One
“She’s left me, Dad.”
During the
worst times of my life, I’ve been silent, unable to utter a word. Which, given
my reputation for being good with the talk, makes no sense, really.
As a lad, my
skill with schoolboy recitations won me high marks, even a prize or two. And
halfway into my teens, Mam was dead keen on my taking holy orders. “You’d make
a grand priest, Frankie,” she’d say, “giving homilies that would make the angels
lean down from heaven to listen.” Once I became a schoolmaster—I’d chosen
teaching as a way I could inspire others without the enforced celibacy of the priesthood—my
lessons could interest the most recalcitrant pupils. But now, as my only child
tells me his wife of twelve years and the mother of his children has done a
runner, I was unable to offer even a bit of comfort.
It was dusk.
Declan and I sat outside, on the steps of St. MacDara’s church, a stone’s throw
from the parish hall where my retirement party was in full swing. Here I’d such
big plans once I was free of the schoolroom, but suddenly, I’d no stomach for
celebrating. I heard the hum of voices, the occasional hoot of laughter, but trapped
in appalled silence, I felt my throat close with pity.
“Or perhaps
I should say, she’s left us.” His
dark head bowed, Declan rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped so
tightly his knuckles shone white.
“When?” I
finally choked out.
Declan drew
a ragged breath, then looked sideways at me. “Does it matter?” He moved his
broad shoulders in a tiny, defeated shrug. “Two days ago. A lifetime.”
“It’s not
just another trip? Another project?” Declan’s wife, Suzanne, was a documentary
filmmaker, always leaving the country to chronicle people living a desperate,
hardscrabble existence elsewhere on the planet. I always thought that the woman
could stay right here in Ireland
“No, Dad. Suzanne
made it clear she won’t be coming back. Except to visit the kids.”
Big of her,
I’m sure, I wanted to say, especially with little Ava only four years of age. But
I kept my mouth shut, as I’d always done where my daughter-in-law was
concerned. My boy hardly needed me sticking my oar in, even if he was as
dutiful a son as he was a husband. After all, he’d come all the way from America
I bestirred
myself, and managed to reach out to give his knotted hands a brief squeeze. “You’ve
told your mother, then?” Declan shrugged again. I took that as a yes. “What’s
she got to say about it?” I tried to sound casual.
“Oh, you
know Mam. You can tell her your troubles all you like, and she says all the
right things. But you sense she hasn’t any notion of what you’re going through.”
Actually, I
didn’t really know Maeve. I often felt I’d no idea what made my wife tick, even
though I’d spent the last forty years of my life sleeping next to her. Forty
years of having conversations with her when I was certain she was somewhere
else entirely. Somewhere more interesting, no doubt. Perhaps keeping herself to herself was only
Maeve’s way, but her detachment strengthened my need to help Declan if I could.
“Anyway,”
Declan appeared to pry his hands apart. “I’ve already said goodbye to Mam and
the rest, so I’m off—got to tuck up Nuala and Ava back at the house. Nuala does
far too much child-minding already, all the evenings I’ve had to work late.”
Sure, Suzanne’s
leaving explained why Nuala, my elder granddaughter, had seemed so subdued when
I picked the three of them up at Shannon
Airport Seattle
“Actually, I’ve asked for a leave of absence,
so I can be with the girls while the dust settles. My contract was nearly up
anyway. And there’s lot to sort out.” His voice was weary. “You know, the house
and the kids’ visitation, the other legalities.”
“No chance
to make things right? With Suzanne, I mean.”
“When was it
ever right, Dad?”
In another
man, you’d hear bitterness in his voice. But Declan? He was a great one for
just…accepting.
“Why not
stay here for a bit, son?” The vague retirement plans I’d entertained suddenly
seemed filled with promise. “In fact, stay the whole summer.”
Declan
didn’t speak for a moment. “That’s a generous offer, Dad, but I don’t think
so.”
“I can help
look after the kids.”
“I wouldn’t
want to impose—”
“Impose! I’d
love it. And I’ve some projects round the house I could use your help with. Come
on then.”
I saw Declan’s
shoulders shift a bit, as if a weight had already been lifted from them. “But
Mam…”
We both knew
his mother wasn’t likely to go for all the commotion a pair of kids would
bring. “I’ll sort things with your mam,”
I said confidently, though I felt anything but.
“No worries
Dad, I’ll talk to her.”
I’d always
had a way of wanting to protect Declan from the world. I suppose because it had
never occurred to Maeve to do it. “Really, son, I could put in a good word—”
“I am a grown man, Dad,” Declan said wryly.
“I’ll ask her myself.”
“Right,” I said with phony heartiness. “Maybe
I’ll make myself scarce tomorrow—hit the links first thing, while you and your
mam make the arrangements for a longer stay.” And if Maeve turned him down, I
wouldn’t have to witness it. “The village is putting on their traditional bonfire
tomorrow evening—you’ll tell the girls their granddad will take them round
after supper?”
“That’d be
great, Dad. I was hoping to give it a pass—still feeling a bit jet-lagged.” As
Declan stood up slowly—as if he was the one in his sixties, instead of me—he
pressed my shoulder. Whether the touch was in gratitude, or he only needed to
steady himself, I didn’t know.
I ached with
wanting to embrace my boy, but I hadn’t so much as given him a kiss since he
was Nuala’s age. As I watched him walk away from the parish hall and down the
lane toward the house he’d grown up in, I could feel my heart crack, with love and
grief for him. And with the aching regret I couldn’t spare him his pain, and
take it upon myself.
* * *
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