Spellbound

by Jeanette Baker

  “When?”

  He glanced at his niece rinsing her plate at the sink. “Soon. Hurry and get dressed. I’ll finish up in here and bathe Luke.”

  “Aunt Mollie’s coming, Aunt Mollie’s coming,” Caili sang as she ran out of the kitchen. Marni was more subdued but no less delighted. Her steps were quick, and the smile on her face warmed Sean’s heart. If for nothing else, he would be forever grateful to Mollie for the love she showered on Kerry’s children.

  By noon the winds had died down long enough for the harbor patrol to attempt the waves. From the bow of the harbor master’s small boat, Sean stared out at the mousse, a goopy emulsion of oil and water, in disgust. “How in the name of God did this happen? The sound is clearly marked, has been for years.”

  “Vandenbrock was drunk,” Greene said grimly. “The third mate was at the helm. He’s a fifteen-year veteran of the Transom fleet but not as a helmsman. He’s a mess hand, cleaning rooms, serving dinner. He has no license to operate a vessel of this size. His file shows that he’s shaky at the helm and has a tendency to chase the compass. We have the radio reports. The man asked for permission to change channels. A change was authorized. We have no idea why he didn’t comply.”

  “Was he drunk as well?”

  Greene shook his head. “No, just inexperienced.”

  “Have you any idea what really happened?”

  “My guess is that he didn’t slow down. The longer it takes Transom to deliver its oil, the more it costs. He tried to steam through at full speed. Normally there shouldn’t have been a problem. The ship was off-course.”

  “How much damage do we know of so far?”

  “The slick has spread to nearly a hundred square kilometers. We’re in trouble, Sean. Most of the more toxic compounds will evaporate in the next few weeks, but a good percentage will wash ashore. We’ll have our share of floating carcasses and oiled animals. There won’t be a clean fish pulled from these waters for a hundred kilometers.”

  Sean exhaled. “We’ve a crisis on our hands, Graham. Without the fish these people won’t survive. We’ve never dealt with anything like this before.”

  “Pray for a miracle.”

  Rescue teams had not yet braved the winds to begin the slow, tedious process of cleaning up the island. Pockets of crude oil blanketed the shoreline, and gulls, their wings shimmering, hobbled along the beach unable to fly. Sea lions, barking in dismay, broke through the soupy foam, slithered up onto the sand, and scraped their hides against barnacle-splattered rock attempting to rid themselves of their rank odor. Already the pristine shore was littered with gasping fish, their bellies bloated and black with tar.

  On the small pier fishermen bundled in Arans, their faces dour under woolen caps, huddled together, too bereft to do more than stare out to sea and then back at the blackened beach as if they couldn’t quite fathom the disaster that had befallen them.

  Sean finished speaking into the mini-cassette recorder he carried with him at all times, stuffed it back into his pocket, and approached the largest group of men.

  “What does Greene say about it, lad?” asked Liam Kelly, a large man with a day’s growth of beard, a ready smile, and that inevitable fan of lines around the eyes that proclaimed his livelihood.

  Sean knew there was no point in hedging. Better to hit them with the worst of it right from the beginning and hope it wouldn’t get there. “It looks as if the slick has spread to a hundred kilometers.”

  Collectively the crowd gasped. Again Liam, the unofficial ringleader, spoke. “There won’t be a healthy fish in the whole damn ocean for weeks.”

  They were silent, waiting for him to confirm the damning words. He met the tall man’s accusing eyes. “If we’re lucky,” he said deliberately. “Months is more likely.”

  “Holy shit, Sean. They’ve killed us.”

  The grumbling increased. Sean held up his hands. “We’ll make it. We’ve gone through this before.”

  “Easy for you to say!” someone shouted. “You aren’t a fisherman. What about us? It takes months to get on the dole.”

  Sean gritted his teeth. “There will be disaster relief. Transom will have to clean this up.”

  The voices quieted. “How long will that take?” someone else asked.

  Sean recognized John Murphy, the voice of reason in a crisis. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, frustrated as usual by their dependence. Because he was the only one educated beyond the secondary school, they looked to him for answers. It was a role he’d neither asked for nor wanted.

  “What do you think?” Murphy persisted.

  “Give me until tomorrow morning. As soon as I find out anything, I’ll call Liam and he’ll call the next man. Each of you will contact someone else so the lines stay free.” He appealed to them. “How about it, lads?”

  Murphy nodded. “I’m in. You’re an island man, Sean. You know what this means to us. I’m willin’ to wait and see what you can do.” He turned to the men behind him. “In the meantime I’m goin’ to see if I can get myself some work on the roads for the winter.”

  A series of nods and mumbled ayes and half-hearted slaps on the back preceded the gradual breaking up of the crowd. Slowly Sean released his breath. He had no idea who would take on the task of skimming the oil from the surface and cleaning up the beaches. The logical choice would be Transom. But would they admit their blame?

  His heart sank at the thought of men on the dole. So far the Arans had escaped the Irish legacy of unemployment that had existed on the mainland for years. Fish and small gardens and, for the last twenty years during the summer season, tourism had kept the islanders adequately fed and sheltered. How long the proceeds from last summer would last depended on individual families. It was already December, and the weather was harsh. He guessed it wouldn’t take much longer to run out of whatever surplus they had managed to gather.

  He ducked into the small office at the corner of the harbor and reluctantly picked up the telephone. His evening in Galway with Mollie would have to wait. The searing disappointment shocked him and pointed out disturbing parallels he’d never recognized before. His work was all-consuming, leaving little time for personal relationships. The last few weeks he’d tried balancing his deadlines with caring for the children, with woeful results. Now this catastrophe. If Emma Reddington was sensible, she would spirit the children back to California as fast as she could make the plane reservations.

  Years ago Kerry had accused him of a single-mindedness that shut out all needs but his own. He’d disregarded her criticism, preferring to think it was a rare moment when she’d resented the ties that bound her, irrevocably, to the island.

  First he dialed his own number. No answer. Next he tried Mollie’s cottage. Emma picked up the phone. Even with her American accent she sounded enough like her daughter to jar him momentarily. He asked to speak with Mollie.

  Her voice, low-pitched, lovely, competent, steadied him. “How is everything?” she asked immediately.

  He sighed. “Not good. The water is polluted for sixty miles. Fishing is completely restricted.”

  She gasped. “What will we do?”

  We. She’d said we. It warmed him. “I’m not sure yet. I’m waiting for answers.”

  “It’s all over the news. Transom has fired the captain. It looks as if they’re allocating money for the cleanup.”

  “That won’t help the fish, Mollie. The obvious oil deposits on the beaches will be cleaned up relatively quickly, but in the water the oil will sink, float again to the surface, and be re-deposited over and over. It will break up into patches of mousse instead of staying in a continuous slick which is easier to skim or burn. All marine animals, including fish, will be loaded with hydrocarbons. The most toxic and volatile compounds will disappear into the air in the first few weeks, but what’s left won’t be edible for human consumption for years to come.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “This is a nightmare.”

  “I agree.”

  “Wha
t can I do?”

  “Take care of the children.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Thank you, lass. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” She laughed, and for that small immeasurable instant his spirits lifted.

  “I’m counting on it,” she said.

  He was still smiling when he replaced the receiver.

  CHAPTER 15

  “What in heaven’s name has gotten into you, Mollie? I’ve never seen you like this.” Emma, her lips pursed in disapproval, stood at the entrance to the small storm room off the kitchen.

  Mollie continued wrapping the muffler around her neck. “Like what?”

  “You’re being defiant.”

  Mollie struggled for patience. “Mabry O’Farrell is the closest thing to a doctor we’ve got,” she explained for the third time.

  “No one here needs a doctor. I know chicken pox when I see them.”

  “You haven’t seen them all that often.”

  “Twice is enough to know. Danny had them, and you had them.”

  “None of the other children in school has chicken pox.”

  Emma sighed. “Someone has to get them first.”

  Mollie buttoned her coat and pulled on her gloves. “Then you won’t mind Mabry confirming your opinion.”

  Emma’s face was mutinous. “I don’t think her diagnosis would be particularly valid, Mollie. She has no medical training.”

  Mollie fixed her attention on her mother. “You really don’t like her, do you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Why not?”

  Emma shrugged. “She was hardly welcoming when I first came here.”

  “But she delivered Danny and me.”

  “Only because I couldn’t get to the hospital.”

  Mollie hugged her mother tightly. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.” She stepped back and reached for her hat. “Do what you can to keep the kids comfortable. You’re good at that.”

  Emma smiled half-heartedly. “What shall I tell Sean when he calls?”

  “Tell him you think the children have chicken pox and that I’ve gone to get Mabry to be sure.”

  “I’m not looking forward to this, Mollie.”

  “I don’t blame you.” She opened the door. A blast of cold air hit her full force. She gasped, lowered her chin into the muffler, and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “So, this is December in Ireland.”

  “It’s December on Inishmore,” said her mother dryly, “and, according to the weather reports, eighty degrees in California.”

  Mollie looked back over her shoulder. “Do you want to go home?”

  The question hung there between them for a full minute. “Of course not,” Emma said at last.

  “Good,” Mollie replied deliberately, “because we really need you here.”

  Her answer disturbed Emma. Later, after she’d bathed the girls in corn starch and tepid water, dabbed calamine lotion on their spots, and fed them chicken soup and Jello, after Marni, the last holdout, had succumbed to a restless sleep, she realized what it was that bothered her. Mollie had said we as if she had aligned herself with the islanders.

  Mabry O’Farrell leaned over the twin bed where Caili slept and felt her forehead with the back of her hand. Holding the lamp so that the child was shielded from the light, she carefully lifted one eyelid and then the other before sliding her fingers down the small neck to settle at the pulse point at the base of her throat.

  Mollie wondered what Caili, harboring more than her share of imagination, would think if she woke up to see this black-garbed woman with her flowing hair and strange, all-seeing eyes bent over her.

  Mabry straightened to her full height, held her finger against her lips, and beckoned Mollie to follow her out of the room. “Emma’s right,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Tis the pox.”

  “Chicken pox?”

  “Aye. Your mother’s seen it before. She’ll know what to do. Have you told Sean?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’ll need to know, lass.”

  Mollie leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. “I don’t think I can,” she whispered.

  “Why not?”

  “How much more can he take?”

  Mabry lifted her chin. “A great deal more than you imagine. Sean is an O’Malley. He isn’t one to give up when times are hard. Survival has never been easy on the Arans, Mollie. Those who stay here have adapted to a way of life that seems harsher than most, but it has its own kind of reward, and we take our pleasure in it when we can.”

  “A terrible beauty.”

  “You’re not the only one who can quote Yeats, lass. Remember that, and don’t underestimate Sean. He’ll come through and be stronger for it.” The harshness left her mouth, and she smiled. “He’ll know soon enough without your saying a word. Why not offer him a meal and a pot of tea first?”

  “I have to teach tomorrow.”

  “How long until Christmas holiday?”

  “Three days.”

  Mabry frowned. “Surely your mother will help. I haven’t seen her. Is she here?”

  “She’s tired,” Mollie lied.

  The old woman’s eyebrow lifted. “More likely she wants no part of me. Emma took a dislike to me from the beginning.”

  Mollie refused to gossip about her mother. “Thank you for coming. Would you like a cup of tea or a snack before you leave?”

  “Thank you, lass, but no. There will be others needing comfort after the news they’ve had today.” She turned and headed for the door.

  “Mabry.” Mollie couldn’t help herself. She had to know. “Do you—that is, can you tell—” She stopped. It was too ridiculous.

  Mabry smiled. “When you find your voice, Mollie Tierney, you know where to find me. Perhaps one of these days, when the chicken pox have vanished and things are settled, you’ll have time to stop in for a bite to eat and a bit of conversation.”

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “Aye, lass. I know. But it doesn’t take a genius or a witch for that. You’ve the face of a flower, so open and clearly marked that anyone who looks can see what’s there. When you’re ready, come and ask your question, if you’re ready for the answer.”

  Mollie peeked into her mother’s room. Emma was reading in bed, her hair pulled up in a ponytail, granny glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked much younger than her fifty-six years. “You were right,” Mollie said. “It’s chicken pox.”

  Carefully, Emma placed the bookmark in her book, closed it, and removed her glasses. “Is she gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Everyone’s asleep.”

  “They’ll be restless tonight, and you have school tomorrow. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll listen for them if they need me.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate this.”

  “Mollie—” Emma hesitated.

  Mollie sat down on the side of the bed. “What is it?”

  She searched her daughter’s face. Mollie looked back at her steadily, honestly. The years had taught Emma wisdom. She rested her hand against the smooth young cheek. “You’re comfortable here, aren’t you, Mollie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Inishmore can be very appealing in the beginning.”

  Mollie leaned back on the bed, propping herself up on her elbows. “What happened here, Mom? Why didn’t you stay?”

  Choosing her words carefully, Emma attempted to explain what she had never really put into words, not even in her most intense therapy sessions. “I’ve asked myself that question for years.”

  “And?”

  “I was lonely, Mollie, desperately lonely. There wasn’t a single person on this island I called my friend. I couldn’t talk to anyone. The thought of spending my life in solitary confinement sent me over the edge.” She wet her lips and confessed the shame she had thought to keep from her daughter. “I couldn’t cope. I’d never felt that way before.”

  “What about my
father? Couldn’t he help you?”

  Emma leaned her head back against the pillow. “Patrick was the last person I could turn to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he loved me. Because I felt so desperately sorry for the way I deceived him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was a naive young girl when I came to Inishmore, and Patrick was the handsomest man I’d ever seen. Quite simply, I was seduced by our differences, that and a pair of blue eyes and a way of turning a phrase that was irresistible to women far more experienced than I was. I didn’t look beyond that. Lord knows what he saw in me. Probably the same thing. I was an American beauty, pretty enough and different, less traditional than the women he knew. We were intrigued by each other. But it didn’t last.”

  “Did he feel the same way?”

  Emma shook her head. “Everything agreed with him quite well. We were in his world. For him nothing had changed except he had a wife and two children waiting at home. He had his friends, his family, the comfort of a way of life he’d grown up with. When I left, I broke his heart.”

  “Was that the only way, Mom? Couldn’t you have tried to make it work?”

  “Oh, Mollie.” Emma sighed. “I wish I could have given you an intact family. But sometimes the loudest silences in a marriage are those where everything’s already been said. Sometimes the arguing becomes so frequent that it’s the condition instead of the exception, and there’s nothing left to do but retreat to different corners and pray there won’t be a rematch.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought the friends and family part would have bothered you.”

  A tiny smile quivered at the corner of Emma’s lips. “Why is that?”

  “You aren’t exactly the social type. I don’t remember your having many friends apart from Dad.”

  “Everything changed after I came home from Ireland. I’d lost Danny. I couldn’t think of anything else. My parents were older. My father wasn’t in the best of health, and my mother had her hands full caring for him. I fell into a severe clinical depression. Then I met Ward.” She smiled tremulously at her daughter. “He saved my life, and we married. Everything came together after that. That was when I tried to bring Danny to California. But Patrick wouldn’t consider it. I can’t blame him, after the way I left.