Chapter 3

American Wake

Cormac Brodie, a tall, slender man dressed in a worn tweed vest, white shirt, brown frieze pants, and a faded, black stovepipe hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned his reddened face, framed by bushy, gray sideburns and nodded to the other two men in his band, who met his gaze with military seriousness. He lifted his fiddle to his shoulders and, with a sharp pull, began to dance his bow across the strings, and a song of unbridled merriment arose.

Soon his son, Aedan, a young, brown-haired lad, joined on the wooden flute and added beautifully high and clear syncopated notes. Then on cue, Cormac’s cousin Bartley, who was renowned through many villages for his musical talents, pressed his elbow against a bag of air, and the pipes protruding chimed in with low, echoing tones.

As if unable to do anything else, puppets on the strings of their masters, dozens began to join in the hearty dance—boys, girls, young and old, without reservation and bearing a cheery disposition far removed from their underlying poverty.

Clare watched from a distance and marveled at the ability of her townspeople to dance in the face of gloom. With the green grass, unseasonably warm weather, and festive atmosphere abounding, she imagined a stray visitor would never know that here on her family’s field, death’s shadow was seeping through the soil.

The potato plague had not yet reached all, but plenty of farms were crippled with more succumbing weekly. As they would say amongst themselves, if the feet of darkness had not yet tread on their soil, the steps could be heard approaching.

Clare shared a large makeshift table with several women. In between town gossip and commentary about the dancers, they were cutting potatoes, onions, carrots, turnips, and parsnips. These vegetables, along with barley and an assortment of lamb neck bones and shanks, were being put into two large black cooking pots, hoisted above pits of fiery peat.

The warm smells of the lamb stew, lively music, children’s laughter, and the vibrant chatter of the ladies near her were muted by Clare’s disguised angst. She chopped away at a stack of vegetables and wrestled tomorrow’s fears.

In the morning, she would be leaving Branlow, perhaps never to see it again. There was a reason why they called these traditional Irish farewells an “American Wake.” Few ever returned.

A soft and nurturing voice fluttered above the chattering of celebration. “Are you okay, dear?”

“Pardon?” Clare turned to see Fiona MacBrennan beside her.

“Is everything all right with you, Clare?” The woman who had become her surrogate mother since Ma’s illness peered at her with lively and caring brown eyes, framed in a deep wrinkled face.

“Oh yes, mam. It’s a lovely day. A lovely day.” Clare reached to grab another potato to cut.

“You lie poorly.”

“Do I?” Clare laughed. Fiona had eight grown children and twenty-four grandchildren, yet she always made time for Clare.

“Aren’t you going to miss us at all?”

“Of course, Mrs. MacBrennan. Certainly I will.”

“Well, then, shouldn’t we be getting a tad more attention than those taters?”

Clare looked down at the large pile of potatoes she had stacked and grinned. “I suppose.”

“Liam spent dearly on all of this, you know.”

The mention of her father’s extravagance raised Clare’s ire. There he was perched on a tree stump, blowing smoke rings from his pipe. He was soaking in the stories and laughter of the parish’s men, who were taking a rare Sunday off from their heavy labors. As host and supplier of the music, food, and libation, her father found himself in an uncommon position of honor today, a role he was relishing.

“I was fond of that cow,” Clare said. “There’s a big risk in selling her to buy our passages . . . and for all of this . . . merriment . . . don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t matter how he paid for all of this, it’s that he did.”

“Well, it’s troubling to think of how little we’ll be leaving behind, what with the winter approaching.” Clare enjoyed being able to confide with the woman.

Fiona clasped Clare’s arm and pointed. “I see Seamus, at least, is making good on your father’s investment.” There, off a ways, was Clare’s brother, entertaining three young girls.

Clare sighed. Oh, to live a life so free of worry.

“Why don’t you leave this drudgery to old women.” Fiona took a half-chopped potato and the knife from Clare’s hand. “That way, we can gossip without fear of corrupting a young one.”

A large cheer broke out from the dancers. There was Pierce Brady, grandstanding with a solo jig, his curly red hair bouncing, kicking up his legs and waving his arms with a lusty expression of youth. The crowd encircled Pierce, encouraging him with applause and whistles.

An elbow poked at Clare’s arm.

“There’s your boy, eh?” Fiona had a taunting smile.

Clare’s face warmed. “Is that what you gossip about?”

“Oh, I know you don’t fancy the lad. It’s just you’ve been frustrating we meddlers for a while. Seems to be from a good family. The Bradys practically run this town, if it weren’t for the landlords.”

“Maybe it’s not power I’m craving. Perhaps I don’t want to be Queen of Branlow.”

“Could be worse. You could have been a plain looker like myself.” Fiona nudged Clare. “There. Right behind you, two lads deciding who’ll have the courage to ask the town’s most beautiful woman for a dance.”

Clare couldn’t resist her curiosity and glanced over her shoulder to see the Finley twins ogling her. The boys were handsome and hardworking, and a nuisance to Clare. She spun back to Fiona. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Oh, child. God made you special, ’tis all, full of dreams and great expectations.”

“Now you sound like my grandma.”

Fiona chopped the last of the carrots. “If you see a hint of Ella in this withered tree, I’d consider it the greatest of compliments.” She pointed the knife toward Clare. “I swear to you, I’d catch her speaking to the Almighty Himself all of the time. I can understand why she would, what with those two sons of hers battling all the time, your father and that wild uncle of yours.”

She scooped up the vegetables in her apron, turned, and dumped them evenly into the two cauldrons. “Your grandma worried about you, Clare.”

Clare shrugged. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be reliving the pain of losing her nanna. She wished she hadn’t mentioned her name.

“Ella was concerned how life was pressing on you, wearing you down. She told me this in her last days.”

So many gentle moments sharing tea on the front porch with Grandma Ella and never could Clare remember seeing concern on the woman’s face. “She never spoke of this to me.”

“She wouldn’t. That wasn’t her way. But I knew she saw in you the hope of righting the wrongs of her two sons.”

“Doesn’t sound like she was worrying.” Sometimes Fiona got too close to the hurt and this bothered Clare. She wanted to push back.

“I’m sorry, dear.” The matronly woman tried to smile. “This is your special day, and here I am getting somber, tired old lady that I am.”

Now Clare felt guilty. Fiona lived a hard life and it was written on her body and face. “Please, I truly want to know. What was it Grandma Ella told you?”

“Were you waving at me, Mrs. MacBrennan?” Pierce said, who had approached out of Clare’s line of sight.

“I most certainly was.” Fiona ignored Clare’s shielded expression of disapproval. She put her arm around Clare’s shoulder. “This young lady needs a dance in the worst of ways.”

Pierce bowed. “Then dance the lady will.” He held his arm out to Clare, who yielded and then gave Fiona an expression of protest.

“Your father outdid himself,” Pierce said, guiding her to the dancing.

“It’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

Pierce’s shirt was drenched with sweat and he was breathing heavily. “Ah, Clare. You should just enjoy yourself. Don’t keep joy in a box all of the time.”

She tugged on his arm. “If I heard clearly, I believe you just called me a prude.”

“Well. A bit of warmth at times would well accompany your looks.”

“Now I’m certain you’ve called me a prude.”

Cormac finished another wordy introduction to the next song and the music started, this time with a slow tempo. Clare tried to hide her displeasure.

Pierce’s face opened up with a toothy smile, and he held out his arms to her. “Come. We need to practice so we can show the Yanks how it’s really done.”

As the words of the song lamented about lost battles and wistful lovers, the two waltzed across the tufts of grass. Pierce was a good dancer, and as she followed his lead, she allowed herself to join in the revelry of her guests. While pirouetting and gliding to the music, she was pleased to see many of the people she had known all of her life.

Clare wrestled with the idea that Pierce would be accompanying her and Seamus on their voyage to America. It would be good to have another strong companion on the trip, and one she trusted, but it would be uncomfortable being in close quarters with someone who cared for her in ways she couldn’t return.

Or could she? Maybe she was being too particular. Even arrogant. Who was she to believe herself worthy of something different? Was this how love was supposed to feel? Clare at least knew she didn’t want to endure the pain of being alone all her life.

When the song ended Clare curtsied to the ground and swept her dress behind her.

“Just one dance?”

“Thank you kindly, Pierce. You are a gentleman and a fine hoofer. But I think my brother could use some attending.”

Pierce followed her gaze to where Seamus was cavorting. “Oh . . . I’d say your brother is already well tended.”

Clare gestured a farewell to him and breezed by the Finley boys before they could put in a request for her attention. She traversed the field past some children at play and on to Seamus, who had the rapt attention of three young ladies.

Tall and fit, with wavy, dark hair and the Hanley blue eyes, her brother garnished the favor of many women in the village.

With a step of authority and a lack of politeness, she interrupted her brother’s conversation midsentence. “Why, Seamus. How kind of you to be entertaining our young guests.”

Seamus gave his sister a captivating smile. “Just being hospitable, ’tis all.”

He turned back to the girls, who appeared to be in their late teens. “I believe you already have the acquaintance of my sister, Miss Clare Hanley.” Seamus always emphasized the Miss when he introduced Clare to give her a friendly poke.

Clare nodded politely to them and then whispered, “Perhaps you could pick from a tree where the fruit is a bit riper, old man.”

“I’m a patient suitor,” Seamus said loudly, ignoring her efforts to be discreet. He cupped his hands. “I’m willing to wait with me basket until they fall from the branch.”

She put her arms on her hips. “Well, all I can say, Seamus Hanley, is that it’s a good thing you’re leaving town. It’s just a matter of time before all of the women conspire to give you the send-off you deserve. That’s without consideration of what the gentlemen think of you.”

“The men think highly of me, dear sister,” he said in mock indignation. “Certainly, many a lad will bawl when I leave to seek my riches. Why, what’s there to fancy in this dismal, rain-soaked country without good Seamus to bring cheer?”

She failed to prove immune to his charm. “Well. You be certain to cheer with restraint. We leave at the top o’ morn.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh. “There you are, sister. Robbing the day of pleasure. Let me share some wisdom freely. Enjoy your blessed Ireland today, because it’s one of the last times you’ll gaze on the fair lady.”

“Just be ready, Seamus.” She glared at the pint of stout in his hand. “And a case of the head knockers won’t be slowing us down neither. We’ll leave without you.”

Seamus gave her a toast with his mug, then turned his attention back to the girls.

As Clare headed back to join the women with the cooking, she caught a glance of her mother. Clare had neglected to check on her for some time.

Who will carry this torch when I am gone?

There propped in a chair, with her finest dress and a purple bonnet, was her ma, who looked uncomfortable in what she was wearing. Clare fetched a glass of water on her way over.

“Here you are, Ma. You must be dreadful thirsty.”

Nonplussed, Ma looked at Clare. Her mother grabbed the glass with a trembling hand. “So many people out here today for Kevan’s funeral.” She paused to drink some of the water from the wooden cup, and a trickle spilled down her chin and onto her dress. “We’ll give him a right burial, we will.” Her expression pivoted to concern. “But why is everyone laughing?”

Clare reached out with a linen handkerchief and dabbed the water droplets from her mother’s chin. “They are not here for a funeral. They are here to celebrate our journey to America.”

“America? Is Margaret back from America? Where is she? I want to see my Maggie.”

“No, Ma. Maggie’s not back. But Da is sending Seamus and me over there for a while. Just to help out until the land heals. I told you this all.”

“You’re leaving?” Ma brought the glass up to her lips with both hands.

“Yes, only for a season.” Clare wondered how big of a lie she was telling.

Ma’s expression brightened, but only for a moment. “When will you be back, Clare?”

“Well, I’m not certain. But I won’t be any later than I need to be. Cait is old enough now. She’s going to tend to you and the boys.” The words felt hollow.

Feeling a tap on her shoulder, Clare spun around to see her father’s sister-in-law. She was adorned in a feathered hat and a mauve dress, which was stylish years ago but now appeared threadbare. “Aunt Meara. I’m so pleased you came. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I’d enjoy it much more if it wasn’t you we were saying good-bye to.” Her aunt’s eyes were reddened and moist. “You know how I feel about these farewells.”

Clare embraced her aunt. “I’m so sorry, Auntie. ’Tis calloused of us being so grand. It must bring back such hard reminders of Uncle Tomas.”

“Tomas?” Ma broke in. “Has your Uncle Tomas returned? Where’s my dear Maggie?”

“No, Ma,” Clare responded gently. “Enjoy your drink. I’m going to speak with Auntie.”

Clare put her arm around her aunt and went out of earshot of her mother. “I’m so terribly sorry for all of this.”

It saddened Clare to see the woman in such emotional disrepair. As a young lady, Clare had aspired to the kind of love her aunt and uncle shared. Vibrant. Unpredictable. Meara was thought to be the only woman who could tame Tomas’s capriciousness. She carried a grace and dignity that contrasted against his boorish allure. But when Tomas emigrated, she had aged quickly, her spirit fading.

People would try to console her by saying things like, “When Tomas’s ship sank, you can be sure he was shouting from the mast, exhorting the crew to hold steady,” or “You’ll see him swimming to shore soon enough.”

But Meara was not fond of the caricature of the wild man performing for the crowd. Meara was in love with the man she always hoped he would be. She saw him as unfinished, a canvas not fully painted. When he left, her life’s work would always be incomplete.

“There’s a part of me yearning to go with ye, Clare.” Meara’s glazed eyes looked out to a place beyond her vision. “There’s not much left here for me, you know.”

Clare grasped for words to console her.

Meara rubbed her nose with a linen handkerchief. She leaned in close to Clare. “You know, I’ve never told anyone this, but your uncle had no intention of coming back to Ireland. His plan all along was to get settled in New York and then send for me.”

“I never knew—”

“Nor did anyone. If your grandmother had known, she would have never paid for his passage. He had Ella in his pocket, he did. Poor woman. Poor wonderfully kind woman. No. He hated it here. Wanted a bigger life. A higher standing. He had ambition.”

“But Uncle Tomas always seemed . . . happy.” Clare tried to align some of the memories she had of the man with what her aunt was sharing.

“Oh. He had skills, that one.” Meara dabbed the corners of her eyes with the cloth. She laughed brusquely. “People here believed he’d sit on the throne of Ireland if he had his choice. And if he were here today, he’d be kissing the soil to feed the lie.”

Meara looked up. “There wasn’t enough to hold him here. Not even me. And, of course, the letter never came. He never made it halfway past the ocean. A miserable plan it was.”

Clare’s thoughts sunk and her aunt must have sensed her clumsiness.

“Oh, but Clare. This is just me rambling. Your uncle would have never brought Maggie if he thought it dangerous. He loved her as his own and would die for her.” Her eyes widened. “What a mess I’m making! Am I just frightening you now? Oh, just tell me to stop.”

Clare understood her aunt’s loneliness and hugged her. “The ships are safer now. We’ll be just fine.”

At that moment, the dinner bell chimed and it was met with joyful shouts and the mad scurrying of children. The music stopped midsong and all migrated toward the cooking fires.

The families congregated around the two black kettles. Hushes were directed at the children and hats were removed.

Father Quinn Connor, the newly ordained parish priest, stood forward to give the blessing. He was still as green as a blade of grass, only a few months removed from the wake he performed for his predecessor, Father Bartley Higgins.

Father Bartley was found deceased in the confessional. It was determined that as many as four congregants had shared their sins with his lifeless body prior to discovering he had passed. This seemed impossible by those who never met him. But for those who did, it was understandable, for he was a morose man of few words. The exception to this was in the pulpit, where he drew even more resentment due to the intolerable length of his droning homilies.

The young Father Quinn was welcomed with celebration and relief, as any change was thought to be an improvement. He also appeared to be malleable, and perhaps most important, he understood the wisdom of brevity when he stood before the lectern.

His short stature and slight body, combined with his boyish face, made him look much younger than his twenty-eight years. Clare still struggled to see him other than the milk boy, who for years would ride his father’s weary wagon down the road, collecting full canisters left by the dairy farmers for transport to market.

The guests of the wake, who were eager to get on with the eating, watched as he fumbled through his pockets before finally pulling out and unfolding a piece of parchment. He cleared his throat and looked at the faces bearing down on him. Clare felt anxious for him and tried to meet his eyes to share encouragement.

He began to speak with a wavering voice. “Dear Father. We gather before You today with happiness and sorrow. In joy, because of this plentiful feast You have provided us in these times of difficulty. And for the gathering of family, friends, and . . . and a few willing to consider themselves thus in return for food and heavy drink.”

After a few laughs from the assembly, he continued, now with more confidence. “But sorrow, Father, as our beloved young ones, Clare, Seamus, and Pierce, will journey far, far from home away from the safety of our embrace. We bid farewell to them with great sadness in our hearts and with this petition for Your sweet mercy.”

He glanced at Clare and her eyes darted downward.

Father Quinn turned the paper on the other side and cleared his throat. “We appeal to You, Father, to always shed Your blessed light on the path ahead of them, especially when the roads grow dark and lonely and when hope comes scarcely. And if it be Your great pleasure, as it will assuredly be ours, bring them back safely into Ireland’s loving arms. In all of this we pray to You with sincerity. Amen and let’s feast.”