Page 89 of Whale Harbor

TWO WEEKS AND FIVE DAYS after his birthday, all the Joyce brothers came from America, along with their wives and children, and Vincent’s from Dublin too. Mary refused to come in case everyone blamed her. Mac assured her that absolutely no one blamed her for anything, but Mary knew that flight had done something to Cathal, the entire trip had done something, and if she hadn’t agreed to it he’d still be there. She’d had her time with him, she’d mourn him in her own way.

For a man his age, the wake and funeral were very well-attended. People came who lived way out on his old postal route. They held their hats in their hands and remembered times he’d helped them or their parents. Sometimes his was the only face they saw for many days. Shops in the village closed, so everyone could be there. Even young people, far younger than the youngest Joyce, knew him for the legendary arguments he’d start outside the pub. He didn’t even enjoy a pint himself, they said to one another. Not a drinking man. He’d been through a lot in his long life.

During the Mass, prayers were offered for the souls of those who went before him and the priest named their mother and Eamon. He also named Nuala. Six Joyces carried his coffin to the cemetery, a mix of sons and grandsons, though afterward Mac realized he couldn’t have said for certain which six. Not him, that’s all he knew. He stepped back and let the others come forward if they wanted to. Like Mary, he’d had his time, something felt complete. Mac sent a postcard to Butte with a short message, letting Rian know.

After the burial, after the luncheon at the pub, the many Joyce grandchildren walked down to the beach while their parents gathered at the cottage. It was August and the fine weather had lasted, so some at the cottage decided to drag chairs outdoors and soak up a little sun. The ocean was calm and the cousins on the beach rolled up the legs of their good funeral clothes to see how cold the water was. Some of them decided they wanted to change into their swimsuits.

Just as they were leaving the beach, Thomas’s youngest boy shouted: “Look! You guys! Look!” He pointed to the water. A pod of whales was rising from the surface.

“Oh my god!” Bridget cried, glancing away from the spectacle for a second to look for her sister. “Annie! Did you see?”

When they returned to the cottage, the cousins spoke over one another as they all tried to tell the story. “It was crazy,” they said, one after the other describing the same image. They argued over who’d seen first.

Mac tried to decide if he’d ever heard of a pod spotted from the harbor. Farther out, yes—fishermen and sea kayakers came back with reports—and pods were certainly seen from other nearby beaches, but from the harbor? The children insisted: they’d all seen. The whole pod rose out of the water at once, as if showing off for them. The children reenacted who was standing where and who’d said what and they debated how long it had lasted—one second or one minute—until Sean announced to the room he’d heard quite enough, Jesus Christ, did they not know that’s where whales live? In the ocean? Why make such a racket? Bridget and Annie made their way over to Mac and took places beside him. He got the feeling they had something else to say.

“Well?” he asked, when the room had calmed and everyone was once again chatting in small groups. Some went off in cars to find fun, some back to the beach to swim. Thomas’s boys were pulling the cupboard apart looking for biscuits. Lillie was still outside in the garden.

“Dad,” Bridget said, and she looked at Annie as if to ask how to say it.

“What’s wrong?” Mac asked. They were lovely, his girls. All three were a bit like Lillie but mostly entirely themselves. What a happy accident it was that they were turning out to be such funny, opinionated, compassionate people. God knew he had no idea what he was doing.

“Nothing’s wrong. We just want to tell you something.”

Mac waited.

“None of the others thought to count them except me and Bridge,” Annie said.

“To count? What do you mean?”

“There were eleven,” Annie whispered. “Eleven whales.”

“Eleven?” Mac repeated. “You’re sure?”

They nodded, and waited for what he’d say, waited to find out what he thought.

“I believe it,” he said, just as they knew he would.