Page 5

3

C olm

Death comes to us all. No amount of whisky could dull such pain. A wreath ribboned with black crepe hung from the front door of the O’Donnell family home and served as a somber reminder of where the patriarch of the O’Donnell clan had lived. My thoughts returned to yesterday, to the girl with the dove-grey eyes. She left me floundering in confusion, twisting my mind with her tortured words.

“You’re too late,” she whispered, then ran, leaving the impression that something horrible had happened.

My ringing cell phone confirmed Calla’s prophecy, Mam’s voice on the other end. Calm. Soothing. “Colm, you need to come home. You’re da’s dead.”

The moments blurred, daylight fading into blue twilight. Nightfall offered no respite. The coming dawn shaded the sky with pink hues, promising a new day—yesterday. Was it only yesterday?

My father’s giant frame filled the pine coffin, lying east to west against the far wall of the big room, an ivory pillow nestled under his balding head. I pressed my fingers on the lapel of his chocolate brown suit, the fashionable houndstooth pattern, all the rage twenty years before. A string of rosary beads, compliments of Mam, were twined between his gnarled fingers.

The bowl of salt sitting on his chest would chase the evil spirits away. His shoes—the soles worn, the leather polished, waited to take him into the next world. Calm surrounded him. His thoughtful composure followed him even into death.

“Sorry for your trouble, mate.” A rumbling voice filled with sympathy reverberated throughout the room.

“Paddy, thanks for coming.” I grabbed my old-school chum’s hand, my heart lifting in recognition. How long had it been since I returned home? Too many years.

“If there’s anything I can do for the family, for your mam, you’ll let me know?” He turned, lighting one of the many clay pipes dipped in beer and filled with a twist of tobacco. “Lord ha’ mercy.” He inhaled a long puff and passed through the death room, his words lingering on trailing fingers of smoke—meant to keep the evils at bay.

Voices murmured as old friends, extended family, and those who knew him wandered from room to room, filling Clonmara with life.

Candles flickered at either end of my father’s coffin, signifying the light in the next world. Aunt Polly, Da’s last remaining sibling, watched the melting wax––should a silent shroud appear, death would visit again.

We followed the old traditions—the curtains drawn lest the demons enter. The mirrors—gateways to the otherworld—faced the walls lest my father’s spirit should take a wrong turn.

“Colm, how are you, hon? I’m sorry about your da.” A sweet soprano voice turned my head.

“Susan.” The hole in my heart shrank with every hello, every hug, and every story shared.

“It’s bad luck to him, forgive me for saying. How’s your mam?” Her quiet voice expressed sympathy.

“Not so good… It came as a shock.” I nodded, clasping her hand.

My father died a healthy man, the chance to confess his sins stolen from him. At my mother’s bequest, a sin-eater was called upon, an ancient custom forgotten by most. In a ceremony witnessed by few, the man consumed a simple meal passed over my father’s corpse. Washing it down with a mug of ale, he offered his prayer, “I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man. Come not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace, I pawn my soul. Amen.” The sin-eater’s gravelly voice haunted my mind. Where would his soul land when the reaper came?

“Sorry for your trouble, mate.”

“Colm, you remember Sam? From school?” Breda, my first cousin on my mother’s side, raised her white eyebrows, fixing her coal-black eyes on mine. Not one for formality, Breda wore a denim jacket over a pine-green jumpsuit paired with white sneakers. She rested her hand on my upper arm. She worries about my soul.

“Sam, it’s been a long time. Thanks for coming.”

“God bless all in this house.” He clasped my hand.

We stayed the long hours of the night to guard my father’s soul—to ensure his passage to the other side. Eamon, my father’s most loyal friend and my mentor, held vigil into the wee hours, telling tales, lifting our spirits, and nodding off in the corner armchair, snoring like the old bulldog he was.

When the dawn rose on the third day, my brothers and I would carry the casket down the street and up the hill to the little church where the priest would say mass. The next day, we would say our last goodbyes.

“Good sleep be with him,” another murmured.

Seats filled and emptied. Neighbors and friends shared stories of the ould one, little things said—all those memories added to the clamor of death. People talked about closure, something I never understood.

The hands on the old mantle clock stopped at 11:35 a.m.—the moment my father passed, so no one asked the dreaded question. One open window directly above the casket allowed his spirit to leave.

It was what he would have wanted.

My parents raised seven boys in a cottage by the sea, christened Clonmara on their wedding day.

I left the reception, my throat dry. Casual conversation was not my strong suit. I preferred to observe, favoring quiet solitude, but that’s not the way of the Irish. I entered the kitchen, a family-sized room painted canary yellow, nodding toward the ladies sitting at the long dining table, most I recognized. I rummaged through the upper cupboard for a water glass.

Mam gazed at me with worried eyes. She wore the widow’s costume, a high-collared black dress she had worn seven years before for the youngest O’Donnell. When the hope of Ciarán’s return died, they organized a wake in place of funeral rites or a church mass. Hundreds came from all around to offer their sympathies for the lost son.

“How are you, Colm? How’s the weather in Canada? I hear it’s fair cold.” Aunt Polly stood at the end of the L-shaped counter, her elbow bent, mashing yellow yolks with the tines of a fork. She sent a concerned look toward a younger woman with pink hair and purple glasses, introduced earlier as Aoife, another newcomer, who placed three tarot cards face up.

“Aye, it is, Auntie.” I read each inquisitive stare. None dared ask, “Why did you leave Colm? Why did you leave your parents grieving not one son but two?” I waited for the stream of water to run cold.

Everyone loved Ciarán, the seventh of seven sons, but I loved him most. We were inseparable, Irish twins born eleven months apart.

Aunt Polly filled a piping bag with her mashed egg mixture, the tip of her tongue resting on her lower lip.

Oonagh, our closest neighbor on this lonely road, turned from the refrigerator and set a plate of hard-boiled egg halves on the checkered counter. The pungent aroma filled the room: deviled eggs with a touch of curry—Da’s favorite appetizer. Aunt Polly didn’t acknowledge her help.

“Colm, a sandwich?” Mam prodded, her voice gentle.

“I’m good, Mam.” I chugged back the glass of water. Da’s death brought back the loss for all of us. Ciarán was the baby in the family, but he was my doppelg?nger. I sensed his presence, especially in that time of sorrow.

“Right there, Polly. That one is half empty.” Oonagh crowded Aunt Polly, inspecting her work.

“How long has it been, Colm? Colleen’s wedding, it was.” Auntie set her piping bag on the counter, untied her polka-dot apron, and handed it to Oonagh with a flourish.

“It’s nice to see you, Auntie.” I placed my hands on Mam’s shoulders and gently squeezed them. Auntie looked as I remembered, her glossy black hair pulled into a tight bun, bird-like eyes appraising everything and everyone.

“Ladies?” Aunt Polly expertly popped the cork of a bottle of sparkling white wine, filled my mother’s glass, and then topped off each lady’s glass. She turned toward Aoife and, with the bottle at a precarious tilt, splashed wine across the table.

“Oh, no,” Aoife gasped, sweeping her tarot cards away from the fast-moving puddle.

“Sorry, luv. I don’t know how that got away from me.” She righted the bottle, holding it close to her chest.

I dove in with a stack of napkins, sopping up the mess.

“You need to eat, luv.” Mam’s voice drowned out Aunt Polly’s giggle.

“I’m good, Mam.” I threw the sodden napkins into the overflowing garbage, lifted the bag from the can, tied it off, and placed it on the back porch.

“It’s a tough puck, luv, losing your da, but we’ll get through.” Mam’s mind seemed clear. She spoke to me and those in the room. They nodded in agreement, all ready to help at a moment’s notice.

“Clodagh, let’s try again. Give them a good shuffle.” Aoife handed the tarot deck to the elderly lady. I recognized Clodagh from Padraig’s shop. She worked weekends during the busy season.

I set a plastic bag in the garbage bin, checked the seal, and sidestepped toward the sink, avoiding Auntie on her way to the refrigerator. I washed my hands, inhaling the fragrant scent of lilac soap.

“Colm, luv, have a sandwich.” Mam handed me a china plate, waving her hand over platters of sweet pickles and ham sandwiches in front of an empty chair—Da’s chair. I studied my mother—her eyes were red. Had I cried? No, I had not allowed myself that emotional release.

“Mam, why are we using the good china? Paper plates would do.” I shook my head at the pile of plates ready for the dishwasher.

“Tell us again about the Bean-Sidhe , Clodagh. Did you see her?” Oonagh paused from her paprika shaker, surveying the egg platter with a sharp nod.

“Aye, gave me a fright. It did. Wailing, like fingernails screeching down a blackboard. And the wind rattling the windowpanes at the same time. I thought we were in for a storm.” She relived the horror, her face paling.

I half listened to the bantering hens, my stomach rumbling as I filled my plate.

“Clara saw her the night Roger died. She thought the dog was dying. Aye, she did. Father Donald told her it ‘twas nothing but the wind.” Aoife laid three cards face up again, oblivious to Polly’s pointed stare.

“It was just like they say. Hunched over the bank of the river with nothing over her shoulders but a ragged grey cloak, the wee thing sat there, combing her hair with the most beautiful silver comb. I was afraid to look at her. She lifted her head. It was her eyes—fiery red from all that keening.” Clodagh nodded her head up and down, her lips tight.

I glanced at Mam. She failed to mention her account of the Bean Sidhe .

“What do you think, Aoife? Is it a good time to travel?” She clasped her hands together, her eyes hopeful.

I leaned against the door, chewing on a gherkin pickle. The tarot reader offered fortune-telling in the tiniest building on the main street, a mere ten feet wide and two stories high. She seemed comfortable among the elderly ladies, perhaps too relaxed.

“Colm? Storey’s coming home.” Auntie’s face brightened as she spoke of her only son. “Aye. He tells me there’s a big announcement coming. It’s about time, aye? Your uncle and I are so hoping that the boy settles down. Dearie me, if we’re not getting any younger.” Auntie trotted to the refrigerator, retrieving the bottle of wine.

“A wedding, Polly?” Clodagh smiled, her eyes lighting up.

“Aye, it can’t come soon enough for my liking.” Polly set the bottle down.

Aoife flinched.

“Will ye be booking the hall, Polly? Does Father Mike know?” Mam’s eyes were bright.

“Don’t I wish. Don’t I wish. I’ll be back in a wee moment, ladies.” Auntie left the kitchen, mumbling something about melting candle wax.

“Will ye have a drop of comfort, laddie?” Eamon leaned his hefty frame on his shillelagh, his good hand grasping the knobby-horned walking stick. He cut a dashing figure in a tailored tweed jacket and tapered trousers the color of a misty morning, with a white cotton shirt casually unbuttoned at the collar.

“Aye.” I nodded to the ladies and followed Eamon down the long hallway.

“I’ll be missing your da. Taken too soon. He was.” A blanket of silence lay before us. His mention of my father raised a well of emotion I had yet to deal with.

“Aye.” I stared at the ham sandwich on my plate. I didn’t trust my voice.

“We go back a long way, Colm. A long way.” He waved the thorny stick toward the nieces and nephews. They clattered away, screeching like the river banshee the woman called Clodagh spoke of.

“We do, Eamon.” I shifted in my boots, squaring my shoulders.

“I’ll be calling on you, laddie. Soon enough.” He peered over his spectacles, his rheumy eyes flashing quicksilver, his soft voice contradicting his tough exterior. “Come, let’s sit a while.”

He turned and walked into a parlor filled with overstuffed couches. The haze of tobacco smoke didn’t dissuade him.

“How are you doing, Eamon?” The wing chair groaned under my weight. I set my plate on the coffee table, my thoughts lingering on his comment. This was an odd time for Eamon to mention an assignment. I studied the lines etched into his brow. The older man had my attention.

“Ach, no worse than usual.” He poured whisky into two glass tumblers. The brown spots spreading over the back of his hands reminded me Eamon’s twilight years were waning.

I scratched my head, wondering where the years had gone.

“About time you joined us, bro.” Hugh Jr. tipped his head, raising his glass. “To Hugh Xavier O’Donnell. May his soul rest in peace.”

We threw back the whisky and slammed down the glasses. Others lifted their glasses in reverence, filling the space with resounding echoes of sympathy.

“Such a hardy soul he was.” Eamon removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ll miss him.”

“As we will.” I topped up Eamon’s glass and my own, fortified by the Irish and my brother’s companionship.

“I could use your hands, Colm. If you’re around? The north field.” Oisin helped himself to four ham sandwiches.

“Aye.” I nodded. Stacking hay on a hot, sunny day soothed the soul.

“What are you doing?” Ten months younger than Pádraig, Cillian planted his tattooed hands on the table’s edge. He came from away, living in Paris for the last three years.

“What?” I glanced up from the food left on my plate—one ham sandwich, four pickles, and one strawberry—the bread slices piled on the side.

“Pádraig will lose his shite. He sees you decimating his prized sourdough.” Cillian turned, showing off the rose tattoo on the shaved side of his head.

“The mohawk suits you.” I lifted my chin, acknowledging the edgy hairstyle and the bold shade of blue that set him apart from most Ardara men. I grabbed the mustard and squirted each open face.

“Jaysus, what is it? What is it now?” Pádraig, the eldest O’Donnell, rounded the corner. He dropped a platter overflowing with sandwiches onto the table.

“Nothing,” I murmured. I liked to avoid trouble.

“Is it bad? What’s wrong with it?” He lunged toward my plate, lifting each abandoned crust toward his spectacle-covered eyes.

My brother lived for baking. His shop, The Fat Bastard, was renowned for fresh baked goods, butter tarts, sticky buns, and Pádraig’s famed sourdough bread.

“I’m watching my weight.” I dug into the last crustless sandwich, smearing mustard on my chin.

“Your weight? Do you have any idea what goes into this?” He gestured with his hands, his voice rising.

“It’s the best I’ve ever had.” I grinned. I remembered a much younger Pádraig, his fire-engine red curly hair dusted in flour, his hands deep in dough, and our dear departed Nana supervising the delicate procedure.

“Be careful, bro. Dough is a starchy subject in these parts.” Cillian twined his fingers together, waiting for the spectacle to begin.

“Another tat, bro?” I grabbed Cillian’s wrist, inspecting the bracelet inked around his forearm. “It’s time you started your own business, yeah?”

“Have you seen Tadgh?” Hugh Jr. searched the crowded tables for his identical twin.

“He’s sweet on the new girl.” Oisin rose from the table, returning with a soon-to-be-emptied bottle of Irish.

“Haven’t seen him all morning. Why?” I swallowed the last bite.

“The starters fecked on my car.” Hugh Jr. glanced at his watch.

“What new girl?” Cillian wolfed down the remaining crusts on my plate. He looked like he could use the calories.

“Slainte.” Hugh Jr. lifted his glass, throwing the golden elixir back. The brothers followed suit.

“Well, who wouldn’t be? She’s a stunner.” Pádraig chuckled.

“He means built like a brick house.” Oisin grinned, motioning with his hands.

I walked from table to table, gathering empty plates into a tall stack while scanning the faces of each O’Donnell brother. One missing—but not forgotten. The shadows moved, and I saw Ciarán’s face. Where are you, Ciarán? The answer was hidden from me. I left the sitting room, my hands full.

Breda stood beside my father’s roll-top desk in the foyer, her fingers busy refilling clay pipes with tobacco. She worked away, seemingly oblivious to my presence. When the wind rattled the windowpanes, she looked up. The door flew open, bringing Saoirse, the witch, followed by Tadgh and his hairy brute of a dog, Kevin.

“Thanks for coming, Saoirse. It means so much.” Breda held Saoirse’s pale hands and kissed her cheek. “I love the dress.” She stepped back, keeping her at arm’s length, admiring a black long-sleeved dress swirled with blood-red vines, the color of Saoirse’s curly hair.

I stood there, waiting for what would happen next. Saoirse’s gaze met mine.

“How are you, Kevin?” Breda crooned to the furry wolfhound.

“What about me, Breda?” Tadgh pulled our cousin into his thick arms, pecking her cheek.

Their voices mingled, and I lost the run of myself, my thoughts delving through old files and yellowed pen strokes, notes taken seven long years ago—evidence shelved as useless. Saoirse’s face flushed under my scrutiny, her smile frozen in place. Did the Garda miss something? Did I miss something?

“Bloody hell, Kevin.” I gasped as the wolfhound clattered past, knocking my knees from under me. I cursed the dog and myself when Mam’s Blue Willow china flew from my hands and shattered onto the hard floor.

Breda threw me a stony glare, her black eyes flashing. She grabbed Saoirse’s arm and navigated through the broken pieces of china. Mam’s voice rang out, welcoming her as one of our own.

* * *