BY NINE IN THE MORNING, Toby was still moaning under the covers, while I was in the kitchen in my sweats, hunched over a mug of Barry’s Irish Breakfast made the cheater’s way—with a tea bag, in a mug, without a teapot. My elbow was aching simply from falling out of the chair the night before, so I wasn’t surprised that Toby was suffering in his sleep. I wondered whether to wake him for our lunch date with Maggie but decided I would go alone if he wasn’t up by noon.
A short walk would fill out the morning nicely, and Angie would be the perfect partner, but her room was empty and her bed hadn’t been slept in. When I knocked on our parents’ door, Dad proved to be home alone. He surprised me by suggesting a walk to the beach at Dugort. Ordinarily, he’s not a “go for a walk” kind of guy. For exercise, he bikes with Eddie and golfs with his buddies. This day, with no buddies in sight and Eddie back in the States tending to his pregnant wife, Dad picked me and the hills of Achill.
It was a soft day. By that, the Irish mean that the mist is almost drizzle, while the sky is light and cloudless. If you decide not to care about getting damp, it’s fit weather for a walk. On days like this, the grass glows and the flowers pour color, but Dad seemed oblivious to the beauty. He walked mechanically, with eyes straight ahead. He spoke only to suggest how to skirt a plump ewe nursing her lamb in the road. Once in a while, one of us would point to a thatched roof or a bush blazing with fuchsia. After a mile of mostly downhill walking, we turned a corner and saw the sea at the end of the road. As we walked toward the beach, Dad reminisced, “Bert and I used to go out in a rowboat from a shore like that. See the black island out there? Ours was like that—it looked large from a distance, but it was just a big rock. And it looked jagged, like that one. Up close, though, the stone was washed smooth. Bert liked to jump from the boat onto the rock, leaving me to keep the damn boat from crashing.”
“So you two were daredevils.” I reached for Dad’s shoulder, meaning to give him a playful pat, but he turned the other way and said, “Let’s get back.”
We began the uphill return. I felt I had to say something. “Dad,” I began, “I’m sorry about Uncle Bert, really I am.”
He kept looking at the road ahead, but he replied to me in a softer tone. “I know. I shouldn’t have snapped at you yesterday. You’re not responsible for how Mom feels about Bert.”
“She feels that way because she takes your side. Mom just thinks that, between you and Bert, you always got the short end of the stick.”
Dad halted and turned to me, with a look of disbelief. He brushed one hand across his face and then looked me in the eyes. “Nora, that’s as far from the truth as it could be.” He paused and turned back to his walking.
At last he continued. “Your mother knows this. You don’t maybe, but Bert saved my life. I was the big brother. I was supposed to protect him. But that’s not how it was. He saved me.”
“When?”
“It was back home, in Arlington. You remember, I’ve shown you.” I nodded, recalling a drive when Dad took us to see the old duplex where he grew up, in a working-class neighborhood just outside Boston.
“In the winter, we used to sneak off to Spy Pond. We could skate there if we got the guys together and shoveled when it snowed. We played hockey with brooms and a rock, nothing fancy. We weren’t supposed to do it. The ice didn’t always harden up well in the middle. But we took our chances.”
“Grammy and Granddad didn’t know?”
“Oh, no. Not until the accident. A kid named Johnny and I were chasing after a rock—the puck—and the ice gave under us. It happened in a crack. I remember the sound, and then the cold. I got pushed under Johnny, they say, as he grabbed the edge of the ice. Somebody stuck a broom out to him, handle first, and the guys held the brush end and pulled him forward. More ice cracked, they said, but they got him out. Everybody was so busy pulling Johnny away from the hole that nobody thought about me—except Bert. He was there, tagging along after me, as usual. He slid his skinny body to where I’d fallen through. He tells me he plunged his arm into the icy water, hoping I’d still be there. I was. I grabbed his hand, and I must have pulled him down. We were both deep under, grabbing at each other. The two of us almost drowned. Those guys saved us, though God knows how.” He shook his head, looking mystified.
“Well, no wonder you felt grateful to him.”
“Of course I did, but I felt guilty too. I never should have taken him out on the ice. It’s my fault, what happened.”
“It all turned out okay, though. Right?”
“No, it didn’t. Bert got pneumonia, a really bad case. He nearly died. He was out of school for months, and when he went back, he was weak. You know, he always wanted to be a runner, and he had the build for it. But after the pneumonia, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t do any sports. His lungs were shot.”
“Huh,” I said. “And you think it was your fault.”
“Not only his lungs. The kids bullied him after that. He didn’t go out and play anymore. He didn’t have friends. He sat at home, being miserable. He stayed like that, even after we moved to the beach house.”
I couldn’t reconcile Dad’s portrait of his brother with the Uncle Bert I knew. He swaggered with self-esteem. As for friends, he knew everyone and everyone knew him, even, I imagined, on Achill.
“Uncle Bert never struck me as lacking confidence,” I said. “Look how successful he was.”
“College changed him. He came back a new man.”
“Dad,” I asked. “Did you give up going to college so that Bert could go instead?”
Dad gave a half smile. “Your mother’s been talking to you.” He paused and considered. “It’s only half true. Bert pulled all A’s in high school, and I was more of a jock. I could see he was made for the big time. I talked with your granddad about it, and we agreed that we should put our money into giving Bert his best shot.”
“But it was at your expense. You missed out yourself.”
“Maybe. Your mother thinks so. But now you can understand why I didn’t begrudge Bert his success. I owed him, you see.”
I squeezed his hand. “Thanks for telling me, Dad. I’m glad you did.”
We reached the cottage too soon for me. I wanted to continue the conversation, but when we opened the door, there was Mom sitting at the kitchen table with her head down, drying her hair with a bath towel. She looked up and smiled a rueful smile. “You’re as damp as I was an hour ago,” she said. “You’ll feel better after a shower.” She rose and came to Dad, putting her hand on his cheek. They looked into each other’s eyes, and their faces softened. They do that a lot, in good and bad times.
Mom glanced toward the door and asked, “Isn’t Angie with you?”
“No, it’s just us,” I answered.
“I guess we each went our own way this morning,” said Mom, resuming her toweling. I didn’t correct her. She would find out soon enough that Angie had gone her own way last night. “There’s a fresh pot of tea if you want some.” She pointed.
“I think I’ll take my shower first,” said Dad, moving toward the bedroom.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll have some tea before I go for mine. Toby’s probably still sleeping.” I poured a cup and brought it to the table.
“Which way did you go?” asked Mom.
“We walked to the beach at Dugort. What about you?”
“I went to that little café down the road to pick up some pastries. There are sweet rolls in the bag on the counter.”
I helped myself and sipped my tea while Mom finished toweling her hair. Some minutes passed in silence until she caught me looking at her.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re staring at me. I can see the little camera behind your eyes scrutinizing me, capturing my every twitch, storing it up for later analysis. Is that what you and Dad talked about on your walk—how’s Mom handling all this? Is it creeping her out that somebody killed Bert when she’s the one who hated him?”
“No. Mom! Dad wouldn’t say that!”
“You’re right. He wouldn’t. But you would.”
That stung.
“Look at you. You’re recoiling from me.”
“No, Mom, I just . . .”
She slapped her hand over mine and kept it there with pressure. She said, “I know you love me, Nora. But you’re a woman. You think about people’s feelings. We do, in a way Dad doesn’t. And you’re smart—too smart for your own good, sometimes.”
My breastbone pulled inward. I couldn’t talk. But I didn’t pull my hand back. I didn’t turn my head away.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Just don’t pretend with me. Don’t hide what you’re thinking. We’ve got to stick together.”
What did she mean by that?
“All right,” she said, pulling her hand back. I was afraid to move mine. It still pressed on the table, and I was afraid it would shake if I raised it. “So what did you talk about, you and Dad?”
“It’s like you said,” I replied. “Dad was quiet, the way he always is when things are bad. I didn’t push him. But he got to talking about when he was a boy in Arlington. He told me about the time that Bert saved his life when they were kids. I think Dad was trying to tell me why he felt so close to Bert in spite of the things Bert pulled when they were older—you know, the selfish stuff you always criticized him for.”
“You’re blaming me for criticizing him?”
“I’m not blaming. I just never had Dad’s side of the story before.”
“That’s just it, it’s a story. The fairy tale of the devoted brothers that never existed, Nora. I don’t know how many times he’s told me that ‘he saved me’ story. Dad should have gotten over his guilt toward Bert years ago. They were just kids when that accident happened. It was nobody’s fault. And look at how Bert played him, after that.”
“Okay, but you can’t really blame Dad for taking Uncle Bert’s side, even though he paid a price for it.”
“We all paid a price for it. The whole family. Your father should have stood up to Bert instead of letting him act the cock of the walk and gobble up all the money and property.”
Her voice became raspy, as the old grievance returned. I felt fear rising again in me, fear that Mom’s resentment of Uncle Bert led to an outburst of deadly anger. Dad would never forgive her if it had.
We shared a minute of silence. Then I said, “Well, Bert is dead now, and we’ve got to deal with the police. How did your interview go at the station? Do you feel like talking about it?”
She draped the towel over the chair beside her and ran her fingers through her damp hair. “There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “They badgered me, but that got them nowhere. Police are the same all over. They try to trip you up and get you to admit things you didn’t do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well of course they were worked up about the argument I had with Bert at the Jubilee, thanks to Laura telling them about it. But I said it was small potatoes, and they didn’t get very far with it. And then they were on about whether I left the house the night he was killed, as if I needed an alibi.”
“That’s just a standard question they ask. Remember? We talked about that before the detectives arrived. You said you stepped out for a little air.”
“Did I? I might have forgotten to tell them.”
“You forgot to mention that you went outside for a walk?” I felt my pulse speeding up, but I kept my voice calm. “Mom, in case the question comes up again, you need to be clear about that point. What time was it when you went outside?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was after dinner, around eight or so.”
“And how long were you gone?”
She shrugged.
“Mom, they’ll want to know how long you were out of the house.”
“Not long. I didn’t go anywhere, just strolled a little around here.”
“That’s the main point. You were here all night.”
“Of course I was.”
I might have pressed her further but didn’t. My palms felt clammy. “Mom, it’s not a good idea to withhold information from the guards.”
“I know that,” she said. “Don’t lecture me.” She picked up the towel that was draped over the back of the chair and snapped it in the air.
I flinched. She was right. Who was I to lecture her? It was bad enough to withhold information from the police but worse to withhold hard evidence, and I was the one who was guilty of that.
Opening our cottage door, I smelled burnt toast. Toby had discovered that a couple of slices of Irish soda bread make a good breakfast, but they are hard to toast. Eaten fresh, the dark, dense bread is moist and delicious, but in the toaster it dries and crumbles before it’s warmed through. If you insist on well-toasted bread, you’re likely to overdo it. The garbage bin held a collection of charred slices.
Toby sipped his coffee and waved a finger. He looked pretty chipper for someone who had been in a barroom brawl the night before. He patted his mouth with a paper towel and said, “Frank Hickey called while you were out. He thanked me for coming to his aid at the pub last night. He wants to show you the Paul Henry painting.”
“When?”
“Friday. He asked us to tea at his house. Is that okay?”
“Sure, but I can’t think about it right now.” I plopped myself down at the kitchen table and sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mom. What am I going to do?” I relayed the conversation we had just had. It was still acid in my mouth.
“You know,” said Toby, “it’s possible she’s right. The police haven’t been back. They must be moving on to other suspects.”
“But what about her damned button? It means she was there. And if she was on the scene when Bert was killed, she may have left other physical evidence as well.”
“Look. If you won’t go to the police with the button, at least you’ve got to level with your mom. Maybe there’s another explanation for how a button from her sweater ended up in the Deserted Village.”
“Not just anywhere. At the crime scene. And I’ve been trying to bring up the subject every time I talk to her.” I slumped down in the chair. “Damn it, I can’t. I just can’t do it.”
“Is it because you’re afraid of what you might find out?”
“Not just that. It’s always been hard for me to confront her about anything.”
“Do you want me to try?” asked Toby.
“No, I’ve got to do it. I just need more time.”
“All right,” said Toby. “But you don’t have all the time in the world. It would be better for your mother to tell what she knows now rather than wait for the police to question her again.”
“I know, I know.”
Toby, looking doubtful, took an exasperated breath.
“Thanks for not pushing me more about the button,” I said.
“The problem is that if you turned it in now, the police would be doubly suspicious. They’d want to know why you hesitated and whether you suspected your own mother.”
“That wouldn’t be good.”
“No. We’d better get ready,” said Toby, glancing at his watch. “We’ve got that lunch with Maggie and her friend.”
Feeling low, I dragged myself off to the shower.