Page 76 of Whale Harbor

When she came down from the mountain path she walked to the harbor to check on the whale bones, but they were missing. She walked through the seagrass, but she couldn’t find them. They were gone.

“Hey,” she said when she got back. “Did the whale’s bones get swept out in a storm or something?”

“They’re getting cleaned up to be put in a museum,” Cathal said with an air of importance. “People came and collected them last year. The newspaper said it was remarkable how much of the skeleton remained.”

“What museum?”

“At the university here in Galway, I believe.”

“They got things out of the bog too,” Noel added. “It was a big production. The paper said they found a leather satchel with berries in it from seven thousand years ago.”

“No way.”

“I’m telling you. They couldn’t let air touch it because it would disintegrate on the spot. Poof! So they had special ways.”

In the village, people welcomed her home, which was disorienting, and asked which of the Joyces was her father. Cathal told them she was the first female Joyce born in many a generation and Mary knew that he knew very well that wasn’t true—Sean had two girls before she was born, not to mention the cousin who raised Vincent, wasn’t she a female Joyce?—but she didn’t correct him, not even when they were in private.

Mary and Cathal got along beautifully. Each felt understood by the other. Her second night, sitting up late, Cathal told her to bring down the bottle on the top of the cupboard and he’d give her a thimble of something for strength.

“Any cold you might have, any kind of illness at all, and this will take care of it,” he promised. “Don’t tell your father.”

Her uncles declined a sip, but Mary swallowed in one gulp. Immediately, she felt a scalding heat burn a path from the back of her tongue into her belly. “Oh my god,” she gasped.

Seamus, Noel, and Coleman laughed.

“That’s the best there is,” Cathal said. “Organic. Can’t find that in a shop.”

“I think it gave me laryngitis,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I think my tonsils melted off.”

“Did you ever try the poitín from the southern part of America?” Cathal asked.

“Moonshine? No. I haven’t even been down South. I haven’t seen most of America. The only place we ever went as a family was here.”

“I have curiosity about Kentucky and West Virginia,” Cathal said. “I heard there are Irish speakers there, from way back. And their people carried it on. It’s different from ours by now but I’ve heard there are still a lot of common words.”

When it was time for her to go, Cathal cried openly. Mary had never seen an old person cry like that, like a young child would, so she cried, too, and hugged him tight and thought maybe she should stay. But she had to go. Her uncles stood off to the side and pretended not to notice. Did they take good care of him? Did they check if he was cold and make sure there were things he liked to eat in the cupboard? He was a talker and they were quiet. Did they let him talk as much as he needed to?

“You’ll come back very soon,” Cathal said. “You’ll bring Macdara and your sisters.”

“Of course I will,” she said, hugging him again.

THAT VISIT HAD BEEN ALMOST two years ago and now, with her cousins outside on the driveway, getting louder as the evening wore on, Mary thought: Why not? It could be just what she needed, and she loved her crazy grandfather. She’d hoped to get back there sooner but she hadn’t had the money. Now she did have a little money saved, plus she had vacation time accrued. How much longer would Cathal be around?

Annie’s party was in June of 2002 and Mary went to Ireland to see Cathal in mid-July. She booked it without telling her parents and reserved a car, too, paying the upcharge for an automatic. She didn’t tell anyone until she had it all arranged. She was an excellent driver in New York; Ireland couldn’t be more difficult than driving through Midtown Manhattan. She’d been there enough times to find her way to the Cuan, she hoped, and if not then she’d just stop and ask.

Her mother was delighted, told her she was a great girl to go visiting her grandfather, to keep him in her mind in that way, so many young people forget about the old ones. Bridget and Annie thought it was cool, but maybe a little weird? Did Mary remember there is absolutely nothing to do in the Cuan? But Mac studied his eldest daughter closely.

“You won’t go meddling with things that don’t concern you, right?”

“Like what?” Mary asked.

“You know very well what.”

“Of course not,” Mary said.

FINDING HER WAY FROM SHANNON Airport to the Cuan with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car and the car on the wrong side of the road felt like the greatest accomplishment of her life, especially closer to the Cuan where the roads were so narrow they barely seemed meant for cars, and where there were either no signs at all or signs in only Irish. But certain curves looked familiar, certain stones. When Mary got to forks in roads without signs she looked at the wider landscape and knew which way. She knew to keep the mountains to her right once she could see water. She knew a big bridge would be followed about a mile on by a smaller one. Eventually, after passing slowly through the village and making her way up the brambled lane, there was the house, a few graying T-shirts flapping on the clothesline. Cathal knew she was coming because she’d called to ask if it was all right and he told her she could stay for as long as she liked. Plenty of room.

She went with Cathal to Mass, where he was once again in regular attendance, and then he suggested they go visit Mary in the cemetery, so she drove them there and helped him up the uneven path to her grandmother’s grave. It was strange to see her own name on the gravestone: Mary Joyce. Underneath was Eamon Joyce, and his age when he died. The cemetery was set on the side of a hill that looked at the water, a beautiful spot to spend eternity.