Spindrift (Exit Unicorns Series)

by Cindy Brandner

  He spoke to the night and to what lay beyond the night and into the dawn that sat waiting just below the horizon. “I absolve ye, Brendan, in the name of all we were to one another, I absolve ye. An’ I would hope, man, that wherever ye are now, ye’ve forgiven me as well.”

  He leaned his head back, letting the stone buttress him so that he could gaze up at the night sky comfortably. So many friends and loved ones gone now, and yet here he was, and why? So many sacrificed to a myth, the myth that was Mother Ireland. Someone had once told him that myth was a mode of consciousness that seeks to negate a real world that has become intolerable, and replace it with an imaginary world that is tolerable. In Ireland, myth was a way of life, and in the Republican world, they were in chains to their mythology, doomed to repeat history, the story varying little, only returning to take a little more blood each time. He knew that the Church too, must take her portion of the blame in Ireland, for after all, how could a society centered upon the tenets of Christ’s life, avoid self-sacrifice?

  So perhaps, in the end, it was little more than this, he thought, that all men are victims of their own mythologies, perhaps none more so than the Irish; that a man became his stories and lost the ability to tell the dream from the reality.

  Once again, the image of Brendan sitting here beside him rose up from the night when they had mourned another man, and he remembered the last thing Brendan said that night so long ago. In the simple sentence had been all the reasons that the myth endured, the hope burned on, the fight continued. He had turned to Terry and his eyes had been those of a prophet seeing through to another time and another place, to another man’s country.

  “But oh… wise man, riddle me this… What if—just this time—the dream had come true?”

  Grain by Grain

  From the window over the kitchen sink, Brian Riordan had a view of the brick wall across from him, but today that sight was ameliorated by a sweet April sun, mellow and with enough warmth to make a man believe this country might actually get a summer this year. The window was open and a breeze wafted in, fresh as though it had just come in off the lough. Such breezes made a man’s feet itch, filled a man with a longing to get out and wander the world a wee bit. This time of year brought his father to mind, for Brendan had always taken him off for a tramp along the west coast in the spring. Sometimes they took his brothers, other times it had only been the two of them, gone for days, with neither destination nor purpose. He had treasured those times with his father, when they spoke of everything from history and politics, to the stars and why on earth his brother Francis wanted to become a priest.

  His oldest boy reminded him more every day of his own father—the size of him, the sheer raw power that was going to come with that frame when the gangliness broadened out and his muscles hardened into manhood. Watching Casey sometimes gave him a sharp pang of longing for Brendan, for his father had been such a presence that there was no filling the void he’d left behind. And there were times he would have dearly loved to ask him for advice on how to raise these boys properly, and yet have them know how well loved they were each and every day. He missed their mother too, now and again, for it would have been nice to have someone to talk to at day’s end, someone to reassure him he was doing right by them. Someone else to deal with Casey’s stubbornness, someone else to worry about Patrick’s quiet spells.

  He finished up the dishes that he had used to prepare dinner and put the tea towel over the rack and considered what to do with the rest of the day. He rarely had a day off mid-week and he savored the luxuriant feel of it. The house was clean, dinner was in the oven, the boys would be home from school soon and he had a couple of hours free to himself. He sat down with the paper and a cup of tea, thought briefly about having a small glass of whiskey as a treat, dismissed it as too decadent for this time of day and proceeded to flick through the headlines—always a bit of a grim feast, especially in Belfast. He generally ignored the society column, as he knew no one that moved in that gilded sphere, or as gilded as Belfast was likely to get, and so had little interest in the doings of the rich and infamous. But today a picture halted him as he was turning pages to get to the scores for the most recent hurling matches.

  ‘James Kirkpatrick the IVth weds in simple ceremony with family in attendance.’

  It had been seven years since he and the boy had been shipwrecked together for that one night. He had thought of him often though, over that time and occasionally seen mention of him in the papers. He had been an unusual child and Brian expected his life would be an interesting one. The boy seemed young to marry, pictured there in a grey morning suit, with a delicate woman by his side, barely more than a girl decked out in her bridal finery. She was looking up at her new husband in adoration and well she might for the man had certainly fulfilled the promise of his boyhood looks.

  Funny that the lad had a small wedding, for Brian was certain in such families a big social event was the norm, with the guest list pulled from the Who’s Who of Anglo-Irish aristocracy. Unless, of course, the bride herself did not come from that world and the family had wanted to keep the wedding as low key as possible. Well, he wished him every happiness, and hoped that his marriage would be a long and fruitful one.

  His afternoon of relaxation was put paid to by a knock at the door. Brian considered pretending he was out, but then saw the curly grey head of Imelda Leary popping up and down by the kitchen window, like a bewigged bumblebee knocking about in a bottle. He sighed. He was certain she had seen him and likely thought him a lazy gombeen for being idle on a weekday afternoon.

  Brian put the paper down, wishing now that he had succumbed to the degenerate notion to have a drink in the middle of the day. He got up and opened the back door to her.

  “Hello, Imelda, what can I do for ye?” His tone was polite, though only just. He didn’t want to spend his entire afternoon chatting on the doorstep with a woman who was notorious for her gossip. She craned her neck a wee bit, trying to see around him. Like most women, she was certain three males could not keep a decent home and was looking to find proof of it.

  “Imelda?” he coughed slightly, wishing the woman would get on with it, so that he might return to his perusal of the paper, and damn it yes, debauched or not, he was having a drink midday.

  “There’s a phone call for ye, down the pub. ‘Tis Sister Ignatia from the school.”

  Brian’s heart stopped momentarily, had something happened to one of his boys? He did not think he could bear it if it were so.

  “I think it’s only that yer lad is in some trouble, not that he’s hurt,” Imelda said kindly, having interpreted the look on his face.

  Trouble—that meant it was Casey then, no doubt about it. The bloody boy barely stopped to change his clothes between bouts of devilry. Brian paused only long enough to put his shoes on and then, locking the door behind him, followed Imelda down to the pub, where the dreaded phone call awaited him. Sister Mary Ignatia was not known for her gentle manner, and she had from time to time, made Brian feel like he was an illiterate and inept fifteen-year-old. Casey always managed to get caught by her. Just once, couldn’t the laddie could see his way to getting caught by Sister Rose, who had a sweet face on her and big brown eyes and didn’t frighten Brian in the least. He supposed it was because Casey could charm the bees out of the wind, and Sister Rose was not immune to that quality and let him off more often than not. Not so with the grim-faced Sister Mary Ignatia.

  The walk to the pub was blessedly short, for Imelda Leary never stopped talking, not even for a breath, and Brian was grateful she needed no more than the occasional ‘Ye don’t say’ to keep on with her patter, because he hadn’t a notion of what she was going on about.

  The pub was dark and quiet inside, and it took his eyes a minute to adjust from the springtime dazzle outside. The telephone was lying on its side, and the thought of Sister Ignatia standing on the other end, tapping her foot, impatiently waiting on him to come to the phone, was enough to make him feel like a
guilty school boy once again. He sighed and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, Sister Ignatia,” he said, aware that Imelda was lingering near, pretending to polish glasses.

  “Mr. Riordan,” said Sister Mary Ignatia, and those four short syllables were all Brian needed to know that any hope of peace he had for the rest of the afternoon was now gone. Wicked or not though, he was bloody having that drink.

  Two hours later he was waiting for Casey to arrive home. Patrick had been home for a bit, and was settled in doing his homework, dark head bent to a long sheet of sums, a glass of milk to hand. Pat was his steady wee lad, and he was grateful every day for him. He wasn’t one to linger long after school, though he was a popular enough lad and had plenty of friends. He’d do his homework and then tear about on his bike with the neighborhood lads for a bit before supper. He wasn’t likely, however, to give his father a grey hair for every breath he took, as his older brother was wont to do. Casey, as was usual, was late, for he did linger with his pals. Probably off with that damned Robin Temple—now there was a boy that had trouble written over him from head to toe. Brian wasn’t best pleased by the friendship, but he knew if he forbade it, Casey would spend twice as much time with the boy. He felt sorry for Robin too, for he knew the boy had a rough home life, to put it mildly. Still, he didn’t trust him and worried that Casey would be hurt by his association with him one day.

  “Did ye see yer brother after school at all, Patrick?” he asked, wondering how much Pat knew of Casey’s trouble.

  “No,” Pat said. “He usually checks to see if I’m walkin’ alone, before he takes off with Theresa or Robin, but he didn’t today.” He looked up, dark eyes wary, and shifted a little in his chair. Brian raised an eyebrow at him, and Pat squirmed a bit more, his wee face flushing. The child could not be dishonest to save his own soul, even keeping information to himself felt like lying to the boy. Brian loved that about him, though he supposed life in this country would have to teach Pat a few things about necessary lies. He never voluntarily ratted his brother out either, he usually just avoided Brian until the current brouhaha washed over the household. Brian knew exactly what Patrick was doing at such times, but left him alone unless it was a situation that warranted his immediate intervention.

  “Ye’ll have heard he was in trouble with Sister Ignatia today, then?”

  “Aye, I heard a bit,” Pat mumbled and looked back down at his sheet of sums as though it were the most interesting thing in the whole world to him right now.

  “What bit was it ye heard?”

  “Just—just that—”

  Patrick was saved by the opening of the door. Brian saw him heave a breath of relief, before pretending absorption in his homework again.

  He leaned against the counter and watched his oldest boy as he walked into the kitchen casual as damn-all. He wore his school uniform of navy trousers and white shirt with a navy vest. As usual, the white shirt was half untucked, the pants had a streak of mud on them and his shoes were untied. He didn’t have his book bag either. Brian sighed, he was always dropping it one place or another, though inevitably some girl would show up at the door with it, having hauled it all the way from wherever Casey had thoughtlessly left it.

  “Hey, Da.”

  “Hey, boyo,” he said, looking over his son with a keen eye. The lad was bold as brass and twice as hardheaded, but he wore his guilt like a hairshirt. It was unmistakable, at least to a father well tuned to his boys’ nuances.

  Patrick’s head had popped up from his books, face cautiously curious. He understood his father’s tone, even if Casey hadn’t picked up on it just yet. That was his Patrick though, always sensitive to all the undertones, while Casey often chose to ignore them if they got in the way of whatever trouble he had planned.

  “So then, Casey, how was school for ye today?” he asked, his voice entirely pleasant.

  Casey shot him a sideways look, freezing in the act of reaching for the bread loaf. The boy was always hungry, and no wonder, Brian thought, he had topped six feet over the summer. If he didn’t stop growing soon, Brian was going to be looking up at him, a thought which he found a tad discomfiting.

  “Twas fine, Da,” he said cautiously.

  “Was it then? Did ye learn anythin’ particularly enlightnin’?”

  Casey swallowed and sighed, abandoning any ideas of eating. “No, not particularly, why do ye ask?”

  “Because I got a call from Sister Mary Ignatia today,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Did ye? What did the ol’ trout want?”

  So the boy was going to brazen it out. Well, he had to admire that, foolhardy as it was.

  “Casey,” he said repressively, “ye know I don’t allow disrespect of the nuns in this house.”

  “Well, Da she is an old trout, ye said so yerself last time she tanned my fingers for me.”

  “Casey, that is not the point. She told me she caught ye in the broom cupboard with Theresa today.”

  The boy had the good sense to look down at the floor. “Aye, she did.”

  “An’ she said that ye had yer hand up Miss Theresa’s shirt when she found the pair of yez.”

  “Aye.” Casey was very still, though Brian saw his adam’s apple bob the slightest bit.

  “D’ye think maybe it’s a wee bit inappropriate to be after feelin’ up a girl in the broom cupboard of a Catholic school?”

  “Aye, I take yer point there.”

  The lad got points for honesty. Brian tamped down a wild desire to laugh.

  “Do we need to talk about respect for girls again, an’ not getting’ anyone pregnant until yer actually old enough to feed a family?”

  “No Da, I understand all that.”

  “Good. Now maybe it’s time to review showin’ some respect for the nuns. Sister Ignatia might be an old trout as ye say, but I don’t approve of ye tellin’ her to mind her own business. When yer at school ye are her business, end of story.”

  “She called Theresa a whore. Ye know that’s not so, Da. We shouldn’t have been doin’ what we were, or at least we shouldn’t have been doin’ it somewhere a nun could catch us, still she’d no right to call Theresa a whore.”

  “No, she didn’t. I’ll agree with that. Nevertheless, ye need to take responsibility for puttin’ Theresa in that situation. I imagine her daddy got the same telephone call I did today.”

  That set the boy back on his heels a wee bit. His face flooded scarlet and then turned dead white under the soft shadow of stubble.

  “I suppose I’ll have to speak to him,” he said manfully. Brian sighed. The boy was stubborn as the day was long and was always going to drive a father mad, but let no one say his boy lacked courage.

  “I’d leave that a wee bit, boy. Yer likely to cause more trouble for Theresa if ye go off sayin’ things that she’s maybe not told her father.” He would let the boy suffer a little longer before he told him he had managed to wheedle Sister Mary Ignatia around to not speaking to Theresa’s parents, though he’d been in a sweat by the time their talk was over. Once a Catholic boy with Catholic guilt, always a Catholic boy with Catholic guilt. Ah well, he’d given Imelda Leary enough gossip to last out the week, so perhaps that would weigh in his favor.

  “Now, sit down an’ have yer tea.”

  He put a plate of bread and butter and sliced ham in front of the boys, then put the teapot down in the middle of the table. The boys set to making themselves simple sandwiches, Casey not stinting on the ham—not even a brush with academic disaster could curb the boy’s appetite.

  He sat then and poured out the tea, considering how to put a full stop on this conversation, so that the boy might understand the possible disaster he was currently courting. As was Casey’s wont though, he pre-empted his father and did it with no small defiance in his tone and face.

  “Just so ye know I don’t think it’s a sin at all—it’s lovely an’ it feels amazin’, an’ I don’t see why God would make such a thing a sin.”


  Patrick’s eyes went huge at this statement, his teeth still midway through a bite of his sandwich. Brian considered that perhaps it wasn’t the most appropriate conversation for a boy of ten to be listening to, but then thought he’d rather Pat heard it at home than get some wildly inaccurate variation on the playground.

  Besides he didn’t want his younger boy getting in the sort of trouble that changed a man’s life for good and all when his day came either.

  As to Casey, well he had to take some of the blame there. He had encouraged openness in his boys, though to be honest, he hadn’t quite expected it on this level. Actually he wasn’t sure he wanted it on this level.

  “Have ye—have you an’ Theresa had sex then?” he finally managed to sputter out.

  Casey flushed. “No, not exactly, but we’ve done other things, an’ I think I’ve a good idea how it feels.”

  He was tempted to tell the boy that there wasn’t any substitute for actually being inside a woman, but thought it best to keep that information to himself if he didn’t want to be a grandfather any time soon.

  “Well, bloody keep it that way. Ye don’t need to be makin’ permanent mistakes in somethin’ that’s meant to be a temporary relationship.”

  “What do ye mean temporary?” Casey asked, outraged.

  “Just what I said. D’ye want to be married with children before ye’ve even had a chance to see a bit of the world? Well, do ye?”

  “No.”

  Brian let out a breath at the boy’s answer that he hadn’t been aware of holding in. Sometimes a boy, even at this tender age, could get to thinking that lust was love and make mistakes that would last out his life.

  “Good. Keep yer pants zipped as long as yer able.”

  He feared it would not be long enough though. Once a boy got a taste of sex, there was rarely any turning back from it. The girls were already noticing Casey and the women too. God help them all when he finally grew to fit his frame. Brian still saw his boys as his boys, always the echo there within the flesh of the babies they had once been, but he was a realist and saw to his dismay one day in church, as he watched a middle-aged widow eye his son up and down in a very assessing manner, that Casey put out something, some chemical that drew women like moths to a flame. It was his job to make certain that particular quality didn’t get the boy in the sort of trouble from which he couldn’t easily extricate himself. He had always been a precocious boy though, so keeping him in check required more vigilance than Brian could always manage.