Hazel

OCTOBER

“Sorry about the choice of wine, sir. Your hot meal will be along immediately after the drinks service.” The stewardess was flushed now, harangued by Oscar’s precise line of questioning. “I’m not sure about low-fat options and I’ll certainly check at the back if we have any dry white wine. I suspect all we have on board tonight is a German Riesling.”

With lacquered nails, she handed him a half-full plastic tumbler and a small bottle of Riesling.

“See what you can do, I’d appreciate that,” Oscar said, nodding earnestly, crystal-blue eyes commanding a follow-up.

“And the children, sir?” The stewardess was double-checking now, realizing the importance of getting it absolutely right. “What was it you said, Coke or Seven-Up?”

“Diet soda. It must be diet. Whatever you got.” Oscar sniffed the offending wine as if to reinforce his displeasure, and with a sigh went back to his magazine, dismissing the stewardess.

“The woman is doing her best, Oscar.” Hazel forced her eyes open, no longer pretending to snooze. She didn’t bother to look at him but stared unseeing at the headrest in front.

“It’s her job, Hazel. You know, hon, you don’t always have to make excuses for everyone.” He rubbed her hand and then squeezed it. A little too hard.

“Oscar,” said Hazel as gently as she could. “We’re on holiday, couldn’t you let the diet stuff slide . . .”

His look was cold. Icy cold. She was warned. She was the one who should let it go.

“Those two seem to be getting on okay.” Oscar jerked his head in the kids’ direction.

Hazel craned her neck to catch sight of Jess and Elliot three rows back. Her neck felt the strain and she raised a hand to soothe the ache. Weeks later, it was still sore.

“It seems so, for now. I guess this way Jess can pretend she’s not with us at all. In fact, I think the seating arrangement suits her just fine. Poor Elliot.” Hazel shook her head.

Jess could really crank up the temperature when she wanted, deliberately flicking her long brown hair straight into Elliot’s face. Hazel had been dismayed at first to learn that they weren’t all sitting together. But she’d been so distracted booking the flights that she’d paid scant attention to the seating plan. In fact, with the way she’d been feeling, she could scarcely believe that she’d managed to organize this trip at all.

Strapped in at 30,000 feet between Oscar and the padded lining of the cabin, she had another sudden rush of panic. Instead of abating, the attacks were becoming more frequent. She wondered what she was doing here. What was this journey all about, really? She’d positioned it as that long promised trip to Ireland for the kids—to show them where she had grown up, the country that had formed her. Why was she really doing it? She wasn’t sure. But she had a suspicion that if she could go back to where she’d set out from, maybe she could find her way again. Retrace her steps. Reinforce those values that she knew in her heart to be good and true. It had felt like the right thing to do, to book this trip. She wasn’t running away from any of her problems, away from the bogeyman, for they were coming on this journey with her too.

The last month or so, she’d spent hours at a time in the dog run on Riverside Drive. It wasn’t that she wanted a dog, even though the kids nagged and whined for one. Oscar certainly didn’t want one. She wasn’t even sure that he really liked them. What she wanted was to be in company but not in company that could tax her, demand anything of her. She wanted the comfort of people around her but not to feel obliged in any way to engage with them.

Each day she alternated the park bench she sat on, lest she become part of someone else’s routine and be forced into conversation. She brought a periodical with her—Time or the Economist. She found herself unable to devote long spans of attention to a novel. Her mind would not stay the course. In the park, she felt seen and safely alone in the company of strangers.

Helen was more excited than anyone about the trip to Ireland. Hazel suspected she’d jump at the chance to be invited along. Single and lonely, she was a third parent to Jess and Elliot. Hazel had made a habit of including her in as much of their lives as possible. But Oscar could stomach his sister only in small doses. Anything beyond their weekly dinner together was likely to provoke a sullen tension and often unkind and pointed jibes—these jibes normally directed at Helen’s weight.

On their last family meal at an expensive restaurant near Columbus Circle, which Helen insisted on paying for, it was Hazel who’d been niggly and argumentative. Normally she let things slide, but from memory it was Elliot’s T-shirt that had done it that night. For some reason she just saw red. She put it down to the pent-up fear and tension.

Hazel had been the last to arrive at the restaurant. “Mission accomplished?” Helen had asked as Hazel slid the J.Crew shopping bags under the table. Helen loved to shop with Hazel, to ask her advice in a sisterly fashion. But no matter what Helen tried on, she somehow managed to look matronly.

Hazel had been keeping up the pretense of teaching, both to Helen and to the kids, for now. Her principal had been understanding. She was signed off for another month. Then she’d have to make a decision. A permanent decision.

“You’ve lost weight, Hazel.” Helen was looking at her enviously. “You’ll have to share the secret.”

“Secret? It’s not rocket science, Helen. Keeping your mouth shut should work.” Oscar said, perusing the menu.

Elliot sniggered. Helen looked hurt. And once again Hazel let it go. This had gone on for years.

“Let’s just order, shall we, Oscar?” said Hazel, wearily.

Like Oscar, Helen had grown up in the dispassionate and clinical Harvey home. Hazel suspected that it had been a home of few hugs and little outward display of affection. A Vassar graduate, Helen was currently funded on a research project to investigate the increasing levels of sarcoidosis in New York since 9/11.

“So, you guys are all off next week.” Helen rubbed her hands. “I must say, I’m feeling jealous. I don’t know if I ever told you kids but I had an Irish boyfriend once—here in the city on an internship with Merrill Lynch.”

Jess had raised her eyebrows and Elliot was sniggering again. Both obviously finding it hard to imagine their large aunt Helen ever having a boyfriend. Just as Hazel was about to reprimand them both, she was distracted.

“Elliot!” she said sharply.

“Mom!” He jumped to attention, mocking her.

“Where did that T-shirt come from?”

“This? I borrowed it. Mine got wet with the water pistols . . .”

“Whose is it?”

“It’s Luke’s. I was at Luke’s today, remember? His mom gave it me.” Elliot was looking puzzled.

“What’s up, Hazel?” asked Oscar.

“I don’t care, Oscar. I’m not having it. I’m not having that propaganda. Look at what the T-shirt says.”

“‘Legalize Freedom.’ Yeah, so?” drawled Jess. “What’s up with that? You can’t seriously have any objection to that, Mom.”

“‘Legalize Freedom’ is a slogan for the libertarian movement, Jess, for the Tea Party movement!”

“Oh, please. Spare us the politics today, Hazel.” Oscar sat back in his chair and threw his eyes to heaven. “It’s only a T-shirt, for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t you see what they’re trying to do? They’re trying to hoodwink ordinary people with all their talk of civil freedoms and free markets and less government. What these oligarchs at the top of all these huge corporations want is the freedom to do as they will and pay no taxes all at the expense of the little man. My child is not going to be a puppet in their hands!”

“Our child,” said Oscar calmly. “Are you really going to do this now?”

The kids had gone quiet and Helen looked uncomfortable, embarrassed. Oscar was right, of course, but this thing was just too important to let go. For too long Hazel had sensed the creeping insidious acceptance of some of the more abhorrent values of capitalist politics. It plain stuck in her craw.

“You’re right.” She tried to mute the frustration in her voice. “But I cannot have Elliot wearing a T-shirt that advocates the virtues of individualism over collectivism. An ideology that derides the notion of health care for all, that heaps scorn on the very notion of social security.”

“Gee, Mom. It says all that? I can only see two little words,” said Elliot, chin down, examining the writing.

Oscar guffawed with laughter.

Reluctantly, she’d decided to let it go. She wished it didn’t matter. She really did.

“My clever little wife has just read Ayn Rand”—Oscar had looked at Helen—“and has now taken it upon herself to be a one-woman propaganda machine against the libertarian movement.”

“Ayn Rand?” Helen raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right—Atlas Shrugged,” Hazel explained, “acts as a type of handbook for the Libertarians.”

“Heavy-duty shit,” said Elliot, making a paper plane of the menu.

“Hard-core shit,” agreed Jess, looking bored to tears.

Hazel really was going to have to take her kids to task. She’d let too many things go this year. Exhausted by the demanding days at school, her own parenting skills had been put on the back burner.

As she recalled, the rest of the meal went by without incident. Almost like the weekly meals before all of this had happened. They’d chatted about the impending trip.

“Where exactly are you going?” Helen had asked.

“Limerick. The house is next to the Curragower Falls in Limerick. Just over the bridge from where I grew up.”

“This is another home exchange, right? Like North Carolina?” asked Helen.

“That’s right,” Hazel said.

“I like the idea,” said Helen. “I should do that. Stay in someone’s home. Makes the experience much more real, I’m sure.”

“It’s that, all right . . .” muttered Oscar.

What Helen didn’t understand or even know was that the home exchange had materialized out of necessity. In the past, there’d been the five-star Marriott resorts, the luxury condos with daily maid service and cook. Oscar’s choice, not hers, but she’d fallen in with his holiday plans. All of that was before Susan. The settlement with Susan had put paid to all of that. But Helen knew nothing of Susan. They’d kept it between the three of them—four of them if you included the lawyer. Harry’s friend. Reputation was everything. Hazel understood that. Especially in Oscar’s profession. Who was going to attend a dentist accused of sexual harassment?

Susan had been Oscar’s partner in the practice. Susan was a flirt—there’d been no denying that. But because the flirting was conducted in the open, for everyone’s supposed amusement, Hazel had never worried. If she’d worried about anything when Oscar took Susan on, it was Susan’s competence as a dentist. She seemed skittish, with big doe eyes and stiletto heels. Still, Hazel told herself, appearances could be deceptive. Just because she embraced her femininity didn’t mean she couldn’t do the job. Hazel didn’t subscribe to the notion that a woman should look genderless to be taken seriously. And yet when the day arrived that Oscar told her Susan had accused him of forcing her onto the reclining chair and groping her breasts, could Hazel say that she was all that surprised?

Hazel stayed out of it, confident that Oscar’s network of old school buddies would magic up some arrangement. But it cost considerably more than she thought it would. What really galled her was that the lawyer got nearly as much as Susan. He certainly knew the value of preserving a reputation.

They’d put the grubby episode behind them. Oscar couldn’t afford to take on a new dentist and had decided to go it alone for a few years. Hazel too had severed all ties with Susan, swapping the dance class that she and Elizabeth had attended with Susan in favor of the dance studio closer to home on Broadway.

“Thank you for dinner, Helen. You’re too generous.” Hazel had thanked Helen in the washroom.

“Oh, honey, you’re so welcome. You know I’d do anything for you, Oscar, and the kids.” Helen looked at her with a sincerity that made Hazel want to go back out to the restaurant and have a go at Oscar for all his nasty jibes.

“I’m sorry about Oscar,” Hazel had apologized. “He’s sharp sometimes . . .”

“I don’t take notice of all those silly comments. It’s hard for Oscar today. You do know what day it is, don’t you, Hazel?”

And with a start, Hazel realized that this was the very first time she’d forgotten. She always made sure that she trod more gently at this time of year.

“The anniversary, right?”

Helen nodded.

Birgitte. Oscar’s first wife. Today was the anniversary of her death.

“The saddest funeral ever—only four of us. We never thought Oscar would take the plunge again. Until you came along . . . He adores you, you know.” Helen squeezed her arm affectionately as they’d struggled through the doorway together.

 • • • 

“You know what? Even after all this time, it feels the same.” Hazel braced against the rear seat belt to talk to their driver up front. “Like an old pair of slippers . . .”

“I dunno about that, Hazel. Wait till you see,” their driver replied. “There’s been a lot of change in the last fifteen years.” He flashed a smile at Oscar, who sat up front next to him.

Hazel was in the back with the kids. It felt odd to be looking at the driver on the right-hand side of the car. He was certainly friendly enough, this guy Spike. Perhaps a touch overfriendly. He’d scanned her up and down in the arrivals hall. Hazel was surprised to see him wearing what looked like motorbike leathers. He seemed somewhat unkempt, with an unshaven face and tousled hair. But he and Oscar had hit it off straightaway.

“You should go to the game tomorrow. At Thomond Park, the new rugby stadium.” Spike checked the rearview mirror. “Yeah—yourself and the young fella. You like rugby? Munster are playing tomorrow.”

“I guess we could take in a game, what do you say, Elliot?”

“Cool,” said Elliot.

“Elliot and I go to the Giants at home.”

“The Giants, eh? Now, there’s a thing. They were my team when I worked in the Bronx in the nineties. Put it like this—Munster’s the Giants without the padding and the headgear, you get me? And without the paycheck too of course . . .” Spike chuckled.

The ride in the back of the VW saloon was smooth, something Hazel was thankful for, as she was not a good backseat passenger. Spike whizzed along, checking his mirror at regular intervals. Hazel noticed they were breaking the limit on the speed signs. As the road descended over a plain of green fields cut through by the Shannon River, she watched black and white cows grazing in the early morning damp.

The cars that sped by seemed newer, shinier, and in better condition than the cars she remembered from fifteen years ago. Many of them had 2007 registration plates. The year that the boom had peaked. The zenith of the Celtic Tiger years. By the looks of things many had shared in the spoils. In the country she had left, cars were an expensive commodity, and a brand-new car was a sure sign that someone was a real success.

As they neared the city limits, the skyline had changed. A split in the road signaled an arching overpass on its way to a toll road burrowing its way under the river.

“That’s the tunnel,” Spike confirmed.

Hazel was surprised. Economic intensity must have demanded greater access across the river. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. In her mind’s eye she had a picture of what she’d left. Would it be so changed that it no longer felt like home? For that is what she wanted, craved. She needed sanctuary.

Tall glass buildings glinted on the horizon.

“Those buildings over there, they’re new?” Hazel pointed.

“The one with the curved rooftop, that’s a hotel. And the taller one to the left, that’s an office block. It’s a shame, really. Most of the units are empty. The recession, you know. Well, actually that’s not quite right . . .” Spike looked in the rearview mirror again and Hazel felt the car surge forward in a burst of acceleration. The guy was jittery. “Yeah,” he continued, “things went buck apeshit here for a few years. The banks throwing money at everyone. Guys working in car washes were getting mortgages. Everyone was a developer, a property speculator. Lads with perfectly average jobs were driving Mercs and BMWs. Every auctioneer in town thought they were Donald Trump. And kaboom. Suddenly the banks were found out. I reckon it all started with you guys across the pond—Lehman Brothers, wasn’t it? Or that crowd with the funny names like the Flintstones—Fannie Mac and Freddie Mae!” He snorted at his own joke.

“That’s right, buddy, blame the U.S. Sooner or later everyone always lays the blame at our door,” said Oscar. Spike’s banter had struck a nerve.

“Aw, no, pal, I’m only ball hopping. We certainly didn’t need any help from anyone else. Sure, the banks here partied until they dropped. The rest of us are left to carry the can while the fat cats who robbed us blind have ridden off into the sunset with their big fat-cat pensions.”

“No jail time for anyone?” asked Hazel from the back.

“Jail time! You kidding me? These guys are still swanning about going to their swanky villas in Spain and Portugal. It makes me stone mad if I think about it too much. So hey, you know what? I try not to think about it. Like the man says, we must accept the things we cannot change.”

And there it was again, albeit here at the other side of the Atlantic—yet another instance of apathy in the face of misconduct. Hazel was disappointed by Spike’s remarks but it was unreasonable to infer that his attitude was representative of the country as a whole. Yet the Ireland she had left had been slow to anger. Ambassador Jean Kennedy Smith had been right all those years ago when she remarked how Ireland was a great country but the Irish simply didn’t do outrage.

“You’ll get a good view of the Riverpoint building if we come in the Condell Road. We can come up O’Callaghan Strand then and Clancy Strand that way,” said Spike.

“That’s where you lived, isn’t it, Mom?” Elliot asked groggily. “O’Callaghan Strand?”

“Yes, sweetie, that’s where I grew up.”

“I thought you were farther up—on Clancy Strand?” said Spike. “I thought that’s what Kate said.”

“No. I was in a house just up from the boat club.”

“St. Mick’s? That’s where my brother, Mannix, rows—whenever Kate lets him out!” He chuckled again.

And suddenly Hazel felt uncomfortable, as if she were peering into someone else’s life. She didn’t want to know intimate details about her exchange partner’s life. She didn’t want to know about the state of their marriage. And she didn’t want to violate anyone else’s privacy.

Minutes later they turned off onto the North Circular Road heading toward the old toffee factory and to the bend in the road with the boat club. Up until now the suburbs had had a slow Saturday morning feel. They’d spotted one or two joggers on a walking trail but it was early yet, 6:45 according to Hazel’s watch. And yet as they slowed to take the bend in the road, she spotted blue-and-yellow-clad crews hoisting and shouldering rowboats down the slipway onto the high tide.

“Oh, slow down a minute,” said Hazel. “Doesn’t that look fun?”

“Yeah, nice morning for a spin on the river,” said Spike, slowing to a crawl.

“Looks fun . . .” drawled Jess, alert now, scanning the square-shouldered boys with admiration. Hazel smiled to herself. How many times had she and her friend Lizzie ogled the crews from the top-floor window of her house when they were teenagers? She wondered where Lizzie was now.

“And there’s my old house, over there on the left . . . Can you go a bit slower, please?”

As they inched their way up the strand, Hazel sensed a reluctance from Spike, as if he were impatient somehow, itching to be somewhere else.

“There! There it is. The one with the green door . . .” Hazel squeezed Elliot’s knee. Oscar had turned around and was smiling at her indulgently. Remarkably, the house still looked the same. The same green door. The same long lawn at the front. The huge magnolia in front of the sitting-room window. Memories of the undertaker trundling her mother’s coffin down the crazy-paved pathway to the hearse on the road.

On the other side of the road, the city had put in a fancy riverside walk, and the old wooden benches where she’d sat enjoying fledgling romances had been replaced with weatherproof seating. Autumn had not yet torn all the damp leaves from the great sycamore trees that dotted the walk. Across the water of the full tide were functional looking buildings or apartment blocks. They neither added nor detracted from the view, they were just there. Hazel wondered just how many buildings had been born and died in her absence.

As they traveled slowly up the strand, Hazel noted the twin landmarks of Shannon and Limerick rowing clubhouses were still the same. However, the modest hotel that had stood on the site close to Sarsfield Bridge was now replaced with a large swollen building dominating that corner.

“All new around here,” said Spike, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The lights at the bridge were red and they’d been forced to stop. “Great views of the river and the city from the hotel terrace. Pretty swanky bedrooms too. With so many hotels going to the wall this one seems to be holding its own, for now at least . . .”

Spike continued to drum his fingers on the wheel, pressing his foot on the pedal, causing the engine to race. “During the boom, every time you turned a corner there was a new development going up. Not any old crap either, might I add. Four- and five-star establishments, all with spas. Oh, you couldn’t be seen frequenting a hotel that didn’t at least have a spa!”

“Really?” Hazel was amazed.

“That’s the truth of it. Of course they’re nearly all in NAMA now.”

“NAMA?” asked Oscar, analyzing his surroundings.

“Yeah—the crowd that takes over when everything goes belly-up. It’s a government agency—supposed to get the most out of any assets left over. But who knows what’s really going on there. I wouldn’t believe daylight out of them myself. Christ Almighty, what is going on with the feckin’ lights this morning. That’s nearly a full four minutes we’ve been here!”

Hazel felt Elliot shudder with laughter by her side, but the next thing she knew, all three lurched forward as Spike accelerated through the cross-hatch over the hump in the road to Clancy Strand. There was no more small talk as Spike sped down the strand past the late Victorian and Edwardian houses toward the old barracks building. Within seconds he had screeched to a halt outside a row of red-bricked houses. He carefully reversed through the low gates into the gravel driveway that curled around the side of the building.

“Curragower Falls—here we are!” Spike turned around and surveyed them all, grinning widely. The guy really did look as if he’d been up all night.

“Thank you so much for all your kindness,” said Hazel. “We’re in great shape here—if you need to be off,” she said, feeling that they’d imposed too much already. Oscar and the kids were already taking their luggage out of the trunk.

“No worries. Here, give me that suitcase, you’ll have your little shoulder out.” Spike took the suitcase out of Hazel’s hand, his fingers brushing hers. Equally swiftly, Oscar relieved Spike of the same suitcase, slighted at the implication that he wasn’t looking after his wife.

Inside, Hazel was delighted to find that the house was true to the charm suggested on the Web site. The walls of the main living area were covered with abstract artwork in the primitive style that she knew Oscar was partial to. A display of multibranched gold-painted twigs sat in a ceramic pot in the big picture window overlooking the river. Decorated with miniature black and gold Halloween paper lanterns, a string of fairy lights snaked its way through the branches.

“Cool beans,” said Elliot, fingering the lanterns as he looked out the window. “So where are the falls?” he turned around and asked Spike.

“Sorry, pal, the tide’s too high just now. But as the tide goes out you’ll see the rocks and the river racing over them. In a few hours’ time. But I guess you guys will want to get a snooze in first.”

“Some shut-eye sounds good to me,” said Oscar.

Jess had already collapsed in a heap in one of the downstairs bedrooms. Spike guided them through the central heating controls, the hot water, and the refuse before leaving the car and house keys with them along with a cell phone contact number should they need him.

“I’ll love you and leave you, then,” said Spike. Zipped into the biker jacket, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Hazel’s cheek before putting on the crash helmet that had been resting on the breakfast counter. He looked like a gladiator. Again Oscar bristled.

Seconds later Hazel heard the engine roar and watched from the window as the black-clad figure disappeared on the motorbike up the strand and around the bend toward the Treaty Stone, out of view.

“Bit of a weird dude, wouldn’t you say?” said Oscar, who’d gone down to wave him off.

“You think?” Hazel was cautious.

“For sure. There was something going on with him. Jittery as hell.”

“He did look like he’d been partying all night . . .”

“He was looking around that backyard like there was someone lying in wait for him. Looked up and down the street a good two or three times before he took off.”

“Really?”

“And he has the hots for you,” said Oscar in a lower voice.

“You’re tired, Oscar. We’re all tired.” She couldn’t do this now.

“That’s true. Some shut-eye before we regroup.”

“You go on,” said Hazel. “Just give me a few moments to myself. A few moments to let it all sink in. Home, after all this time.”

“Sure.” He squeezed her shoulders tightly, then wrapped his arms around her, silently but firmly exerting ownership rights.

Alone at last, Hazel reflected on the last few hours. Sluice gates of nostalgia, fear, and affection had all creaked open, their jumbled contents sloshing about her head. She needed her journal. To jot it down on paper, to make something concrete of her thoughts. Writing always gave her a sense of calm. Putting her feelings on paper made her feel in control of them, not a slave to them.

Almost instantly, she was struck by something else. Panic. Oh, God. Where was her journal? When was the last time she had it? She hadn’t packed it, had she? In the daze of simply existing, she had no memory of packing her precious diary. Her beautiful Japanese lacquered diary containing her most intimate thoughts, feelings, and reflections. Her heart was pounding. Think. Think. Back to when you last had it, you crazy woman . . . think . . . think.

She steadied herself a moment and then it came to her. It must be at home in her bedside drawer. It had been at least a week since she’d written in it. And even if she’d left it in the park somewhere or even on the subway, what was there really to link it to her? Her name was not on it. It just looked like a pretty journal. She tried to think back. There were no names. Events were described. Conversations, fears, and plans for the future. But there wasn’t anything that could link it to him, was there? She hadn’t mentioned his name, had she?

“Coming, Hazel?” Oscar had come to check on her.

“Yes,” she said. She should try to sleep. Getting up from the cane chair, she noticed a hooded figure in the park across the road staring up at the window straight at her. Startled, Hazel jumped back.

“Come on, then,” Oscar said impatiently.

“Coming,” she said, a coldness gripping her. This holiday was supposed to heal, but as Hazel went wearily down the stairs she felt overwhelmed by something else.

A profound sense of foreboding.