Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  “I thought we were going through his attic.”

  “You can’t even get the door to his attic open, Becky. He has work to do before he can take you up there.”

  “You know who this sweater belongs to, Liz?” Rebecca inquired.

  “My grandfather,” Father Michael replied as he stepped into the kitchen.

  “This is very beautiful, Father.”

  Liz put the teapot on the table and said to Rebecca, “Rose and I have Rowan and Siobhan for the morning. Annie’s already started them spinning and we’ll continue that lesson. You come by when you’re done. We have stories and then fresh fish at Annie’s for supper. Do you suppose the girls will spin as well as they fish?” she finished by asking.

  “I hope so,” Rebecca replied.

  “They caught ten fish altogether on Friday, Father. Rowan’s first time,” Liz said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Aye. Siobhan mentioned that after Mass. She said it was because they sat in Old Man Dirane’s boat,” Father Michael replied.

  Liz chuckled as she walked out of the kitchen.

  “Who’s Old Man Dirane?” Rebecca asked.

  “Mairead’s great-grandfather on her father’s side. A grand storyteller. The boat tells stories, they say.”

  “Ah. A boat that tells stories,” Rebecca repeated incredulously, feeling as though there was no end of the stories in Ireland. After the one last night about Sean Morahan, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any more. But then, wasn’t that why she’d come here? To hear stories about the sweaters to put in her book?

  “Some say. I hear John Fitzgibbon survived his day as a—what’s the phrase?”

  “A Dam man,” Rebecca replied, grinning.

  “Aye. That’s it. Had a little help from Liz and Rose, though. You know, he came to Mass all on his lonesome with his seven wee ones neat and tidy in the pews.” Father Michael sat down as Rebecca poured milk into the two cups in front of her. She giggled.

  “They weren’t quiet, but then, they never are.”

  “I can’t fix everything,” Rebecca said, winking at the father.

  “No, I suppose not. But Jim is a great accomplishment for you.”

  “It was my grandfather’s idea actually,” Rebecca said, pouring the tea.

  “It’s important to remember the things grandfathers teach. Like this gansey here on the table. ’Twas my grandfather’s wedding gift. He wore it the day he was married.”

  “Do you know what the stitches mean?”

  “Not sure exactly. Maybe ‘dislikes water intensely’?” Father Michael laughed.

  “Your grandfather didn’t like water? He wasn’t a fisherman?”

  “He was later in life, but he was raised as a farmer. Would you like to hear his story?”

  Rebecca had not brought her equipment. Again! She gritted her teeth with a hiss.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t bring my cameras.”

  “Well, how ’bout I tell you the story? It’s been handed down, like the jumper there, so it may be worn and not of any value but sentiment. Maybe it won’t be worth recording, but if you decide it is, you can come back and I’ll tell you over again.”

  With a nod, Rebecca seated herself before the sweater and Father Michael poured the tea.

  “My grandfather came from the mainland. Couldn’t swim a stroke. From a family of sheep farmers, he was. That’s how he met my grandmother.”

  “How did he meet your grandmother?” asked Rebecca, confused.

  “His family had brought some sheep to Galway to sell, and my grandmother’s family came in from the islands to buy new lambs. My grandparents met each other near the water. She began to talk of the ocean and my grandfather, never having set foot in water, talked about how afraid he was of it. ‘The sound of the waves in the morning is my favorite part about waking up,’ said she. ‘The silence of the morning where there’s nothing but a bird chirping is my favorite part of waking up,’ said he. They talked about what it was to live near the ocean and to live on the land, each enveloped in the life of the other. So foreign to each other they were. There they sat on the dock as the day went away, their own fathers going about their business, and as dusk came on, my grandmother climbed in the curragh with her father and sailed away, returning to the island with two new lambs and the memory of endless fields of green swaying on a summer’s breeze.”

  Father Michael stopped and took a bite from his tea cake. He brushed the escaping crumbs from the table and looked out the window.

  “They met again another time,” Rebecca prompted.

  Father Michael shook his head.

  “On his way back to the farm, my grandfather said he just stopped on the road. His feet wouldn’t move an inch farther east. He looked down at his shoes and then at his father, who leaned against their cart and pulled his pipe and tobacco out of his pocket. Not a word whispered between them as his father lit his pipe. My grandfather remembered the flickering flame of the match in the waning light—the smoldering tobacco in the pipe bowl, the purple-gray smoke rising into the sky. He watched his father and his father watched him, and it was just as the sun reached the western horizon that my grandfather’s feet turned him around. He found himself walking back to Galway, waving good-bye to his father, who just waved back, laughing and watching him go.”

  “He didn’t try to stop him? That was his son!” Rebecca frowned.

  “It was his son’s choice, such as it was. My grandfather would have said it wasn’t a choice at all. He’d found his home. So, after spending the night standing around the docks, he swallowed his terror of the water, climbed aboard a small curragh with a fisherman the next morning, and was at my grandmother’s door by teatime that day.”

  “Shocking for your grandmother, I guess?”

  “Not at all. She had laid a plate at breakfast for him and her mother had made extra cakes for tea. They weren’t sure if he’d make it to their house by the morning or afternoon, so they prepared for either.”

  Rebecca held a crumpet before her mouth, staring at the priest as he sipped his tea. His face looked just like Rowan’s had when she was telling the story of Mayor Trace. This was such an Irish thing to Rebecca. She could rarely be sure if the stories were true or just spun out of air. It made her feel gullible, and today she didn’t like feeling gullible.

  “Are you pulling my leg, Father?”

  “Why would I?”

  Rebecca put the crumpet back on the plate and shrugged. She turned her attention back to the sweater. “There’s damage here. Moths.”

  “Time touches all things.”

  “Would you mind if I took it home? I’ll see if I can clean it a bit and mend it. You’ll need to store it differently to preserve it.”

  “Can you?” Father Michael asked, his eyes brightening.

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Brilliant! Come with me,” the priest said, standing abruptly.

  “Where are we going?” Rebecca inquired, following him reticently.

  “To the attic.”

  “Liz says it’s a mess up there.”

  “She cleans for me sometimes. She thinks I’m not organized,” Father Michael whispered confidentially as he led Rebecca up a steep, narrow staircase. When they reached the top, the priest shoved the door open and together they entered a dim, dusty disarray of furniture, boxes, and bags.

  “She has a point,” Rebecca mumbled.

  Father Michael grinned. “I think what I’m looking for is behind this wardrobe,” he said, nodding toward a large étagère.

  Rebecca raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s not as heavy as it looks,” he added quickly.

  “Sure,” she replied and, grabbing the side of the wardrobe, she helped the priest scoot it to the left. Behind it, they found a window and just below it a large chest made of the same wood as the étagère.

  “Ha!”

  “I guess we’ve found what we’re looking for?”

  “Yep
.”

  The priest flipped the latch and lifted the lid. Dust, disturbed by the sudden movement, burst from the top of the chest into the air like hundreds of tiny bees, buzzing around in the light of the window.

  “Look!” he said as he pulled a vest out of the chest. It looked like tweed and had four brown buttons.

  Rebecca held it up to the window. The weaving was fine, and she could see that the wool had irregular bumps. “This is homespun.”

  “Aye.”

  “Handwoven?”

  “Always.”

  Rebecca cocked her head at the priest.

  “My grandfather’s last suit,” Father Michael explained, reaching in and pulling out the coat. “All the fishermen of the island wore that kind of suit. Homespun and handmade. Better at keeping the water out.”

  “They wore suits fishing?”

  “It was their everyday clothes back then.”

  “Really,” Rebecca replied, noting the fraying fabric where the suit had been folded. “I think whoever packed it didn’t get all the salt out.”

  “Look here!” The priest pulled out a very long piece of lace.

  “Wow!”

  “My mother’s.”

  “Tablecloth?”

  “Wedding dress.”

  Rebecca stopped. “Wedding dress?” she repeated, laying the vest back in the chest and reaching for the lace.

  “She made it with her mother’s help.”

  “How do you have it?”

  “The Lord gave my parents one child only.”

  Rebecca peered up to the priest’s face again. “I guess you won’t be having any girls.”

  “No.”

  The lace had yellowed from being stored in the wooden chest, but it was as fine as any spun web.

  “It must have been hard for them—you being a priest. Letting go of your future, I mean. I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. But love called me elsewhere.”

  Rebecca nodded, a crease passing across her brow. “I wonder if I can do that,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Let Rowan go to be—whatever.”

  “Love sets free and binds, all at once. For the parent, love is binding. Many freedoms are given up—choices are limited. Out of love and respect for the child’s needs, no parent can do just what they want to at all times. A parent always is bound to the child, don’t you think? But a child must be set free to choose her life. That is what it is to have a child. Sometimes parents think that they have children to teach the children something. Children are given by the Lord as lessons for the parents—the greatest lesson of love. And what do you suppose that lesson of love is?”

  Rebecca glanced over at Father Michael skeptically. She worried that he was trying to teach her something religious, but she couldn’t tell. His face was buried in the chest as he riffled through the clothing within.

  “To be bound but to let go?” she replied.

  “Yes, that’s it. Look, I found the pants!”

  “I don’t think I can do that,” Rebecca whispered, brushing the lace.

  “And maybe watch Rowan make the same mistakes you made?”

  Rebecca shot her eyes at the priest as he stood. He brushed the dust from his slacks.

  “You’re given some twenty years to work on it. You’ll do it.”

  “I suppose.” Rebecca stepped back from Father Michael as she folded the lace. Perhaps she should change the subject. “How do you know when love calls?” she asked.

  “Has it not called you?”

  Rebecca shook her head.

  “You’ll know. Your feet will show you.”

  “Like your grandfather.” Rebecca smiled.

  “Aye.”

  There was a loud knock downstairs.

  “Now who can that be?” Father Michael asked, taking his grandfather’s suit in his hands and walking toward the staircase.

  After tripping over a box and making it down the steep staircase, Rebecca followed the priest into his kitchen, still holding the wedding dress.

  When Father Michael opened the door, he found Fionn and his father on the doorstep. “Good morning, Fionn.”

  “Mornin’, Father. Time to go, Becky,” he said brightly.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Sharon’s in labor. Time to go to Dublin,” Fionn’s father said.

  “I—I can’t go to Dublin. What am I going to do with Ro—”

  “Sharon has called for you. And don’t worry—we’ll take care of Rowan,” Fionn Sr. said, taking Rebecca’s elbow and leading her gently out of the house. “My wife’s packed you. Backpack’s in Fionn’s saddlebags. You should hurry. Her labor has just started, but as you know these things are unpredictable.”

  The roses waved adieu as Rebecca left the priest’s garden. Fionn started his motorcycle.

  “I’m not going on that!”

  Fionn revved the engine and winked at her.

  “It’s only around the corner to the pier,” Fionn Sr. said, taking the wedding dress gently from her hands.

  “And across Ireland to Dublin!”

  “Sharon needs to see ya, Becky. It’s been six years and she’s pop-pin’ out her first. Is it so much to ask?” Fionn inquired, meeting her eyes with his dark gaze and patting the seat behind him.

  Rebecca cringed. She didn’t like to be reminded of the time. “How else can I get there?” she growled as she fought with Fionn Sr. over the motorcycle helmet.

  “No other way to get there in time,” he replied, feinting right, then popping the helmet on her head from the left.

  “My book,” Rebecca protested. “When am I gonna write my book?”

  “When you get back,” Fionn Sr. replied, helping her onto the bike behind Fionn.

  “When I get back,” she repeated.

  “Aye. We’ll all still be here when you get back. We’ve been here for hun—”

  “Dreds of years. I know. I didn’t say good-bye to Rowan.”

  “She knows where you’re going. She’s excited. She’ll be fine.”

  “You people don’t listen very well!”

  “Which people?” Fionn asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Bye, Rebecca.” Father Michael waved from his door. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Fionn lurched away from the curb, causing Rebecca to grab him around his waist so as not to fall off.

  “That’s what you people always say!” she yelled over her shoulder.

  CHAPTER 23

  Double Zigzag/ Moss Stitch Between

  Double Zigzag/Moss Stitch Between. 1. A double zigzag with the moss stitch pattern knitted between them. 2. Seeing someone as forever through the eyes of love.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  The motorcycle made its way very slowly toward the ferry. Tourists were out in force, and to avoid hitting them Fionn had to drive carefully. Rebecca did not like motorcycles and never had—a gift from her father. Never was she to ride on a motorcycle. So sitting on one now and thinking of crossing all of Ireland to Dublin on it set her stomach churning.

  “Fionn, let me off at the ferry. I’ll find another way.”

  “Only three ferry runs on Sunday, and then you’d have to catch a bus from Doolin. It’ll take a long time to get to Dublin and it’ll cost you. Your grant was small, remember? Couldn’t stop over in Dublin from the beginning.”

  “I hate motorcycles. They’re dangerous.”

  “Like curraghs on the ocean?”

  “Hey! Fionn!” a voice called from up ahead.

  Rebecca peered over Fionn’s shoulder and saw Iollan standing on the deck of his boat at the far end of the docks. The motorcycle passed the empty ferry pier and sped up. As they drew closer, Rebecca could see a metal plank lying between the dock and the fishing boat.

  “Hold on,” Fionn said, and with that he took a sharp left up the plank and onto the boat. He stopped the motorcycle at Iollan’s feet.

  “Becky! Good ta see ya!” Iollan said in greeti
ng, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Thanks,” Rebecca muttered.

  “Cast off!”

  A young man who looked no older than seventeen untied the mooring line and tossed it up to Iollan. Then the boy jumped from the deck onto the thirty-foot trawler and with Fionn’s help pulled the heavy metal plank onto the boat. Fionn and Iollan then secured the motorcycle to the side of the boat, where, to Rebecca’s astonishment, there appeared to be a spot made just for it.

  “You ride this boat often?” Rebecca asked Fionn.

  “It’s how I get to the island.”

  “You don’t take the ferry?”

  “Nah, I come through Galway, not Doolin.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I dock at Galway,” Iollan replied.

  Rebecca shrugged and glanced over her shoulder. At least she didn’t feel worried about Rowan. She was ready to trust that her daughter would be happy and safe sleeping overnight with her new best friend. She had her own worries now.

  “I’ll catch a bus in Galway,” she said to Fionn as the trawler left its mooring. Sighing, she walked away from him and Iollan. On the port side of the boat she found a bench, and there she sat, wondering how it was that she had come to the island to be still, to figure out her life, and to write a book but ended up doing things she didn’t want to do—things that had nothing to do with her goals. She liked the people she had met and she liked helping them—helping in the pub, helping with the Dam Mad Situation, and promising to help a priest preserve his old textiles. That at least was closer to one of her goals. Now she was off to Dublin. None of it was what she’d come here to do. Twelve days in Ireland and she still didn’t feel that she’d truly gotten started on her project. She sighed again.

  Fionn sat down next to her midway through the trip, bringing two cups of tea and a tin of biscuits. They sipped their tea in silence. Rebecca was too frustrated to talk and Fionn was engrossed in a book he had brought along. A couple of times she thought she should say something, but he just sat on the bench, ignoring her completely.