Page 64 of Whale Harbor

When Mac pulled into the driveway, Barry’s car right behind him, Sean’s behind Barry’s, Fearghal’s behind Sean’s, Lillie shouted and ran out the door because she knew. She threw her arms around Seamus and Noel—the first she reached—and swayed with them, holding them tight. “I’m so sorry,” she said, moving to Mac. “What happened? What could have happened?”

“We’d better call Cathal now and get it over with,” Mac said. “I don’t want him to hear from anyone else.”

So they did.

“Say it all again,” Cathal said after a long pause. “I don’t understand.” His voice was weak and raspy. Mac asked if Coleman was home with him, but Coleman was at work.

Mac told Cathal what the doctor had said about Eamon’s heart, that there’d been no warning. He could hear Cathal breathing.

“You’ll send him home,” Cathal said finally. “You’ll send him home and he’ll be buried with his people.”

“Of course,” Mac said. “Of course we will.”

THE FUNERAL WAS BIGGER THAN Nuala’s and this time they all went, most of the wives and children too. There was no joy in the flight, all of them stricken and confused. And there were practical concerns: Where would they all stay? Some could squeeze into Cathal’s, some at Honnie’s—empty now that she was gone—Vincent at Rose’s, the hotel at Maam Cross. Seamus got very drunk after the wake, which was unlike him, and they kept checking on him, as if he might have caught this thing, this thickened heart, because he’d been with Eamon the most. The funeral was said in Irish, but the children seemed to know what to do at the right moments, when to kneel and stand and bless themselves. The gravediggers opened a neat spot next to their mother and tucked Eamon beside her. Not the worst place to end up, Mac thought. Only it was too soon. The rain drove hard and that felt right, so Mac turned his face to it. Cathal was looking off at the water instead of listening to the priest, and he was shivering. He’d not worn any sort of overcoat, and the rain had no doubt soaked him to the skin.

When it came time to return to New York, they worried for Cathal, who was repeating the same stories over and over. Coleman brought him his heavy jumper in the mornings and made his tea. One morning when they were all there Cathal got on his bicycle, though it had been years, and cycled to the village. Later that day he referred to someone named Lizzie and they didn’t know who he meant until Coleman said he meant their old milking cow, dead for probably thirty years. A few times, he addressed Regina or Marie or one of the grandchildren in Irish, though they didn’t understand a word of it. He walked with a stick now and slept with a shotgun next to his bed. He never went out to the island anymore and had long since made his last batch of poitín, though he kept several bottles around the house just in case. Just in case of what? No one knew. He had an idea that all his American grandchildren should try it. It would put hair on their chests and they’d have a better understanding of where they were from. But Mac stopped it, said they were too young, and too American, and mostly girls, who didn’t want hair on their chests, and the history lesson would be lost on them. And also, Mac wanted to point out but held back, was it not a little reckless considering how Eamon had died? Did his father not assign any blame to himself for having it around all the time, for talking about the brewing and keeping and selling of the stuff their entire lives?

“That’s a pity,” Cathal said, holding the bottle. “Just the boys then.”

“No, not the boys, either, Cathal,” Mac said, getting angry now. Witnessing this, Lillie gently took the bottle from Cathal and said she’d put it somewhere safe. Then she put her hand on Mac’s arm to calm him. She knew every thought he had.

“Careful with that,” Cathal said to her. “That’s very sought-after. Not much nowadays is done the old way. I keep it for special visitors.”

“But why?” Mac asked. “Who’d want it? It would burn a hole in their throats, that stuff.”

“Never burned a hole in mine,” Cathal said.

“No, it didn’t, did it? You built up a right tolerance for it, didn’t you?”

“Macdara,” Sean said from across the room.

“It’ll be safe up here on this shelf,” Lillie assured Cathal, and then she made him a cup of tea.

WHEN THE TIME CAME FOR them to figure out who would be in which cars heading back to the airport, Seamus announced that he was staying. Everyone was at Cathal’s to say their farewells. The kids were all down on the beach, looking for the whale vertebra that Mary and Frankie had bragged about finding years before. Seamus was twisting his eyebrow just as Cathal always did, uncomfortable with all their eyes on him as he said what he had to say.

“I won’t be let back in anyway. I’ll stay with Cathal for a while and then I’ll see.”

“I’m staying too,” Noel said, surprising them far more than Seamus had. Seamus looked at him with immense relief.

“You are?” Seamus said. “Here?”

Noel shrugged. “Until I figure out something.”

“And me,” Vincent said. “Well, not here here. At Rose’s, until I find a flat.”

“You’re joking,” Mac said. “All three of you?” Vincent had a good job, what seemed like an easier life than the rest of them had. But his girlfriend had broken up with him and there was a certificate in computer science he wanted to get from UCG. He was not too old. It was not too late. And he had work experience in New York City that would go over well in Ireland, maybe. Vincent was thirty-one now and he believed he was meant to be in Ireland. He never felt right in New York, never felt like it was a permanent stop for him, though he’d enjoyed his time there very much and was glad for his years there. He’d gotten to know his brothers but it had always been his plan to go back if the Irish economy started turning around, and there were signs now that it was.

Mac could hear the kids returning, the high pitch of their voices talking as they came up the lane as a gang.

“Good,” Cathal said, tapping his walking stick on the ground in a rhythm. “Isn’t that good news, Coleman?”

Coleman only nodded, but his face was flushed. He was pleased.

“Anyone else?” Cathal asked. “You’re all welcome if you change your minds. You’re welcome home anytime.”

Mary burst into the cottage, breathless. “It’s still there,” she said. The rest of them piled in behind her, red cheeked and streely-haired, tracking sand on their shoes.

“Out,” Marie said, getting up to usher them back outside. “Now.”