by Doyle, Brian
Michael the cop makes a decent salary from the county, which would never dare to muck with the budget for public safety but he cannot bear the thought of working four more years as a beat cop to get to his twenty years for a pension, the brokenness has become too much for him altogether, and he lies awake at night pondering what he might do for money to support Sara and the girls and the baby coming.
Sara who has been a fish counter at a dam and a waitress is thinking about finding work as a waitress again, maybe at the pub with Stella the bartender, but who will hire a pregnant woman to be a waitress, bars and restaurants want lithe young girls as waitresses to add to the décor and elevate the dining experience, not women of a certain age with spectacles and a swelling belly.
The man now with sixteen days to live sold boxes and containers of all sorts, or air with boundaries, as he used to joke, but he is no longer working.
The priest is paid a small salary by his order of priests and brothers although the superior of the order, a small intense grinning man whose father was a police captain in New York City and used to let his son ride police horses through Central Park, is worried that health care costs and lack of new blood will sooner than later doom the order and maroon the men working in areas with small populations of the faithful.
George Christie who used to be a logger and then ran the Department of Public Works for thirty years has a small pension from the state as an employee of the county but the state pension fund has been plundered of late by the contentious legislature to plug the current budget crisis so the whole idea of pensions for former employees of the state or county is up in the air and the subject of much dark speculation from one end of the state to the other. His wife Anna does not work but spends her time crooning and rocking by the river. Their twin daughters Cyra and Serena are headed for public college, which will be paid for by scholarships and grants and work-study programs and some small loans which George isn’t quite sure where he is going to get so he has lately quietly felled a tree here and there and cut it up as firewood for sale.
The man who beats his son works at the fish co-op, which is shockingly making a decent profit these days because the catch is so good, which worries everyone in the industry fishermen and processors and distributors and wholesalers and regulatory personnel alike because each and every one of them male and female conservative and liberal responsible and rapacious secretly in his or her heart of hearts fears this is the boom before the bust.
Nicholas, the son of the man who beats his son, just signed up to spend the summer fishing with Grace and Declan on Declan’s boat, their agreement being a small salary plus ten percent of profit. Declan and Grace will split the rest of the profit. Red Hugh O Donnell’s estate at his death turned out to be nothing but the old farmhouse and the land on which it muddily squats, neither worth much in the way of cash money. He also owed more than ten thousand dollars on fecking dairy equipment, which was fecking outmoded the day it was fecking hatched as Declan says darkly.
Rachel and Timmy work at the shingle factory near the old sawmill, which is the very last of the timber and logging concerns that once dominated the local economy and now are reduced and shriveled to Shingles For You, which employs seven people on a full-time basis but in the last two years has slightly expanded sales mostly to housing developments in the southwestern United States where many of the people building new houses yearn almost unconsciously for the smell of fresh-cut cedar, which reminds them of grandparents and holidays and childhood and snow; but even so Rachel who lives with her parents and saves every possible penny calculates that she can get her own place in about seven years, which thought always makes her small house seem as small and dark and cold as a prison cell in which she is sentenced to fritter away her youth.
Cedar drops his pencil and again drops his head in his hands. He has no money. No one has any money. How can he do public works without any money? How can he do what he must do? How do people get by? He can’t figure it out. We’re all a step from the abyss, he thinks. One slip and it’s all over. We’re all a car wreck or a disease or a wrenched back or a black funk or a badly hurt child or a bitter divorce away from disaster. How do we get by? He can’t figure it out. Maybe cash money is the problem, he thinks. Maybe we should go to a complete barter economy. Maybe we should be hunters and gatherers like the old days. Maybe I should get my raggedy ass out of this chair and quit moaning. Maybe I should go see my boy Daniel of the three-colored hair red brown black. Maybe doing and not thinking is what I should be doing.
36.
Owen gets up at the funeral of Red Hugh O Donnell, held on the beach, and says, I will deliver a brief prayer in Irish at the request of the O Donnell family.
He is about to say, And knowing that the congregation gathered here this morning does not speak the ancient tongue of the clans I will also translate my remarks into English afterwards, but he has a sudden impulse not to translate into English at all, but just to let fly in Gaelic and be done with it, to just say what is on his mind, free from the possibility of insulting anyone, most especially the four O Donnell children in the front row, who certainly hated the old man with bitter burning hate but this isn’t the time to say so publicly.
All this runs through his head in a second and he decides in the blink of an eye to just say his piece in the old tongue and let the words float mysteriously out to sea. From long bilingual habit he translates silently in his mind sentence by sentence as he goes.
So, he says aloud. A Dhia, glac chugat anois anam brúite Aoidh Rua Ó Dómhnaill, fear ceannláidir crua, taoiseach a chlainne.
God, take to you now the bruised soul of Red Hugh O Donnell, hard of head and hand, chief of his clan.
Má tá go leor trócaire Agatsa turcántachtaí an tseanbhastair a mhaitheamh, ar aghaidh leat.
If You have enough mercy to forgive the old bastard his cruelties, go to it.
Shíl mise gurb fhirín súarach a dhíolfadh a dheirfiúr féin ar phraghas gamhain mhartraithe ab ea é, agus gurb é an bhail a chuir sé ar a chuid pháistí chomh náireach sin go bhfuil cruthú ann nach dtuilleann a leithéah clan ar bith.
Personally I thought he was a mean little man who would sell his own sister for the price of a crippled calf, and the way he treated his children was a shame sufficient to prove that some men ought not be granted children at all.
Ach bronntar páistí ar chréatúir fuara cosúil le hAodh Rua, agus is cruthú dearfa é sin domsa go bhfuil Tusa i d’sheanfhear crúalach nimhneach chomh dall ‘s chomh crua le cloch.
The fact that some cold creatures like Red Hugh are blessed with children is to me incontrovertible proof that You are a cruel and spiteful old man as blind and bitter as a stone.
Mar sin féin, duine ab ea Aodh Rua, agus dá bhrí sin d’fhulaing sé pian cosúil le cách agus é ag troid go fíochmhar chun an grá a fháil ‘s a choimeád d’ainneoin na bearta gan cruth atá agatsa; agus mar sin déanaimid comhbhrón leis, mar nach é a fuair a chéasadh le himeacht a mhná chéile, agus an naimhdeas a thug a pháistí dó de bharr cruais a chroí; ach rinne Tusa é, mhúnlaigh Tusa é, ‘s mar sin, is féidir Leatsa é a thógáil ar ais chugat.
However Red Hugh was a human being, and so he suffered, as we all do, battling ferociously to find and harbor love against Your misshapen plans, and so we join in empathy for his suffering, which there is no question was considerable, what with his wife leaving him and all, and the enmity of his children, which he earned by the hardness of his heart, but You made him, and You formed him, and so You can have him back.
Cuimhneoimid ar a dheagníomhartha, agus céiliúrfaimid iad– mar ní hiad ach a cheathrar clainne atá ina suí sa chéad rang ansin; dá bhrí sin i ndáríre tá an ghuí seo ar a sonsa, ar son a síochána, ‘s ar son na lúcháire nua a bhfaighidh said b’fhéidir i saol a bhfuil fearg fhuar spairneach a n-athar imithe as.
We will remember what he did well, and celebrate that, which is pretty much the four children sitting in the front row, so really this praye
r is for them, for their peace, and for the new joy they might find in a world without the cold blizzard of their father’s temper.
Amen.
37.
In the pub after the funeral Grace comes up to Owen and says, Thank you for the prayer. We really appreciate it. Could you tell me roughly what you said?
Owen clears his throat and says quietly, God, take to you now the blessed soul of Red Hugh O Donnell, hard-working chief of his clan. Let your mercy pour upon the man like a sea, and bless the children You granted him, and let the waters of Your relentless love pour upon the bitter stones of their grief and wear it away utterly. In your capacious heart harbor this one poor man, and bless his suffering, and turn it all to prayers for his unquenchable soul. You made him, and You formed him, and unto You he is now returned as if a babe to the sea of his mother. We will remember what he did well, and celebrate that, which is foremost his four children sitting in the front row, so really this prayer is for them, for their peace, and for the new joy they might find in a world without the mysterious blessing who was, on this wild green earth, their one and only father. Amen.
Thank you, says Grace.
A pleasure, says Owen.
Declan is sitting in the corner with Cedar talking about fish. The halibut is almost always right-eyed, did you know that? says Declan. Not right-eyed like right-handed but actually both eyes are on one side of the creature. The top side. The eyes start out one on each side of the head and then one eye moves to join the other. Wild, huh? An eye moving from one place to another. Imagine if we could send our eyes roaming around. I’d send ’em down to my toes to feel for dabs in the tide. Flounder. We used to do that with the old man when we were little. Grace was the best. She wasn’t afraid of crabs. She wasn’t afraid of anything. Or I’d send my eyes behind my head so I can see trouble coming. Or send ’em down to my pecker. That’d be hilarious. I’d be a legend among the ladies. Instead of being a nothing with the ladies. It’s because I stink. I smell like fish no matter how hard I wash. I wash like crazy every night. I work like crazy every day. All for nothing. All work no money, that’s me. You know what the O is for in O Donnell, don’t you? We O everybody. That’s what the old man left us: O. Work your ass off and die in a second like the old man. Chief of the clan. Hard of head and hand. That’s the O Donnell way. On O Donnell Day.
Another pint for Declan, please, Stella, says Cedar.
And one for the Department here. You do fine work, Cedar. Took balls to talk to Grace. I worry about Grace. I can’t talk to Grace. She doesn’t listen. She does what she wants. She’s not a slut. Acts that way. Not a slut. She’s a bullhead. I’ve caught bullhead, you know. Brown bullhead. Ugly as sin. And hagfish. Uglier. Ugliest. And dogfish and rockfish and squawfish and skilfish. I’ve caught ’em all. Splitnose rockfish and sharpchin rockfish and shortbelly rockfish. Greenstripe and redstripe rockfish. I know my fish. Shark and swordfish and sandfish and saury. Box crab king crab hair crab tanner crab. They’ll pinch your fingers off in a second. Can’t blame ’em. Hauled out of their homes. Poor bastards. Sometimes I throw a fish back. I don’t know why. Some of them have the faces of people. It’s bizarre. I saw a soupfin shark once with your face and a blue shark with Worried Man’s face. Long thin fish too like him. Long and blue. With a white head. I threw that one back. Kept you though. We ate you. Things were tight then. When my mom left. We ate a lot of fish. A lot of mussels and clams. She used to read messages on shells. Really. I still do it. Grace won’t do it. Says she doesn’t remember. Liar. It’s like a code. Don’t laugh.
Another pint for Declan, please, Stella, says Cedar.
Cockle clams butter clams gaper clams softshells littlenecks, says Declan. Sometimes they spell words. Even urchins and mussels can be read. Like books. Grace thinks I’m nuts but there’s a lot we don’t know about the sea. There are a lot of worlds down there. I should know. I’ve hauled up skate bigger than the boat. I’ve seen sharks and whales bigger than the boat. I’ve seen whales with sucker marks from squid that must be ten times bigger than any squid anybody ever saw. I’ve seen sea lions that look just like beautiful women. I’ve seen lights in the water I can’t explain. You want another pint? We just caught the two biggest halibut I ever saw off a ledge where there were never any fish of that size before. Hippoglossus is the halibut, you know. Every one a different color. Green or brown or black. Not one the same. No one knows anything about the sea. It gives and it takes. It is what it is. It’s a woman. You can’t understand it. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand my sister. I don’t understand why my mom left her children. I could see her leaving Dad, he was a hagfish, but not us, we were anchovies and herring. We were little fish. How could she do that? Where did she go? I think she went to sea. I think she is an albacore, fast and silvery and long gone before you can get a good look at it. Another pint please, Stella? And one for my friend Cedar who never says anything but just sits there smiling. Doesn’t he look like a fish, Stella? Doesn’t he?
38.
Worried Man and Maple Head walk home from the funeral arm in arm quietly. They have walked arm in arm for more than forty years. The first time they walked together, on the afternoon they met by the river, as Maple Head was drying the river of her hair, his arm swam gently toward hers and her hand slipped into the crook of his elbow and linked stitched woven touching skin to skin they walked and walked and walked. Their entire courtship was conducted on foot. Up hills and through forests and along the shore and through the town. Often not talking. Just walking. Thinking. Sometimes singing. One would sing and then the other. All sorts of songs. One day they came upon a cottage on a hill. Tucked in the elbow of the hill. Where the eyebrow of the hill would be if the hill was a face. It was for rent. Fifty dollars a month then. Long ago. Not long ago. The cottage smiled at them. They rented it with Maple Head’s first paycheck from the school. Worried Man and Cedar built a porch and shored it up here and there though neither knew what he was doing carpentrywise really but their repairs and renovations have generally held up though the back room, which was No Horses’ bedroom as a child and is now used as a guest room most often by Cedar, does slant a bit to the south just enough to notice and very slightly disorient a guest, which as Cedar says grinning is probably good for the guest. He says this sitting by the fireplace. There’s always a fire going in the fireplace. Owen says his in-laws must really be Irish because there’s always a fire in the hearth and two or three chairs huddled by the fire and two or three people poured into the chairs as comfortable as cats. Maple Head likes to curl in her chair as close to the fire as she can get without actually being in it so that all of her is equally and thoroughly warmed and Cedar likes to have just his feet by the fire and Worried Man doesn’t like to be in his chair at all but prefers standing right in front of the fire and expounding and fulminating and lecturing and pondering and wondering and singing and laughing and hogging the fire altogether according to Maple Head who has over the years developed the habit of reaching up one lovely leg and placing her left foot on her husband’s right thigh and pushing him gently over to the other side of the hearth which he doesn’t even notice anymore, he just steps unconsciously to the side when he feels her touch.
She does this now and he steps to the side but he doesn’t miss a beat because he has both hands on an idea now and wriggle as it will it won’t get away, he’s got it firmly to rights and he holds it out before him and examines it from every angle. As he speaks she watches his long face, his shock and tangle of long white hair with a black streak in it like a heron, the long excited quiver of his long lean body, his hands as big as nets whirling and swirling in the air as he juggles ideas. Sometimes when he gets to talking excitedly like this she likes him so much she wants to pull him down to the floor and cause a ruckus, which once in a while she does, just to keep him on his toes.
Now, May, he says. Consider this. We are aware of the quicksilver nature of time. Fast and slow and every speed in between.
Sometimes it seems to stop. Sometimes it rushes by so fast we lose track of a day or two. I could muster a thousand examples but you know what I mean. So then time is not static energy. It is capable of changes in speed. Therefore it has a control mechanism either in the perceiver or in the delivery system. Something effects changes in speed either as perceived or as actually delivered. We will evade the question of system design and designer and focus on medium. The machinery of time, as it were. It is interesting to note that in most cases the speed of the time in question is simultaneously perceived. For example when we are exploring each other passionately we both experience timelessness. Time seems to stop. But then in moments of despair or crisis time rushes by at a terrific pace. When Daniel was hurt for example. Now if the speed of time is a matter solely of physical perception, of sensory analysis, as the doctor thinks, then understanding time is a physiological enterprise, something beyond my ken and life span, something for one of your bright young students to pursue over the course of a lifetime in the lab.
But if it is not solely a sensory matter, as Cedar and I believe, then analysis of the machinery is possible. Analysis of the delivery system. Understanding the nature of the machine. Such understanding of course leading to repair and renovation of the machine. For cleaner and more efficient operation. If you could, for example, choose moments to isolate, and slow them down, allowing for new action at the proper time, imagine the good you could do. On the local level you could rewind and repair unfortunate accidents as Daniel’s. On the regional level you could for example arrest the spread of smallpox, which essentially ended the culture of our People a century ago, leaving us stranded in our time with nothing but shards and shreds of words and stories that once wove people into this place like threads in a blanket. On the national and international level adjustments could be made in situations that lead for example to endemic famine. Talk about Public Works, May. It’d be the greatest Public Work of all time. You could repair the pain and despair of millions of people. Billions. But it can’t happen unless we find the machine. The locus of the delivery system. The black box.
