Page 49 of Whale Harbor

“Well. I was just going to say that when you think about it our mother would still be here if it weren’t for him being born. Wouldn’t she? Wasn’t it something to do with birthing him? I realize he didn’t ask to be born—but being raised separate and in that posh house I just—”

Sean strode over to him and removed the paintbrush from his brother’s hand before he poked him in the chest so hard that he staggered. But they were well matched. Sean was broader but Eamon was taller. Sean had more experience in life, in fighting, but Eamon was younger and angrier. Eamon shoved him back. So Sean shoved him again. Back and forth it went.

“That’s a pure ignorant thing to say,” Sean said.

Eamon picked up the paint-soaked brush from where Sean had laid it and swiped his cheek with it. “You don’t touch me.”

Sean reacted like a bull who saw red.

“You know,” Mac said, standing between them. “There’s eight of us here in New York together. There’s only one of him. You might think it’s awkward having him join us but think about how he feels. Get your head on right, Eamon. Are you drinking too much?”

Seamus lifted his eyebrows to suggest Mac might be on to something, and Eamon caught it.

“What the fuck, Seamus?”

Seamus shrugged, so Eamon dropped a shoulder and rammed him hard, right against the wall Mac had just primed. The open can of primer on the floor wobbled and righted itself, but a little splashed onto the floorboards.

“Look what you did!” Sean shouted.

The paint on his own face looked ridiculous coupled with such an angry expression. He wiped it away with his forearm but all he did was smear it. Mac couldn’t help but laugh. The others joined in, even Sean and Eamon, eventually. Sean leaned into the bathroom and flicked the light to get a look at himself in the mirror.

BY 1982, OVERSTAYING A TOURIST visa no longer worked for the Irish. To get to the Bronx Vincent had to fly to Canada, spend a week in a hostel, and then cross the border in the trunk of a car. The driver of the car was an American who everyone knew as Grasshopper. He lived in the Bronx, but he drove up to Montreal once or twice a year to see his nieces and nephews, and if you gave him something for his trouble, he’d stow a person in his trunk on his way home. The catch was he had to know the person’s people. Grasshopper knew Noel and Thomas from their bartending shifts at the Selkie and he liked them, said he’d do it for them. People said he got away with it because he was friendly, chatty, a retired cop with a medallion on his windshield. Once he crossed the border back into New York State with his cargo, he’d drive a few miles, get off at the first exit, and then pull over so the stowaway could climb out and ride shotgun for the rest of the trip.

There was no talk of money, so the brothers weren’t sure what to do. It was like tipping a priest for a wedding or a funeral Mass, Mac figured. There was no fee to perform a blessed sacrament, of course, but it was expected that someone put cash in an envelope and call it a donation. But how much? After discussing for several weeks they all contributed different amounts—a sliding scale based on age and wages—and Lillie wrote a thank-you note.

“For your trouble,” Mac said when he handed it to Grasshopper the morning he set out.

“Thanks a million,” Grasshopper said, folding the envelope in half without opening it and shoving it in his back pocket. It must have been enough because five days later Vincent was standing in the newly painted apartment waiting for the kettle to boil. As soon as he arrived, Mac wanted to know if he knew about Rian, but he decided to wait until he settled in, until they all got to know one another a bit.

Vincent referred to Rose’s daughters with the familiarity of a sibling and gave them thorough updates on their lives as if they’d ever heard of these people. Blood of some sort, yes, but Rose’s daughters didn’t even speak Irish. Vincent spoke of Rose and her family with obvious affection, and that was nice, wasn’t it? So why did it make the air in the room feel strange.

For several weeks Vincent said almost nothing but please and thank you and will that be all right? It struck Mac that he might not want to be there with them any more than Eamon wanted him around. He was as tall as Mac, as handsome as Barry. He was quiet, a thinker, and didn’t immediately assume a position of combat, like so many of his brothers. Eventually, when he warmed to them a little, Vincent told them that he’d always known about them, had always been curious, but when he asked Cathal if he could meet his brothers Cathal always put it off. Rose had him list all of them in his prayers when he went to bed at night. He didn’t know they’d seen him at games.

“Why wouldn’t you have said something?” he asked Eamon, and he looked so wistful, so hurt, that Mac realized he’d probably had a far lonelier childhood than the rest of them. They were all in the apartment. Mac had brought over groceries because Vincent wasn’t working yet, and Barry brought over a few dress shirts he didn’t need. Vincent had had plenty to eat, sure, and twelve entire years in school, but he’d been alone; Rose’s girls were quite a bit older than he was. Imagine knowing you had a slew of brothers nearly your own age living so close by and being kept apart from them.

Apparently, Cathal visited his youngest son fairly often. He’d pick him up at Rose’s and take him for a walk on the prom or out for an ice cream. At this Eamon and Seamus looked at each other, bewildered. They would have been at home during these visits, nearly the same age as Vincent. A few times, Vincent said, Cathal took him to the movies and they ate in a restaurant after. Eamon said it was like they were dating, and everyone laughed. Mac could not picture Cathal at the movies, could not picture him at a restaurant.

“Sounds like you didn’t have it so bad,” Seamus said. “Try having a chocolate bar in the Cuan and there’s no quicker way to get yourself robbed.”

Vincent smiled. Very gently, for weeks and weeks, they’d been having a subtle contest to decide who among them had it worst. “No, not bad at all,” Vincent said. “Not even when you consider I was the one out of eleven who was given away.”

Well. That was something the rest of them wouldn’t have said straight-out like that. Looking over at Eamon, Mac could see that he’d never thought of it that way. After that, his hostility softened.

The person they should be angry with—Eamon, Seamus, and Vincent in particular—was not each other but Cathal. Mac woke Lillie up one night when he couldn’t sleep to tell her so. Seamus and Eamon might be a bit jealous of Vincent and Vincent of Seamus and Eamon, but at least all of the younger set got Cathal sober.

“It’s not a contest, Mac,” Lillie said. “It was hard on all of you.”

“I know, but—”

“Look at me,” Lillie interrupted.

Mac looked at her. His heart was pounding, and why? It had all happened so long ago. “What?”

“It was hard on all of you. Including Cathal.”

“But I don’t understand his thinking at all. How could he take one child for an ice cream when there’s more at home who’d have loved one?”

“Well, now you’re the adult, and the best thing you can do for them is encourage them to not be mad at anyone. What’s the point? Here you all are, alive and well, in one of the greatest cities in the world. Every one of you has a roof over your heads, a little money in your pocket, family, fun most weekends. Didn’t it all work out? I think Cathal was just doing what he thought was best.”