‘I just think he’d like you to say something. An acknowledgement at least.’
‘His sexual proclivities are no business of mine.’
Ellen gripped the handle of her hairbrush tightly. She longed to throw it with all the force she could muster at the smug prig reshaping his pillow.
‘You’re his father,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even.
‘And you’re his mother.’ Martin spat the words out with an unexpected venom.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She had swivelled on the dressing-table stool to face him.
‘Whatever that boy is now, you made him.’ Martin had recovered his composure.
‘We made him, Martin. Both of us. And we did a good job.’ She meant what she said. Whatever her concerns about the children, she loved them, and their existence helped her to make sense of everything else she had endured over the years.
‘This is the Hayes side of the family, that’s for certain.’ There was a challenge in his voice and in his eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ She had no idea what he was talking about. Her husband raised his eyebrows.
‘Are you seriously suggesting that you didn’t know Connor was a homosexual?’
The shock that Ellen felt was twofold. Hearing Martin say her brother’s name seemed scandalous, dangerous even, while the subject of Connor’s sexuality had never crossed her mind. Was she stupid? Had it been obvious in some way? Had her parents known?
‘I … we … Why would you say that?’
‘Enough. Just go to sleep. I have house calls in the morning.’ His hand shot from beneath the cover to switch off his bedside lamp. The conversation was over.
Ellen stood. She had more questions. Things she needed to say. The mound of Martin lay unmoving, his face turned away from her. She reached down and switched off her own lamp. Standing in the darkness, she could hear Martin’s breathing already becoming slower. The glow of the street lights crept over the curtains and left small patches on the ceiling. Ellen reached for the duvet but then decided against it. She couldn’t go to bed now. The thought of lying down next to Martin was more than she could bear. She walked across the room and out into the hallway. The stairs creaked as she descended them. On the lower landing the light was still on in Aisling’s room, but Finbarr’s was in darkness. Down in the kitchen Ellen nursed a cup of tea she didn’t want.
Connor. Poor Connor. Could it be true? There had been no girlfriends that she could remember, but equally he’d always had sexy posters of female pop stars on his walls. Even if it was the truth, that didn’t explain why Martin had brought it up. If it was an open secret then surely she would have heard something at school, or gossip around the town? Had Martin made it up to try to hurt her?
She thought about her son sleeping in the room above her. Could he be gay in Mullinmore? She assumed that he could. She saw flamboyant kids waiting for the school bus and if they weren’t gay, they certainly looked it, and they were surviving. Her parents would have to be told. She didn’t want them hearing from someone else. Perhaps when they heard about their grandson, they might mention Connor, tell her something about the boy she could scarcely remember.
Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of a man in the street that reminded her of her brother, but always the man he had been when he left. Who knew what he looked like now? Maybe he had already slipped in and out of Mullinmore without telling anyone.
When she had finished her tea, she put the cup in the sink and headed to the foot of the stairs. Climbing them suddenly seemed like a task beyond her capabilities. She padded across the living room and opened the door into the former dining room. The dark shape of her mother-in-law lay in the single bed on the other side of the room, hospital bars keeping her safe. Ellen drew closer and looked down at the old woman’s face. Her jaw was slack and her breath rasped slowly through the wetness of her mouth. In the half-light Ellen saw the tongue twitch. She wondered if she still dreamed. Did she know the people in her dreams or were they, too, just nameless faces moving through forgotten scenes? Ellen was always struck by how placid old Mrs Coulter remained. She never seemed confused or frightened. Had she lost her memory or escaped it? Being untethered from your own past didn’t seem like that awful a predicament to Ellen. She stroked the waxy hand that lay on the covers and crept away, back to her life.
After Finbarr had phoned with the news of Connor in New York, Ellen was reminded of the strange conversation with Martin. It seemed he had been right. Well informed rather than vindictively inventive. She should have known. It was a conversation she might have with him again, but not till Monday. Martin was off in Birmingham for the weekend at yet another medical convention.
At the kitchen table, her mother was bemoaning the state of the traffic in Mullinmore.
‘Honestly, the roads are up more than they’re down.’
‘Says the woman who doesn’t drive,’ came a voice from behind the newspaper.
‘I still have to get around.’ Chrissie rolled her eyes at her daughter. ‘Is Aisling back this weekend?’
‘No. Not this weekend. I doubt that we’ll see her before Christmas.’
‘Isn’t it well for her with all her friends? A real social butterfly, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Ellen replied without much enthusiasm. Since Aisling had unexpectedly got a place to do European Studies at Trinity, she had made it her mission to gather a group of friends that were as rich as they were ghastly. Ellen had only met them a couple of times, but she had walked away feeling sorry for all of them. Who had told her daughter that having money made people interesting? On good days Ellen told herself that it was just a phase and that Aisling would mature and discover what really mattered, but on other days, she wondered if she just didn’t like her daughter very much.
‘Any word from Finbarr? How’s he getting on?’
As Chrissie asked the question, Dan lowered his paper, as if expecting a full update. Ellen took a deep breath. This was it. This was the moment.
She looked at her parents and suddenly the moment was gone. She realised that she didn’t have the right words. Just to tell them that Connor was alive would have been a torment to them. She could hear all their questions, see her mother in tears, and herself just shrugging and saying, ‘I don’t know.’ She resolved to get more information from Finbarr and then tell them everything. Maybe she could talk to Connor first.
‘He phoned just now. He’s having a great time.’
‘Still in that bar?’ Dan asked.
Ellen regretted ever telling them that it was a gay bar.
‘Yes. I think he’s making quite good money. He’s a full barman now.’
‘Good for him.’ Dan raised his paper.
Walking home, Ellen thought about Connor and what she might say to him on the phone once Finbarr had managed to get his number, when she had an idea. Mullinmore. When she spoke to him, she would tell him to come home. That was the only thing that would satisfy her parents. Connor needed to walk into the pub one night with her at his side, like the magician’s assistant revealing the most incredible trick of all time. She imagined the faces all around the bar smiling, people jumping up and slapping him on the back, all memories of the accident forgotten in their delight at Dan and Chrissie being reunited with their son. Little Dee Hegarty was gone, as was Maureen Bradley – cancer had taken her – while her husband Frank languished in a nursing home. Connie had re-married up near Port Laoise, and Kieran had been so young she doubted he could even remember his sister Bernie. Then she saw one face not smiling. It was a woman in a wheelchair. Linda O’Connell. Ellen stopped walking. She wondered what she should do. Just springing Connor’s reappearance on her wouldn’t be fair. The whole plan was so vague and unthought out, but there was no point going any further unless Ellen got Linda’s blessing. She would go and see her, find a way to tell her the good news that the man who had paralysed her was coming home.
IV.
Franco was behind the bar slicing limes w
hen Finbarr came through the door holding two coffees.
‘I got you a latte.’
‘Thanks, Irish.’
Finbarr put the cardboard cups on the counter.
‘Am I still a barman?’
‘Dunno,’ Franco replied without turning around. ‘Judson isn’t in yet.’
Finbarr sat up on a stool and sipped his coffee.
‘How was your Irish daddy last night?’ Franco was chuckling.
‘Don’t even. You’re not going to believe this. Turns out he’s my fucking uncle!’
Franco turned around, mouth open. ‘Oh my God! You didn’t, did you?’
‘No!’ Finbarr almost shrieked his denial. ‘The guy is old enough to be my—’
‘Uncle!’ Franco finished the sentence and the two men began to laugh.
‘How big is your family? How could you not know your own uncle?’
Finbarr considered how much of the story to share. Three dead people seemed like they might spoil the mood. ‘He’s sort of the black sheep of the family. He left before I was born. It’s mad because nobody knew where he was and then he just shows up at the bar.’
‘It’s a small gay world.’ Franco swept the sliced limes off the chopping board into a metal bowl and placed them in the fridge. ‘Are you planning on doing any work today?’
‘What work? What’s my job?’
‘Well, I’m not the manager, but I would suggest you do bar-back prep because nobody else is going to do it.’
Finbarr groaned.
‘Sorry, Irish.’
As Finbarr slipped off his bar stool the door opened and Judson staggered in carrying two heavy boxes.
‘A little help please!’
Before either man could step forward, the boxes had been deposited on the bar.
‘Thanks,’ Judson said with a degree of sarcasm.
‘What did you buy me?’ Franco enquired in a breathless Marilyn Monroe voice.
‘I didn’t buy anything!’ Judson was smiling. ‘That stupid hummus restaurant below me finally shuttered, and as about their only customer I claimed all their beer glasses. Can you put them through the washer for me, Irish?’
‘Sure.’ Finbarr went behind the bar and opened the first box. ‘So, Judson, I was wondering: am I still a barman?’
‘Oh.’ Clearly Judson had forgotten about the bar’s staffing problems. ‘I’m not sure. How did he do last night, Franco?’
‘He coped.’
Finbarr quickly interjected: ‘More than coped! What about the big tips, Franco?’
‘True. Though most of that was your drunk Irish uncle.’
Judson turned to Finbarr. ‘Oh, I think I’ve heard about that guy. Asleep in the garbage?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Ben told me about him.’
‘Red wine Ben?’ Franco asked. ‘How does he remember anything?’
Finbarr looked at one man, then the other. ‘Excuse me. Forget about my uncle the lush. Am I barman?’
Judson sucked his teeth. ‘For tonight, but you’re also the bar-back. I’m sticking around so I’ll see how you fare.’
‘Great!’ Finbarr couldn’t pretend not to care. He went back to work with renewed enthusiasm. This was his success and he was enjoying it.
All things considered, this had been a good day. The phone call to his mother about finding Connor had been strange but also satisfying. He felt something had shifted in their relationship during the call. He wasn’t sure if it was because she had treated him as an adult or if it was the first time he had ever seen his mother as a person rather than just one of his parents. The way she had reacted to his news had made her sound young and conjured up a woman who existed outside of nagging him to fold his clothes or calling the family in for dinner. His only slight regret was that he felt he had given his mother too full a picture of his life in New York. He had been liking the anonymity of his time in the city, relishing having a life that was his alone. He enjoyed not being the doctor’s son and not being the most beautiful boy in the bar. He suspected that the sudden reappearance of his long-lost uncle was going to spoil all of that.
Thirty blocks north, Uncle Connor was lying face down on his bed, his face pressed into the pillow, a small stain of drool forming on the fabric. He had phoned in sick and in truth he really didn’t feel very well. When he had got back to his apartment, he had peeled off his clothes, drunk two large glasses of water and collapsed on the bed like a body falling from a great height. Spread-eagled, he longed for sleep to spirit him away, but his mind would not be stilled.
Unwittingly, Finbarr had set Connor’s brain on fire. His thoughts crackled with questions, while any notion of how he should respond to the news from home seemed lost in clouds of indecision and doubt. One name echoed around his mind ceaselessly. Martin Coulter. His sister had married Martin Coulter. They had children together. His parents probably spent Christmas with them. Did his mother call Martin Coulter son? It was an anger he had never felt before. Part of him wanted to get on the next plane back and show up in Mullinmore, knocking on doors, settling scores, causing trouble, but of course it was too late for that. That’s what made this fury so intense. So much of it was reserved for himself. This mess was really his fault because he had run away and refused to go back. His fear and shame had allowed this unholy situation to occur. He groaned. He wanted to throw up again. He wondered if he had any painkillers. Probably not. That was Tim’s department. He pulled his pillow towards himself in a childish embrace. Connor missed Tim. He wanted him to be here, holding him, telling him that everything was going to be all right. He would finally confess everything to Tim and then he would know what to do.
Connor thought of all the times he had refused to bring Tim back to West Cork. The excuses and lies, all easily accepted by Tim, who wasn’t really that keen to meet Connor’s family but no doubt felt he should at least seem willing. If only Connor hadn’t been so short-sighted. Stupidly he had believed that this was his story and that by never returning he could make it end as it had for Bernie, David and Carmel that summer’s evening at the roundabout. For the first time in many years he allowed himself to consider the others. The Bradleys with their surviving daughter Connie and the brother whose name he couldn’t remember; poor little Mrs Hegarty; Linda O’Connell – was she even still alive? His own parents and Ellen, their stories continuing to be defined by what had happened. Leaving had solved nothing, had helped nobody. But going back now, what could that achieve? Surely, it would just make everything worse.
Outside, two helicopters chopped through the air, the noise bringing him back to Manhattan, back to a studio apartment that wasn’t even his.
V.
Green knots of weeds were wedged beneath the stained concrete of the ramp. Ellen cautiously climbed the gentle slope to the front door and rang the bell. She was now regretting the bottle of wine she had brought. It had seemed polite when she was choosing it in the off-licence, but now standing outside the house she felt it looked like some sort of insensitive bribe. Sorry about your legs, here’s an expensive bottle of Chardonnay. Oh well, too late.
When the bell rang, Caroline O’Connell at the back of the house assumed it must be Pat who came in to help with Linda. Perhaps she’d forgotten something. It was too early for Declan to be back from golf and besides he had his own key.
They didn’t have many visitors these days. Caroline kept herself as busy as she could with charity work and local committees, but they were mostly in the evening. The majority of her days were spent with Linda. She loved her daughter, of course she did. There wasn’t a day went by that she didn’t think about poor Carmel and thank God that Linda was still alive. As well as thanks, she did mention some other things to the Almighty, mostly questions or requests. Could Linda share that gratitude? Would Declan re-join the family? Please make this a good day for her daughter. Sometimes her prayers were answered and the two of them passed pleasant hours, reading or chatting, even laughing at some bit of gossip from the to
wn. More often, however, it was as if dark clouds had settled over the room and nothing could please Linda or remove her from the grip of gloom. She either sat in silence or if she did speak, every word was dipped in vitriol or sarcasm.
Caroline did her best to sympathise. More than anyone she knew how hard this life was for her daughter, but she just wished that Linda could see that this had happened to all three of them. She and Declan tried over and over to make the best of things, so why couldn’t Linda? The ramp, the specially adapted car, all purchased at vast expense, but never used. Friends and neighbours had been wonderful at the start but one by one they had been driven away by one of Linda’s bad days. Even Caroline invented more housework than there was just to avoid having to sit with her daughter. She had hoped that when Declan retired, he might have shared some of the burden, but he had simply swapped the office for the golf course. It didn’t matter what the weather was like, after breakfast off he would go. Caroline suspected that some days he never made it onto a fairway but just hid in the clubhouse all day, sipping the hours away with the other men, outlaws in V-necked jumpers on the run from their own families. She wanted to be angry with him, but she understood how ill-equipped her husband was to deal with the situation. She coped with Linda because she could. Besides, he allowed her to enjoy some freedom in the evening. Of course, that was much easier. Caroline made food for him and Linda before she went out, then a couple of hours of television before Pat or someone else from the agency returned to get Linda back into bed and settled for the night. Sometimes when Caroline got home, she would bring her daughter a last cup of tea and they would sit in the soft glow of her bedside lamp and swap inconsequential snatches of conversation. Often this was the favourite moment of the day for both women.
‘Ellen!’ Caroline O’Connell couldn’t disguise the surprise in her voice. ‘Nice to see you. Will you come in?’ She stepped back.
Ellen cleared her throat. ‘Well, I actually wanted to have a word with Linda. Is this a good time?’
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