Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  “Becky! I’m John Hernon.”

  “Hi,” she replied.

  “Tom says you’ll be needing a bike.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so. It’s not that far to walk from the house to the town.”

  “No, but you’ll be needing one to head out farther in the other direction to get to the Fitzgibbons’.”

  “How much?” Becky asked. She hadn’t counted on renting a bike.

  “Nothin’, Becky. You’ll need it. You havin’ supper at Peg’s?”

  “Why, yes. I am.”

  “I’ll drop it off there, then.”

  “Oh,” Rebecca replied. “Well, thanks very much.”

  “No problem. If you need anything else, let me or Anne know. All right?”

  “Annie Blake?”

  “No,” John replied. “My wife, Anne Hernon, Tom and Fionn’s sister.”

  Rebecca nodded uncomfortably. She needed to write this down. “And so Sheila and Fionn Sr.’s daughter? I’ve not met her,” she said.

  “You will. Best be getting on there.”

  “Yeah—yeah. Thanks.”

  As Becky passed him, she glanced into the window. A sign on the glass read HERNON’S SHOP and the place was packed with people carrying backpacks, totes, and children.

  “Busy in there.”

  “It’s just the beginning. Wait till July.” John chuckled, stepping back into his shop. “See you later, then.”

  Around the next corner Rebecca found Dooley’s Bed and Breakfast with its tidy garden and quaint sign on her right, and at the far end of the street she spied two old women standing in the front yard of a house, hunched together with their backs to her. One was small and crooked and wore a red shawl, and the other had on a lavender dress with a white cardigan. Rebecca smiled broadly as she approached. The woman in the red shawl glanced over her shoulder.

  “Becky?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good to finally see ya. I’m Rose Blake and this is Liz O’Connelly.”

  “I am so very happy to finally meet you two,” Rebecca said, shaking Rose’s fragile hand earnestly.

  “Have you slept well?”

  “Yes, thanks,” she replied, taking Liz’s hand.

  “Sit, sit,” Rose said, motioning Rebecca to one of three chairs in front of her little house. “Liz, can you check on the tea?”

  Liz disappeared into the house.

  “I see you have a spinning wheel,” Rebecca said, noting the wheel that stood before one of the chairs.

  “One must learn to spin.”

  “I see.”

  “We have a hand spindle for you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A hand spindle. You’ll start with that and then work your way into the spinning wheel.”

  “Oh, I don’t need to learn to spin. I’m just here to talk to you about your ganseys.”

  “First learn to spin, then to knit, and then we’ll show you our ganseys,” Liz said, coming outside with tea on a tray. “Sugar?”

  “Yes, please,” Rebecca said. “I know how to knit.”

  “Who taught you?” Rose asked, casting a skeptical green eye upon Rebecca.

  “Sharon.”

  “Excellent!” Liz declared as she placed the brown teapot on the small table next to the spinning wheel. “Then you’ll spin and then we’ll show you our ganseys.”

  “I really don’t have a lot of time for—”

  “Becky, to truly understand anything takes time. You have the summer here. Time enough to spin and knit and learn,” Rose said, tottering to her seat.

  “Father Michael!” Liz called.

  A priest trotted down the street toward Rose’s house, the dusting of gray in his hair and his white collar glistening in the sun.

  “Good day to you, Liz. Rose.”

  “Have you met Sharon’s friend, Father?”

  “Our newest resident. How do you do, Becky?” the priest said, extending his hand as Rebecca stood.

  “It’s Rebecca, and I’m not really a resident, just a visitor,” she replied, shaking his hand.

  “We’ll see you at Mass on Sunday.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not Catholic.”

  “You believe in God?”

  “Uh—not really.”

  “Fine. We’ll see you at church then. Good day, ladies.”

  Father Michael continued on past Rose’s house and headed out of town.

  “I won’t be at church, Father,” Rebecca called after him.

  “See you Sunday,” he replied without looking back at her.

  Rebecca frowned, stood, and ran after him.

  “Excuse me, Father.”

  Skidding to a halt, Father Michael turned around. “Yes, Rebecca?”

  “I will not be coming to Mass on Sunday. I study religions as part of my work. They are nothing more than social constructs. No offense, but I don’t really see them as necessary for personal development.”

  The priest met Rebecca’s level gaze with his own, staring at her as if waiting for her to continue. Squinting at him, Rebecca shook her head. Father Michael smiled broadly.

  “Good. See you on Sunday.” He turned and continued on his way.

  “You won’t!” Rebecca yelled after him.

  “Sunday!” he yelled back and disappeared around the corner.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ladder

  Ladder (aka Ladder of Life or Jacob’s Ladder). 1. A pattern running vertically on a garment, making the poles and rungs of a ladder. 2. Traditionally references Jacob’s ladder, a way to heaven and eternal happiness, or more precisely a oneness with God. 3. In fishing terms, Jacob’s ladders are the ropes that run from the deck of a vessel to the rigging above. 4. A connection that causes change.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Sean was in a hurry. Although he had meant to tell Paddy of the impending weather yesterday, he had forgotten, for he had been preoccupied with Rowan, mahogany eyes, halos, sunny windows, and little feet walking. Now, even though it was early in the morning, the tourists were thick and thoughtless on the sidewalks, forcing the old man to step off into the street to make room for them, only to be nearly run down by bicycles.

  “Gotta watch the bikes,” he muttered as he turned the corner. Then he stopped.

  There, crouched in a recessed doorway, was that little Yank, wearing a very strange pair of coveralls. As Sean watched, Siobhan skipped around the corner, halting but three meters away from where Rowan stood hidden.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Siobhan called.

  The little Yank sucked her stomach in as if to make herself thinner, not wishing to be found just yet. After surveying the area, Siobhan quickly trotted across the street. Scooting to the edge of the doorway, Rowan peered across the road, following Siobhan with her eyes. She giggled.

  “I see your mother doesn’t know how to dress you properly, either,” Sean remarked as he walked up to the little girl, elated to get a chance to set things right.

  Rowan spun around and stared up into Sean’s eyes. But instead of looking frightened or hurt, she gazed up at him as if—as if he were not even there. Turning her back to him, the little girl walked calmly away.

  “It’s polite to reply to someone when they talk to you.”

  Rowan stopped with her back squarely to him. “I don’t have to be nice to mean people.”

  “You were staring at me. That’s rude.”

  “I was not staring.”

  “You were, too.”

  Rowan glanced over her shoulder. “I was watching your hands.”

  Sean cocked his head as something sounded in the distance. “My hands?”

  “Yes. Your hands looked like they were knitting. I always watch my mama’s hands when she knits. It makes me feel good when I’m sleepy.”

  Sean furrowed his brow. “You were sleepy in the pub?”

  “We’d just got here.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “California.”

>   That was half a world away. Sean grimaced. “I didn’t realize you were watching my hands.”

  “You should talk to people before you yell at them.”

  Sean’s palms tingled as they began to sweat. Rubbing them on his thighs, he took a deep breath. It had been so long since he had apologized to anyone. Had he ever apologized to a child? To his children? He searched his memory to find just one instance, but none came to mind. Unsure what to say, Sean coughed a little. “I’m s-sorry, Rowan, for yelling at you.”

  Rowan faced him. “You said my name wasn’t a good name for me. That hurt my feelings.”

  Peering into her mahogany eyes, Sean could see her pain. It was the pain he had put there. His heart skipped several beats, and he pressed his left hand on his chest to stop it.

  “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. It’s—it’s a good Irish name. It’s a good name for you.”

  “Why don’t you like my overalls?” Rowan asked, touching the roaring tiger on her chest.

  “I—I didn’t see they were tigers. I like them now,” he replied quickly.

  “My mama painted the tigers. That’s my favorite animal. What’s your favorite animal?”

  Sean reached up with his right hand, straightening the cap upon his head. “I—I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “Tigers are my favorite ’cause they purr really loud. You ever heard a tiger purr?”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “Their paws are as big as your head.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yeah. And their stripes are magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “Uh-huh. They crawl around in the jungle, which is green, but you can’t see them even though they are black and yellow and orange. They blend in even though they’re different. Magic.”

  Sean nodded. From the next street, the old man heard Siobhan calling Rowan’s name. “You best be getting on there, Rowan. Siobhan’s calling for you.”

  Without warning, Rowan smiled. Sean’s breath caught in his chest, for her mahogany eyes lit up like little wood fairies as they peered up at his face. How long had it been since a child smiled at him?

  “Good-bye, Mr. Morahan,” she said, her face beaming.

  “Good day to you, Rowan,” he choked, unable to loosen his chest.

  Rowan skipped away, and as she did so a great pain welled up in Sean’s heart.

  “Rowan!” he called after her.

  The little girl stopped, still smiling.

  “You may call me Sean. Watch the bikes.”

  “Bye, Sean,” she said and disappeared around the corner.

  Sean grabbed his chest and leaned against the building, certain he was having a heart attack. But he did not pass out or fall over. He took shallow breaths, forcing his rib cage to release his lungs and heart. The sound rolled again in the distance. It was thunder.

  “Paddy,” he whispered, and pushing himself away from the building, he stumbled toward the docks, still holding his heart.

  CHAPTER 10

  Moss

  Moss. 1. A pattern with a bumpy texture created by knitting a stitch, then purling the next, alternating between the two for two rows. The next two rows are created by purling a stitch, then knitting the next, alternating between these two. Can be used by itself or as the interior pattern of a diamond or square. 2. Traditionally represents earth (the island is mostly rock and it was from moss and seaweed that soil for crop cultivation was created). 3. The ground where a life grows.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Rebecca sat on Peg’s sofa that night after supper, watching her yarn twist from the tuft of wool she held in her left hand as her right spun the hand spindle, which then dropped to the floor, turning fast like a top. She could hear the clicking of Rose’s spinning wheel nearby. The steady rhythm quieted her mind.

  Throughout the day, as she had learned to spin, her thoughts spiraled with worry at the thought of returning to Peg’s house for dinner. She hoped not to spend too much time alone with Peg so she could avoid any conversation about Dennis. She was relieved when Paddy came to Rose’s house near suppertime and tucked his mother, her spinning wheel, Liz, and Rebecca all into the island’s only car. Slowly, he wound through the pedestrians and bicyclists to Peg’s house.

  Rebecca’s yarn broke. She sighed. Liz, seated in the chair across the room, stood up to help her mend it.

  “You need to keep your right hand away from the triangle. If you don’t, you’re twisting the wool, not spinning it.”

  “Spinning our own wool is what makes our ganseys look the way they do,” Rose remarked as her yarn spun easily from her tuft of wool. “The machine-made yarn is all one size and texture. Homespun has these little bumps in it. See?” Rose stopped spinning to show the slight irregularity of her yarn.

  “That adds texture to the fabric,” Liz said.

  “Remember Claire’s yarn?” Rose asked, setting her wheel in motion again.

  “We used to sit behind Sean and the boys during Mass. They always wore ganseys to church and we would sit behind them to memorize Claire’s stitches.”

  “Missed many a lesson doing that.”

  The old ladies laughed.

  “Claire who?” Rebecca inquired.

  “Morahan,” Liz replied.

  “Sean Morahan’s wife?”

  “Was. She passed on some years ago. Never told us how she came up with the patterns, though. She’d just smile and shrug.”

  “Sad about her sons,” Rebecca said.

  “Not long after that was when she left the island for Galway.”

  “Aye.” Rose nodded. “My Padrig sailed her there. Never knew why she left. Sean was hard on her, mind you, even before the boys were lost.”

  “Hard on her?”

  “Kept her close,” Liz whispered confidentially. “Didn’t like her spending time away from the house without him or the boys.”

  “He was controlling,” Rebecca said.

  “Controlling?” Rose inquired.

  “He took away her freedom,” Rebecca replied coldly, the memory of Dennis flashing across her mind. Dennis had always been waiting and watching—always there.

  “How do you know that, Becky?” Rose asked, her eyes focused on her yarn.

  Rebecca pulled the thin white fibers from her tuft of wool. Bending down, she lifted the hand spindle to her lap.

  “Why else would he not like her to leave without him or the boys? He wanted to control who she talked to, where she went, what she did. She wouldn’t be free, would she, if she couldn’t make her own choices? If she had to concern herself with what he liked her to do or not to do.”

  Rose glanced up, her green eyes clear and piercing. “How could you guess such a thing?”

  “Because, by how you talk about him, I once knew someone very much like him.”

  “Ought to be heading home, Becky. Storm’s comin’,” Paddy said as he stepped into the room.

  Rebecca swallowed hard, grateful for the interruption.

  Rose’s spindle came to an abrupt stop. It was so sudden that it made Rebecca start. When she glanced up, she found Rose and Liz with matching frowns on their faces, staring at her. Rebecca shrugged, her breath caught somewhere between her breastbone and her throat.

  “Not the worst we’ve seen,” Paddy continued, winking at his mother.

  “For now, best be getting home, Becky,” Liz said. “The weather’s not bad now, but it’s good to be indoors when it grows.”

  “Well,” Rebecca said, letting go her breath with relief as she set the wool and the hand spindle on the sofa. Quickly she stood. “Thanks for the spinning lesson today, ladies.”

  “Oh, no,” Liz said, handing Rebecca the wool and the spindle. “You take this home with you to practice. There’s a bag of wool by the door.”

  “A bag of wool?” Rebecca’s eyes widened as she spied a large cotton bag full of unspun wool waiting for her. “Liz, that’s really too much—”

  “Tak
e your time. Need to spin. Then we’ll show you our ganseys,” Liz said.

  “Okay, okay,” Rebecca said with a laugh. “Where’s Rowan?”

  “Here, Mama,” Rowan replied, trotting into the living room with Siobhan in tow.

  “Maybe you can sleep over one night, Rowan,” Siobhan said. “We’ll go fishin’ on the rocks south of town.”

  “Can I, Mama?” Rowan asked excitedly.

  “Whenever Paddy and Annie say it’s okay, Rowan,” Rebecca replied. The little girls giggled and hugged each other. Rebecca grinned.

  As Rebecca lifted her backpack onto her shoulders, Liz grabbed the bag of wool and together with Rose, Paddy, Annie, Siobhan, and Eoman, they moved toward the door, pulling on their coats and sweaters. It appeared to Rebecca that the entire village was filing out of Peg’s house. Why all these people ended up over for dinner, she couldn’t imagine. Taking Rowan’s hand, Rebecca slipped in among them.

  “See you tomorrow, Mags,” Rebecca said, stepping over to her bike, which John had dropped off earlier.

  “All right then, Becks.”

  “You watch that wind, Becky,” Peg warned. “It can catch you unawares on the north road.”

  With Rowan balancing on the handlebars, Rebecca pedaled into motion in the fading light.

  The little girl waved as her mother headed toward the pub.

  “Becks, your house is the other way!” Maggie shouted.

  “I know. I just need to check something real quick,” she yelled over her shoulder.

  Turning into the growing wind, Rebecca rode toward the church’s spire. As she passed the pub, she could hear laughter and bright singing within. Several tourists tottered down the street, arm in arm, heading for Dooley’s Bed and Breakfast. When Rebecca reached the church, she stopped.

  “What are we doing?” Rowan asked.

  “Looking for what time the Masses are.”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure we’re not here,” she replied with a wicked smile. There was no posted schedule, so Rebecca decided she’d ask Maggie or Peg nonchalantly the next day what time church started on Sunday. With a low, rumbling laugh, she stepped on the pedals and headed home.