Page 52 of Whale Harbor

“Fine. Just thinking.”

“Well, think and drive. I need a cup of tea.”

“Daddy?” Mary asked from the back seat. “Was the person who died our nana?”

“No,” Mac said.

“So what was she to me and Frankie?”

Mac looked at Barry with a wry expression and neither of them answered.

“Daddy?”

“Americans and their questions,” Barry grumbled, and Mac laughed.

“Look at the horses!” Barry said as they turned and passed a pasture. “Count how many.”

They hadn’t told Cathal they were coming because they didn’t want him to go to any trouble, but almost two hours later, as they left the big road and turned onto the smaller roads that led into the heart of Connemara, Mac wondered if that had been wise. There were the twelve Bens, the many loughs, Pearse’s Cottage, the yellow furze. There was a new bridge, which threw him off for a moment, but otherwise everything looked the same. There were more derelict houses here and there, chimneys cold and smokeless, but on the other hand there were more slate roofs with antennae attached. There were fewer people, but far more cars zipping around, and when one came against them on a particularly narrow stretch, a stone wall on one side and a deep ditch on the other, Mac had to reverse to find a place to pull in and let it pass. When he finally turned onto the unmarked lane that led to the Cuan, there was the same sheepdog lying in the middle of the road as used to lie there in 1963. Except he couldn’t be the same, could he? This one had a lighter coat.

As they passed the schoolhouse, Barry leaned forward in his seat. “Look who it is,” he said as he wound down the window, and Mac realized the older man ambling down the road, smoking a pipe, was his father. The day had been misty when they started driving from Shannon, but the dampness had burned off, and the sky was clear and blue.

“Excuse me, sir, I need directions,” Barry called out in his best American accent. Cathal turned, stared, and took two steps backward in surprise. Quick as a blink, too fast for Mac who needed another moment, Barry had gotten out of the car and was shaking the old man’s hand. He opened the back door so Cathal could see Mary and Frankie.

“Well, hello,” Cathal said, his face open and overjoyed. He raked his fingers through his hair to tame it. “My goodness. This is a very big surprise. Look at these two Yanks.”

“Shake your grandfather’s hand,” Barry said. But the children were shy and only stared at him.

Mac had gotten out of the car and was walking slowly around. He shouldn’t have come, he thought, as his heart pounded. He shouldn’t have come back here where the air and the surf smelled of grief. What if he couldn’t find a way to leave again? What if coming back somehow made everything he had in New York disappear? Mary, sensing something was happening, got out of the car to stand next to Mac. He felt her small hand slip into his.

“Is that Macdara?” Cathal asked in Irish, squinting.

“It is,” Mac said.

“You’ve gray hair,” Cathal said.

“I’ve just a small bit of gray hair.”

“You’ve put on weight.”

“Bound to happen,” Mac said.

“You look strong. Sean was gone fat when I last saw him.”

Barry laughed and Mac knew he would report this to Sean as soon as they got back.

Cathal stood back to take him in.

“You’re the spit of my father,” Cathal said to Mac. “People used to say it but I never saw it. Now I do.”

Barry was last there only a year earlier, so his appearance wasn’t much of a surprise. Cathal leaned over and picked up Frankie, pretended he weighed a ton. Mac noticed Mary held his hand tighter, in case she was next. Cathal was missing a tooth, one of the larger ones on the side, and he had a new habit of sort of shielding his mouth when he spoke.

“Where’s the rest?” Cathal asked. “Are they coming?”

“They wanted to but—”

“Of course, of course, what a surprise and that you brought the little ones.” He turned to Mary. “Did your father teach you much Irish?”

“A little,” Mary said, looking at him shyly.