IT WAS DAD’S IDEA to take the family out to dinner the following night as a way of welcoming Sister Bridget, who had arrived from Galway early in the morning to offer what help she could. She certainly proved her worth. Bridget comforted Aunt Laura and prayed with her at the jail, where Emily was in custody. She “had a word” with Inspector O’Donnell, who decided afterward not to press charges against Mom for withholding information. (It seems that “little Kevin O’Donnell” had been a pupil of Sister Bridget’s when she taught parochial school on Achill years ago, and he was still in awe of her.) And Bridget supported Angie when she announced at lunch that she was moving in with her new boyfriend instead of going home.
Angie asked if she could invite Bobby to the dinner. I thought of including Maggie but she had a date—not with Declan, who was now relegated to the category of definite ex, but with Sean, the doorman at the Achill Arms. It was just as well they couldn’t come. Explaining to Sister Bridget how they met would have been awkward. Maggie’s plan was to return to her boyfriend in France, but until then, well, Maggie was Maggie.
Our group arrived at Masterson’s Pub and stood outside for a while, gazing over the strand into a wispy sunset. Once through the door, we were ushered to a raised dining area up a few steps across from the bar. We took over the small space, which had just two booths. Toby and I shared one with Angie and Bobby, while Mom, Dad, Aunt Laura, and Sister Bridget took the other.
Over fish and chips, I prodded Angie about her announcement that she was not going back home, neither to the convent at Grace Quarry nor to the beauty salon in Gloucester. She had found a new home on Achill Island. Though they were silly with love, Bobby and Angie had sensible plans. She would live at the farm with Bobby, his mother, and Blackie. Mrs. Colman, considerably older than our mom, suffered from arthritis and would be glad to have the help of a strong young woman whom she welcomed as a daughter. Already Angie referred to her as Mam, as Bobby did. I could have seen it all as alarmingly swift, but I liked Bobby and for the first time I trusted Angie’s instincts about her man.
It reassured me to hear that Angie and Bobby had confided in Sister Bridget and sought her guidance. Bridget believed in female self-sufficiency, and she was cautious about Angie becoming the third hand on the farm, at least right away. It might be better to find a job on the island—cutting hair, maybe—and take time to test whether she loved sheep-tending as much as she loved Bobby. Angie is resourceful and flexible. I had faith that she would find her way on Achill, especially with the help of Sister Bridget, Bobby, his family, and the friends she had made while acting in The Playboy of the Western World.
“I’ve been thinking about that play,” I said. “What happens at the end? I never got to see it. I bet Christy gets the girl and somehow or other it all works out.”
“That’s what I expected too,” said Angie, “but it doesn’t happen. When the crowd sees Christy clobber his father right in front of their eyes, they turn against him, even Pegeen. She says it’s one thing to hear about a terrible deed, another thing to see it take place in your own backyard.”
“What happens to the father?” I asked. “Has Christy really killed him?”
“Everyone thinks so,” said Bobby, “but no, he crawls back in, in a daze. In the end, Christy and his father go off together, but things have changed between them. From now on, Christy will be the boss.”
“What about Pegeen?” I asked. I didn’t want her left alone.
“That dope Shawn Keogh says, well, now we can get married, after all, but she slaps him in the face.” Bobby smacked the air in front of Toby’s nose.
“She wants Christy back,” said Angie. “But it’s too late. He can’t forgive her for turning against him. The play ends with her wailing, ‘Oh my grief, I’ve lost him surely. I’ve lost the only Playboy of the Western World.’”
“It’s a sad ending for a comedy,” observed Toby.
“It is,” Bobby agreed. “I think Synge was ribbing us about our blasted blarney. He got a laugh out of our love of wild talk, but in the end he stuck it to us. If we let ourselves get snookered by the grand talkers among us, we’ll never get on in the world.”
“That’s as may be,” said Angie, slipping her arm through Bobby’s. “I’m not going to make the same mistake Pegeen did. I’m not letting my playboy get away.”
“Me neither,” I said.
Angie and I clinked beer mugs, and the guys raised theirs to each other.
After dinner Toby and I excused ourselves and slipped out for what would be our last walk along the beach. By then the sun had sunk behind Mount Slievemore. The breeze carried a chill, and I shivered. “You all right?” Toby asked.
“A little cold,” I said.
“Here, take my jacket. It’s warmer than yours.” He insisted. He was wearing a bulky Irish knit sweater underneath. I put on his jacket gratefully and carried my thinner rain jacket over my arm.
“How’s the ankle?”
“Better,” I said. “As long as we don’t walk too fast.”
He slowed the pace. “I’m ready to go home. How about you?”
“I guess so.”
He stopped, put both hands on my shoulders, and studied my face. “Something’s still bothering you. What is it?”
I shrugged.
“I know you’re worried about Emily, but Angie’s got a boyfriend and your mom’s in the clear. Things are looking up, no?”
“It’s just that I feel bad about not being straight with Mom, not telling her about the button I found, and thinking she was guilty of murdering Uncle Bert.”
“Now that it’s over, you could tell her, I suppose.” He took my hand and we continued walking, slowly.
“She’d think I wasn’t loyal. I couldn’t handle that.”
“Okay, that I understand.” We continued for a while without talking. Then Toby asked, “What would you have done if the case had dragged on or never been solved?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that question, and I just don’t know. I wish I’d never found that damned button.”
“Your mom never missed it?”
“Sure she did. She brought the sweater in to Sweeney’s Woolen Shop to get all the buttons replaced. The sweater was there the day the detectives searched the cottage, which is why they never found any hard evidence against her.
“Where is it, by the way?” asked Toby.
“The button? In my pocket. I’ve been carrying it with me all along. I couldn’t think of a safer hiding place unless I was subject to a strip search, and that was unlikely. Now it just reminds me of my dilemma. Do you turn in your own mother if you suspect her of a crime, or do you become complicit by keeping her secret?”
“It’s a hard question, all right,” said Toby.
“What’s the answer?”
“May I see it?”
I dug into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out the button. Toby weighed it carefully in his hand. Then he broke into a trot toward the verge of the water. With the tide lapping his shoes, he drew back his arm and threw the button as far as he could, high into the air, into the sea.