Hannie Rising

by Jeanette Baker

  "What about Hannie? Don't tell me she's the same."

  Peter's face softened the way it did when he spoke of Johannah. "A clever woman, your Hannie. She was nearly out of it, that twisted confusion of relationships that make up her existence. She had nearly seen the light, but then everyone descended upon her again, forcing her to resume her old role, peacemaker, diffuser, rescuer, counselor. Once again she's attempting to fix everyone at her own expense and will, of course, fix no one and thereby lose herself."

  Mickey was offended. "I assume you're including me in my wife's twisted confusion of relationships."

  "You most of all," Peter agreed.

  "I only want to help her."

  "Do you really?"

  "Of course. What else?"

  "If you want an answer, I must give you an honest one. I'm not able to do anything else, not even for the sake of kindness."

  "God forbid that you should be kind," Mickey muttered.

  "Did you say something?"

  "Nothing of importance. You were saying?"

  "I don't believe you want to help Hannie at all. I think you want your life back exactly as it was. You would be perfectly content to settle into your old ways, when your wife was at your beck and call. It suited you quite well. It would suit anyone with half a conscience."

  "You're very hard on me."

  "Someone has to be."

  "I don't see it that way at all," Mickey said, affronted.

  "Of course you don't. That's why I'm here, to show you the way."

  "You're not showing me at all. I'm blundering my way through, as you so clearly pointed out."

  "I wouldn't call it blundering," replied Saint Peter. "What you're doing is cheating. We had an agreement. You must follow through with it, even when you believe no one is watching." For a brief instant he looked almost sympathetic. "I can't be everywhere you know."

  Mickey swallowed. "What am I to do?"

  "Step back. Don't attempt to change fate. You'll only waste your time."

  "Isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Change fate? Why am I being sent down if it isn't to make life easier for my family?"

  Peter's mouth dropped. "Is that what you think you're about, Mickey Enright? To make life easier?"

  "Yes."

  Peter lifted his hands to the heavens and shouted, "This is what I'm given, a neophyte, an amateur, a beginner, a mere babe in the woods."

  Embarrassed, Mickey hung his head. "I apologize," he whispered although he had no idea what he'd done.

  Peter shook his head and sighed. "Easier isn't the answer, lad. Easier doesn't solve anything. I am not in the business of easy. You must help them realize that growth comes through challenge, the facing and the overcoming. You must encourage them to do something, anything, toward the change that is necessary for personal fulfillment. Easy has nothing to do with it. Easy is a wastrel's wish. All of them, all your family members, with the exception of your wife, and the child who is not yet responsible, want easier. It is your duty to show them the way. You are not to tempt them with what is easy. You are to show them what is right and in so doing you will redeem yourself."

  Despite the cold, beads of sweat formed on Mickey's brow. "I'm not capable," he whispered. "I don't know how. Why must I be the one?"

  Peter smiled, a brief turning up of the lips, a crease of the cheek. "Quite simply, Mickey Enright, who better than you?"

  * * *

  Liam

  Betty's pub was quiet, even for a Thursday night. People were spending less, holding on to their pennies, buying their liquor at off-licenses and drinking at home for half the price of a pub pint.

  Sheila sat on the bar stool, one long slim leg crossed over the other and exhaled. Smoke swirled about her head. She tapped her cigarette against the counter. "Your mother doesn't like me," she said flatly.

  Liam frowned. "There's a no smoking ordinance in Ireland, in case you've forgotten."

  "No one cares."

  "They care," replied Liam, "they just won't say anything."

  "That's all right then."

  "No, it isn't. Do me a favor and put out the fag."

  With a shrug of her shapely shoulder, Sheila dropped her cigarette into her empty glass. "You'll have to order me another."

  "No problem." Liam fished in his back pocket for his wallet. At the rate she drank, he'd be out of money and still have four days left in the week before he could collect his stipend again.

  "Your mother doesn't like me," Sheila repeated.

  "My mother likes everybody."

  "Women can tell these things. She sees me as a threat."

  Liam stared at her. "What are you talking about? How could you possibly be a threat? She's my mother."

  "It's an oedipal thing. Mothers are jealous when their sons bring women home."

  "Sheila." Liam had lost patience long ago. "My mother has no reason to be jealous. She's my mother, the only one I'll ever have. I invited you to dinner, I haven't brought you home. Besides, she's accustomed to my bringing friends to the house. She's fine with it."

  "Then why doesn't she like me?"

  Liam acknowledged the guitar player tuning his instrument in the corner with a wave of his hand and swallowed a healthy portion of his pint before answering. "It could have been because you didn't offer to help clear up, or maybe it was the way you weren't interested in anyone else at the table."

  "I was a guest," she said icily, "and in case you didn't notice, I tried joining into the conversation. No one would allow me an opening."

  "We're not exactly up on American soaps or where to find the most expensive spa treatments. Seriously, Sheila, you might have tried a bit harder."

  "I don't have to try anything." Her voice rose. "I was a guest. You should have tried harder with me."

  He stared at her, surprised. "You're really upset."

  "Damn right I am." She swung her purse over her shoulder and slid off the stool, exposing all twenty-two inches of long, lean thigh. "It's clear I've made a mistake. I thought you were a gentleman."

  "Sheila, don't go," he protested. "It's late. Let me at least see you home."

  "Not a chance." She stalked toward the door. "Don't bother ringing me again."

  Liam watched her go. He should have followed her, prevailed upon her to accept a ride home. It was too dangerous for an attractive woman with her skirt hiked up to her fanny to walk the streets without an escort. Sighing, he pushed aside his Guinness and reached for his wallet.

  "Girlfriend problems?" Ciara McCarthy picked up his glass and gave the bar a quick swipe with her towel.

  "She's just a friend," he explained.

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  "Why is that?"

  "You can do better," she said, surprising him. "You have done better. That woman is years older than you and her reputation is, shall we say, tarnished?"

  He laughed. "You can't be that old-fashioned."

  Her eyes twinkled. "Maybe not. But I'm still right. You wait and see. She'll have someone else by tomorrow afternoon."

  Liam thought a minute and then slipped his wallet back into his pocket. "How are you, Ciara? The last I heard you were planning on veterinary school."

  "I still am, but it takes money and my mom isn't doing well right now."

  "I'm sorry. What's wrong with her?"

  Ciara shrugged. "The cancer has her for the second time. I'm surprised your mom didn't tell you. She's the social worker on her case."

  Liam looked down at his shoes, then he looked back at pretty Ciara McCarthy, at her pouty lips and laughing eyes and wiry red hair. She was younger than he was, working hard behind the bar of a pub, making her plans and caring for her mother without a single complaint. It was more than enough to embarrass a man. "My mom doesn't share the details of her cases with us," he explained. "She feels it's a breach of privacy."

  "Good for her," said Ciara. "It's daunting to think everyone knows the details of my family's personal life. Not that I think your mom would spread stori
es. I know she isn't like that. She's been lovely to us, considering."

  The McCarthys were tinkers, itinerants, part of the nomadic population whose ancestors had taken to the roads in carts after they'd been evicted from their lands by Protestant landlords during the penal code years. For decades they'd been looked upon with suspicion by the settled population. Ciara's was of the first generation to hold jobs, to continue their education and make a stab at assimilation. Liam had always liked her, even had a thing for her years ago, before his father cautioned him against her. Can't be taking up with the likes of them, lad. They'll be coming to your door expecting all sorts of favors and then cheat you blind if you give in to them.

  Liam smiled. "I'll tell her you said that."

  She nodded at his glass. "If you're not driving, there's time for another before I close up."

  "No, thanks." He looked at his watch. "It's nearly closing time. I'd better go or my mom will be sending out the guards."

  Ciara opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated.

  "What is it?"

  "Since when are you living at home?"

  "Since our Celtic Tiger took a dive. I've gone back to university. It's cheaper to live at home."

  Ciara laughed. "Easier, too, I imagine, for you."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Admit it, Liam. You've got your mom cooking and cleaning for you. It can't be easier for her."

  Liam frowned. There it was again, the implication that he should be doing more than he was. "I suppose not," he said.

  "Well then, I guess I'll be seeing you. Say hello to your mom."

  He shrugged into his jacket. "I'll do that."

  Outside the streets were empty. Across the pitch-dark sky, a bitter wind chased clouds heavy with impending rain. Ice sheets frosted parked cars, puddles froze, milk rose in their bottles and even the occasional yowling cat gave up the fight and shared heat and whatever shelter it could find with recent enemies.

  Hunkering down into the fleece collar of his jacket, Liam fished in his pocket for his keys and headed for the car, thankful for his reprieve after the incident with Sheila, wanting only the clean, kitchen smell of home and then his own bed.

  He turned the corner and nearly bumped into a dark human shape heading in the other direction. It took a minute to recognize the man who'd sat across from him at dinner. "Patrick, you're out late."

  "That makes two of us."

  "Can I offer you a lift?"

  "I wouldn't want to impose."

  "Not at all," Liam assured him. "Hop in. Tralee isn't exactly London. Wherever you live can't be far."

  "I'm staying near the track. You can drop me at the corner of Racecourse Road."

  Liam turned down Rock Street. "I'm sorry I didn't get much of a chance to talk with you at dinner."

  Patrick grinned. "You were otherwise occupied."

  "Sheila's a piece of work, not bad really, just in desperate need of attention. She actually implied that my mom was rude to her because she was jealous. Can you imagine?"

  "Some women require a great deal of attention and your mom isn't one of them. Johannah's one of the good ones."

  "How long have you known my mom?" Liam asked casually.

  "Not long. She's a lovely person. I'm sure your dad was, too."

  "Yes." Liam nodded emphatically. "She misses him."

  "She's fortunate to have you and your sister."

  Once again Liam felt the stirrings of guilt. For the second time tonight he was reminded that he was no help to his mother at all.

  "This is my stop," Patrick said not long after they'd left the town center. "Thanks for the lift."

  "No trouble at all," replied Liam. Not until he turned the key in his own door did it occur to him that Betty's Pub was an odd choice for a man who lived on Racecourse Road.

  Chapter 18

  Johannah

  "But I have ten children, Mrs. Enright. The pension I'm given doesn't allow enough to raise them."

  Johannah sighed, set down her briefcase, rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, tucked a towel into her belt and began tackling the mess in Jane Murphy's kitchen. Scraping food into the garbage, she stacked dishes on one side of the worktop, poured liquid soap into the sink, added water, found a sponge and started scrubbing. "Three of your children are adults, Mrs. Murphy. They need to look for work or else apply for services on their own."

  "My oldest isn't more than twenty and where would my boys be finding work, with half the country on the dole?" Reluctantly, she picked up a towel that wasn't quite as filthy as the rest and began wiping the dishes dry. "You don't want to be doing my work, Mrs. Enright. Mind your clothes."

  Johannah was tired of side-stepping. "Someone has to do it," she said bluntly. "This place isn't suitable. You're in danger, Mrs. Murphy. If you can't care for your children, Social Services will take them. I'm sure you don't want that."

  "Not a bit," agreed the woman. "But with so little coming in, sometimes I have to leave them."

  "You're being paid, quite generously, to stay with them."

  "My man needs the money. He's on the road, you know."

  Johannah understood this to be a reference to her common-law husband, a man who showed up infrequently, just long enough to leave her pregnant with yet another mouth to feed. "Maybe he should stay on the road and allow you to keep your money for the children."

  "You're scrubbing a hole in that pot, Mrs. Enright. A woman gets lonely."

  Johannah's lips tightened. Why not say what she felt? Who else would tell the woman, not that Johannah believed for a minute that Mrs. Murphy didn't already know the measure of the man she'd chosen. "Not that lonely. He isn't a good husband, nor is he a father to your children. What do you see in him anyway?"

  "He's attractive to women."

  Johannah stopped scrubbing. Her mouth dropped. "You're not serious." A picture of Gerard Flynn formed in her mind, unshaven jaw, broken blood vessels marking his nose and cheeks, stomach swollen from the drink, thinning hair and missing teeth.

  "I'm no beauty myself, Mrs. Enright. Gerard still wants me. I'm grateful for it and I'll not be judged."

  Johannah pulled the plug, keeping her focus on the water draining down the sink, purposely avoiding the missing cabinet doors, the water-stained walls, the curling edges of linoleum floor and the boarded window pane. Her small contribution weighed in at next to nothing. Like a thousand others, this woman's life wouldn't change.

  She dried her hands on the towel and pulled it from around her waist. "Tell your two oldest sons to find another place to live. I can't authorize your current allowance while they continue to use this house as their address."

  "How will I live until then?"

  Johannah hesitated, taking her time to sort through her briefcase and lay two applications on the only clean patch of table. "Get someone you know to verify their new address. Do it today and I'll authorize two more weeks for you."

  The beady dark eyes narrowed even further. "You know about the racing money."

  Johannah faced her squarely. "I do. May I remind you that dog racing is illegal without a permit. That source will dry up. I'm angry, Mrs. Murphy. The least those big louts you're feeding could do is spare you some cash, enough so you don't have to leave your children alone."

  "You're a saint, Mrs. Enright."

  "Don't misunderstand me, Mrs. Murphy. I won't have your twelve-year-old daughter missing school to mind the six young ones. Brendan and Stephen have two weeks to file a new address, preferably somewhere outside of Mitchell's Terrace."

  "Bless you, Mrs. Enright. Everything will be done exactly as you say. Don't worry about a thing. Tonight is the last night my boys will sleep in this house. They'll be gone tomorrow, I swear it. My word is good, Mrs. Enright. Ask anyone and they'll tell you when Joan Murphy makes a promise, she keeps it."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  "Will you be stopping in next week, Mrs. Enright?"

  "I will."

  "That'll be lovely. If you tell
me when, I'll buy some vanillas to have with our tea."

  "That won't be necessary, Mrs. Murphy," Johannah replied crisply. "I'll buy the vanillas."

  Flushed with energy over her confrontation with the most gifted and outrageous liar inhabiting the close, incestuous world of the Bull Ring, she crossed the road and made her way past the vocational offices and the wrought iron gates enclosing St. John's Parish Church, her destination the rose garden, the town square and her car.

  Deciding against The Daily Grind, she headed west on the N21 toward the quiet solitude of the Ballyseedy Woods, an under-utilized recreation spot, a primeval forest with lovely walking paths and strategically placed benches regularly maintained by the County Council.

  Normally she avoided the forest. It was the picturesque farmland surrounding the woods that appealed to Johannah. She preferred the gentle relief of tilled fields with their light-touched, lime-colored grass, their even patchwork of dark and light green, harvest yellow, the fallow meadows, cows munching peacefully, bulls butting heads, the orderly neatness of rolling land bordered by hedges, flat expanses broken by broccoli-headed trees, the peace and calm, the beauty and safety, the exposed openness of it.

  Today was an exception. Today she would breach the woods. It called to her, the dark, close wildness, the thickness of fern and birch, Irish oak, pine and ash, the deep, dense greenness of it, the smoke-brown branches, the trunks strangled by vines of twisted, prickly, predatory holly, the ground moist and dank with wet, mildewed leaves, the smells of sage and garlic, onion and rosemary, all heavy and shadowed and private, all quivering and buzzing with teeming, hidden life.

  A single car was parked in the lot. Slipping inside the gate, Johannah ignored the signpost and struck out for the bridge. There was no sign of another human and almost immediately she felt the sensation of having been pulled back into an earlier time, the Ireland of five centuries before when the air was rich with oxygen, the hum of insects, the scent of wild spice.