This Irish House (7 page)

“I'll stop.”

“How?” John paused in front of the long, grass-rutted driveway that led to the home he'd lived in for more than forty years.

“I'll just Stop, that's all.”

“That isn't the way it works, Kevin. You can't do it alone. You're goin' to need some help.”

“I don't need help. I just need everyone to leave me alone.”

John considered arguing with the boy and decided against it. Was there ever a sixteen-year-old lad in the world who didn't think he had all the answers? It was only after years of living that a man knew how much he didn't know.

“Well, that's all right then. If you need a bit of help along the way, be sure and let me know. I've had a few of my own demons to work out and I don't have all that much to occupy me these days.”

Kevin grinned and John's heart twisted. That wayward mischievous turning of the mouth was Patrick's legacy, not Kate's. John wished, more than anything in the world, that the boy had turned out more like his mother.

He gestured toward the house. “Will you come up for a spell?”

“I can't. Mum will worry.”

“We'll call her.”

“Not this time, Grandda.”

John pulled the boy into his arms for a brief, hard hug, then released him. “Go home, Kevin. Take care of yourself.”

Again, the quick, magnetic smile, so like his father's. Then he turned and walked away.

John watched him until he disappeared around the bend. He had other grandchildren, a slew of them, but Kate's children tore at his heart. Patrick's death had made them vulnerable, he told himself. But deep down he knew it was more than that. He'd kept silent about so many things. He was sorry for it now, but wisdom comes with hindsight and he wasn't so sure he would have done it any differently if he had to do it over again. It was too late to say anything. Kate and the children had their memories. They were all that was left to them.

John O'Donnell could have told his daughter that no man is perfect, that they all have their troubles as well as their secrets. He could have told her that love comes in many shapes and what a man means when he tells a woman he loves her may be not at all what she's hearing or expecting. He could have told her that love sometimes paints a mask over the facts and blinds a woman to the truth beneath and that, rarely, is a man worthy of the kind of regard that dries up a woman before her time.

But he did none of those things. He hadn't done them when it mattered and up until now he'd seen no point in changing his mind. But six years was long enough and his family wasn't healing. They lived in the shadow of a man whose memory threatened to squeeze the very life from them all.

D
eirdre looked around the room she shared with her roommate, Maggie Drummond. Something felt out of place and yet nothing really needed to be done. She hadn't really settled into life at Queen's. It had the best physical science department in all of Ireland, she reminded herself frequently, it wasn't all that far from home and the campus was truly lovely. Yet, there was something uncomfortable about living in her father's native city.

The truth of the matter was, Deirdre lived in a state of perpetual turmoil. No one, looking at her smooth features and composed expression would have guessed, but the truth of it was her current state had existed for so long that nothing else felt normal.

She knew there must have a been a time, long ago in the hazy past, when morning seeped into her consciousness heralding nothing more than an empty contentment, a mild curiosity over what the day would bring: sounds of the world awakening around her, a milk truck lurching across broken pavement, church bells signaling early Mass, tractor fumes, the sweet smell of unearthed peat bogs dark and loamy in the morning mist, car engines roaring to life, friendly greetings between neighbors who'd lived alongside one another from birth, her mother's bread rising in the kitchen, bacon and sausage sizzling on the stove, the sweet predictable flow of a life she had taken for granted.

It had ended abruptly, cut short by an act so heinous that her mind erased all memory of the details, leaving her with an odd secondhand awareness, as if she'd never been there, never seen the masked men who'd snuffed out her father's life before its time. Her therapist told her it was normal for a child to blot out painful memories. Humans were instinctively programmed for survival and she could not have survived the horrible truth of that day and still retain a hold on her sanity.

Deirdre had come to terms with the random horror of it all, but she'd developed a litany of worries. She worried about her mother crossing the checkpoints. She worried about her brother and his nefarious nightlife. She worried about her grandfather and the new slowness in his step. She worried about the sudden bend in the M32 and what the swerving cars meant for vehicles traveling in the other direction. She worried about her classmates at Queen's and whether the friendly banter carried messages she couldn't understand. Leaving her room at night to attend a study group at a neighboring dormitory required great gulps of air, several turns around the floor and recitation of a meaningless mantra that wiped her mind clear of the terrifying thoughts never far from the surface.

Deirdre was afraid of dying and, more than anyone, she understood how quickly the life force could escape the living. One could bear death. She knew that. She'd done so once already and lived through it. But she didn't think she could bear it again, not yet anyway.

Dreams interrupted her sleep, one in particular sending her to the edge of a panic that left her trembling and weak with nausea. Blue-and-white parakeets lived in wire cages in the middle of a courtyard more typical of tropical climates than of Ireland. Lurching unsteadily through the maze of cages, Deirdre managed to tip them over, freeing the birds and sending them to the four corners of the courtyard. Three cats, larger than life and predatorial, crept out of the corners toward the domesticated birds. Despite every effort to contain the cats in her arms, three of them were too much for her. Inevitably they wriggled out of her grasp and stalked the birds. She woke terrified, just as a feline paw reached out to embed its claws into the breast of an innocent bird.

Deirdre no longer met with her therapist. She felt odd and more than a bit embarrassed sharing her intimate thoughts with a stranger. She'd begged her mother to allow her to stop attending the sessions. Kate had spoken with the doctor and then reluctantly agreed. For the most part Deirdre was relieved, although she would have liked the woman's opinion on the bird dream.

Just now she was in a bad way. It was the end of the term. Exam results would be posted, blue papers with black marks, flapping in the wind, secured to a flat wall behind the gothic spires, Queen's pride, announcing who had matriculated. Scores were numbered, of course, but by this time everyone knew whose number belonged to whom.

It wasn't the marks Deirdre was afraid of, it was the crowds. She hated the press of wool-damp bodies leaning into her, hot breath against the back of her neck, harsh voices in her ear, insistent arms pushing her aside, propelling their way to the front of the queue. Americans called it
invading
one's
sense
of
space.
Deirdre rather liked that phrase. There was no sense of space in the common areas of the university. Students jostled one another, shared tables and blew cigarette smoke into each other's faces with cheerful regularity. No one else seemed to mind, just Deirdre, and yet she said nothing.

Steps sounded on the stairs. She held her breath. It wasn't her roommate. Maggie's shift was over at midnight and it wasn't much past six o'clock. A sharp rap sounded on the wooden door. She slid off the bed, crossed the room, opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief. “Uncle Liam.” Her voice was a raspy whisper. “You scared me.”

The crease in Liam Nolan's forehead deepened with his frown. “It's early yet, love. Surely you're up to entertaining a visitor or two before dinner.”

Deirdre forced a smile. “I wasn't expecting anyone. What are you doing here?”

“I'm for takin' you out to a decent meal and a bit of the
craic.
Are you agreeable?”

The bubble of worry inside her chest dissipated for the moment. Liam was family. She reached for her coat.

“Where shall we go?”

Liam stroked his chin. “The White Swan has a good Irish band playin' tonight.”

Tucking her hand inside her uncle's arm, Deirdre stepped out into the hallway and locked the door behind her. “I've never eaten there. Is the food good?”

Liam grinned. “As good as Irish food gets.”

Deirdre punched him playfully. “You know perfectly well that the best food anywhere comes from Mum's kitchen.”

Liam shortened his steps to suit hers. “How is Kate?” he asked casually.

A full minute passed before Deirdre answered. “Well enough.”

“That sounds a bit evasive, lass. Come now. We're family. Out with it.”

Deirdre sighed. “It's Kevin.”

“What trouble is the lad into now?”

“He was arrested.”

Liam's face stilled. “On what charge?”

“I don't know if Mum would want me to tell you.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Deirdre closed her eyes and blurted out the ugly words. “Possession of cocaine.”

Liam exploded. “Sweet Jesus! Where did he get that? Did they let him out?”

“They never kept him. Mum said they had no real evidence.”

“That's never stopped them before,” Liam said grimly. “Is the charge legitimate?”

Deirdre nodded miserably. “I think so. Kevin has acquired some new friends with bad habits.”

“What does your mother say?”

“I don't think she knows he's as bad as he is.” Deirdre fought the tears forming behind her eyelids. “She's in some sort of denial. I don't understand it. It's almost as if she's afraid of Kevin.”

“Kevin would never hurt your mother.”

“Of course not. But Mum doesn't like arguments and Kevin is very good at arguing.”

“Is he now?”

“It's been hard since Da—” Her voice broke.

Liam squeezed her arm encouragingly. “I know, lass. Perhaps I should drop by a bit more, make my presence known. A half-grown boy is too much for a woman with no man in the house.”

“We have Grandda.”

Liam's bottom lip tightened. “He's old.”

“Kevin loves him, and I do, too,” she added, anxious to make her uncle understand.

“He's no part of your father, Deirdre.”

Deirdre kept silent. The words that sprang automatically to her lips should not be voiced. No one could replace her father, not Grandda and not Liam. There was no one in the world like Patrick Nolan and the thought that she would never again experience that exquisite lightness terrified her. That the memory of one person could bring with it such a mix of joy and pain, lifting her spirits and at the same time freezing the blood in her veins, sucking the air from her lungs and pounding in the hurt over and over again, was a mystery to her.

People lost family members. Deirdre didn't know many in the Six Counties who hadn't. What was wrong with her family that they couldn't manage like everyone else?

She wouldn't think of it now. Her uncle had come to keep her company. Pasting a smile on her face she asked, “How is the antique business, Uncle Liam?”

Liam chuckled. “Well enough to buy you a decent meal.”

“Thank goodness. I was afraid you were going to make me pay.”

“Not on your life. That kind of thing isn't done by a good Irish croppy.”

Deirdre laughed. “It happens more than you think. Boys don't have any more money than girls. We can't be expecting them always to be paying for us.”

“I suppose not. Times are changing even in Ireland. Is it for the better, do you think?”

He grinned. He was charming her and Deirdre was grateful. This was her uncle, her father's younger brother, and she loved him.

The food was everything he'd promised. Over a glass of foaming Guinness, spring lamb, potatoes and peas, she relaxed, leaned into the flickering candles and gave herself up to the mournful notes of the Irish pipes. She'd heard them infrequently during the last few years. The whistle, fiddle and harmonica were preferred instruments. But the Uilleán pipes were rarely heard outside of the remote coastal towns of the Gaeltacht. Only a true musician could coax the sweet, haunting, melancholy notes from the odd amalgamation of reed, leather, bellows and drone.

The last time she'd heard the pipes Uncle Liam had been there, too. Both sides of the family had gathered for Kevin's tenth birthday. Endless numbers of aunts, uncles and cousins as well as most of the town of Sligo descended upon their home. Da loved company and he loved music, fast, lovely, heel-clicking music that filled the air and moved the long grass and set the tree leaves swinging.

He invited everyone who crossed his path to Kevin's party. Mum did all the cooking herself. Banquet tables fairly groaned with roast beef, carved ham, baked chicken and fish, salads, potatoes, cabbage, turnips, beans and peas. Desserts were Mum's specialty but she'd outdone herself with Kevin's cake. He'd been fascinated with fire lorries ever since he'd been a baby. Deirdre remembered how he would run out of the house to see one pass by. He would stand in reverent silence, mesmerized, until the singsong sound of the siren had completely died away. For his birthday, Mum baked a cake, a full meter high in the shape of a lorry, frosting it with fire-engine red icing, even going so far as to painstakingly design the ladders, the wheels, the hoses and the slicker-coated figures of men at the wheel and in the back.

Kevin had been ecstatic. Only when Da assured him that he'd taken several pictures of the monstrosity had Kevin allowed Mum to cut the cake and serve the guests.

Deirdre remembered the cars parked along the road that day. Most belonged to relatives who'd come from various parts of Ireland. There were other cars as well, more than she'd ever seen on the narrow, country roads of Sligo, even during tourist season. The picture was as clear in her mind as if it were yesterday. She hung on to it. Small, dark, innocuous cars carrying only men, driving slowly past, not quite stopping. Da would go out to them. Windows would roll down. He would walk beside the cars. Sometimes he would lean into the window, sticking his head all the way inside.

For all his gregariousness, he never invited the men inside the cars to join their party. At the time, Deirdre was twelve, old enough to notice but not curious enough to wonder why. Now she did and it was too late to ask.

Da had long since satisfied her curiosity about his work. He'd explained in great detail about the law and a person's right to a fair trial. He'd explained that a fair trial in the North of Ireland meant one thing for Protestants and another for Catholics and he was meant to balance the difference. Never once had he alluded to the risks involved. Deirdre hadn't known about the men in the black cars. It was her mother who told her, later, much later, when she'd demanded to know why.

Kate had reluctantly explained it, understanding her daughter's need to make sense out of what had seemed a random act. Oddly enough it helped, knowing there was a reason, that men in ski masks didn't just walk through doors and snuff out a life without cause.

Liam struck a match, bent over the flame and lit his cigarette. “You're quiet tonight. What's on your mind, lass?” he asked. The flickering light from the match illuminated his features, the sharp jawline, the arched nose.

Deirdre was struck by the resemblance to her father. Words that sprung to her mind stuck in her throat. She shook her head. “Nothing, really. The music is lovely.” “

Aye,” agreed Liam, inhaling deeply. “It is.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Tell me more about Kevin,” he said at last. “Who made the arrest?”

Again Deirdre shook her head. “I don't know. Mum spoke with someone named Anderson.”

Liam's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed.
“Neil Anderson?”

“I don't remember.” She thought. “Maybe. Who's Neil Anderson?”

Liam composed his features, calling up the crooked Nolan smile. “A man I wouldn't want to tangle with. I think I'll pay a visit to your mum.”

“If you wait until the weekend, I'll go with you.”

“I'll see what I can do. If you don't hear from me, we'll make it another time.”

Deirdre nodded. She was accustomed to plans set aside. The Nolans were all unpredictable, a family flaw, her mother said.