Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

  Hazel stayed out of it, confident that Oscar’s network of old school buddies would magic up some arrangement. But it cost considerably more than she thought it would. What really galled her was that the lawyer got nearly as much as Susan. He certainly knew the value of preserving a reputation.

  They’d put the grubby episode behind them. Oscar couldn’t afford to take on a new dentist and had decided to go it alone for a few years. Hazel too had severed all ties with Susan, swapping the dance class that she and Elizabeth had attended with Susan in favor of the dance studio closer to home on Broadway.

  “Thank you for dinner, Helen. You’re too generous.” Hazel had thanked Helen in the washroom.

  “Oh, honey, you’re so welcome. You know I’d do anything for you, Oscar, and the kids.” Helen looked at her with a sincerity that made Hazel want to go back out to the restaurant and have a go at Oscar for all his nasty jibes.

  “I’m sorry about Oscar,” Hazel had apologized. “He’s sharp sometimes . . .”

  “I don’t take notice of all those silly comments. It’s hard for Oscar today. You do know what day it is, don’t you, Hazel?”

  And with a start, Hazel realized that this was the very first time she’d forgotten. She always made sure that she trod more gently at this time of year.

  “The anniversary, right?”

  Helen nodded.

  Birgitte. Oscar’s first wife. Today was the anniversary of her death.

  “The saddest funeral ever—only four of us. We never thought Oscar would take the plunge again. Until you came along . . . He adores you, you know.” Helen squeezed her arm affectionately as they’d struggled through the doorway together.

  • • •

  “You know what? Even after all this time, it feels the same.” Hazel braced against the rear seat belt to talk to their driver up front. “Like an old pair of slippers . . .”

  “I dunno about that, Hazel. Wait till you see,” their driver replied. “There’s been a lot of change in the last fifteen years.” He flashed a smile at Oscar, who sat up front next to him.

  Hazel was in the back with the kids. It felt odd to be looking at the driver on the right-hand side of the car. He was certainly friendly enough, this guy Spike. Perhaps a touch overfriendly. He’d scanned her up and down in the arrivals hall. Hazel was surprised to see him wearing what looked like motorbike leathers. He seemed somewhat unkempt, with an unshaven face and tousled hair. But he and Oscar had hit it off straightaway.

  “You should go to the game tomorrow. At Thomond Park, the new rugby stadium.” Spike checked the rearview mirror. “Yeah—yourself and the young fella. You like rugby? Munster are playing tomorrow.”

  “I guess we could take in a game, what do you say, Elliot?”

  “Cool,” said Elliot.

  “Elliot and I go to the Giants at home.”

  “The Giants, eh? Now, there’s a thing. They were my team when I worked in the Bronx in the nineties. Put it like this—Munster’s the Giants without the padding and the headgear, you get me? And without the paycheck too of course . . .” Spike chuckled.

  The ride in the back of the VW saloon was smooth, something Hazel was thankful for, as she was not a good backseat passenger. Spike whizzed along, checking his mirror at regular intervals. Hazel noticed they were breaking the limit on the speed signs. As the road descended over a plain of green fields cut through by the Shannon River, she watched black and white cows grazing in the early morning damp.

  The cars that sped by seemed newer, shinier, and in better condition than the cars she remembered from fifteen years ago. Many of them had 2007 registration plates. The year that the boom had peaked. The zenith of the Celtic Tiger years. By the looks of things many had shared in the spoils. In the country she had left, cars were an expensive commodity, and a brand-new car was a sure sign that someone was a real success.

  As they neared the city limits, the skyline had changed. A split in the road signaled an arching overpass on its way to a toll road burrowing its way under the river.

  “That’s the tunnel,” Spike confirmed.

  Hazel was surprised. Economic intensity must have demanded greater access across the river. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. In her mind’s eye she had a picture of what she’d left. Would it be so changed that it no longer felt like home? For that is what she wanted, craved. She needed sanctuary.

  Tall glass buildings glinted on the horizon.

  “Those buildings over there, they’re new?” Hazel pointed.

  “The one with the curved rooftop, that’s a hotel. And the taller one to the left, that’s an office block. It’s a shame, really. Most of the units are empty. The recession, you know. Well, actually that’s not quite right . . .” Spike looked in the rearview mirror again and Hazel felt the car surge forward in a burst of acceleration. The guy was jittery. “Yeah,” he continued, “things went buck apeshit here for a few years. The banks throwing money at everyone. Guys working in car washes were getting mortgages. Everyone was a developer, a property speculator. Lads with perfectly average jobs were driving Mercs and BMWs. Every auctioneer in town thought they were Donald Trump. And kaboom. Suddenly the banks were found out. I reckon it all started with you guys across the pond—Lehman Brothers, wasn’t it? Or that crowd with the funny names like the Flintstones—Fannie Mac and Freddie Mae!” He snorted at his own joke.

  “That’s right, buddy, blame the U.S. Sooner or later everyone always lays the blame at our door,” said Oscar. Spike’s banter had struck a nerve.

  “Aw, no, pal, I’m only ball hopping. We certainly didn’t need any help from anyone else. Sure, the banks here partied until they dropped. The rest of us are left to carry the can while the fat cats who robbed us blind have ridden off into the sunset with their big fat-cat pensions.”

  “No jail time for anyone?” asked Hazel from the back.

  “Jail time! You kidding me? These guys are still swanning about going to their swanky villas in Spain and Portugal. It makes me stone mad if I think about it too much. So hey, you know what? I try not to think about it. Like the man says, we must accept the things we cannot change.”

  And there it was again, albeit here at the other side of the Atlantic—yet another instance of apathy in the face of misconduct. Hazel was disappointed by Spike’s remarks but it was unreasonable to infer that his attitude was representative of the country as a whole. Yet the Ireland she had left had been slow to anger. Ambassador Jean Kennedy Smith had been right all those years ago when she remarked how Ireland was a great country but the Irish simply didn’t do outrage.

  “You’ll get a good view of the Riverpoint building if we come in the Condell Road. We can come up O’Callaghan Strand then and Clancy Strand that way,” said Spike.

  “That’s where you lived, isn’t it, Mom?” Elliot asked groggily. “O’Callaghan Strand?”

  “Yes, sweetie, that’s where I grew up.”

  “I thought you were farther up—on Clancy Strand?” said Spike. “I thought that’s what Kate said.”

  “No. I was in a house just up from the boat club.”

  “St. Mick’s? That’s where my brother, Mannix, rows—whenever Kate lets him out!” He chuckled again.

  And suddenly Hazel felt uncomfortable, as if she were peering into someone else’s life. She didn’t want to know intimate details about her exchange partner’s life. She didn’t want to know about the state of their marriage. And she didn’t want to violate anyone else’s privacy.

  Minutes later they turned off onto the North Circular Road heading toward the old toffee factory and to the bend in the road with the boat club. Up until now the suburbs had had a slow Saturday morning feel. They’d spotted one or two joggers on a walking trail but it was early yet, 6:45 according to Hazel’s watch. And yet as they slowed to take the bend in the road, she spotted blue-and-yellow-clad crews hoist
ing and shouldering rowboats down the slipway onto the high tide.

  “Oh, slow down a minute,” said Hazel. “Doesn’t that look fun?”

  “Yeah, nice morning for a spin on the river,” said Spike, slowing to a crawl.

  “Looks fun . . .” drawled Jess, alert now, scanning the square-shouldered boys with admiration. Hazel smiled to herself. How many times had she and her friend Lizzie ogled the crews from the top-floor window of her house when they were teenagers? She wondered where Lizzie was now.

  “And there’s my old house, over there on the left . . . Can you go a bit slower, please?”

  As they inched their way up the strand, Hazel sensed a reluctance from Spike, as if he were impatient somehow, itching to be somewhere else.

  “There! There it is. The one with the green door . . .” Hazel squeezed Elliot’s knee. Oscar had turned around and was smiling at her indulgently. Remarkably, the house still looked the same. The same green door. The same long lawn at the front. The huge magnolia in front of the sitting-room window. Memories of the undertaker trundling her mother’s coffin down the crazy-paved pathway to the hearse on the road.

  On the other side of the road, the city had put in a fancy riverside walk, and the old wooden benches where she’d sat enjoying fledgling romances had been replaced with weatherproof seating. Autumn had not yet torn all the damp leaves from the great sycamore trees that dotted the walk. Across the water of the full tide were functional looking buildings or apartment blocks. They neither added nor detracted from the view, they were just there. Hazel wondered just how many buildings had been born and died in her absence.

  As they traveled slowly up the strand, Hazel noted the twin landmarks of Shannon and Limerick rowing clubhouses were still the same. However, the modest hotel that had stood on the site close to Sarsfield Bridge was now replaced with a large swollen building dominating that corner.

  “All new around here,” said Spike, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The lights at the bridge were red and they’d been forced to stop. “Great views of the river and the city from the hotel terrace. Pretty swanky bedrooms too. With so many hotels going to the wall this one seems to be holding its own, for now at least . . .”

  Spike continued to drum his fingers on the wheel, pressing his foot on the pedal, causing the engine to race. “During the boom, every time you turned a corner there was a new development going up. Not any old crap either, might I add. Four- and five-star establishments, all with spas. Oh, you couldn’t be seen frequenting a hotel that didn’t at least have a spa!”

  “Really?” Hazel was amazed.

  “That’s the truth of it. Of course they’re nearly all in NAMA now.”

  “NAMA?” asked Oscar, analyzing his surroundings.

  “Yeah—the crowd that takes over when everything goes belly-up. It’s a government agency—supposed to get the most out of any assets left over. But who knows what’s really going on there. I wouldn’t believe daylight out of them myself. Christ Almighty, what is going on with the feckin’ lights this morning. That’s nearly a full four minutes we’ve been here!”

  Hazel felt Elliot shudder with laughter by her side, but the next thing she knew, all three lurched forward as Spike accelerated through the cross-hatch over the hump in the road to Clancy Strand. There was no more small talk as Spike sped down the strand past the late Victorian and Edwardian houses toward the old barracks building. Within seconds he had screeched to a halt outside a row of red-bricked houses. He carefully reversed through the low gates into the gravel driveway that curled around the side of the building.

  “Curragower Falls—here we are!” Spike turned around and surveyed them all, grinning widely. The guy really did look as if he’d been up all night.

  “Thank you so much for all your kindness,” said Hazel. “We’re in great shape here—if you need to be off,” she said, feeling that they’d imposed too much already. Oscar and the kids were already taking their luggage out of the trunk.

  “No worries. Here, give me that suitcase, you’ll have your little shoulder out.” Spike took the suitcase out of Hazel’s hand, his fingers brushing hers. Equally swiftly, Oscar relieved Spike of the same suitcase, slighted at the implication that he wasn’t looking after his wife.

  Inside, Hazel was delighted to find that the house was true to the charm suggested on the Web site. The walls of the main living area were covered with abstract artwork in the primitive style that she knew Oscar was partial to. A display of multibranched gold-painted twigs sat in a ceramic pot in the big picture window overlooking the river. Decorated with miniature black and gold Halloween paper lanterns, a string of fairy lights snaked its way through the branches.

  “Cool beans,” said Elliot, fingering the lanterns as he looked out the window. “So where are the falls?” he turned around and asked Spike.

  “Sorry, pal, the tide’s too high just now. But as the tide goes out you’ll see the rocks and the river racing over them. In a few hours’ time. But I guess you guys will want to get a snooze in first.”

  “Some shut-eye sounds good to me,” said Oscar.

  Jess had already collapsed in a heap in one of the downstairs bedrooms. Spike guided them through the central heating controls, the hot water, and the refuse before leaving the car and house keys with them along with a cell phone contact number should they need him.

  “I’ll love you and leave you, then,” said Spike. Zipped into the biker jacket, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Hazel’s cheek before putting on the crash helmet that had been resting on the breakfast counter. He looked like a gladiator. Again Oscar bristled.

  Seconds later Hazel heard the engine roar and watched from the window as the black-clad figure disappeared on the motorbike up the strand and around the bend toward the Treaty Stone, out of view.

  “Bit of a weird dude, wouldn’t you say?” said Oscar, who’d gone down to wave him off.

  “You think?” Hazel was cautious.

  “For sure. There was something going on with him. Jittery as hell.”

  “He did look like he’d been partying all night . . .”

  “He was looking around that backyard like there was someone lying in wait for him. Looked up and down the street a good two or three times before he took off.”

  “Really?”

  “And he has the hots for you,” said Oscar in a lower voice.

  “You’re tired, Oscar. We’re all tired.” She couldn’t do this now.

  “That’s true. Some shut-eye before we regroup.”

  “You go on,” said Hazel. “Just give me a few moments to myself. A few moments to let it all sink in. Home, after all this time.”

  “Sure.” He squeezed her shoulders tightly, then wrapped his arms around her, silently but firmly exerting ownership rights.

  Alone at last, Hazel reflected on the last few hours. Sluice gates of nostalgia, fear, and affection had all creaked open, their jumbled contents sloshing about her head. She needed her journal. To jot it down on paper, to make something concrete of her thoughts. Writing always gave her a sense of calm. Putting her feelings on paper made her feel in control of them, not a slave to them.

  Almost instantly, she was struck by something else. Panic. Oh, God. Where was her journal? When was the last time she had it? She hadn’t packed it, had she? In the daze of simply existing, she had no memory of packing her precious diary. Her beautiful Japanese lacquered diary containing her most intimate thoughts, feelings, and reflections. Her heart was pounding. Think. Think. Back to when you last had it, you crazy woman . . . think . . . think.

  She steadied herself a moment and then it came to her. It must be at home in her bedside drawer. It had been at least a week since she’d written in it. And even if she’d left it in the park somewhere or even on the subway, what was there really to link it to her? Her name was not on it. It just looked like a pretty j
ournal. She tried to think back. There were no names. Events were described. Conversations, fears, and plans for the future. But there wasn’t anything that could link it to him, was there? She hadn’t mentioned his name, had she?

  “Coming, Hazel?” Oscar had come to check on her.

  “Yes,” she said. She should try to sleep. Getting up from the cane chair, she noticed a hooded figure in the park across the road staring up at the window straight at her. Startled, Hazel jumped back.

  “Come on, then,” Oscar said impatiently.

  “Coming,” she said, a coldness gripping her. This holiday was supposed to heal, but as Hazel went wearily down the stairs she felt overwhelmed by something else.

  A profound sense of foreboding.

  Oscar

  OCTOBER

  “Sorry, boss, watch yourself there now, boss!”

  A wiry youth scuffled past Oscar in a pocket of people walking over the bridge into the town of Limerick. The wind had picked up and as Oscar looked upriver he could still catch sight of the quirky terrace house that was to be their base for the next few days. Across the river was the castle. Head down against the wind, Oscar thought about the scant comforts that would have been offered within its dank walls. Good old King John—whoever the poor dude was—must have had his nuts frozen off in that place.

  Oscar knew little of Irish history. Nor was he much inclined to inform himself. Such research would inevitably lead to the sorts of political discussions with Hazel that he found too draining. In the early days, he’d found such discourse enlightening, invigorating even, but not now. He would surely end up suckered into some discussion that could perpetuate itself for days.

  He had no particular purpose in mind as he walked briskly. A jet-lag sufferer, he’d been unable to sleep and had crept out of the house while Hazel was snoring gently. As he walked past empty shop fronts interspersed with older buildings, he ruminated about how he could ill afford such a long vacation in Ireland. But he had to do this for Hazel. He had to accept his share of the blame. To try to make things right. He did feel guilty. If only she had listened to him, taken his advice. He had warned her. She couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her. But Hazel was stubborn. It hurt him that she ignored him like that. It was disrespectful and it stung.