May 2019, Boston, Massachusetts
Kaitlin
Kaitlin Wilson’s mother had a gift for throwing parties, and tonight she was at full tilt. Not, she insisted, that the gathering was any trouble. It was simply a casual get-together. A casual get-together involving three straight days of baking, chopping, dusting and polishing. In the lead-up to a party, Susan Wilson morphed into a blend of Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray with a dash of Katie Lee on the side.
While other women might hire caterers or wait staff, Susan did everything herself. She considered the use of professionals to be a waste of money. More than that, she considered it vulgar. She’d often been heard to mutter about women who employed caterers just to show they could afford their pricey services. It didn’t seem to occur to her that not everyone enjoyed entertaining.
‘Your mother was born for this,’ Kaitlin’s father, Kevin, would say, as he watched his wife moving between guests, replenishing glasses and gushing about new hairstyles, jobs or babies. For all that Susan had perfected an affluent suburban appearance, she was in many ways a throwback to the old days. One of those rare people who’d always known what she’d wanted, she maintained a woman’s place was at home. Careers were for the young and single. While Kaitlin didn’t share this view, she had a secret regard for the unapologetic way in which her mother had embraced the stay-at-home life.
If her mom enjoyed being centre-stage, Kaitlin was more of a skulker. Parties were not her natural habitat. Even as a student she’d had no love for large gatherings. Sure, she’d attended plenty, but only because not to do so would have marked her out as odd. She hadn’t wanted anyone to suspect that she didn’t belong.
Tonight, she wasn’t just a slightly unenthusiastic party-goer. She really truly didn’t want to be there. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. In the Wilson family, not attending a party was like working Christmas Day or missing a neighbourhood funeral. It was not what you did. You drank wine and ate finger food and, if you had tears to cry, you cried them before you came. Well, either that or you waited until the early hours so that your emotion could be blamed on alcohol.
Kaitlin had told herself to be prepared for questions. The trouble was, she felt so fragile that one misplaced word, no matter how well-intentioned, might be enough to blow her over.
Tonight’s celebration was for her uncle Drew, her father’s brother, who’d just turned fifty. The youngest of five, he’d insisted he didn’t want a fuss. This, Kaitlin figured, was Drew-speak for ‘If there isn’t a huge fuss, including the presence of the entire family, most of my neighbours, the guys from high school and assorted hangers-on, I will be extremely disappointed.’
Drew was married to Orla, and they had three children, her little cousins. Only they weren’t so little any more: the youngest was fourteen. At twenty-nine, Kaitlin had passed into another world where, save for the obvious – ‘What are you planning for the summer vacation?’ or ‘How’s school these days?’ – she didn’t know what to say. At the same time, she wasn’t sure that when platitudes about the generosity of the spread or the relative warmth of the May weather had been exhausted, she could sustain a conversation with many of the older family members either.
Luckily, they all had plenty to say to each other.
Orla had volunteered to hold the party, but in the special voice she reserved for her sister-in-law – equal parts syrup and vinegar – Kaitlin’s mother had rebuffed the offer. ‘Sweetheart, it’s what I do,’ she’d said.
Kaitlin sipped her chardonnay and watched and listened as tongues loosened and voices swelled. In one corner of the living room, she saw her parents’ long-time neighbour, Letty Brock, exchange gossip with another neighbour, Maria Cahalane. (‘I said to her, “You can’t go through husbands like that. Whatever happened to perseverance, huh?”’) Nearby, three uncles debated the shortcomings of various ball players. (‘I think he’s done. Anyone can see he’s not what he was two years ago.’) There, too, was her brother, Brian, and his girlfriend, Riley, whose red dress was as tight as a surgical glove. In the same dress, Kaitlin would have looked ridiculous, but no matter the outfit, no matter the occasion, Riley had a talent for looking just right. The only jarring note came from her overly whitened teeth, their shine so bright it was probably visible from another realm.
Kaitlin caught Brian’s gaze and waved in his direction. He tipped his head to one side and smiled. It was a look that said, ‘I’ll talk to you in a bit when I’ve done my duty by the old folk.’ Separated by less than two years, they’d long ago developed a semaphore system. They might not agree on everything but when it came to family they usually found common ground. Unlike Kaitlin, Brian was skilled at schmoozing. Not only did he remember which cousin was which, he recalled their jobs and passions and pets. Throw in the fact that he possessed the perfect combination of self-effacement and self-confidence, and he could have been a politician. No wonder he worked for one. In return, their neighbours and relatives would happily have eaten bird seed from his outstretched hand.
‘Hey, kiddo,’ said a familiar voice. ‘No Clay?’
Kaitlin turned and gave her dad a one-armed hug. ‘No, and sorry I was late. Like I explained to Mom, Clay’s busy. His team has an important meeting on Monday, and he’s got lots of prep to do. He sends his apologies.’
Neither statement was true. Clay had claimed he was too tired, too flat-on-the-floor exhausted, for an evening with the Wilson family, whom he’d variously described as ‘full on’, ‘wired’ and ‘unrelentingly social’. He’d also been known to ask how his girlfriend could possibly be a Wilson. She was almost sure this was a compliment. She was fully sure he’d got her family wrong. Yes, her mother was hospitable. Yes, her father’s extended family enjoyed each other’s company. But she reckoned Clay’s portrayal of them owed more to caricature than reality. Some stereotypes endured, and the raucous Irish family was one: cousins upon cousins, alcohol and religion, tribalism and sentimentality and, on top of it all, a complex system of formalities and rituals. Not that she’d say this to Clay. In her job as an associate in a corporate law firm, Kaitlin was accustomed to marshalling arguments and preparing cases. At home, she chose her battles carefully. Besides, there was no malice to his descriptions, and she joked about his family too.
She was confident that if she’d really wanted him to come, he would have. In truth, though, she didn’t think his presence would have made the party any easier to navigate.
Something about her dad’s face made Kaitlin suspect he didn’t believe Clay’s excuse. Still, he maintained the charade. ‘That’s a real shame,’ he said, with a slow nod. ‘A real shame. It would’ve been great to have all the family here. It isn’t every day a man’s kid brother reaches his half-century.’
He then lamented how much of Clay and Kaitlin’s lives were swallowed by their jobs. What he chose to forget was that, at the same age, he’d been consumed by work. Kevin had helped transform the family building business into a substantial construction and property company. In doing so, he’d made it possible for them to move to a five-bedroomed white-columned house in the leafiest part of Milton – and to throw large parties.
When Kaitlin met her father’s contemporaries, she was taken aback by how old they looked, their youth lost to poor diet or too much liquor or simply to the passage of time. In his blue button-down and dark khakis, sandy hair only lightly flecked with silver, he could have passed for a decade younger than his fifty-five years.
He shifted from one foot to the other and took a mouthful of beer. ‘And you’re doing okay, are you? I worried that tonight might be tough for you. That’s why I thought Clay would be here, y’know. But—’
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
Her tone must have put him off because, in a voice that was almost too breezy, he asked, ‘So have you been speaking to Brian about the new job?’
‘Um, no. I didn’t know he had a new job.’
‘Ah, I see. I thought he’d have been in touch.’
‘We haven’t spoken in a week or two.’ She widened her eyes. ‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘He’s on the move to Washington, but if he hasn’t had the chance to fill you in . . .’ Her father paused. ‘Why don’t I wait until he does have the opportunity? The pair of you can talk later.’
‘Come on, Dad. Spill.’
He paused again, this time for longer than was comfortable. ‘It’s a big job: communication specialist with the Immigration Reform Alliance of America, the IRAA. I said to him, “I’m glad they added that second A or you could have been in real trouble.”’
The joke fell flat.
‘Whoa,’ she said. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I thought that might be your reaction. That’s why I wish he’d kept you in the picture. I’ve told him a thousand times: “You’ve got to discuss your plans with people. That’s how you avoid misunderstandings.”’
‘I can see why he didn’t want to discuss this particular plan.’
Her dad took a long drink of his beer. ‘You won’t tackle him tonight, will you? This isn’t really the place.’
‘I can’t let it slide when I think he’s wrong.’
‘Please, sweetheart. Think of your mother. And Drew.’
Kaitlin scanned the room. There was her mom, a gleam of satisfaction on her face as she chatted to a cousin. There was Drew, who always looked like he’d been sculpted from the side of a mountain, talking to old school friends. And there was Brian, listening attentively to one of their more voluble aunts.
For the past three years, her brother had worked for a state senator. While Kaitlin might not have shared all Mitch O’Leary’s views, his multiple terms in office were based on old-school skills. He was adept at attending fundraisers, pumping hands and telling stories about his childhood in the Old Colony project (‘the finest people on God’s earth’). But he also delivered for constituents, and she respected that. His party affiliation was barely relevant. He had the support of the firefighters’ union, of teachers, carpenters and prison officers. A political machine required attention to detail and, to the surprise of many, Brian had turned out to be good with detail. This felt different.
‘You’re okay,’ she said finally, trying, and failing, to sound reassuring. ‘You go mingle. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Upstairs, she crept into her old bedroom, closed the door and sat on the bed. She didn’t want anyone to know she was hiding. A few minutes, that was all she needed to compose herself. Your brother’s career choices are none of your business, she told herself. This isn’t about you. You’ve got to act like an adult. Keep it light. Keep it bright.
The pep talk didn’t prevent her from running IRAA through Google. If the organisation’s title was bland, ambiguous even, a scoot through its website confirmed her suspicions. The Alliance aimed to educate Americans about immigration, especially what it called ‘high-volume illegal immigration’. It assured supporters that their concerns were well-founded and legitimate, and that, while controlled immigration could be positive, the current situation was having a negative impact on healthcare, security, the environment and the economy. It repeatedly contrasted what it said was America’s generous policy towards undocumented migrants – ‘Numbers are soaring’ – with the challenging lives of vulnerable groups, like ageing veterans and victims of crime. Kaitlin knew the IRAA’s message would resonate with millions of Americans. She just wished her brother wasn’t among them.
A scan of the lobby group’s key employees showed a range of ethnicities. To be honest, the faces were more diverse than they were at Frobisher Hunter, the law firm where she worked. There was also a considerable number of Irish names: a Kavanaugh, a Shanahan, an O’Reilly, a Moloney.
She cleared the screen and, for a minute or so, rocked back and forth. The room was exactly as she’d left it when she’d last lived here: calm, organised, subtle. The comforter and sheets were in shades of cream. The bookshelves were ordered alphabetically. There was no mountain of furry toys, no sentimental closet of clothes, nothing chintzy or garish. The one splash of colour was provided by a corkboard on the far wall, which was layered with teenage memories including a photo from a long-ago family holiday in the Keys. Brian’s thick brown hair swooped over his eyes in a way that had been fashionable back then, while, for once, Kaitlin had managed to smile at the right moment.
As she descended the stairs, she repeated her new mantra. Light and bright. Light and bright. Then she met Orla.
‘Come here to me,’ said Drew’s wife, with a beckoning wave, a tinkle of bracelets and a look of concern at Kaitlin’s empty glass. ‘You need more wine, and we need to talk.’
The two went into the kitchen, which, right then, was quiet. It had been remodelled a couple of years earlier and was showroom perfect, the appliances gleaming. Kaitlin hadn’t yet adapted to the changes. The granite surfaces reminded her of a graveyard, the pendant lights of an operating theatre. She’d preferred the comfortable kitchen of her childhood. She took a bottle of white from the refrigerator, refilled their glasses and pulled out two chairs.
‘I reckon I can guess what this is about,’ she said.
‘I reckon you can,’ replied Orla. ‘First things first, though. I should have asked: how are you doing?’
‘I’m . . . not too bad. Some days are easier than others. That’s the way it goes, I guess. So about Brian . . .’
‘When did you find out?’
‘Twenty minutes ago, when Dad told me. I had no—’
Kaitlin came to a sudden halt. Riley’s head had popped around the door. ‘Oh, hi, you two. You haven’t seen Brian, have you?’
‘Last I saw of him he was in the sunroom surrounded by elderly admirers,’ said Orla, with a smile that was too sweet to be sincere.
‘Sheesh,’ she said, when Riley was gone, ‘we were almost caught there. The last thing we needed was Miss Oklahoma 1986 listening in.’
‘You’re such a bitch,’ said Kaitlin, but she was laughing.
‘Don’t tell me she isn’t a ringer for a 1980s beauty queen.’ Orla slapped her cheek. ‘Oh, listen to me. I’m jealous, that’s the trouble. The woman’s too perfect and, God knows, I was never Miss Ireland material myself. I shouldn’t take my feelings out on Riley. It’s Brian I’m pissed with.’
The Wilson family’s roots had been muddied by time. The same was true on Kaitlin’s mother’s side. Susan was a McGrath, possibly from County Waterford. Orla, however, was part of the last great wave of Irish immigrants. She’d arrived in the summer of 1986 with three hundred dollars and the address of a second cousin in Allston. She joked about how she hadn’t intended to outstay her holiday visa but had been won over by high water pressure and fifty flavours of ice cream. Her parents and siblings remained in Limerick.
Although her accent had been diluted by more than thirty years in Boston, it remained unmistakably Irish. You could hear it in the way she pronounced ‘Brian’ as ‘Brine’, or the way she used words and phrases like ‘Get away out of that’, ‘Grand so’, and ‘Lookit’. Kaitlin suspected that sometimes Orla ramped up the Irishisms for effect. She’d even corrected Susan’s pronunciation of her family name. ‘The T is silent,’ she’d informed her bemused sister-in-law. ‘It’s pronounced McGrah.’ She’d also taken Bostonians to task for various sins including the phrase ‘The Potato Famine’ (‘That implies it was about a shortage of potatoes when it was more political than that. “The Famine” will do’) and assuming that corned-beef hash was a staple Irish dinner (‘I’d never seen the filthy stuff until I came here.’).
‘I know I should engage with the complexities of Brian’s decision,’ she was saying, injecting a shot of sarcasm into ‘complexities’, ‘but I don’t want to. It’s not about politics for me. It’s too personal. Like, how does he think I got here? Believe me, they weren’t exactly hanging out the welcome banners at Logan.’
It was no secret that Orla had spent two undocumented years working as a nanny for a couple of doctors in Brookline. She’d met Drew at a party, and they’d married a few months later.
‘You’re family,’ said Kaitlin, ‘so you’re different.’
Despite being more than twenty years her junior, Kaitlin had always seen her aunt as an ally. They’d had countless conversations of the sort she would never have with her mother. It was also useful to know someone who said the things you were too timid to say.
In many ways, she envied Orla more than she envied an Insta-cutie like Riley. Drew’s wife knew who she was and what she was about. She looked like herself too, if that made sense. Tonight, she was wearing a green satin midi skirt and a black peasant top. Her dark curly hair hung past her shoulders and there were silver hoops in her ears. Not visible were the tattoo of a dolphin on her right thigh and the tiny shamrock at the base of her back, which she’d shown to Kaitlin at another party when they’d both had one shot of Jameson too many.
Kaitlin, on the other hand, could never achieve the style she was aiming for. Oh, objectively speaking, she wasn’t unattractive. From her father’s side of the family, she’d inherited the hair that a college boyfriend had described as more amber than red. She’d received her mother’s small-boned face and slender build. And yet she was never sure how to hold herself or what to wear. Take tonight. She’d considered a grey sheath, then decided it was more suited to the office. Next up had been a blue tiered Alice + Olivia number. This too she’d discarded – somehow it felt too giddy. In the end, she’d settled on a blazer and black jeans. It was not a look that said ‘party’.
‘Here’s another thing,’ said Orla, warming to her theme. ‘Has he ever thought about the rest of you? Okay, your people are here for a while, but I’ll bet they didn’t bring a whole heap of paperwork with them. Do you know where they – where you – came from?’
Some families could rattle off names and counties of origin for several generations. The Wilsons weren’t among them. Their Irishness manifested itself more in ritual than in tangible connections.
‘According to Dad, we’ve been in America since the nineteenth century. That’s all he knows. I’ve always meant to find out more. I’ve just never gotten round to it.’
‘That’s a shame. I remember asking Drew, and he knew even less than your father. What do your folks make of Brian’s announcement?’
Kaitlin took a deep drink. ‘With Mom, I don’t know, though I assume she’ll get a bit teary because he’s moving away. And, if he presents it as a big promotion, she’ll be proud. Otherwise, she probably won’t take a position one way or the other.’
‘He’s going to Washington DC, not the south Pacific.’
‘Yeah, but he’s leaving Boston, the centre of the known universe. She likes having us both around. As for Dad, his immediate concern was that I’d start an argument and ruin Drew’s night.’
Orla smiled. ‘Drew loves a good bust-up. I’d say he’d be fine.’
‘I’d be excommunicated, though. And I don’t think I’d be able to handle the guilt.’
The one imprint a Catholic childhood had left on Kaitlin was guilt. She had enough guilt for the entire state. She felt guilty about spending too much time at work, about not spending enough time with her mother, about her lack of engagement with school friends, and her tendency to bury her true thoughts. Frequently, she felt guilty about things that weren’t her fault at all.
‘I think you’ve got Susan wrong, by the way,’ said Orla, pouring more wine. ‘I think she’ll be keen on Brian’s move.’
Kaitlin was about to ask why when, as if she’d been waiting for her cue, her mother entered the kitchen, a wad of used napkins in one hand, empty platters in the other.
‘Ladies,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re up to in here, hiding away from the guests.’ Even though there was only a handful of years between them, Susan tended to speak to Orla like a wayward child. ‘What are you talking about that’s so important?’
‘Nothing,’ said Kaitlin.
‘Brian,’ said Orla, their answers colliding mid-air.
Kaitlin couldn’t quite interpret the look her mother gave them, but irritation was in there somewhere.
Her mom placed the platters beside the sink and removed an enormous cake from the refrigerator. It was smothered in chocolate frosting. The numerals – five, zero – were picked out in gold. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s big news, but this is Drew’s celebration, and I need to bring out the cake.’
‘You’re right,’ said Orla. ‘Let’s go see if he still has the puff to blow out fifty candles.’
‘Hey,’ said Brian.
‘Well, hey yourself.’
They’d escaped to the hall, a place both private enough for conversation and public enough to make an argument unwise. Since their encounter in the kitchen, Kaitlin had sensed she was being watched by her mother. She’d been pressed into service, first handing out slices of Drew’s cake then topping up drinks.
‘How are you doing?’ he said.
‘Honestly? I’m kind of up and down, but I don’t like saying anything to Mom and Dad. I don’t want either of them fussing.’
‘That I can understand.’
‘Anyway, ahm . . . congratulations,’ she said, more out of politeness than sincerity. ‘Why didn’t you tell me your news?’
‘I didn’t have the chance.’
‘I see.’
‘All right, then. Full disclosure: I was pretty sure you wouldn’t approve, and I didn’t think this was the place for a debate.’
‘I don’t want a debate either. Not here. I just . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘I wish you weren’t going to work for those people.’
‘It’s a great opportunity.’
‘You deserve better.’
Mrs Cahalane opened the living-room door, and for a few seconds, the hall was filled with the roar of voices.
Brian rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘You see, this is why I was reluctant to talk to you tonight. We were always going to end up arguing about politics.’
She remembered what Orla had said. ‘It’s not about politics.’
‘No?’
Kaitlin’s fingers clenched a little tighter around her glass. ‘It’s about who we are.’
He hesitated before replying. She was disappointed that when he spoke he opted for the simplistic answer.
‘We were born right here,’ he said. ‘We’re American.’
‘You know what I mean. It’s not as straightforward as that. Give it ten minutes, and someone in there,’ she gestured towards the living room, ‘will be singing “Galway Bay”.’
‘And there’s every chance they’ll be sympathetic towards the aims of the IRAA.’
‘I suppose,’ she said, frustrated with herself for not putting forward a more coherent argument. While she possessed a degree of vanity about her intelligence, she also knew her brother was smarter – and more charming. Often, like now, he could get the better of her without trying. What she’d always had in her favour was diligence.
‘Come on, Kaitlin,’ he said. ‘It’s a step up for me. I don’t judge your decisions.’
The living-room door swung open again. Her uncle Bobby was in full voice:
‘And it’s no nay never
No, nay, never no more
Will I play the wild rover
No never no more’
‘Right idea, wrong song,’ she said, with a light shrug.
Brian smiled but stayed quiet.
It was strange. In many ways she knew him better than anyone in the world. In other ways she didn’t know him at all. Normally, if she had a problem with someone’s politics, she had a problem with everything about them. But she could never dislike Brian. Could she?
‘I’m trying to be honest with you,’ she said. ‘About how I feel and about why I don’t think this is a good move for you. That’s all.’
‘If it doesn’t work out, there’s nothing lost.’
That’s not true, she wanted to say. Instead, she said, ‘When are you going?’
‘August.’
‘So, we’ve plenty of time to talk?’
‘We do, but don’t expect me to change my mind.’
The following morning, sitting in her Brighton apartment, drinking coffee and regretting her dry mouth and fuzzy head, an idea came to her. Orla was right. It was a shame that the Wilsons knew so little about where they’d come from.
If Brian was better informed about their origins, if he knew more about the circumstances in which the family had arrived in America, might it . . . she wouldn’t go so far as to say change his mind but might it give him cause to think? Might he at least be forced to acknowledge the parallels between what was happening now and what had happened then? Because if you were proud of your immigrant heritage, like their family claimed to be, you had to show generosity towards others, didn’t you?
Hangover receding, she found a notepad and scribbled down some ideas. She’d watched enough episodes of Who Do You Think You Are? to know the information was out there. The trouble was, she didn’t know how to harvest it. She had a feeling that finding out about their father’s side of the family would be easier. There were more of them. And they were talkers. There was a possibility that someone would recall something useful, some scrap of information that had been passed down the generations.
What else was there? Census documents? DNA testing? Were there records in Ireland that might help? How much was online? She jotted all of this down on her yellow pad.
Clay had gone for a run, so she had the apartment to herself. She wasn’t sure how much to say to him. His family lived very separate lives, never feeling the need to meddle in each other’s careers. They worked on the assumption that, with a little hard work, each of them would achieve their ambition. Besides, she mightn’t get anywhere. If her search failed to bear fruit, talking to him would be pointless. She would sketch out a plan and, if possible, she’d go investigating. When she’d made progress, she could tell him.
It was only as she made another coffee that something struck her: she genuinely wanted to know more about the man or woman who’d boarded a ship in Ireland and set sail for Boston. What was their story? Who had they left behind? Had they maintained any contact with Ireland? There was rarely, Kaitlin believed, one reason for doing anything. Most actions were supported by several motivations. So, yes, she was doing this for Brian. But she was also doing it for herself.