Cala

by Laura Legge

  Mrs Macbay had invited the women from Gainntir to the potluck, and according to her, they were planning to come. She had extended the invite through Lili, who had come to visit her at the glasshouse the week before. Aram’s strategy for the potluck was fairly simple. He would stay invisible as much as he could, unless a situation arose in which he needed to intervene to protect someone he loved.

  Aram tidied himself in his bedroom mirror, shaved with a straight edge, and tied his bow tight as a noose. His mother, rest her soul, would have told him he looked handsome.

  He was still living in the blackhouse, and quite comfortably. A tart smell was now rising from its kitchen. Even nearly destitute residents gave generously to the church collection every week, and a significant portion of that pool, Aram had been told, went to importing food for this annual Christmas feast – saffron from Iran, lavender from France, cocoa from the Ivory Coast. At first, Aram had been sceptical of the collection, until he moved in with the Macbays and saw that they were, as promised, holding the money for this sole purpose. They lived within their humble means and would never have dreamed of skimming from the top.

  Dressed, Aram went into the kitchen. Mrs Macbay was curved over the stove, stirring. She turned briefly to him. Don’t you look handsome, she said.

  He smiled. Mrs Macbay was wearing a garland of hazel and dried bluebells over a festive wave in her hair. She looked superb, in a sort of modest, homespun way, and he basked for a moment in that floral visual, in the kitchen’s rising, ripened scent. Thank you, he said. Merry Christmas.

  To you, too, she said. Try this.

  She fed him from her long wooden spoon. He was not sure he liked the texture, buttons of fruit in such a dense seep, but the slightly burned sugar touched a tender place inside. His mother’s seaberry preserves, cooked in a skillet on the heat of the boat deck, had that same fluorescent taste. He felt so close to Mrs Macbay then, a spoon’s length away. It’s delicious, he said.

  Glad you like it, she said. Have you had cranberry sauce before?

  Never, he said. Though it tastes very familiar.

  She looked faintly confused, but she kept her Merry Christmas smile constant. The sureness of her reactions always made Aram feel safe, the way he had once felt safe, as a fish farmer, with the succession of seasons. Aram kissed her gently on the cheek, an act he had learned over time to separate from any sexual subtext, and she patted him on his lapel. He went into the adjoined living room and found Minister Macbay there, crammed into his wing chair, drawing on a sketchpad.

  Merry Christmas, Aram said.

  Minister Macbay did not glance up from his sketch. His expression was distant. Aram walked near to him and peered over his shoulder. Usually, drawing was the minister’s private enterprise, and he got short and even petulant when someone asked him to let them look. Today, maybe cheered by the smell of cream buns rising, or by the sun-sliver over Pullhair after weeks of fair hoar, he showed Aram the page without hesitation. For some reason, Aram had expected crude, rudimentary work, but here was an intricate metropolis, crammed with chrome and fibreglass. In this imagined city, everyone wore tartans, sporrans, garters, clan badges, but with unusual adornments: crescent moon-shaped masks, velvet chokers, elbow-length gabardine gloves. The linework was so fine, so lovingly done, it made Aram somehow homesick. I wish we lived there, he said to Minister Macbay.

  The minister smiled. I call this one Eden.

  Where is it supposed to be? Aram asked.

  If I knew, Minister Macbay said, I would move there tomorrow.

  It may have been a naïve assumption, but he had always believed the minister loved Pullhair, worshipped its knolls and dells and even its quirky, somewhat diminished community. That thought had been a comfort, a root system in otherwise unsettled soil, and to have it negated now made him feel troubled, almost abandoned. Can I ask, then, he said to Minister Macbay, what keeps you here?

  The minister tapped the pen against his chest for a moment, considering the question. I’ve always dreamed of living in a larger city, he said. London, Glasgow. I have a very solid life here. But I guess I never burned through that desire.

  He went back to drawing, as if he had not just revealed a profound chasm to Aram. He shaded the windows on the far side of a high-rise, where the sun could not reach. It’s funny, Aram said to him. I always envied people who had the choice to stay in one place.

  The minister set his pen down, holding the sketchpad even so it would not roll onto the carpet. You know, he said, that’s not lost on me. I think about the Highland Clearances, how badly some of those tenants must have wanted to stay.

  Aram perched on the wing of Minister Macbay’s chair, knowing it was a precarious position to be in, and looked more closely at the drawing. He saw, in the lower left-hand corner, perfectly calligraphed Gaelic: O mo dhùthaich ’s tu th’air m’aire, or, Oh, my country is on my mind. Below such a modern, itinerant image, the words were heavy with history, as if stones in a boneyard. They bore down on Aram’s heart.

  Aram did what he always did when unsure of his own language, and he quoted the Gospel, this time according to Luke. He said to them, ‘Wherever the body is, there will be eagles gathered together.’

  Yes, Minister Macbay said. Though in this corner of the world, it’s more like seagulls.

  Aram laughed, not because it was that funny, but because it felt good to release such a carefree sound. Mrs Macbay came into the living room holding two unnaturally coloured jellied salads, one orange, one deep pink. She asked for their help carrying them to the church basement. Minister Macbay seemed deflated, desperate as he was to keep drawing. He would clearly have chosen his illustrated world over his inherited one, today, given the opportunity. But he did not protest, nor did he make his wife feel sheepish about asking this reasonable favour. He took both salads from her, and they waited for Aram to collect his container of salmon jerky from the kitchen.

  Thank you, Mrs Macbay said, and rested her head on her husband’s shoulder for a spell. He kissed the wave in her hair. Then she went into the living room and returned the sketchbook to its distinct place in their heirloom cabinet.

  For you, mo mhilseag, anything, he said. And the glimmer in his blue eyes told Aram he was being sincere.

  Jerky in hand, Aram followed Minister Macbay to the church. Both men walked with faintly heavy heels. In the basement, they pushed together a dozen card tables and placed on each a bramble-and-blackcurrant centrepiece, tatted lace napkins, tall rush candles. At Minister Macbay’s request, Aram set each place with cutlery and a Christmas cracker. Hidden in each cracker, he explained, was a paper crown, a toy, a shiny trinket, and a riddle on a strip of paper. Coming to this ritual from the outside, Aram found it endearing, if altogether strange.

  Aram did not see any nametags, and he wondered about the Macbays’ decision to not assign seats, considering how many wires could be crossed at this feast, and explosively. He wondered if a whit of control might be effective here, to sidestep any blow-ups. Still, he said nothing to undercut the Macbays’ authority – they had been hosting this feast for decades, so surely by now they had streamlined their method. They had done so much for Aram, and he refused to show his gratitude by questioning their common sense.

  Soon the other congregants began to trickle down the stairs, armed with sides, devilled eggs, cock-a-leekie soup, bannock, cullen skink. Peppered among those familiar dishes were imported foods Aram had never seen, and though they intrigued him, he had no desire to try such alien things.

  The air in the room thickened as the Gainntir women skulked down the stairs. They carried with them a chill from the fells, a hard nip of winter. As far as Aram knew, he was the only person in the congregation to have met Bad Muireall, and still the others grew palpably tense the moment she entered the space. Lili and Grace were several steps behind her, holding hands in a way that seemed less about showing affection and more about forming a physical boundary. Lili looked sweet in a pale yellow snowsuit, while Grace was
covered head to toe in cotton-lined Highland lace. Whoever made the garment had cut out a small face-hole, presumably to allow Grace to breathe. Aram wondered how she manoeuvred in and out of the costume – for instance, if and when she had to use the bathroom – but then, the Gainntir women worked in shadowy ways.

  Aram, Bad Muireall said, greeting him with an uncomfortably warm embrace. He wilted into her hold.

  Muireall, he said. Merry Christmas.

  She pulled away and stared at him. He felt confined by her glare, as if he were suddenly wearing Grace’s lace getup. Thank you, she spat out.

  Aram saw his error. He knew these women disdained holidays such as this one. Instead of addressing the misstep, he hurried ahead. How have you been? he asked.

  Lili was invited, Bad Muireall said, by the minister’s wife. She should have known we do everything together.

  Aram was surprised by her response, as it answered a question he had not asked. He nodded, afraid if he spoke again he might elicit another strange, instinctive reply. At the sound of her name, Lili let go of Grace’s hand and came to Aram, throwing her arms around his neck. Hi hi, she said. Everything looks so nice in here. I love the tinsel.

  Thank you, he said to Lili. We have lots of good food for you, too.

  Good, she said, I’m starving.

  Believing her, he doubted the congregation’s decision to have a huge annual feast, instead of feeding Pullhair modestly and regularly, throughout the calendar year. Would Christ himself not have done the latter? But there Aram was again, an ingrate, questioning the Macbays’ expertise. Grace moved beside them then, though she still stood hushed and rigid. Through her face-hole, Aram could see lips pressed into a line, a gentle sheen in the corner of each eye. He wanted to tear the material from her face; he was suffocating just to look at her.

  Is there any wine? Bad Muireall asked.

  We’re in a church, Aram said, then winked. Of course there is.

  The Macbays kept a store of communion wine in the cellar next door. Aram knew it would be rash, even sacrilegious, to retrieve one of these bottles for Bad Muireall’s consumption, especially since he knew her to be unstable, capable of any number of outbursts. He could not have explained why, but a significant part of him wanted to please her – he supposed she had that effect on many people.

  Lili clicked her tongue. I don’t think that’s a good idea, she said.

  Bad Muireall took her by the wrist and twisted it slightly to the left. Darling, she said. This is not your concern.

  I apologize, Lili said. She waited limply for Bad Muireall to release her. When she finally did, Lili rolled a cramp out of her wrist and then stretched her hand toward the ceiling, toward some of the tinsel she so loved. She clawed at its furrow, the only section she was tall enough to reach, so its silver glitter came loose and rained down on her hair, her arched eyebrows. She was mesmerized, as if, having shaken free of the wrist-hold, she had willed her thoughts to a far corner of the world.

  Only when Mrs Macbay went over to greet Lili did she stop playing with the tinsel. Cupping Lili’s face in her hands, Mrs Macbay said, Sùileag buntàta, which Aram knew to mean little potato. Her adoration for the young woman was clear, and witnessing it again, he wondered why she had never run from Gainntir into Mrs Macbay’s doting arms. This detail gave him a new appreciation for Euna, the dogged spirit that had driven her from the gaol she was raised in to Glasgow, then to Scandinavia, to Lebanon. Not that Aram knew where to put this new appreciation – he was brimming with it already.

  Will you introduce me to your friends? Mrs Macbay asked Lili.

  Lili inhaled. They’re hardly my friends.

  Mrs Macbay looked concerned. Lili must have noticed the change in her expression, as straight away she introduced her to Bad Muireall and Grace. When shaking Grace’s hand, her eyes lingered on the lace covering her fingertips. Grace, mionag, she said. Is everything all right?

  Aram expected Grace to hold her silence, but instead she said, Just don’t like strangers to see me. Her voice was clipped and low-pitched. Maybe her cords had been damaged when she tried to hang herself. Aram was intrigued that all it had taken to make her speak was an invitation.

  I understand, Mrs Macbay said. To be perfectly honest, I sometimes wish I had an invisibility cloak.

  Bad Muireall let out a whinnying laugh Aram had never heard. To him, it sounded affected. Don’t we all, she said.

  Muireall, Mrs Macbay said, I think we should have a word.

  Bad Muireall’s affected smile morphed into a look of astonishment. She was clearly not used to others speaking to her in this manner. Aram excused himself from the conversation. Anything Mrs Macbay said, Bad Muireall would attach to Aram, and he was afraid both of receiving her wrath and of forfeiting the cool fondness she seemed to have for him. He excused himself under the guise of preparing a blessing with the minister, though in truth he was headed to the cellar to retrieve a bottle of wine for Bad Muireall.

  He could not have been gone for more than five minutes. But when he returned, red in hand, it was to an almost entirely new climate. A storm, it seemed, was hovering inside the church basement. The walls were damp, as if perspiring, and the overhead lights had dimmed. Half the candles Aram and the minister had lit had since been smothered, and the soundscape of the room – before, the whirr of trivial conversation, the gentle clinking of dishes being added to the spread – had taken on a faintly higher pitch, a pale kind of noise Aram associated with the radio. But then, he could have been imagining this interior shift, as the transformation was so hard to see empirically, and he was for some reason, today, especially unable to trust his instincts.

  Aram noticed that Euna, Good Muireall, Aileen, and Lachlan Iain had arrived and were loitering at the foot of the stairs, perhaps unsure where in the room they would feel most welcome. He flashed to himself in the mess hall at the castle, hovering, waiting for a wave from some gracious stranger. Then Aileen made Euna giggle, girlishly, and Aram’s throat tightened. He could not stand to see them redressing their old bond, afraid Aileen would manage to turn his love against him. He needed to wrench the two of them apart, and he swore at this feast he would do just that.

  Aram returned to where Bad Muireall and the others were standing beneath the now drooping tinsel. He did not offer the bottle of wine to Bad Muireall yet, since Mrs Macbay still had her confronted, and he was confident Mrs Macbay would not approve of their drinking the blood of Christ for fun. Bad Muireall’s back was to Euna, and Aram wondered if Bad Muireall had seen her enter. Then Aileen made Euna belly-laugh, and at the sound, Bad Muireall whipped around. Seeing Euna, she started instantly to cry.

  Eudail, she called, doubled over, my love.

  Now it was clear to Aram why Bad Muireall had come to this basement, despite hating the institution above, despite fearing the congregation. And he could not say that he blamed her.

  For a moment, Euna looked doelike, panicky. Though she was wearing jeans and combat boots, her guitar strapped to her chest, she hardly looked the rock star, her inner child so obvious. Lili ran to her, clinging to her waist, weeping, squealing, while Euna kissed the girl over and over on the crown of her head, still festooned with little silver shavings. Grace waved with spider fingers though, maybe overwhelmed, she kept a slight distance.

  Minister Macbay moved to the middle of the basement, where a single stone column seemed to save the roof from caving. Welcome to you all, he said. And especially to those who are joining us for the first time today. We’re honoured to have you here. Let’s take our places now, and we can say grace.

  Everyone hurried to snag seats nearest to the foods they wanted to eat. Within two minutes, each guest was tucked in to the table, even the most elderly congregants, whose appetites had apparently given them sprightly energy. To Aram’s disappointment, Aileen claimed one side of Euna, Bad Muireall the other. So he assumed a place at the head of the table opposite to Minister Macbay, settling into his role as second-in-command.

&
nbsp; He noticed that Bad Muireall was stroking the back of Euna’s hand. I missed you, Bad Muireall said. As she had when Aram said precisely the same words – why he had spoken to his cridhe teòma so insipidly, he did not know, forcing on their love a language that was not limited to them – Euna remained silent. She moved her hand away from Bad Muireall’s, not as an impulse, but as a slow and deliberate movement.

  Would anyone like to say grace? Minister Macbay asked.

  Euna stood partway, leaning by her hand-heels on the tablecloth. I would, Ministear, she said.

  Brave soul, Minister Macbay said, eyes twinkling. Be our guest.

  Euna thanked him. She twisted her neck toward Bad Muireall, addressing the woman with her sunken cheeks and her combed but abnormal bowl-cut with great serenity. Here’s to cleanliness and godliness, she said. To electricity and to freedom. Here’s to living life without fear of the strop.

  Well, all right, Minister Macbay said, laughing. I was imagining something a bit more traditional.

  Euna glanced briefly at the minister and said, I’m sorry. For a moment she seemed ready to sit down, avoid causing any more commotion. Then from between her teeth she said, To normal human haircuts and to not being an arsehole all the time.

  Minister Macbay turned suddenly stern. His eyes, until now twinkling, were a blank and thankless blue. Enough, he said.

  Head low, she cowered in her chair. Aileen kneaded her nearest shoulder. I’m very sorry, Ministear, Euna said. This is not an easy day for me.

  Minister Macbay said, I understand, feudail. But in this church we all have to take responsibility for ourselves. Then he turned to Aram and said, Son, do you think you could say grace?

  Aram did not want to seem as if he were undermining Euna, trying to save the room from some destruction she had caused. But the minister had asked a simple favour, and he had to comply. And so Aram – parroting a scene he had seen in films? Fenella’s novels? his subconscious? – asked that everyone around the table hold hands. Grace, on his left, offered her lace-covered one, but on the other side he could not convince his son Lachlan Iain to touch him. The boy stuck his tongue out and perched on both hands. Aram did not want to draw any attention to his son’s rejection, or to his son in general, so he hurried ahead. Everyone else was connected and quiet, even Bad Muireall, shaking slightly ever since Euna scolded her, so he began.