Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  Fionn Sr. pointed to a stack of boxes on the floor near the stove. She sighed heavily and without so much as a break for tea, Fionn Sr., Peg, and Rebecca worked into the early-morning hours preparing the chicken and simmering the barbecue sauce. When she finally arrived home, the sun hinted of a new day on the eastern horizon. She showered, and after drying her hair, she crawled into bed.

  “Mama?”

  Rebecca opened her eyes.

  Rowan stood at the bedside with Trace. “Sheila’s at the door.”

  “I just lay down.”

  “Mama, Sheila says it’s time to get up. It’s July Fourth.”

  Crawling out of bed, Rebecca looked at the white curtains. She heard singing.

  “Rowan, is the other little bird back?” She thought she’d ask to see if Rowan would mention her worries.

  “Can’t see.”

  Lifting her daughter into her arms, Rebecca stepped to the window and pulled the curtains gently back. There, deep within the bramble, only one bird sat upon the nest.

  “No daddy,” Rowan said.

  “Maybe he’s getting food.”

  “That’s what you said last time.” Rowan frowned.

  “Maybe we just keep catching them when he’s gone.”

  Rowan sighed. “Maybe he’s dead.”

  “Rowan, we don’t know that.”

  “Sheila says it’s time to get up,” Rowan whispered, squirming out of her mother’s arms.

  Rebecca watched her daughter run out of the room. After pulling on a pair of pants and a shirt, Rebecca made her way into the kitchen. She found Sheila pouring water into the teakettle, but she did not find Rowan. “Where’s Rowan?”

  “She went with my Fionn to check the cows. Need me to start the bacon?”

  “Nah. I’ll do it.”

  As Rebecca diced and fried the bacon, Sheila washed the potatoes and set them to boil. Together, they chopped green peppers, onions, celery, and dill pickles. There was commotion beyond the front door, but there was no time for Rebecca to see what was happening. She had to make potato salad for hundreds, and she worked silently, with Sheila at her side.

  People began to trickle down the gravel drive at noon just as Rebecca finished stirring sour cream and Louisiana Hot Sauce into the bacon, green peppers, onions, celery, and dill pickles. Sheila had peeled and cut into quarters one pot of potatoes and after folding in the sour-cream-and-bacon dressing, she left the kitchen with the first bowl of salad. Rebecca remained behind to fry more bacon. She was cursing Fionn as she sliced through another pickle and Father Michael walked in.

  “Good afternoon, Rebecca.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Happy Fourth of July!” He passed her to fill the kettle with water.

  Rebecca glared over her shoulder at the priest. “It was Fionn. Apparently he’s done this before. His mother mentioned an incident with one of Maggie’s boys.”

  “Ah, the confirmation. But Maggie’s son is Sharon’s nephew. How do you know it wasn’t Sharon—through Fionn?”

  Rebecca paused to rub her back. “I guess I don’t really know. You bring your vestments and oils and such?”

  Father Michael smiled. Rebecca did not.

  “I suppose you’ll not be missing your July Fourth in Redding this year so much,” the priest said with a chuckle.

  Rebecca looked up from the pickle. She hadn’t thought of Redding once. “I guess not. I wonder if Rowan is missing it?” She hadn’t seen her daughter since she crawled out of bed.

  “She was playing with Siobhan as I walked in. They were pretending they were in a curragh, whistling to the fish. She doesn’t seem to have any friends in Redding that she’s missing too much this July Fourth.”

  Rebecca cocked her head as she watched Father Michael stir the bacon. “I reckon not.”

  “So, it’s not such a bad thing—to have Fourth of July here, then, is it?”

  “It’s kind of been a lot of work,” Rebecca replied.

  “Better to start taking on the traditions of your parents if you’re going to keep them, don’t you think?”

  “Look, Father,” Rebecca said, standing up to wash her knife. “Maybe that’s true, but I didn’t plan for this and this isn’t a good time to learn my family’s traditions. I’m here on a grant to research a project. I have responsibilities. I have a book to finish. I have commitments and deadlines to meet.”

  “And this one party will stop you?”

  “One party? One party! One party and one road trip and one Dam Mad Situation and three babies and two old women teaching me spinning instead of bellying up to the bar with information. I’m as far along on this project as I was when I stepped off the ferry. What have I got? Two sweaters, your family’s clothing—”

  “Ah! Have you finished those yet?”

  “I just finished. They’re on the sofa and you can take them with you. You’ve got those and I’ve got nothing.” She plopped down in her chair and chopped an onion. She was tired and her back ached.

  Father Michael turned the burner off. “You have everything, Rebecca,” the priest said quietly over his shoulder. “Everything’s right here. What do we do with the bacon?”

  “It goes into this bowl with the vegetables after it’s drained.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then the sour cream and the Louisiana Hot Sauce.”

  Father Michael stirred the sour cream, Louisiana Hot Sauce, bacon, onions, peppers, celery, and pickles together while Rebecca peeled and quartered another pot of potatoes. As she folded the dressing into the potatoes, she saw someone enter the kitchen in her peripheral vision. Someone who had red hair and a leather jacket. She ignored him.

  “Happy July Fourth, Becky,” Fionn whispered into her ear. “Look.”

  In his left hand, he held half a dozen small American flags. He waved them gingerly. Rebecca picked up the bowl and shrugged past him without a word.

  “You think you can handle the salad, Father?” she asked on her way out of the kitchen.

  “Aye. If you see Liz, can you ask her if she’s brought her tea cakes?” Father Michael asked.

  “You bet,” Rebecca replied.

  She stepped out of the house, and as she rounded the corner she stopped. There, in her side yard, were tables and chairs and people and children running everywhere. There was laughing and music and dancing. She couldn’t remember when the last Fourth of July party at home had so many people.

  “You throw a wonderful party, Becky,” Fionn said over her shoulder.

  “Really?” she answered and skipped over to the barbecue, where Eoman stood on duty.

  “Well, you see, love,” he was saying to a beautiful blond woman, “you celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day there, so we of the island thought it only fitting to celebrate your independence here.” Eoman winked at Rebecca as she walked by.

  Rebecca rolled her eyes at him, thinking perhaps she should warn the blonde about Irish charm. But maybe that was why the woman had come to Ireland in the first place. Why ruin someone’s fantasy?

  Fionn was at her heels as she set the bowl of potato salad on the nearest table and stuck a spoon into the bowl. He called out to the crowd, “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”

  Rebecca spun around and glared at him.

  “I would like to propose a toast!” He had to yell to be heard, for there were at least a hundred people gathered, by Rebecca’s reckoning, and the ocean called from over the cliff.

  Everyone grabbed a glass of what was in front of them. Fionn handed Rebecca a pint of cider freshly poured from the keg to her left.

  “To Becky! For her family’s barbecue recipes!”

  “Yay!” everyone hollered.

  “And her independence!”

  “To Becky!” the crowd yelled.

  Rebecca stared at Fionn, truly believing he must be mad.

  “To you, Becky,” he said, sipping his beer.

  “Are you crazy?” she asked earnestly.

  “Come, dance
with me.” He took her cider from her hand and set it on the table.

  “No. You’re nothing but trouble,” she said, pulling away.

  “Just a dance, Becky.”

  He pulled her into his arms and for the rest of the evening, through dinner, sparklers, and cleanup, there she stayed.

  CHAPTER 34

  Chevron/Ribbing Within

  Chevron/Ribbing Within. 1. A chevron with ribbing knitted within the angle. 2. An abrupt change crashing onto your doorstep unexpectedly.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Abird was singing when Rebecca climbed out of the shower near noon the next day. Pulling on her shirt and pants, she listened to it and thought of Fionn and his constant humming. As she had danced with Fionn the night before, she’d rested her head on his chest and listened to him hum. And as she did so, a great stillness had come over her. It was more than peace. She’d felt as if she was anchored; she had a place.

  Looking at herself now in the mirror, Rebecca felt that a heaviness as deep as the ocean weighed on her. In little more than six weeks, she would return to the States. As sure as Rowan would miss Siobhan, Rebecca would miss Fionn.

  “The mistle thrush is singing again,” Rowan called from the bedroom. “Maybe it’s sad ’cause the daddy is still gone.”

  “We don’t know if it isn’t the daddy, Rowan,” Rebecca said, turning on her hair dryer. The warm air blew over her face. She saw now that Rowan had made a connection between her father and that bird. Dennis was not a subject Rebecca had ever discussed with her daughter. She had simply said he had passed away. In her mind, Rowan was too young to take on the weight of her father’s death, but apparently she was old enough now that not talking about it was creating its own problems.

  “Mama, Sheila’s here with your Fionn,” Rowan yelled over the hair dryer. Rebecca turned it off.

  “He’s not my Fionn, Row—”

  “Why not?” Fionn interrupted as he joined her in the bathroom.

  Rebecca looked at him in the mirror. She shrugged.

  “Here,” he said. Turning around, she found he held a gansey in his hand. It had twisted stitches all over it.

  “Your mother made that for you,” she said.

  “How can you tell?” Fionn held the sweater closer to his face, inspecting it. Rebecca snickered.

  “Well, it’s yours for today,” Fionn told her.

  “Why?”

  “Because you and I and Dad are takin’ Ina home. Time to learn to row.”

  “Row?” Rebecca’s eyes widened.

  “Aye. Everyone learns to row. No need to worry yourself about Rowan. Mum’s taking her and Siobhan to check on the cows. Put this on. Dad’s already got Ina on the beach.”

  With that, Fionn slid the gansey into Rebecca’s left hand and shut the door. She stood for a moment in stunned silence and then obediently pulled the gansey over her head. It was big and baggy. She held the ribbed collar to her nose and smiled. It smelled like Fionn. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she found the house empty. Quickly she put on her shoes and walked out the door, finding Sheila, Rowan, and Trace just off the doorstep.

  “As clear as any Friday in summer,” Sheila said to the sky. “Don’t worry about Rowan. We have her.”

  Rebecca bent down and kissed her daughter’s cheek.

  “Don’t forget to breathe in your tummy, Mama,” Rowan instructed. “That’s what Old Man Dirane says.”

  Rebecca gazed inquiringly at Sheila. The woman laughed softly and, taking Rowan by the hand, led the little girl down the gravel drive. Rebecca looked around and found Fionn far to the north, three stone walls ahead of her.

  “Wait!” she yelled and hurled herself over the first. By the time she caught up and made her way to the stone steps, she was winded.

  “You could have waited, you know,” she said, carefully picking her way down to the beach.

  “You needed to warm up. Hard work rowing.”

  When she hit the beach, Rebecca found Ina seated in the curragh with Fionn Sr. standing next to it. The morning sky was powder blue and clear.

  “You take this side in the front, Becky,” Fionn said, pointing to the left of the curragh. “I’ll take the other side and back.”

  “Now, a wave’ll come in and hit the front of the curragh,” Fionn Sr. said as he stepped to the boat. “We need two waves close together to get off the beach. The first lifts the keel off the sand. Then you push hard. As it recedes, it helps carry the curragh farther out into the water. Then the first outgoing wave hits the next incoming one. It makes the second one high. When it crashes into the curragh, it lifts the bow. You slide in forward, belly first. You kinda have to roll as you’re sliding in so your backside hits the seat there.” Fionn Sr. pointed to the front seat of the boat.

  “I’m in the front?” Rebecca asked, staring out at the crashing waves. Her heart skipped.

  “Aye. Your eyes’ll be on Fionn and you’ll follow his motion. Okay. Now, see how the oars sit on these pegs?”

  Rebecca looked where Fionn Sr. was pointing. She could see that the oars were built to mount onto the sides of the boat.

  “When your backside’s on the seat, you lift the oars high by pushing down on them. Then watch Fionn. As he drops his to the water, you do the same. Make sure your paddle is at a forty-five-degree angle to the surf when it hits the water.”

  “Forty-five degrees?”

  “Yes. Forty-five degrees.”

  Rebecca gazed into Fionn Sr.’s face and then down at Ina.

  “I think I’d just like to stay home,” she said.

  Ina laughed. Rebecca smiled.

  “This is serious,” Fionn said.

  “Since when are you serious?” Rebecca guffawed.

  “Since I’m the one rowin’ with you. You need to row your weight.”

  “Push the boat, slide in the curragh, oars to forty-five degrees. I’m supposed to be remembering all that while the ocean’s surging around me? I’m an archaeologist, not a sailor.”

  “Learn somethin’ useful,” Fionn Sr. said, taking Rebecca by the left elbow and facing her to the ocean. With a deep breath, she bent down to grab the boat.

  “Look at me,” Fionn Sr. said, gripping the sides of the curragh directly across from Rebecca. His right hand was in front of his left, resting on the side of the curragh. Rebecca mimicked his stance.

  “No. You’re on the other side of the curragh. Your left hand is in front.”

  Rebecca switched her hands.

  “All right there, girl. Now we wait.”

  Rebecca’s heart raced as she watched the surf, rolling the instructions through her head. The backs of her hamstrings pulled, and just when she was about to let go of the curragh to stand up straight and shake them out, Fionn gave a great push forward. Rebecca tripped over her own foot, her left knee hitting the sand, as she clung to the side of the boat. She was dragged forward.

  “Get your feet under ya!” Fionn yelled from behind her.

  “I a—” The first wave crashed into the boat, hitting her in the face, sending salt water pouring down her throat. She coughed, closing her eyes to keep the sea and sand out of them. The water was at her ankles as she held on to the boat. It slid forward easily.

  “Open your eyes and push!” Fionn Sr. hollered.

  Rebecca opened her eyes and saw a great wave coming directly at her. She screamed and jumped into the curragh, just where Fionn Sr. was landing. She hit his shoulder with her head.

  “Ah!” he yelled over the waves. “No! You slide forward!”

  He pushed her that way, her hip hitting the bench as she turned over. She was on her back on the bottom of the curragh, swinging her feet in the air, looking for something to catch them on so she could push herself up onto her bottom. She found something. It was Fionn Sr.’s left ear.

  “Ahhh!” he yelled.

  “Sorry,” she said, pushing her feet against his chest.

  “Get off!”

  “Grab the oars!” Fionn ye
lled.

  Rebecca turned over on her knees and crawled to her bench. She reached for an oar with each hand as a huge cold wave splashed over the front of the curragh.

  “Lift your oars!” Fionn Sr. commanded, holding his left ear with his hand.

  Rebecca pushed down. The oars were heavy and she flopped them in the water.

  “Lift!” Fionn Sr. repeated.

  Gritting her teeth, Rebecca pushed down.

  “Lean forward!” Fionn Sr. said.

  She obeyed.

  “Drop the oars and pull back!”

  She did as Fionn Sr. ordered, the oars catching the water. She pulled hard against the ocean.

  “Watch Fionn,” he said, pointing to his son over his shoulder with his right thumb. His left hand still cupped his ear tenderly.

  Fionn lifted his oars. Rebecca followed. Fionn leaned forward, the oars moving backward. Rebecca did the same. As Fionn dropped his oars in the water, so did she, pulling hard against them. Rebecca watched Fionn, repeating his movements, and soon the beach rolled away south. The sound of the surf quieted and she could hear laughter—hysterical laughter. She gazed around Fionn Sr. and found Ina beet red, with tears pouring out of her eyes. Rebecca chuckled.

  “Keep your oars even and at forty-five degrees and your eyes on Fionn.” Fionn Sr. groaned, removing his hand from his ear.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Rebecca said, reaching forward.

  “Keep your hands on the oars and watch Fionn!” he yelled.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, shrinking away as she pulled on the oars. “I’m a lot of trouble.”

  “No more than him,” Fionn Sr. said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at his son. Rebecca could hear Ina laughing still.

  They made their way through the ocean, the breeze blowing on Rebecca’s back from the north, cooling her neck in the heat of the gansey. Though the sweater was wet and for a while she was cold, the more she rowed, the warmer she became. Sweat trickled down her back and chest and dripped from her brow, stinging her eyes. Her arms ached, as did her legs, and her breath, shallow in her chest, tightened the muscles between her ribs, causing sharp pain on both sides. She gasped.

  “Breathe in your stomach,” Fionn Sr. said.