The Lace Makers of Glenmara

by Heather Barbieri

  She was too angry to take communion, the first time she’d ever refused it. She wouldn’t give Father Byrne the satisfaction of turning her away at the railing; though he might not take things that far, she wasn’t about to test his resolve. She waited until everyone was lined up, glad she’d taken a seat in the back, since she and Kate had been running late—the Mini wouldn’t start, and they’d had to walk—then made her exit. She nodded for Kate to follow and walked up the aisle, past the candles glowing with a host of intentions, and out onto the green.

  Oona and Colleen followed. Only Aileen remained inside, avoiding Bernie’s gaze.

  The group marched up the lane to the car park, resolute. “Let’s get out of here,” Oona said. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “I should have shouted him down in front of everyone. Maybe I will yet.” Colleen took a step toward the church.

  Bernie put a hand on her arm. “It would only incite him.”

  “Is he always like this?” Kate asked, clearly bewildered.

  “Never this bad. I gave him a look before I left. I think he got the message. He knows I won’t sing in the choir until he stops this silliness.” Colleen took a deep breath. “He makes me so mad. How dare he set himself above us? Judge us. Appointed by God indeed.”

  “He’ll be sorry to lose you. He says you have the voice of a seraphim,” Oona said.

  “He wouldn’t be saying that if I’d said everything I’m thinking right now. If only I had more courage—”

  “You’ve more courage than all of us put together. You always have,” Bernie said. “But now isn’t the time.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Better to take the high road,” Colleen conceded. “Besides, I like the view.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kate said. “Why is he so upset?”

  “He’s one of those people who needs a certain order to his life, to his community. He doesn’t like anything new,” Colleen explained. “He fears the modernization of Ireland, that it’s happening too fast, that too much is being lost.”

  “There’s some truth to that,” Oona said.

  “Yes. But his thinking is too narrow,” Bernie said.

  “That certainly seems to be the case,” Kate said, fiddling with the zipper on her coat and stealing uneasy glances at the church, as if she thought the priest might charge down the steps any second.

  “I mean, taking issue with the lace, really,” Bernie continued. “And Kate too, especially when she’s a guest in our village—”

  Kate gave her a nervous smile.

  “Good thing Padraig was sick today,” Oona said. “Otherwise, there’d have been a right to-do.”

  “I’m glad I let Finn sleep in,” Colleen said. “He doesn’t think much of Father Byrne either, though he’s probably too much of a Catholic to say anything. I used to think I was too. But I have my limits.”

  “The nuns did their job well, brainwashing us with visions of hell. Sister Thomas Aquinas was so quick with the rod. I still remember how she rapped my knuckles for playing with a loose string on my jumper during mass and nearly broke my fingers,” Oona said.

  “She was awful, wasn’t she?” Colleen agreed. “But they weren’t all bad. Remember Sister Marie-Claire?”

  “Yes, she was a sweetheart. Young and pretty and kind.”

  “Did you have a parochial education?” Colleen asked Kate.

  “No, I went to public school.”

  “Probably better for you,” she said, “more freedom. The Church can be so repressive, even now, though I hear things are easier in the States.”

  “There are conservatives there too, though nothing quite like this.” She shook her head, eyes wide.

  “No, nothing quite like this.”

  “Isn’t Aileen coming with us?” Oona asked.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Bernie said.

  “Guess she’s too concerned about the state of her soul,” Oona said.

  “Maybe she didn’t notice we left,” Bernie said, giving her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Oh, she noticed,” Colleen said with a knowing look. “Maybe she’s deciding whose side she’s on.”

  “Her family’s always been Catholic to the bone, haven’t they?” Oona said. “They never leave the pews until the priest has said his final blessing.”

  “Priest, yes, but he’s still a man, isn’t he, with the potential for the shortsightedness and weaknesses men are capable of, strong though they might think themselves to be,” Colleen said.

  “You’re not becoming a feminist, are you?” Oona asked. “That would be something.”

  “I am myself, a woman in this village,” she said, “and believe me, that can be challenge enough.”

  “So it is,” said Bernie.

  “Not everyone agrees with him,” Oona said. “The priest, I mean.”

  “The question is: Will they stand up to him?” Colleen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bernie said. “They’re probably afraid of going to hell.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in hell,” Kate said. “My mother used to say that it’s something religious leaders made up to frighten us into obedience.”

  “I think I’d like your mother,” Colleen said, adding, with a sly grin, “but don’t let the good father hear you say that.”

  “Though it wouldn’t hurt him to consider a different point of view for once,” said Oona.

  “Since when has he ever done that?” Colleen declared.

  They stared at the church. They could still hear the priest’s harangue, even from there, though they couldn’t make out the words.

  “No doubt we’ve given him something else to talk about,” Bernie ventured.

  “Always glad to do my part to contribute to the closing remarks,” Colleen said.

  “I don’t ever remember him being on such a tear, not even during Vatican II.”

  The lace makers pulled their sensible woolen coats tight across their chests to protect themselves from the chill—and the force of Father Byrne’s words, which continued to pelt them from a distance. No one else emerged from the church. The members of the lace society, save Aileen, were the only ones who’d walked out in protest.

  “How did he find out about the knickers in the first place, I wonder?” Bernie asked. “Though Mrs. Flynn did warn us.”

  “My da said he’s been snooping around too,” Oona said. “I didn’t pay it any mind. Remember the night he stopped by your house?”

  “He didn’t find anything.”

  “There are other means to spy. Perhaps he surfs the Internet,” Colleen said with a look of mischief, turning to Kate. “You did post the photographs, didn’t you?”

  Kate nodded.

  “But he’s a priest,” Bernie protested. “Surely, he wouldn’t go into the bar in Kinnabegs and—”

  “It’s a wonder the Church hasn’t gone bankrupt, what with the scandals and settlements,” Colleen said.

  “And yet we still go to mass,” Oona said. “We still believe.”

  “It’s not about the priests, is it?” Bernie said. “It’s about having faith. The world would be a grim place indeed if we didn’t put at least some belief in a higher power.”

  “We might be doing it without our local parish at this rate,” Oona said. “Do you think he could get us excommunicated?”

  “Over the lace?” Kate asked. “Rome couldn’t possibly take him seriously.”

  “You never know who they’ll decide to make an example of,” Colleen said.

  “Anyway, we’d better push off before he’s done. I don’t want to give him any more ammunition.” Oona motioned them into the car.

  “Wait a minute. Don’t you need to give your da a ride home from mass?” Bernie asked.

  “Oh, that’s right.” Oona put her keys back in her pocket. “Maybe he’ll cut out after communion. He sometimes does.”

  “I feel like a criminal, skulking around like this,” Bernie said.

  “It’s the Catholic guilt. They
get us while we’re young. It’s like a cult,” Oona said.

  “Here he comes,” Bernie said.

  Denny emerged from the church, shaking his head as he stamped down the path. He had a deliberate way of walking, as if he were putting out a series of small fires. Oona thought he had hip problems and tried to convince him to consult a doctor, but he wouldn’t go. He hadn’t been in years, had an aversion to shots and pills and bad news. He’d worn his best suit that day. He believed in dressing up for church, didn’t approve of the casual attitudes of the young, though he took a liberal view of theological matters and had witnessed the priest’s slide—yes, he would call it a slide—into a particularly intractable form of conservatism. “The man’s turning into a zealot,” he said more than once. “He’ll drive people away. “

  “Here they are, the sinful girls of Glenmara,” he said. “Is there room for me?”

  “Up front,” Oona said. “The rest of you will have to squeeze into the back.”

  “I don’t mind walking,” Kate offered.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Oona said. “We can make room.”

  “It’s all right. I could use the fresh air.”

  “Especially after what Father Byrne put you through in there. The nerve of him,” Bernie said.

  “Don’t let him worry you, the old fool. Oh, I haven’t had this much fun in years.” Denny rubbed his hands together and chuckled. “Wish Niall had been there. Too bad his daughter invited him on that weekend holiday down the coast. Can’t wait until he gets back tonight.”

  “Glad you’re entertained, Da, but Father Byrne could make things difficult for us.” Oona motioned for him to get in the car, clearly eager to drive away from the priest and his sermons. “Glenmara’s a small place.”

  “I didn’t mean to cause you trouble,” Kate said. “I had no idea putting lace on a pair of panties could be so controversial.”

  “Don’t pay Father Byrne any mind. He’s been looking for a way to impress Rome for years,” Colleen said.

  “Like Oona said, he could make things hard for you,” Kate said.

  Colleen squared her shoulders. “Let him try.”

  Chapter 20

  Another Life

  Once the women were gone and she’d walked down the lane, away from the church, the tears came, tears of anger and humiliation at what the priest had done. The public nature of the condemnation was more than Kate could bear. She didn’t like feeling so helpless, wished she’d stood up in the church and called him on his hypocrisy. It was easier to think of the right words, the right plan, in retrospect. He’d caught them by surprise—her too—launching a sneak attack in their place of worship, a look of triumph on his face, there, on the altar, putting himself and his judgments above them all.

  How dare he?

  Oh, but he did.

  The question was: What would happen now? To the lace makers? To her? To the lace itself?

  Kate had managed to keep her emotions in check until she was alone; she didn’t think the women noticed anything amiss. Well, maybe Bernie did, but she hadn’t said anything, seeming to sense that Kate needed time to herself. It would take her at least twenty minutes to reach Bernie’s house. By then, she’d have herself under control. But for now, her tears smeared the landscape into an impressionist painting, colors and shapes blurring, sobs audible, blocking out all sound except that of her own voice.

  She was so distracted, muttering and fuming, that she didn’t notice the van pulling up beside her at first.

  “Want a lift?” Sullivan called through the open window as the car idled.

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, her throat tight, the tears continuing to fall. She bit her lip and looked away, toward the wide, sloping fields.

  He killed the engine, perhaps sensing that something was wrong. “What’s the matter?”

  “Father Byrne, he—,” she began, her voice catching as she tried to explain.

  He got out of the car and pulled her toward him. “Gave you a dressing-down at mass, did he?”

  “Were you there?”

  “No, but I could guess. He does that occasionally. Very old-school.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” She rested her head against his chest. “He was so angry, so righteous—about the lace, and my being an outsider, and—Oh, I don’t know. I think he hates me.”

  “No, he doesn’t—”

  “And he went after Bernie for taking me in,” she continued. “And Colleen and Oona—”

  “He’ll come around. He can’t condemn everyone. He’ll lose the entire congregation.” He took her by the hand. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “On Sullivan Deane’s tour of the Glenmara hills, just the thing to take your mind off your troubles.”

  “But what about Bernie? I told her I’d be back—”

  “We’ll let her know on the way. She’ll understand.”

  As Kate changed her clothes at Bernie’s, her hostess insisted on packing them a picnic. Kate heard her talking with Sullivan in the kitchen while she pulled on the boots that had already seen her through so many miles and her fleece jacket and jeans; then she and Sullivan set off on their excursion.

  “How do you feel about climbing a mountain?” he asked.

  “You know my skills in that regard after seeing me on Greeghan’s Face.”

  “I really didn’t notice. I was too fixated on the view of your lovely ass.”

  “You really are insufferable.” She gave him a playful slap on the arm.

  “You know you love it. Besides,” he continued, “the climb up Croagh Brigid isn’t technical. There’s a path to the top. It’s a pilgrimage route.”

  “And what will we pray for?”

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  The drive passed in no time at all, filled with interludes of conversation and companionable silence, the scenery more stunning than ever, all greens and golds, fields and cliffs, gentle hills giving way to the majesty of the peak itself, a veil of clouds at the summit. “Do you think it will clear?” she asked.

  “The wind is coming from the west.” He turned in the direction of the sea. “So it should.”

  She’d brought her rain jacket just in case, tucked in a day pack, a first aid kit and blanket and matches too. “I feel like such a Girl Scout.”

  “It’s good to be prepared,” he said. “The weather can change fast.”

  “I’m surprised there aren’t more people here,” she said as they set off on an unmarked trail.

  “It’s one of the lesser-known sites. We’ll probably have it to ourselves.” He went ahead, stepping easily over the rocks as she struggled to keep up.

  “You don’t have a problem with heights, do you?” he asked.

  “Not usually,” she said, keeping her eyes on the boot-beaten track. The drop was sharp in places. She paused, took a sip from her water bottle, and tied her jacket around her waist. The sun had indeed emerged—with a vengeance. Sweat was already dripping down her back. She was too breathless to talk. All she could do was try to keep up with him. He maintained a good pace. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other—and staying on the path.

  When would they reach the top? Her stride shortened, so that she felt as if she were shuffling. And to think the devout made the trek on their knees. It was bad enough on two feet. The distance wasn’t that far, due to the steepness of the pitch, but the incline made the hike challenging.

  “We’re almost there,” he said. “Wait until you see the view.”

  “Provided I can still see straight,” she muttered. But he didn’t hear her, the breeze carrying away her words.

  Then she crested the rise, and she knew exactly what he meant.

  He took her hand. “Make a wish,” he said.

  And she did, though she didn’t tell him what it was.

  As they drove along the coast road that evening, a bank of mist hovered over the waves like smoke, forming sh
apes that shifted as the waves curled and broke. Kate thought she saw a woman and a horse among the spray, blinked, and they were gone. When she was a little girl, she and her mother would lie on the grass in the backyard and stare up at the sky. The clouds, which had been nothing but shapeless white blobs moments before, promising nothing but rain, transformed in the blink of an eye.

  She wondered if Ireland would have been as her mother expected, what she would think of Sullivan. She felt the familiar ache below her breastbone, missing her still. She hadn’t told Sullivan about her mother, or Ethan, or her struggling career.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Just curious about where we’re off to now,” she replied.

  “You’ll see,” he said with an enigmatic smile.

  The moon was full that night, the stars a glittering of celestial dust on the ink-black sky, a pale line of clouds to the north.

  He slowed suddenly on a curve.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, thinking he must have seen an animal in the road.

  “It’s just a bad turn,” he said. “It’s worse at sunset, when it’s a blind corner in every sense of the word. Good thing hardly anyone drives this way except the locals. We know it’s treacherous.”

  They passed a highway memorial, and Sullivan made the sign of the cross. “The old Catholic habits die hard,” he said, as if the gesture needed an explanation, “even if I don’t put much stock in religion anymore.”

  “I know what you mean.” She thought of her mother, of the string of unanswered prayers.

  His hands on the wheel and shift were capable, strong. She liked the feeling of going somewhere, of being with him. The destination didn’t matter as much as the journey, the two of them traveling together. He didn’t turn on the radio, the only music the wind whistling through the open window and the bass note of the sea, rumbling below. The engine whined as they went higher, up the hairpin turns.