Not until Nan locks the dog in the house."
Sighing, Johannah called the dog. No longer distracted, Seamus came immediately. She gripped his collar and led him into the house, closing the door securely behind him.
"He's an awful dog," Kate repeated when her mother returned.
"You're being unreasonable, Kate. You can't blame Seamus for what you believed he was going to do. He had no intention of hurting you or Evan."
"He nearly killed the Costelloes' dog and don't forget that he bit you."
"That was a long time ago. He wasn't accustomed to me. I imagine he thought I was an intruder."
Kate shuddered, the tears running unchecked down her cheeks. She set Evan on the ground.
His finger crept toward his mouth. "Why are you crying, Mommy?"
She shook her head and brushed the wet away. "I'm not. Go along, now. Check on that rabbit."
Immediately, he struck out toward the side yard where the rabbit had made his escape.
Johannah linked her arm through her daughter's. "Come inside. I'll make a pot of tea."
"Don't leave the yard, Evan," Kate called out.
Deep in the task of digging a tunnel in the flowerbeds, he ignored her.
Eyes at half-mast, Seamus lay splayed in the mudroom blocking the entrance to the kitchen. Johannah and then, more gingerly, Kate, stepped over him.
Kate flicked on the electric kettle, opened the canister and pulled out two tea bags. "I can't imagine why she chose that particular dog."
"I think Seamus chose her," replied Johannah. "Your nan has a soft spot for animals." She refrained from adding rather than people.
Kate settled into a chair, her chin in her hands. "How did you know, Mom?"
"Know what?"
"That Da was the one for you? How could you possibly have known that at twenty years old?"
Stalling for time, Johannah took longer than usual to toss the teabags into the pot and add the boiling water. She watched the teapot, imagining the tea steep and the water inside the pot turning a deep golden brown. Then she filled two cups, set them on the table, found the milk in the fridge and sat down across from her daughter. Only then did she speak. "No one knows who to marry at twenty. Your dad and I knew nothing else except to stay together. And we were lucky. That's all there is to it. Were we happy?" She stirred milk into her tea. "Sometimes, and sometimes not. There were the cold times, the times we asked ourselves if someone else wouldn't have made us happier, but what was the point? We'd made our choices. So, we got on with it, made a life, raised you and Liam—" her voice broke.
Kate reached across the table and took her mother's hand. "I'm sorry. I'm an ungrateful brat. I didn't mean to stir things up for you."
Seamus lifted his head, stretched his legs and walked across the kitchen floor to push his nose against Johannah's knee. She laughed.
Reluctantly, Kate joined in.
Dolly's voice startled them. "I told you to wake me, Johannah." She stood in the doorway surveying the scene at the table disapprovingly. "It's nearly tea time and not a child in the house washed."
"There's plenty of time for that," Johannah replied. "Kate just got home. Would you like a cup of tea?"
"How was school, Kate?" Dolly asked.
Kate raised her eyebrows and looked at her mother. Johannah shrugged.
"School was grand, Nan." She patted the chair beside her. "Sit down and have a cup of tea."
Dolly frowned. After a minute she slid into the chair, examining the cup of milky tea Johannah set before her. "Is the water fresh?" she asked.
"Yes," Johannah replied, "and the milk, too."
"You didn't add sugar, did you, Johannah, because I don't take sugar."
"I know you don't, Mom. There's no sugar in your tea." She smiled bracingly at Kate. "Go ahead with what you were saying, love."
"Actually, I think you were the one talking."
"I can't remember."
Dolly rolled her eyes. "Now who's the one being forgetful?"
Kate stood. "I'll wash Evan and then help you with the tea. What are we having anyway?"
"Nothing elaborate, just bacon and cabbage. Take your time."
Dolly watched Kate lead Evan through the kitchen and up the stairs. "He's priceless. Doesn't he look just like Mickey did at that age, pure Enright? You can't tell he's a Kelliher at all."
Exasperated, Johannah's voice was sharp. "You're my mother, not Mickey's. Evan looks like our side of the family. You didn't know Mickey when he was a boy."
"I most certainly did. The Enrights were from the Abbey, just like we were. I watched Mickey Enright grow up."
Johannah stared at her. How could she be so sure of some things and so vague about others? "I could use some help with the potatoes."
"Help?"
"Yes. You could peel them or you could set the table."
"Peel the potatoes?" Dolly looked confused.
On second thought, perhaps it wasn't a good idea to give Dolly anything sharp. "Never mind, Mom," she said quickly. "Kate will be down in a minute. Would you like to watch the news?"
"Yes. I'll watch it in the sitting room."
Johannah poured her mother another cup of tea, carried it into the sitting room and turned on the television. Dolly settled herself into a high-backed chair, took the cup Johannah handed her and motioned her daughter away. "Go away now," she said and waved her hand, dismissing Johannah to the kitchen.
Gratefully, she fled.
* * *
Mickey
Johannah sat across from him in a skirt and tights that showed off the slim line of her calf, her hands wrapped around a vanilla cinnamon latte with an extra shot of espresso. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He wanted nothing more than to reach across the table, hold her hand and tell her just that.
"There I was," she said, "with the dog's nose in my lap and my daughter asking me a question I had no idea how to answer." She smiled ruefully. "I sound like an idiot. You probably have no idea what I'm talking about."
"I might surprise you."
"All right, then, tell me," she challenged him.
"Kate asked if you knew immediately that Mickey was the man you loved beyond all others and whether you were sure you would never love anyone else. Do I have it right?"
"Yes, actually, you do."
He looked down at his newspaper. "What was your answer?"
"I wasn't completely honest, but close enough. Under the circumstances it was the best answer for her."
"How do you mean?"
"I'm not the same person I was at twenty. I had no idea who I was then. I lived in Dublin in university housing. My parents supported me. When I worked, it was for pocket money. I'd never paid a bill, owned a car, managed a bank account. Mickey was handsome and funny, the life of the party. Our chemistry was amazing. What did I know about loving someone, giving up for him, supporting him even when I thought he was wrong, raising children, making meals... making love?" She cleared her throat. "I told Kate that I was completely convinced, but what I think happened was, I was lucky."
He looked startled. "Lucky?"
"Yes. To be part of a marriage that works is really just a roll of the dice, isn't it? I could have married a child abuser, a wife beater, a drunk or a philan
derer."
He colored and loosened the top button on his shirt.
"I mean, you can do all the planning you want, read all the books, take all the classes. You can do it all, but until you roll the dice, you won't know if you're a winner or loser. Real love comes later, when you know each other. It comes with sick babies and extra rolls of flesh. It comes with losing jobs and lowering standards and, more than anything, it comes with disappointment, serious disappointment."
He was silent for a long time. She was leaving a great deal out, but he could hardly tell her what he knew.
Johannah looked mortified as if she'd suddenly realized just how much she'd revealed.
"I really should be going," she said, fidgeting inside her bag and pulling out her keys. "They'll wonder where I am."
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I'm so sorry it was that way for you."
She laughed self-consciously. "Thank you, but it certainly isn't your fault and, anyway, I didn't mean to make it sound desperate. We were very happy, really. You have nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who talked incessantly."
"I enjoy listening to you."
She blushed and bit her lip. "We always talk about me, never you. Why is that?"
"You're much more interesting."
"I doubt that."
"It's true."
"It's also terribly selfish. I'd like to make it up to you. Would you come to dinner one evening this week?"
"I'd like that very much."
"Thursday would work. I'll be home early."
"Thursday it is. What time?"
"Seven o'clock."
"I'll be there."
Chapter 13
Mickey
This time he was ready for the stinging wind, the hot gasp of desert air and the turning, twisting weightlessness of his body. Mickey landed, or was it closer to being deposited, on a dusty mountain with a flat plateau. The view was spectacular. Below and to the left, strange trees grew gray leaves and dark smooth pods. To the right verdant fields, tidy and cultivated, offered up a wealth of produce: grapes, lettuce, cabbage, carrots, and olives. Bougainvillea grew wild along the roads, their rich reds and deep purples so lush and brilliant they looked as if they belonged on a movie set. Above it all hung the sun, huge, relentless, scorching. Mickey lifted his arm to wipe his forehead.
The small, dark-eyed man dressed in a tunic the same pale color as the rock, separated himself from the landscape and walked toward him. "I hope the journey was easier on you this time," he said. "It usually comes with practice."
"Hello, Peter."
"Mickey."
"Where are we?"
"It no longer exists. Once, it was called Galilee, my home."
"It's very hot, isn't it?"
"Those coming from countries suffering from perpetual rain might call it hot. I, on the other hand, find the weather extremely comfortable."
"You didn't bring me here to talk about the weather."
"No."
"Then why?"
"Think of this visit as a sort of progress report. I'm your..." he thought a minute, "your probation officer. I want to hear about your impressions. I want to know what you've learned if, indeed, you've learned anything at all."
"To what purpose?"
"For my report. That's my job, to make reports and recommendations."
Mickey rubbed the back of his neck. "It's the heat. Must we have it?"
Peter smiled. "Consider it a sort of desensitization. There are hotter spots. Not that the possibility of your failing ever crossed my mind."
Mickey laughed uneasily. "I'm working very hard."
"I hope so."
He looked around. "Are there any chairs up here?"
"Do you feel the need to sit?"
Mickey thought a minute. "Actually, I don't."
"Then, by all means, proceed."
"I've met them all," he began, "Johannah, Kate, and Liam. It's Johannah I meet regularly. I wait in a café, The Daily Grind. She comes in before work and we talk." He frowned. "She's different."
"Different?"
Mickey nodded. "She's lost weight and looks younger, but that's not the real difference. I can't put my finger on it. She seems less tolerant. Johannah was always remarkably tolerant. Forgiving, would be a better word. I don't think she's happy."
"Really? When do you suppose that began?"
"The children have moved back home. She feels it's her duty to help them, but it isn't what she wants."
"Anything else?"
"Her mother has dementia. She's taken her in as well. It's a burden. Everything falls on Johannah. Everything has always fallen on Johannah. She was forever the responsible one. She kept things going when I was out of work."
"That was a regular event, if I recall."
"Yes." Again Mickey frowned. "It's shameful. I don't know why I wasn't more ashamed when it happened."
"Why, indeed?"
"I wish I'd been different."
"There's that, at least."
"I always thought we were happily married," Mickey confessed.
"Were you?"
"God, yes." He looked alarmed. "Sorry. That one slipped out."
"Perfectly understandable." Peter smiled. "You've made progress, Michael Enright, more than I'd hoped. You're finally paying attention."
"I haven't told you about Kate or Liam."
"Your relationship with your children and grandchild has never been an issue. Johannah is the important one. You must go back now. I leave you with a word of advice. Be careful with Dolly. The poor woman has enough problems without everyone thinking she's farther gone than she really is."
"I don't understand."
"You will."
With that he was gone, leaving Mickey to brace himself for the onslaught of searing wind and churning stomach and then, gratefully, the lovely familiar sensations of home: wet air, gray skies and green fields.
* * *
Johannah
"Hello. Is anyone home?" Maura's voice echoed through the hall into the spare bedroom.
Johannah considered standing to welcome her but gave up the idea immediately. She was too tired and too nearly finished to risk the argument with her knees. "I'm in here," she called out, "in Kate's room."
Maura held up a bottle of champagne. "I bought it at Aldi's. I couldn't resist the price."
"What are we celebrating?"
"Whatever you like. We can even make up something if you need a reason. I'm happy that it's the weekend. Milo and I have tickets for Croke Park."
Johannah looked blank.
"You know. The Munster finals? Kerry versus Dublin? What's the matter with you, Hannie? You were always such a football fan."
"I wasn't anything of the sort. It was Mickey who was the fan. I went along with it because it was important to him." She sat back on her heels. Her mother's clothing was sorted and folded neatly in the chest of drawers. "I went along with a lot of things because it was important to Mickey. I don't have to bother with that anymore. I don't give a flying fig for football or any other sport for that matter."
Maura sat down on the floor and looked around. "This room looks odd."
"Wait until you see it with the furniture and pictures on the walls."
"How do you mean?"
Johannah pointed to the tape marking the spots where pictures would be hung. "She wants her religious paintings all around her."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, I suppose, unless you can't bear the thought of Stations of the Cross, the Infant of Prague and The Virgin of Guadalupe staring at each other in what was supposed to be your sewing room."
"My goodness!"
"An understatement if I ever heard one."
"I had no idea your mother was so religious."
"She wasn't. If you want my opinion, she's covering her bases."
Maura laughed and stood. "I'm going to find two champagne glasses. You might as well be jolly if you're going to work all night." She hesitated at the door. "
I forgot about the dog. Where is he?"
"Outside. He stays out there when Mom naps. She's sleeping quite a bit lately. I wonder if she's depressed."
"Don't think about it. That's what I tell Milo when he starts talking about depression. It's a state of mind."
"Of course it is. That's why they call it depression."
"You know what I mean." Maura looked both ways before stepping into the hall. "I'll be right back."
She returned with two glasses and a towel. Deftly removing the cork from the bottle, she poured the champagne, sat, folded her legs under her and leaned against the wall. "When will the rest of the furniture be here?"
"Liam will collect it tomorrow."
"I suppose it's official, then, the whole moving in business."
Johannah nodded. "Decidedly."
"Are you reconciled to it?"
"At the moment." She swirled her champagne. "I invited him for dinner."
Maura frowned. "Who?"
"Patrick. The man from the café."
"Hannie, you didn't."
"I did and I don't regret it at all. He's very nice. I've come to appreciate him and he's lonely."
"Will anyone else be here?"
"Of course. Mother lives here and so do Kate, Evan and Liam. We'll all be here."
Maura chuckled. "Are you sure you aren't trying to scare him off?"
"It isn't like that, but for future consideration I'll have to give it some thought."
Maura looked at the champagne bubbles rising in her glass. "Are you recovered, then, Hannie?"
"Recovered?"
"From Mickey. Are you ready to try again?"
Johannah closed her eyes briefly. "I'm not sure I can answer that," she said after a minute. "It doesn't work that way. I think recovery has to do with replacement. If someone came along, someone I felt could take Mickey's place in my life, then I would be recovered. Right now there's a gap, a huge, empty, lonely gap. I miss him, Maura. Despite everything, even his sports' fascination. I miss him. I'd give years of my life to have just one more day with him, one lovely, warm summer day walking by the rocks at Fenit, climbing to the shrine for St. Brendan, or strolling along Derrymore Strand to watch rainbows."
"You weren't always happy, Hannie."
"No. We forget those things, don't we?" Johannah smiled. "Thank goodness for that." She looked around. "Not to change the subject, but I'd like to have Mom's belongings in place today. How long can you stay?"
Hannie Rising Page 8