Declan had slept the afternoon and the night away. Before six o’clock on Sunday morning, he swung his feet onto the floor and sat on the edge of his bed, looking around the small room. Chest of drawers, painted white; small bedside table, varnished brown, with a gooseneck lamp; hardwood floor; blue rug at the end of the bed; wallpaper, yellow with some kind of a white latticework design; two seascape pictures on the wall; a narrow door on the wall opposite the window. He stood and walked over to the door and opened it: a closet, empty, with a shelf and clothes hangers. He closed the door.
Where was the bathroom? He went out onto the landing. The house was quiet. He padded down the stairs in his socks to the next landing. Which door? He tried one: a child’s bedroom with Superman wallpaper. He found the bathroom on his second try. He went in and locked the door. The room was big with bright lights and giant mirrors, not like a Belfast bathroom at all. He stared at the oddly-shaped elliptical pink sink, the toilet bowl with its padded seat, and the unfamiliar bottles of shampoo and jars of God-knows-what. He ran the bath and stripped off his clothes. He had never seen himself so naked and illuminated. He climbed into the pink tub and soaked himself for half an hour. He dried himself on the biggest towel he had ever seen, wrapped it around himself, grabbed his clothes and hurried back upstairs to his room, where he put on the Jockey shorts and the loose white sweatshirt and thick work socks he found neatly folded on the top of his chest of drawers. His Aunt Kate must have left them for him while he was in the bathroom. He stepped into his old jeans.
He went downstairs and stood on the bottom step.
His aunt and uncle were in the kitchen, Kate working around the stove, Matthew sitting in a rattan easy-chair, reading a book. The room was big and bright, a combined kitchen-family room, with a round wooden table and six chairs. Beside his uncle’s rattan chair was a small varnished table, its top crowded with a black telephone, a mug full of pens and pencils and several magazines and books, and its lower shelf filled with two thick phone books, one on top of the other. The walls were papered in the same kind of paper as in Declan’s room—yellow and white.
Declan looked to the right. Opposite the kitchen there was a living room, also big—every room in this house was big. His aunt and uncle had not yet seen him. Declan walked into the living room. There was a wide stone fireplace flanked by two high book-shelves full of books and binders; an upright piano was set against the wall; there was a TV, a long brown sofa, old and worn, two matching chairs, two unmatched chairs—one a high-backed dark red velvet wing chair and the other a black-painted wooden rocker—and cushions of many shapes and colors. On the floor there was an Indian carpet. A long coffee table made of what looked to Declan like a giant tree knot which had been polished and varnished sat in front of the sofa. There were many paintings on the walls of trees and mountains, beach and sky, rocks and driftwood, ocean storms, all painted in a—what was it called, impressionistic?— style.
In Belfast, the first things you noticed in a Catholic home, thought Declan, were the pictures of the Pope and Our Lady of Perpetual Succor and the Sacred Heart on the walls; they leaped out at you. But here it was different. His uncle and aunt had the usual Pope in the kitchen and Sacred Heart in the living room, but perhaps because of the sheer size of the rooms, they were hardly noticeable. There were no holy pictures in his room now that he thought of it, only seascape paintings like the ones in the living room.
A door from the living room led out onto a front porch facing the ocean. The porch was wide and had a couple of old couches. Some of the couch springs had burst their way through the worn fabric.
Declan left the living room, walked past the stairs, and stood silently in the kitchen doorway. Kate pulled out a chair. “Ah, you’re up. Sit yourself down, Declan, and I’ll make you some Canadian pancakes. Ana and Thomas are not yet up. Is it tea you’d want, or coffee? We’ve become the great breakfast coffee drinkers so we have . . . “
As she chattered on, she pulled gently at the neck and shoulders of Declan’s sweatshirt the way his mother used to. She could not stand to see folds and creases in clothes that should be smooth, he remembered.
“ . . . be sure to buy you some decent clothes tomorrow when the store is open, and shoes, the Lord knows you need shoes . . . “ He leaned away from her touch with a shake of his shoulders, and she stood, empty hands suspended like hovering birds.
He looked at his uncle, relaxed, his big mournful face intent on his reading.
Kate turned away toward the stove. “And your hair needs cutting so it’s out of your eyes. Matthew will cut it for you, he’s a good barber.”
He brushed the hair out of his eyes. “My hair is fine the way it is.”
“We usually go to Mass at ten on Sundays,” said Kate. “You’ll meet Father O’Connor, and maybe a few of the children you’ll be with on Monday.”
“Monday?” said Declan.
“When you go to school,” said Kate. “The bus picks up at the general store at eight-fifteen. Pender School is only ten minutes up the road. Or would you rather Tuesday? It’d give you the chance to get some clothes and look around a bit.”
“Thanks,” said Declan, “but I’ll not be going to any school.”
Kate didn’t pause in her mixing of the batter. “Not go, do I hear you say?” She shot a glance over at Matthew. “But what would you do with yourself around here? Ana is at the same school, and she says it’s the great place. Ah! Wait and see, you’ll like it just fine when you meet a few of the others.”
“Good morning, good morning.” An old lady came down the stairs dressed for the outdoors. She carried an umbrella and wore a blue Sunday coat with a little blue hat. She was thin and straight like a dry twig.
“Good mornin’, Miss Ritter,” said Kate. Matthew did not look up from his book.
Miss Ritter kept going straight for the door and waved the hand which was not carrying the umbrella. “Make yourselves at home,” she said happily.
“She always goes to the seven o’clock Mass,” Kate explained to Declan. She poured some of the batter into the pan.
Declan said, “You’d better know, both of you, I’ve no intention of staying here in Canada. I was forced to come.” He shot an angry look at his uncle. “You had no right forcing me to come.”
Matthew lowered his book. “It was my duty. I could do no less, Declan. You’re my brother’s son.”
“You had no right to interfere!” insisted Declan.
“You’ve no one left in Ireland,” said Matthew. “You will be better off here with your own, you’ll see.” He spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.
Declan spoke contemptuously. “My own are still in Ireland. Buried in Irish soil. Which is where I will be buried, too, after I’ve revenged their cruel murders.”
Kate interrupted. “Sit at the table, Matthew, and have your breakfast.” She placed two plates of pancakes on the table.
Matthew took his place opposite his nephew. Kate sat between them with her cup of coffee. “I’ll maybe have a pancake myself when Ana and Thomas come down,” she said.
“I was forced,” said Declan, noticing Kate glance at the gold ring on his finger and at the angry bruises on his wrists, “I wasn’t asked.”
Matthew poured syrup on his pancakes, then passed the bottle to Declan.
Declan poured too much syrup. “I’m needed in Ireland. At least I know my duty right enough. I’m not the kind who runs away from the battle like some I could mention.”
“You haven’t touched your coffee,” Kate said to Declan. “I’ll pour you a glass of orange juice.” She got up and poured the juice while Declan and Matthew eyed each other across the table. “It’s going to be the lovely day,” said Kate. “After the church you can go for a walk, Declan. Ana and Thomas will show you around, won’t you, Ana?” she said to the girl and the boy who had just come down the stairs.
“Sure,” said Ana. She smiled at Declan.
Declan looked at her. She wasn’t wearing her sunglasses now. About the same height as Declan and almost as thin, she had blonde hair, straight, chopped off flat at the jaw line. She wore a white T-shirt and a pair of blue denim cutoffs. Her skin was very tanned. She had pale green eyes and long blonde eyelashes. Her smile was warm and a little tilted, as though she were sharing a private joke that only she and he understood.
Thomas, he could see now, was one of those handicapped kids—what were they called? Mental retards or Mongoloids, something like that. His broad features looked to Declan like one large, happy-face grin. Declan turned his attention back to his uncle.
“There’s not much point looking round a place where I don’t intend to stay,” said Declan. He glared at his uncle. “Now that you know how I feel about being forced to come to this wild country, perhaps you will be kind enough to send me back. I’m well able to take care of myself.”
Matthew put down his knife and fork on his plate and leaned his elbows on the table. “We want you to stay with us, Declan.”
“Ah! We do!” said Kate. “Give it a chance. We need you to stay, Declan, so we do.”
“I won’t stay. If you won’t send me back, then I’ll make my own way back—somehow.”
Matthew gave Kate a doleful look.
The little chapel was crowded. Father O’Connor’s sermon droned on and on without end.
In spite of all his sleep, Declan felt weak and tired. He wanted the service to be over so he could lie down somewhere, anywhere.
Sunbeams shone through the stained glass windows, bathing the chapel in a rich, sleepy light. The pew was full. Ana sat on Declan’s right, Thomas on his left. Ana had changed from T-shirt and cutoffs into a green dress. To Ana’s right sat Matthew and Kate, Matthew stiff in his Sunday suit, and Kate, arty in a brightly colored, flowing kaftan, and a wide-brimmed straw hat festooned with bright artificial flowers.
Afterwards, outside in the bright sunshine, Kate introduced Declan to the priest. Father O’Connor said how delighted he was to meet him and that, when time allowed, he would love to sit and ask a few questions about Ireland. He seemed sincere. “And welcome to Canada,” he said before they parted. Declan didn’t answer the priest, so his aunt did it for him: “Thank you, Father,” she said.
They went home and changed into their workaday clothes.
Matthew settled into his comfortable chair in the kitchen with his book and a cup of coffee.
“Ana and Thomas will take you for a walk and show you around,” said Kate.
“I prefer to be on my own,” said Declan as he left the house.
He started making plans for his escape.