The Walking People (56 page)

"I guess all the forks are dirty. You can use—" Greta meant to reach above the refrigerator for the container of plastic cutlery, but out of habit she opened the drawer instead. There, clean, shining, were more than a dozen forks. She plucked one out and handed it to him. In return, he handed her his extra knife.

"Perfect," he said, and began fishing strawberries from the fruit salad.

"Did you not look in the drawer already, Michael? Did I not hear you rooting around?"

He looked up with a full mouth, not quite sure what she was asking him. "You're tired, Greta," he said. "Sit down. Have something to eat."

As Michael chewed, he remembered a little girl standing by a river, arms raised, eyes closed tight. The girl's name was Greta, he knew very well, and she was the same as this Greta whose two eyes watched him eat from behind glasses he didn't recognize.

"I hear something," James called through the house. "Julia's car. It's stopping. It's them."

Greta took a breath and stood.

"A bit late, isn't it?" Michael asked as he reached across the table for more fruit. He saw that Greta had gone pale, that her lips had become a single thin stroke of red in the middle of her face. He watched as she stood and swept her hands over the front of her sweater, her hips, the thighs of her pants, as if she were brushing away crumbs only she could see. He watched her walk away from the table. He watched her walk across the kitchen. He leaned back in his chair and watched
her walk down the hall to the door, which jingled when she pulled it open.

"My God," he heard her say. "Oh my God."

"Greta," they said together, then Johanna alone, then Tom alone, then together again. They shouted the word at her, as if they were telling her her own name. He heard Eavan and James emerge from their hiding places, stand together in view of the door, where they'd be seen and acknowledged.

"Come in," Greta said in a strange voice. "Please. Is it raining? I didn't realize it had started raining. You're pure soaked. Let's get you tea. Let's get you dry. Let's get you something to eat."

Raining, Michael repeated to himself, tapping his fork against the rim of his bowl. That was it. That was the sound of running water he'd been hearing since the party ended. He held his breath and listened for it. Water charged through the gutters of the house, down the pipes, raced out to the sewers on the street with the speed and din of a great rushing river.

"Aren't we well used to the rain?" Johanna asked, and Michael listened to the click of her heels as she took a few steps inside the house.

"Michael?" Greta called to him. "Are you there?"

He got up from the table to join her.

I
SOUGHT OUT
a number of people and organizations for help while writing this novel, and I extend my thanks to the Irish Centre for Migration Studies for their Breaking the Silence project, which added new dimensions to those narratives I'd heard all my life; the staff at the National Library of Ireland for their guidance and, most of all, for their assistance with the microfilm; the M.F.A. faculty at the University of Virginia for their support and encouragement even after I graduated from the program; the Alumnae Association of Barnard College for the AABC fellowship; the men of the New York City Sandhogs' Union (afternoon shift, August 2006, Thirtieth Street and Tenth Avenue), particularly Chris Fitzsimmons, for allowing me down into the tunnel and for answering my questions.

In addition, I must acknowledge the following sources, each of which rounded out my knowledge of the period and helped me imagine what these characters were up against:
Irish Travellers: Culture and Ethnicity,
published in 1994 by the Institute of Irish Studies, The Queen's University of Belfast;
Nan: The Life of an Irish Travelling Woman
by Sharon Gmelch;
Irish Travellers: Racism and the Politics of Culture
by Jane Helleiner; and
The Quiet Revolution: The Electrification of Rural Ireland,
1946—1976 by Michael J. Shiel.

I'm very grateful for the support of the following people: my agent, Chris Calhoun of Sterling Lord Literistic — I could not have
found a better advocate; Mary Gordon, for help both tangible and intangible; my readers, Marty Hickey, Eleanor Henderson, and Callie Wright, whose feedback kept me on track through the early drafts; Jane Rosenman, for her editorial feedback on the later draft; Adrienne Brodeur, for shuttling
The Walking People
toward publication with so much care; my parents, Willie and Evelyn, and my sisters, Annette and Catherine.

Finally, and most important, thank you to Marty. You are the one person I know I could not have done this without.