Page 11 of Whale Harbor

And then, just past nightfall, when he was nearly back to his own gate, Cathal was attacked by two men wearing scarves wrapped around their faces, while a third man looked out. They got him into a ditch and beat him with stones they held in their fists.

“Why did you have to go?” Mary asked over and over and over when he dragged himself inside.

“He was my friend,” was all Cathal said. Mac, who was seven at the time, held newborn Rian on his lap.

Nothing was explained to the children. They stayed home from school and Mass and played only with one another but the playing was half-hearted, like they didn’t quite know what to do. The only adult neighbor who came was Honnie Lee, and she only came in the evenings and never came inside; she spoke to their mother by the back door and passed in loaves of bread like they were secrets. Martin came and kicked a ball against their wall to get Mac to come outside, but Mac was in no mood to play, so each day they ended up only sitting together, always out of sight of the other children, picking at their scabs in silence. Whenever Mary caught sight of Martin she’d tell him kindly to go on up home, that he’d see Mac in school soon, but she never said when. There was a sense among the children of wondering who was in charge, and if perhaps the answer was nobody.

Cathal stayed in his dark bedroom to heal and when he finally emerged a few weeks later he was quieter than before. He smoked his pipe and stared into the fire. He twisted his eyebrow, a habit he had when he was deep in thought. He didn’t hold forth on his usual subjects. He didn’t offer his opinions. With the exception of the Lee children, who were more like cousins, when their friends from other houses passed by on the lane, Mac and his brothers didn’t say hello. They didn’t know exactly what had happened but they knew they should be closing ranks.

Father Damien came up the lane after a few weeks passed to say that he didn’t condone violence. It was an awful thing what happened to Cathal, but hadn’t he warned everyone not to go? Father Damien repeated what he’d said to Cathal when he first arrived in the parish, that he didn’t mind about the still—everyone liked a nip—but attending Protestant Mass was too much, and then on top to crow on about similarities to anyone who’d listen. It was appalling.

Cathal waited until the priest finished all he had to say and then responded, simply: “I didn’t do a single thing wrong.” Mary whipped around and leveled a look at him like she had a mind to finish the job of killing him. The next day, Grandfather Walsh—Mary’s father—made his way from the island to the rectory to plead with Father Damien, but it had no impact. The whole family was banned. After a few more weeks, neighbors interceded on behalf of Mary, who they said should not be punished once again because of her husband. Father Damien relented. Mary and the children would be permitted to attend Mass.

Now, with Vincent looking at him, Mac considered the problem of his father. It had always been lurking, but he’d never really looked at it straight-on. What kind of man was he?

“You do see him, I suppose.”

Vincent waited for Macdara to say more but Mac said nothing and after a while they parted ways.

WHEN VINCENT WAS FINISHED WITH his questions and it was time to return to the university in Galway, he seemed genuinely sorry to be leaving.

“I wish I had a job for you, Mac—I’m sure you were hoping—but I’m not sure if I mentioned that I’m leaving for America soon. I’ll be teaching at Boston College for three years. I asked around the department in Galway but you’d need a good deal more schooling. You’d—”

“Not to worry,” Mac interrupted and pasted a grin on his face. He knew there would be no job in Galway for him, of course he knew it in his mind, but his heart was hearing it confirmed for the first time. Despite how sensible he was, he’d begun to imagine university life, working in a brick building and going off with Vincent to study the ways of different groups, an assistant anthropologist.

“Will you go to England soon? Like your brother?”

“I will indeed. I’m looking forward to it,” he said as casually as he could manage, rocking back on his heels and jamming his hands deep into his pockets. This university professor who’d been so kind to him suddenly seemed infuriatingly innocent of certain facts, facts that he’d spent enough time around the Cuan to have learned by then. Mac didn’t want him feeling sorry for him or for his brother or for any person in his village. He regretted showing the man where he lived.

Just that morning, the postmistress had flagged him down on the road to tell him he had a letter from England. Mac couldn’t help it—he looked at her as if to ask why his father hadn’t delivered it and she’d looked back as if to say your father is a riddle we will never solve. The letter was open, no doubt read already by Cathal. Mac crouched down with his back resting against the building to read it. After a general hello, Sean got right to the point, which was to tell Mac that he couldn’t travel back home that summer because he was still working under a false name. He knew someone who’d be giving up an identity soon, he wrote. That person had worked in England for a while but didn’t like it, so he was going to America instead. He was just a few years older than Mac but Mac being so tall it could work, if Mac wanted it. Sean advised him to talk to their father, which of course there’d be no need for because as they both knew, Cathal would read every letter addressed to their cottage before he delivered it. The package would have to be purchased from the man, just as that man had bought it from someone else, but it would be well worth it because it had everything: working papers, an identity card, a passport. But he wouldn’t be able to come home again for many years.

“Well, good luck to you, Macdara,” Vincent said, sensing something between them had changed. “And to you!” he added, spying Rian.

Mac turned to find his brother. He should have known.

“What’ll you do when your brother goes to England?” Vincent asked Rian. He could sense Mac’s devastation, and making light with a child was easier on both of them.

“I’m going with him,” Rian said matter-of-factly. “I’m ready.”

And with that, as Vincent laughed and Mac sighed, all the tension vanished like a bubble poked with a needle: pop.

MARY CALLED THE NEW BABY after the impressive professor. He was a Catholic and an educated man and he’d been generous to Macdara even if it hadn’t panned out in the long term. Uinseann was his name in Irish, but Mary insisted they call him the English version: Vincent. It was a strong name, it wasn’t common in their area, and Saint Vincent was known for helping the poor. Mary had Macdara ride his bicycle all the way to Carna and fill out the name in the register. Mac wrote it down next to a birth date he estimated after flipping the calendar back a page. “Five weeks old!” the clerk said. “Took long enough.”

The next afternoon, hearing, perhaps, that the baby had a name, Cathal returned. He’d gotten a haircut and a shave and brought a beautiful piece of linen trimmed with lace for Mary. He brought sweets for the children and two big mince pies that he must have bought from the truck that came from Galway. He had a bag containing four oranges that Mac knew they’d brawl over as soon as his mother was distracted. Subtracting what he spent in the pub, Cathal had five weeks of postman money plus a good bit of poitín money, which he laid on the table for Mary to see. Then he turned to the baby.

“Uinseann,” he said, bending to study the child closely. His eleventh son. He hadn’t seen him since the morning of his birth. He offered his finger and the baby clutched it.

“Strong!” Cathal said, pride in his voice, and with that Mac turned away from the scene and climbed up to the loft, where he wouldn’t have to watch. Cathal had no right to admire the baby, not when he hadn’t been there walking the floors with him. Five whole weeks he was gone, knowing full well what the early weeks of a baby’s life were like. If the baby was strong, if the rest of them were well-fed and clean, then it was entirely his mother’s doing. And he wanted his father to know that he’d provided money too. He didn’t have to go all the way to England for it either. He’d found a way to make not insignificant money right there at home because he was smart and people sought his help. Some people stayed. Why not him?

“Vincent,” Mary corrected him.

She would not scold him. Mac hoped she’d keep her word and never have another baby, but then he wondered what choice she’d have in the matter.

Eventually, Mac slipped back down the ladder, out the kitchen door, and walked into the Cuan to see if he’d run into anyone who wanted to hitch to Oughterard that evening. There was a dance on twice a week during the summer and if they got as far as the Galway road someone would pick them up. He wanted to get out of there, get somewhere far away with music and a bit of fun. He hadn’t had fun in so long. But no one had the money for the entry, and no one had anything to wear, and someone would want to rob drinks from the pub and Mac didn’t want trouble. When he heard a branch snap, he knew Rian had followed him.

“I’ll go,” Rian offered.

“Ah, Rian,” Mac said.