The Mermaids Singing Page 10

“He will,” she said. “He’ll be at Mass.”

  “What’s that,” I said, covering my grumbling stomach with my hands, “church?”

  Clíona nodded. “You’ll be joining us, will you not?” she said, avoiding my eyes.

  “What’s my father like?” I said. What I really wanted to know was what was wrong with him. Why my mother spent all that time acting like she’d forgotten him.

  “Oh, he’s a grand fellow altogether,” Clíona said. She was stirring the bacon and sausages furiously. “Quite handsome. Dark, like yourself. His father was a fisherman from the island, and his mother from the North, God rest them. Poor woman. Died while having him, she did, and him her first child. Seamus was a lovely little boy, though. I’d mind him on the odd weekend. His father did a fine job, being on his own as he was. Seamus went to university in Dublin—the smartest one around, that lad.”

  “I thought he was a fisherman,” I said. I didn’t think of fishermen as the kind of people who went to college.

  “Sure, it takes more than an education to pull the love of the sea from a man. Writing’s how he spends most of his time, though. Articles for newspapers in Dublin and such. A bit of the poet, himself. He travels quite a lot, as well. But Seamus is an O’Flaherty, sure enough. You’ll never see him long from the water.”

  He didn’t sound so bad. I thought there must be something she wasn’t telling me, but I didn’t say so. Marcus came into the kitchen.

  “Howaya, Gráinne? Sleep well?”

  I nodded. I vaguely remembered his thick arms sheltering me from the wind. He was wearing a brown wool suit, and his neck looked pinched in his white collar and print tie. Clíona put a plate piled with fried proteins in front of him, poured him a cup of tea.

  “Ah, you’re a lovely woman yourself, Clee,” he said, squeezing her middle with one arm. She batted him away, smiling, and returned to the stove. Marcus winked at me. I wondered whether they still had sex.

  “You’re lucky I’ve time to make you breakfast at all, with the state that hotel’s in,” she said. “I’d a guest looking after toilet roll this morning.”

  “It all falls apart without you,” Marcus said, his mouth full of sausage. I thought they might start arguing, but Clíona was hiding a smile.

  “Liam may call in later,” Clíona said to me. “He’s happy to see you back.”

  “Who is he anyway,” I said, “your son?”

  Clíona laughed. “God, no. Your Mum was my only child, though I raised most of Marcus’s pack, as well. The twins and Tommy are living in England, and you met Stephanie and Mary Louise last night. They work at the hotel as well. Liam is Mary Louise’s boy. You’re the same age; Liam was born just two months before you. He was your best playmate when you were just a wee girl.”

  God, I hated the way she said that. Like she knew so much about me.

  Marcus clinked his silverware on his empty plate, sat back in his chair, and burped loudly.

  “Mind your manners,” Clíona said, rising and clearing his plate. “Or, sure, your granddaughter will think she’s living with a pig.”

  I’m not living here, I wanted to say. Only visiting.

  At ten o’clock, we went to Mass, walking up the graveled road toward the steeple. People were swarming at the door, greeting one another. I was introduced and fawned over by women in shapeless dresses. I heard them murmuring about me as I passed through; saying I looked like my father. I saw Liam standing with a pack of teenage boys. They all wore baggy jeans like the boys at my school—jeans that hung so low, the bottoms of the back pockets lined up with their knees. Liam’s mother, Mary Louise, kissed me and said I looked “fresh and well.”

  I hadn’t really looked at her the day before. She didn’t look much like Marcus; she had his gold-red hair, but her face was thin, with a delicate nose. She looked me right in the eyes, which made her seem more trustworthy than the rest of them.

  “Have you seen my father?” I said to her, and she frowned.

  “I haven’t,” she said. “And I’m none too happy about it.”

  I didn’t get a chance to answer because Clíona hushed me as we entered the church.

  Inside, the one large, high-ceilinged room was dimly lit by stained glass windows with images of religious people; blue and red light puddled on the smooth brown pews. Up front, where a robed priest waited silently, there was what looked like a miniature and ancient city, white carved steeples and windows lined in gold. In the center was an ornate golden door, like a little recessed treasure chest. The scent of wax and burning wicks passed through me.

  Other than my mother’s funeral, I’d never been to church in my life. I had to watch Clíona so I’d know when to stand and kneel and bow my head. The crowd chanted out foreign music around me.

  Ár nAthair atá i Neamh, go naofar d-ainm,

  Go dtágtar do ríocht,

  Go nDeantar do thol,

  Ar an talaimh mar a nDeantar i Neamh.

  “’Tis the Our Father in Irish,” Clíona whispered, afterwards. “You’ll learn it soon enough.”

  “What’s the Our Father?” I whispered, and she looked angry.

  “A prayer, girl.”

  I wondered if it was a prayer for fathers; if my father would have taught it to me had I ever known him. I looked back toward the doorway every few minutes to see if he was there.

  At one point the priest asked the audience to “think of Gráinne O’Flaherty, who has returned home to us all.” It took Liam and the others nodding at me to realize that it was me he was talking about. At first I was only shocked: I didn’t think anyone was singled out in church. Then I got mad. My name wasn’t O’Flaherty. My mother and I had the last name Malley, without the O. Who did these people think I was, some kidnapped waif returned to civilization? I slumped in my seat, tried to glare at Clíona, but she wasn’t paying attention to me.

  When the priest began the bread-and-water ritual, everyone around me seemed to plunge into serious thought. They knelt on the cushioned knee platforms, stopped fidgeting, hung their heads between clasped palms. My grandmother’s mouth moved almost imperceptibly along with the priest’s.

  He was telling the story of the Last Supper, mechanically, as if he’d memorized it. I had seen paintings of the Last Supper in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. They had been my mother’s favorites; she used to look enviously at the group of men gathered at the table. She said she had a soft spot for table settings—which was why she had so many dinner parties, and had developed the bad habit of dropping small fortunes at Crate & Barrel.

  After removing various goblets from a gold door behind the altar, the priest held up a wafer the size of his palm.

  “Jesus broke the bread and offered it to them, giving them thanks and praise. He gave it to his disciples and said: ‘Take this, all of you, and eat it. This is my body. It will be given up for you.’”

  The priest raised the wafer over his head and a ringing echoed throughout the church. When it was quiet, I noticed one of the robed boys at the altar trying to set down a little bell without jingling it further. The priest broke the wafer in half, carefully letting the crumbs fall into a goblet, and crammed one large piece into his mouth. He lowered his head and chewed with difficulty, his eyes closed, his palms clasped in front of him.

  The priest held the crumb goblet out and the other boy poured red wine and water into it from crystal pitchers. The priest raised the goblet in front of him.

  “Jesus took the wine. Again he gave them thanks and praise. He gave the cup to his disciples and said: ‘Take this, all of you, and drink from it. This is the cup of my blood. The blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all, so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.’”

  The boy rang the bell again. The priest took a sip of the wine and then wiped the goblet rim with a cloth napkin. His hands were graceful and reverent and reminded me of Stephen’s at the piano.

  I thought it was all very odd, and I was embarrassed bec
ause I didn’t know what it meant. I looked at the monstrous cross hanging above the priest, Jesus’ bruised and bony body, blood running down his palms and feet. He looked starved, like he’d been ill for a long time. Not like those paintings of the Last Supper, where he glowed at the head of a table full of food.

  After it was over (everyone but me got to go up front and get a sip of wine and a small wafer), I was introduced to the priest, Father Cullen. Away from the stage he was a plump, bald man with a nice smile. I was suspicious of him, though, after how he’d announced me.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, child,” he said quietly, shaking my hand. He turned to someone else before he could see that I was almost crying. I swallowed it, breathing deep.

  In the corner, to the left of the stage, was a line of candles on a brass shelf. Behind them stood a statue of a woman, with dark circles under her eyes and an appealing look. I walked over to it. There were fresh bouquets of flowers surrounding her. SAINT BRIGID, the plaque said. She looked hungry, too.

  “Do you want to make an offering?” Clíona said, coming up behind me. I turned around.

  “My name is not O’Flaherty,” I whispered meanly. “It’s Malley. And I’m not the returned property of this place.” Clíona looked hurt, but I didn’t care. She deserved it.

  “He was just trying to make you feel welcome, he was. You go by any name you like.” She gave me a twenty-pence coin, and showed me the slot in the middle of the candles.

  “Make an offering,” she said. “Your man Stephen says you’re fond of the poetry. Brigid is the patron saint of poets,” she added, leaving me there.

  I stood seething for a moment, then put the money in the slot, conscious of the loud clank. There were wooden matches and fresh candles in a little drawer beneath the brass holder. I put my candle in the center, struck the match and set it to the wick. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to offer, other than the coin. Maybe I should have said a prayer, but I didn’t know any. Where’s my father? I asked the saint instead. The candle flame flickered. I wondered if my mother had ever prayed here, and who it had been for. I stood there until the wax began to gather in a puddle and drip down the candle’s sides.

  When I got outside, I saw Clíona and Marcus across the lot; they were speaking in a close, secretive posture to the priest, who looked silly standing on the gravel in his robes. The priest handed Clíona an envelope; she opened it and read the paper inside. Marcus was shaking his head. I went up to them.

  “Look,” I said, startling them, “do I have a father here or not?”

  Clíona sighed. “It seems your father’s been delayed in Dublin,” she said. The priest and Marcus were avoiding my eyes. I snatched the note away from her and, before I could open it, I saw the priest looking at me strangely, as if he couldn’t decide whether to scold me or laugh.

  Dear Clíona,

  I’ve gone away to Dublin to do some work for the paper. I’m not ready to face Gráinne yet. All these years of imagining it, I never once thought Grace wouldn’t be there to reacquaint us. Please explain to her.

  —Seamus

  My father’s handwriting. His letters were carefully formed; he followed those old rules of penmanship my mother used to use. I stared at those lines for a long time. Not ready to face me. As though I were a chore. An interruption in his otherwise contented life.

  “He doesn’t want to see me?” I said. No one answered.

  I put the note back in its envelope and thrust it at Clíona. I started walking away without them, in the opposite direction from the hotel.

  “Gráinne?” Clíona called out, but I didn’t look.

  “Let her alone,” I heard Marcus say. “She won’t go far.”

  Fuck you, I thought. I can leave anytime I want to.

  I walked on the road past the cliffs I’d found the night before and came to a strip of ocean that reminded me of Singing Beach. There was the same squealing sand, the seaweed in bubbled piles on the barnacle rocks. I wondered if my mother had thought of this place while she was at home, dying in that little room.

  I followed a road up around the corner of the island that led steeply into deserted fields. There were no real houses here, only remnants of stone huts. I could hear the ocean, and I followed the sound, crunching up through the dry grass until I started wheezing. I thought there was a ringing in my ears, but it started to sound like music, and as I came over the last hill, I saw a boy sitting in the grass, blowing on a tin instrument. The boy turned around; it was Liam.

  “Howaya, Gráinne,” he said. He didn’t seem surprised to see me—more like he’d been waiting for me. I remembered Clíona saying he was happy I was back. Maybe he had a crush on me, I thought, so I smiled at him and sat down. His hair had fallen out of its Sunday combing, into a dark blanket above his eyes. He was cute, not as beautiful as Stephen, but close. I felt that old anticipation well up. Something familiar to focus on.

  We were at the top of the island; at the edge the land shot down in steep cliffs to the water below. My hair was so short it was no comfort in the cold, and I felt dizzy. Liam got down on his stomach and motioned for me to do the same. We leaned our heads over the edge. The black slices of the cliff went so far down, it was hard to capture the depth. The only way I knew how high we were was by looking at the seagulls, some of which looked like pieces of lint floating far below.

  “You wouldn’t want to walk up this way at night, without someone who knows the island,” Liam said. “You’d walk right off the edge of the world.” Our arms were touching now, and I looked at him, thinking this view was all his ploy to make a pass at me.

  “Aren’t you watching?” he said, so I looked back down. The seagulls, hundreds of them, weren’t flying so much as spreading their wings and letting the wind carry them.

  Liam sat up and watched me, his elbows propped on his bent knees. I shifted my position so he wasn’t looking at the worst side of my hair.

  “Do you not remember me?” he said. His eyes were so blue they looked drawn in with layers of thick pastels.

  “No,” I said, plucking at a rock that was covered with something like sharp, light green hair. “Do you remember me?” He looked serious, then broke into a wide smile.

  “Ah, no,” he said. He was teasing. “Sure, why would I? We were only babies.”

  “So why would I remember you?” I asked.

  “No girl ever forgets me,” he said.

  “You wish,” I said.

  He blushed and threw a clump of dry grass at me. “Do you want to hear a tune?” he said.

  “Are you going to sing?” I said sarcastically.

  “Ah, I could now, but not during our first reunion, I’d be too shy.” He picked his whistle out of his pocket. It had six holes and a blue plastic mouthpiece. He blew into it, playing some notes, then started a song. He was really good; his fingers blurred they were going so fast. The tune sounded sad, and fluttery. I liked the look of his mouth, and waited for him to finish playing, and kiss me.

  “That’s ‘The Cliffs of Moher,’” he said when he was finished. “The place is in Clare, but the song reminds me of this. The gulls.” He gestured toward the cliff’s edge, and played some more. The music was like the way those gulls let themselves be blown up down and around with the wind.

  “Where did you learn to play that?” I said. Liam wiped the mouthpiece on his sleeve and pushed the whistle back in his pocket.

  “My father taught me,” he said. “He plays fiddle with the lads in the pub. Sometimes they let me in on a session, in the afternoons. When I’m eighteen they’ll let me play the night hours. I play the flute in the sessions, sometimes the guitar.”

  “You’re pretty good,” I said. He stood up, brushing grass from his legs.

  “Everyone’s good at something,” he said. I hoped he would ask me what I was good at, so I could say “kissing,” and grab him. My mother would have done something that bold in an instant. I wondered whether his mouth would have that heat, like Stephen’s, and whet
her he would step away at the last minute.

  “Will I show you the island?” he said instead.

  “Oh,” I said. I looked back toward the harbor. “How do you get out there?” I said.

  “Granuaile’s castle?” he said. “I should have known you’d want to go there; you’re named for the pirate queen.” I stood up and tried to look ready for an adventure, though secretly I was afraid we’d have to swim there.

  We walked back to the pier and Liam untied one of the large black rowboats with a high pointed front and thin oars.

  “You can’t walk out unless the tide’s low,” Liam said. “So we’ll take my Da’s curragh. Da’s out in the trawler now, but years back everyone fished in these. They’d harpoon sunfish, big as whales, and drag them in to shore.”

  I couldn’t imagine being far out to sea in such a little boat. It looked thick, layered with tar, but vulnerable. I heard my mother’s scold, how it was ridiculous for me to be afraid of the water after all the time she’d spent teaching me how to swim.

  We rowed across the harbor toward the jutting finger of land where Granuaile’s castle stood alone. Liam was stronger than he looked; his arms pulled the oars through the water like it was air. The harbor streamed by my side like a highway. He pulled us up into a sandy cove and I climbed clumsily out of the boat.

  We walked up a grassy hill, potholed with nooks of sand. The castle rose slowly up ahead of us, gray stone walls reaching up with no roof. Inside was a huge room carpeted with grass. Stairways were carved into the walls and led to narrow pathways all around the top of the castle. There were openings in the stone, slits just wide enough to peer out with one eye. At the front, which I had seen from the ferry, part of the wall had fallen away, leaving a gap looking down on a slide of sharp rocks and the crashing waves of the open sea outside the harbor. To the right, a grassy stairway led to another room, where tiny white flowers pushed up between the pebbles of the floor.

  “This was Granuaile’s bedroom,” Liam said. “One of her children was born here, and while she was in labor, the castle was attacked. Her men kept interrupting her, asking for instructions on how to handle it. Gráinne gave birth to the boy, then marched down to the fighting, roaring about the eejits who couldn’t do without her for ten minutes.” Liam laughed. “Fearless, that one,” he said.