Stay

by Aislinn Hunter

  It wasn’t so much that Frank had failed her or that he’d lied. Abbey had done enough of that herself. Even at ten years old, she knew they were in Nipissing Park to track down her mother, had gone along with the vacation idea anyway—sitting in the cab of the truck with the window cracked open, running her Barbies back and forth across the dashboard for six hours because she wanted, in her own way, to please her father. It wasn’t the lies, how Frank insisted Jane was her real aunt even though Abbey knew better, that he told her Karen would come back and that everything would be all right. In the end, it was his lack of trust in her—trust that Abbey could handle knowing the truth; trust that he could have let go of her hand that night on Ouelette Avenue, watched her run over to her mother and try to hug her; trust that even if Karen, seeing Abbey, chose to walk away, Abbey could’ve dealt with it. Because that, at least, would have been something real.

  When the phone rings, Abbey is in the shower. By the time she hears it, turns off the taps and grabs a towel, the machine has picked up. Wiping the condensation from the mirror with her right hand, Abbey tries to get a good look at her neck, but the mirror fogs up again. She puts on Angela’s terrycloth robe, goes into the living room, hits the play button under the answering machine’s blinking red light. She’s expecting Angela to call, say she got Abbey’s messages. There are a few seconds of silence, then: “Abbey. It’s Dermot.” Followed by a long pause. The sound of him breathing. “Listen. I want you to come home.”

  III

  Finally Away

  The Director from Annagassan

  SIGNS indicate a detour. Traffic on the bay road is diverted inland and the drivers eye the actors’ trailers, the arc lights, the dolly, as they wheel past. A hundred people are milling about; the lawn at the new church is trampled. A make-up tent, set up by the statue of the Virgin, bucks in the wind. A woman in track pants runs across the road with a wedding dress in her arms, the crinoline lifting. All the trees in Connaght point east.

  At the far end of the church parking lot, the film crew queues for cappuccinos. The catering truck is lit up like a carnival, fairy lights hanging from the awning. The filming stopped after the twenty-third take. In an hour they’ll do the scene at the chip shop again: The actress will come out the door and meet her neighbour, they’ll talk for a minute about the weather and then he’ll absentmindedly let slip that he saw Maeve O’Brien at the O’Malley wedding yesterday. The camera will move in close, the boom over the actors’ heads will pick up a sharp intake of breath. A look of understanding will cross the actress’ face. Then she’ll rush off down the road.

  A few of the locals have gathered on the corner to watch the action. Niall and Conneely have come out of the pub, Jimmy’s at the Spar window a few doors down. Helen Brennan and Marianne Lynch stand by the gate to Éinde’s, craning their necks to see over the film crews’ heads. Dermot, coming up the bay road, stops to talk to the director. He’s wearing a padded jacket, has the weathered face of a coastal man, is holding the script in his hand.

  “Are you from around here?” Dermot asks.

  “Annagassan.”

  “Near the peninsula is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the Cooley mountains.”

  “You’ve been over?”

  “I know it.”

  “Fierce weather,” the director nods towards the bay.

  “What’s it called?” Dermot asks. “The show.”

  “Ros na Run.” He pauses for a second, moves closer, “It’s huge in Dublin, the Gaeilge.”

  “Well, good luck.” Dermot offers the director his hand. Turns towards Hughes. Looks back once as he crosses the road. The wind against them both.

  The smell of fried food wafts across the set; twenty orders of take-away curry have arrived at last. A girl in a baseball cap calls out the meals. The arc lights by the chip shop are turned on and that whole area, and Feeny’s beside it, is suddenly brighter than day. Over by the prop tent, the grip, a Galway boy, looks up, then goes back to crushing pop cans with his boot. The trash cans are overflowing and a plastic cup tumbles across the road. In the centre of the crowd, a Dublin man in a stiff Arran sweater holds a bullhorn. People study him warily as if waiting for him to use it. Dermot meets up with Niall and Conneely. “So the circus is in town.”

  O’Nia, an Irish teacher from the local College, sits in a chair outside Feeny’s with a sullen-looking brunette, his white hair standing up in the wind. There’s a script in his hand, the pages flipping up at the corners. The woman, both arrogant and plain, looks down her nose at him. A few feet away, Roxy, Hughes’ dog, lifts his leg on a light stand. Dermot sees him do it and laughs.

  “Again,” O’Nia says. He reads the actress’ lines in Irish. “Beidh mé romhat ag an stáisiún.”

  “Beidh mé romhat ag an stáisiún,” she repeats, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

  “Again.”

  “Beidh mé romhat ag an stáisiún.”

  O’Nia looks at her, and with two knuckles taps the script. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Lowell, but your character’s not from Portmagee.”

  The election posters that lined the road in Spiddal have been taken down from the poles and “Ros na Run” signs and arrows for parking have been put up in their place. A large Tele Gael sign has been staked into the corner, pointing to the studio they’re finishing up the road. The series is in its second year, and they were shooting in Galway until the cost of permits went up. The producer, in her wisdom, killed off the main character to create a subplot in Spiddal. A whole new village storyline is coming along. Conneely watches it every week to laugh at the Dublin actors’ Irish.

  “Anyone for a drink?” Dermot asks.

  Niall checks his watch, sees it’s just past two. “I’ll go in with ya.”

  “I’ll be a minute yet,” Conneely says, watching the actors make their way to the chip shop door. “That one is about to leave town and your man just gave away last week’s secret.”

  “Which is?” Dermot asks.

  “The wedding guest.” Conneely lifts his chin.

  The director from Annagassan takes his seat, and the assistant to the producer holds up the clapper. Dermot and Niall turn to go in but Conneely grabs Dermot’s arm. “Watch this,” he whispers, “it’ll all be out in a minute.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re about to bring Maeve O’Brien back from the dead.”

  The Breakwall

  “ANOTHER, Michael?” Dermot tilts his head towards the bar.

  “I’m grand.”

  In the corner by the fire a woman with dull eyes and high cheekbones launches into song. Her voice is rough and the noise of conversation hushes for a minute. Soon the rabble starts up again. Michael studies the callouses that have come up on his hands.

  “What’s playing in Galway?” asks Dermot.

  “At the films?”

  “Anything.”

  “A Friel at the Druid. Music. The usual.”

  Dermot eyes the last crescent of stout in his glass. Sits back in his chair. “I’m not up for it.”

  Over by the bar the cooking show on television goes to commercial—an ad for the Ab-Buster machine. A woman rows herself over the carpet of a bright living room.

  Dermot turns back to Michael. “Do you suppose there’s anything down at the water?” The local kids sometimes have bonfires on the beach. Dermot would know a few from town and Michael would recognize some from the University. There’d be drink and a measure of company.

  “How would I know?”

  “We could walk over.”

  They take the short cut through Costelloe’s field, Michael catching his coat sleeve on the barbed-wire fence as he climbs over, Dermot turning his ankle in a rut. The two of them silent as they cross, the sound of the wind in the hawthorn. When they get down to the beach, the light from the bonfire becomes visible, an orange globe over by the pier. The black ink of the bay a skirt that obscures even the Islands.

 
; All that week, fish heads had been washing up on the beach. Dermot steps over one, then another. Pocked eyes, bone showing under the gill. Michael ambles along at a distance, watches Dermot bend down, study the fish at his feet.

  When they get to the bonfire the kids make room for them. Dermot knows two or three by name—a McGilloway nephew from Furbo, Jimmy Greenon, a girl called Barbara that he sees some nights at Hughes. He looks over at her, nods, and she looks away. Michael has found one of his students, stands with him over by a bucket full of beer cans. The sound of a guitar coming from the breakwall.

  A log is thrown on the fire and the flames lift. Over by the road a few kids break branches off the low shrubs that line the field. A car parked near the low wall to the beach has steamed windows. The moon is half full.

  Michael walks back over to Dermot, pulls a can of Kilkenny out of his coat pocket, and gives it over. Produces another from under his arm. Opening his can and raising it in Dermot’s direction, he intones, “To the composting of elements. Or fish guts, at any rate.”

  Dermot flips the tab on his can and sips at the foam, lifts the whole enterprise in the air. Thinks for a second then adds, “Between wood’s rim and the horses of the sea.” He takes a long drink from the can.

  Michael lets himself be baited. “Wood’s rim?”

  “In three days’ time he stood up with a moan?” Dermot narrows his eyes. “And went down to the long sands alone / For four days warred he with the bitter tide / And the waves flowed above him and he died. It’s Yeats.”

  “My apologies.”

  “Who the Christ let you into Ireland anyway?”

  Michael drinks from his can of lager, swallows. “I believe it was your Prime Minister.”

  Michael does as expected. He finds a group of students he knows and stands with them by the fire, talking about their programs, their professors, the new Gallery the University is building near the canal. It isn’t lost on Dermot that these students could have been his. Not these exactly, but this generation. He’d have been at it for twenty-five years by now. If he’d stayed on course, if he’d hung on at Trinity, fought for his position; if he hadn’t met Sophie.

  Dermot sets off along the beach. Once he’d brought Abbey down here so she could meet kids closer to her own age. As soon as he saw her in conversation with one of the boys from Salthill he’d discreetly walked away. They were on about Toronto, the boy having gone there one summer to stay with his aunt. That was last November. It had been cold away from the fire so Dermot made for the shadowy outline of the breakwall, climbing the hill that joined it to the upper road. Then he’d dropped down to the far side of the concrete barrier, the last lick of the sun straddling the water. The noise from the party had receded, and only now and again could he make out music from the stereo as it was carried over the wall by the wind. When he first came to Spiddal there were musicians who’d come to the beach with instruments to play. Now it was all hip-hop and portable stereos, music he didn’t recognize. That night, Dermot had watched the sun bleeding down until it was underwater, the bay going from blue to black. He must’ve been there an hour. All I want, he was thinking, all I want, and his mind had looped around that idea like it was a song lyric he’d once known. All I want, and it had occurred to him he wanted Abbey to go home with that boy from Salthill, to fall in love with someone who didn’t need her. It had occurred to him that he wanted to bow out, to stay on the other side of the breakwall while the world churned on without him. He had lit a cigarette and the smoke burned the back of his throat. The cold became more apparent. He’d lifted his back away from the concrete. He wanted out, out of everything. If there was a vote going, if it was his lot in life, his fate, that was up for consideration, he’d abstain. And he felt heavy, wondered if he’d even be able to lift his foot, move it forward over the sand, lift the next foot, pull himself up the stubbly grass hill that led to the parking lot above. He’d moved his hand towards his mouth and picked a strand of tobacco off his bottom lip. He’d listened for the music, concentrated hard, but there was none. Perhaps everyone else had gone home. He’d leaned back against the cold wall and tried to sort through the different shades of darkness. He was waiting for Abbey to find him and the realization made him sick.

  Now Dermot walks towards the breakwall, and, squinting, makes out a group of kids sitting on the near side of the pier. Finn, the new postal worker is among them. And the girl from Hughes, and a guy wearing army pants and a bright sweater, strumming a guitar. Much to Dermot’s surprise, he sees Flagon with them, lying beside a black girl he’s never seen before, the girl scratching his dog’s chin. As soon as Dermot is close enough, Flagon picks up his scent. He whistles low and she trots over. Circles him a few times, nuzzling his legs.

  “Ya big hussy.”

  She sits down and looks up at him, tilts her head.

  “All right, all right.”

  Seeing Dermot, Finn raises a hand in greeting. The girl, Barbara, looks away again.

  “How’s it?” Finn calls.

  Dermot nods, raises his hand.

  “What happened after the wake?” Finn had been there, saw Dermot take Deirdre out of the house. All the kids now, all four of them, looking over.

  “A boy,” Dermot calls back, then louder, “she had a boy.”

  Dermot walks towards the bay and Flagon trots ahead, turning around every few feet, waiting for a command. When they get to the water the dog stands there with two paws in the soup. Barks once into the darkness. Dermot watches the tide lap up around his shoes, recede, lap up again. Waits for the water to soak through.

  Finn Eason had taken over Eileen’s job at the post office. One morning he was simply there, in the van, dropping off a bill for the fence material, a credit card application, and the next moment he was backing out of the driveway without as much as a word. Dermot had run into him again on the road a few days back. Finn had pulled over and rolled down the window, his walkman on. Fumbled through the mail on the seat beside him. Handed a letter over—an ESB bill. Dermot recognized the logo for the electricity company in the top left-hand corner. Finn put the van in gear and spun away. Dermot had hoped for something from Abbey. Or even a social word from the postal boy. He’d enjoyed Eileen McGilloway’s chatter. She’d pull up and say, “You’ll have to try my lemon squares, Mr. Fay. It’s a new recipe, quite tangy.” And the next day, wrapped up in aluminum on his doorstep, Dermot would find two lemon squares. And McGilloway would always apologize if there was no mail, and comment on any that there was. “Ah, but where’d we be without electricity?” Standing at the edge of the bay, the line between the sky and the water all but gone, Dermot can hear McGilloway as if she was right beside him.

  “Where’d we be, Mr. Fay?”

  “In the dark, Mrs. McGilloway, in the dark.”

  Climbing Bray Head

  WHEN Dermot gets home he lights a fire, sits on the couch, and Flagon comes to stand in front of him. “Stop staring.” He tries to usher her off, but she won’t go. “I mean it. Away with ya.” He walks into the kitchen, pours a drink, and she stands behind him, watching. He drinks the whiskey, staring back at her, and then turns to top up the glass. The light in the front room on and the rest of the house gone dark.

  Dermot gets a blanket from the bedroom and lays down on the couch. Closes his eyes. Listens to the spark and hiss of the fire. Flagon panting over by the door. There’s something familiar about those sounds together and he tries to think of what it is. Can picture licks of long grass, bracken that crackles underfoot as he steps on it, making his way up a hill. Then nothing. He goes back to it again, the walking uphill. Tries to see the size of his shoe. What age is he in this memory? There’s the grass, the bracken. He goes down on his hands for a minute to scamper along. And then he sees her. His mother. Standing on the rise towards the headland in Bray.

  His mother had taken him to Bray when he was seven and for the first time that he could remember, the trip was about him, not the world of adults where you’re bribed
into going to an aunt’s with promises of fruitcake and tea. Like the times Dermot’s mother had brought him along to visit her older sister Kate, who was suffering from rheumatism. She would tell Dermot they were going on an outing, that it would be fun. That if he behaved himself, and his cousin Joe was home, maybe he could ride their pony. And he did, once. The cousin, all of fourteen, his torn brown jumper held together at the shoulder with a stitch of red wool, walking Dermot, legs slung over the pony, around the paddock while his mother watched from a window in the upstairs of the house. Dermot going in circles, still more waiting than riding. The pony dead-eyed. Dermot’s bare legs feeling the pull of skin over her rib cage. The cousin saying, “Atta boy.” The flies buzzed around all three of them as they wore down a wheel of grass. Dermot had watched the ground the whole time—the weeds near the byre that came into view again and again just to the left of the pony’s bobbing head. It was mid-summer and the thick stalks arched out of the ground. Then his mother came out. He remembers her hands under his arm pits, Dermot pulled awkwardly down from the pony so that his shoe, already untied, slipped off. Then the cousin bent down to pick it up, farting once, a loud pop—looking up to see if anyone had noticed, and everyone had. So he’d slapped the pony’s rump, as if to blame her. “Right, see yas.” Going in to the house to check on his mother.

  But it’s Bray that Dermot wants to think about—climbing up Bray Head, stumbling over the grass and scree, and then, for a while, walking the clear path straight on, until it arched up again and the two of them had to lean forward, use their hands. “Good boy, son,” she had said, and he’d looked back to see if she was coming, holding up sometimes to make sure she didn’t fall too far behind. She was wearing trousers, beige ones; they were grass-stained by the end of the day, mud up along the one hem from the right foot slipping. Near the finish she’d raced up ahead of him, on her own then, not even looking back. And that’s how he remembers her now, at the top, looking out, not even seeing him crest the ridge.