Johannah thought a minute. Perhaps she was being ridiculous. It would do her good to get out. At least it would satisfy her curiosity. If Ritchie was anywhere near as good as he'd been years ago when the offer from California came, the evening would be worthwhile. Besides, maybe she would gain some insight into Kate's long-lasting obsession. "All right. I'll go with you. But I have to be sure Kate will be home for Evan."
Maura's mouth dropped. "Of course she'll be home. She's his mother for pity's sake. You must stop this, Johannah. You're job isn't to be Evan's mother. He already has one. Step back and stop making everyone else feel incompetent."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"I know it. Now, stop all this and drink your coffee. It's probably cold by now. You haven't asked me about the store or Milo in ages. He's drinking more than ever and I'm thinking of leaving him."
Johannah froze. "You can't be serious?"
"No," Maura confessed, "not a bit, but you're so unavailable, I had to say something to shock you."
"Milo isn't drinking?"
"He is, but he isn't exactly an alcoholic. He just likes his pint or two or three. I'm accustomed to it and have no intention of throwing him out. Can you imagine the talk? I'd be the one everyone in town would blame."
"Do you care?"
Maura refilled her coffee cup. "I shouldn't, but I do. I like to slag the biddies and their gossip, but I don't want to be the one they're gossiping about. " She changed the subject. "Tell me about the strike."
"It's dreadful, Maura. They're talking about cutting our wages but not our hours."
"Why would they do that?"
"The economy. There isn't enough to keep up the current level of home care."
"I'll bet the town council isn't taking a pay cut, nor is anyone else connected with the administration. If they cut your salary, theirs should be cut as well. Are you seriously considering a strike?"
"It looks that way."
"Why must you go to Dublin?"
"Jack Rafferty is there. He's the guru of binding arbitration. He'll tell us what's legal, what to do first and then so on."
Maura looked at her in awe. "And you've been selected. What an honor, Johannah. Obviously you're highly respected."
"More than likely, it isn't personal at all. I've been employed for a long time. Nearly everyone else is younger than me."
"Don't minimize your influence. I'm proud of you. You go to Dublin and knock old Gerry Fox's socks off. Shame on him for cutting geriatric benefits. He'll be there himself some day. I wonder how he'd like it if he could only get oxygen for his emphysema every other Wednesday."
Johannah smiled at her friend fondly. "You're a love, Maura. You always say the right thing. What would I do without you?"
"We're a long way from having to worry about that, God willing." She crossed herself. "Now, gather yourself and call your sister. Tell her you have no choice and that you'll be putting Dolly on the train."
"She could never manage a train on her own."
"I know that and you know that, but Kathleen doesn't. Put the fear of God into the woman and then have Liam drop his grandmother on her porch."
"You're wicked, Maura."
"I'm taking that as a compliment." She gathered her belongings. "I've got to run. Milo's minding the store. I'll meet you at half eight."
Reluctant to go home just yet, Johannah decided to stop at the cemetery. She bought flowers at the stand on Castle Street, once again marveling at the variety of fresh food and flowers available any season of the year since Ireland's admittance into the European Union.
Pulling out into the perpetual traffic jam that choked the streets of Tralee from noon until late evening, Johannah drove slowly but persistently down the Boherbui Road to Rathass and parked across from the town cemetery. Struggling with her umbrella and sheltering her daffodils against the wind, she walked tentatively down the gravel path leading to her husband's grave. The heels of her shoes sank into the rain-soaked soil. "Damn," she swore softly.
A voice spoke behind her. "Can I be of help?"
She peeked out from under her umbrella. "Patrick! What are you doing here?"
"I was looking for someone who lived here in Tralee. She died recently."
"Who would that be?" Johannah asked. "Maybe I know her."
"Jane O'Grady."
"Of course. She's a relative of sorts, by marriage. I attended the wake some weeks ago. How are you connected?"
"Like you, by marriage."
"Did you know her well?"
"Not really. Why?"
Color rose in Johannah's cheeks. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. It's none of my business."
"I'm not offended."
"It's just that most people don't comb cemeteries of this size in the rain looking for someone they barely know."
Patrick smiled. "I have the time."
"Of course. Jane is on the other side of the cemetery where the Rock Street crowd are buried." She hurried to explain. "Like most towns, Tralee is separated by its clubs, John Mitchels, The Rock, Strand Road and Na`gael. We bury each other that way as well."
"I know something about town rivalries."
Johannah nodded. "Sometimes it's difficult to move about when you've grown up in a certain area. But it isn't as bad as someone new altogether. Those poor souls are 'blow-ins' even if they've lived here for fifty years. It's not fair, really, but it's a fact." Lord, she did prattle on. Better to keep silent than to risk appearing even more foolish.
Without speaking, they walked past graves both elaborate and mean, tasteful and garish. Kate stopped at her husband's gravesite, bending to lay the flowers in front of the stone. "Mickey and I never discussed dying. I suppose it's because the subject is so unpleasant."
"Either that or you thought you would have more time. He wasn't very old."
"No, he wasn't. It's a shame, really. I didn't know what to do. The children thought he should be here, in Tralee, where it's easy to visit, but I don't know if they bother. I wouldn't ask them, of course. We avoid emotional subjects in order to avoid emotional scenes. The Enrights aren't comfortable with drama."
"That's not such a bad thing."
"Oh, yes, it is," she said emphatically. "It's terrible. I'd love to be one of those families who argue by shouting and throwing plates and then hugging and kissing when it's all over."
"Surely you can't mean that, the shouting and throwing plates part."
"I certainly do. It's healthy and cleansing. We just walk about with our chins up and shoulders back, but inside we're in dreadful pain."
"I've heard that awareness is the first step toward recovery."
She looked up at him, realizing for the first time that he was a head taller and that his eyes were clear and light and fine. Why hadn't she noticed before?
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"Nothing of any importance."
"Tell me," he coaxed her. "I want to know."
"All right." The rain slowed to an annoying drizzle. She snapped shut her umbrella. "I was thinking about how much I hate graves."
He looked startled. "Really?"
"Yes. Imagine how wet and miserable it is to be buried under the ground in this wet. I mean, it isn't Florida, is it? When I go, I want to be burned and sit in a vase on Kate's mantle, all cozy and warm and cared for."
"Not Liam's? You could divide the ashes and give half to each."
She tilted her head. "I hadn't thought of that. It would depend on whom he married. Think of the potential problems an absent-minded daughter-in-law could cause."
He threw back his head and laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"You are. Have you always been this way?"
She looked puzzled. "I don't know what this way means, but I don't think I've changed much. Personalities develop in the first few years of life. At least that's what the experts tell us."
His eyes looked very bright. "I wouldn't know," he said softly. "I'm not one for paying close a
ttention when it's important. It's a fault of mine."
"Now is as good a time as any to start." She smiled. "That's what my mother always told me."
"I've met your mother and know better than to argue with her."
"Smart man." She checked her watch. "I must run now. I've an engagement this evening and then I'm off to Dublin for a few days. I shall miss you. You're wonderful to talk with, Patrick."
"The feeling is mutual. Goodbye, Johannah."
Chapter 21
Mickey
A man could become accustomed to almost anything, Mickey reflected, scooping up a handful of smooth white sand as he stared at the clear waters of what must certainly be some island in the Pacific. He hadn't traveled much. It had never been a priority. Johannah would have loved to travel, but with the children, the house and money always so tight, the opportunity hadn't come.
Peter, he noticed, always chose a different destination for their meetings. He'd offered no explanation for his preference for diverse locations, but Mickey was sure there was a lesson somewhere. He knew it as surely as he knew the color of his daughter's eyes. Peter did nothing without a reason.
Sensing a presence, he scanned the horizon and then turned to gaze upon the cool green promise of the palm-studded hills. Sure enough, a dark speck on the white sand approached. Mickey stood in anticipation.
"How are you, lad?" Peter asked when they faced each other.
"She's leaving for Dublin. She wants to be cremated," Mickey blurted out.
"Yes." Peter shifted his gaze to the sea. "An unforeseen complication, but irrelevant to your mission."
"Which one?"
"The cremation part. It doesn't matter what they do to our bodies. They are vessels, nothing more. The complication is Dublin."
"I don't understand."
Peter locked his hands behind his back. "Walk with me. I must prepare you for the next portion of this mission you've undertaken."
Mickey fell in beside him, curious, yet concerned. For a small man, Peter's stride was long, his pace swift. "I'll remind you that I didn't choose to undertake anything. I was coerced."
Peter stopped in mid-stride. "You wanted another chance. I didn't misunderstand, did I?"
"What I wanted was to rewind time. I wanted my life back the way it was."
"Do you still want that?"
Mickey hesitated. What exactly did he want? To return to the life he thought he had with Hannie and his family? He'd come to realize that his former life, the self-centered, indulgent life he'd bull-dozed through without regard to others never existed, or if it did, it was only in his own imagination. The rest of them, Kate, Liam, Dolly, they had their own versions of reality and priorities that no longer included him... if they ever did. "I don't know what I want," he said at last.
Peter nodded. "That's the first intelligent answer you've given me. You're learning, Mickey Enright. I'm pleased with you. Now, listen closely. When Johannah returns from Dublin, you will be tested. The temptation to reveal yourself will be strong, but you must resist. Remember, whether it appears so or not, everything is proceeding according to plan. Fall back on that thought when you need it."
Mickey looked alarmed. "Can't you tell me more than that?"
"There's no point. Trust me." With that, Peter resumed his pace, leaving Mickey, confused and more than a little alarmed.
* * *
Johannah
She'd pinned her hair into a messy bun at the back of her head, securing it with a rhinestone clip, brushed her teeth, changed her clothes and was finishing a container of soy yogurt when the key turned in the lock.
Kate opened the door. "Come along, Evan," she said over her shoulder. "We'll have our tea and then you can visit with Rory." She looked surprised to see Johannah. "I didn't think you'd be home."
Johannah, the image in Ballyseedy Woods still fresh in her mind, was unusually short. "I live here. Why wouldn't I be home?" She smiled at Evan. "Hello, love. How was school?"
"Grand." Evan held out a large piece of drawing paper with an unidentifiable figure filling the page. "I made this for you."
"Did you?" Johannah reached for it. "My goodness. Isn't it remarkable?"
"It's a panda bear. They live in China. We're learning about them in school. His name is Ted."
"What an excellent name. Shall I tack him up right here on the refrigerator?"
Evan nodded. "Yes. We can look at him whenever we like."
Kate interrupted. "I called and no one answered." She looked around. "Where's Nan?"
"In the sitting room reading the paper. She might like some tea as well."
"Are you going out?"
"Yes." Johannah rinsed her spoon and left it in the sink. Turning around, she spoke deliberately. "I'm meeting Maura at The Meadowlands. Apparently, Ritchie O'Shea is playing there tonight. I hear he's very good... as a musician, that is."
Kate nodded. She looked tired, but that was all. "Yes. I imagine he's even better than he was before he left for the States. I'll take care of Nan. Have a good time."
Filled with remorse, Johannah kissed Evan and hurried out the door. What had she expected? Flaming cheeks, stammering, obvious guilt? What she really wanted was an explanation but that wasn't likely to happen. The Enrights always were a close-mouthed bunch. And so, apparently, were the Littles as evidenced by her own behavior. Maura was right. She should simply ask Kate a direct question.
The hotel carpark was nearly full, but she managed to squeeze into a space between two large utility vehicles. Deciding against her umbrella, Johannah left it in the car, hitched her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. Inside the pub, she looked around for Maura, hesitating between choosing a seat at the bar or a table in the back. She preferred the table but it was too far from the stage, something Maura wouldn't appreciate. Still, she wasn't here and the seats were filling quickly.
Taking the initiative, Johannah slid into the long booth facing the door and set her purse on the chair opposite, waiting for her friend to arrive. Shrouded in the dim light, she looked around recognizing most, but not all of the patrons. There was a time when she knew everyone in Tralee, but no longer. The influx of foreigners and increased tourism had erased its insular, small town feel.
The band was nowhere to be seen but they had already set up, with three microphones out front and a complete set of drums. Ritchie O'Shea would never go begging for backup in Tralee.
Maura appeared in the doorway. She waved, made her way through the tables, pulled out a chair and sat down across from Johannah. "Sorry I'm late. Milo wanted to come. I had to convince him he'd be bored to tears. Jazz isn't his thing anyway. Have you been here long? I suppose not since you haven't a drink."
Johannah, struggling with her own thoughts, ignored the question and asked her own. "What is it about the Irish that they all must prove themselves musicians? Where are the lads who want to be doctors and lawyers, teachers and accountants? Surely it's more difficult to become proficient on an instrument than it is to be a barrister. A musician needs not only the theory, but an ear, talent, good fortune and the ability to tolerate starvation, while acquiring the law asks nothing more than a motivation to study."
Maura stared at her. "What are you talking about, Hannie?"
"Doctors and barristers make enormous money. Musicians make nothing."
"Sorry?"
"What's the matter with young people? Why do all the lads want to play in front of an audience and why are young girls so taken with musicians?"
"Is this about Kate?"
Johannah bit her lip. "A bit."
Maura leaned forward. "I can't answer your question about musicians, Hannie. We were there once, too. But I can tell you this. Kate would have run after Ritchie if he'd been the postman. The way the two would look at each other made me want to reach for a newspaper and fold it into a fan. Now, I'm going to the bar. What can I get for you?"
"A glass of wine and some ice."
She'd finished her glass and started
on another when the stage began to fill, first Georgie Lynch on the bass and Ambrose Smith behind the keyboard, then Donal O'Sullivan on the drums, Jimmy Duggan and his guitar and finally, the acknowledged lure of the evening, Ritchie O'Shea carrying his famous Mark VI saxophone, the one he'd bought in America and smuggled home in his mother's suitcase to avoid the VAT.
Maura raised her eyebrows. "He was always handsome, but then I'm partial to red hair."
Johannah ignored her and leaned forward. The first notes of rich, smoky music filled the room, evoking images of a world she'd only read about, a world of sizzling bayou nights, sugary drinks, skimpily-dressed women with carmine-stained lips pressed into the shoulders of dark, sweat-slicked men in loose pants, men born with tango steps in their blood. No matter what she thought of him as a person, there were few who could match Ritchie O'Shea when it came to jazz, no one she could afford to see live anyway.
It was seductive, this world of music, and the men and women who succumbed to its call. By day they were ordinary beings, too short or too round with sagging jowls and receding hairlines. At night, on stage, they were a breed apart, entertainers, musicians, and the sultry tunes pouring from their instruments and their throats were sung to every hopeful, lonely soul harboring even the slightest hint of imagination. Johannah closed her eyes, grateful that Maura, a music-lover to the bone, required nothing in the way of conversation.
Too soon, the band announced their break. Johannah opened her eyes. "You were right," she said to Maura. "He's exceptional. I'm glad you talked me into coming."
"You can tell that to the band leader. He's coming this way now."
"No. I don't want—" But it was too late. She found herself pasting a false smile on her lips waiting the last few seconds before Ritchie O'Shea made his way to her table.
"Nice to see you again, Mrs. Enright, and you, too, Mrs. Keane."
"Don't be calling me Mrs., Ritchie O'Shea," said Maura. "The years pass by quickly enough. You'll have me thinking I'm old as my mother, God rest her soul."
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