1972 (13 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
In marked contrast to Bella's polished style was the little girl at her side. Her dark brown curls looked as if they had never
been combed. She wore grubby jeans with torn knees, and scuffed penny loafers on otherwise bare feet. Dead-level eyebrows gave her childish face a strange fierceness.
been combed. She wore grubby jeans with torn knees, and scuffed penny loafers on otherwise bare feet. Dead-level eyebrows gave her childish face a strange fierceness.
Isabella Kavanagh greeted the Hallorans with the exact degree of warmth she deemed appropriate for meeting strangers. Then she put one hand in the small of the child's back and urged her forward. “This is my daughter Barbara. Say hello to the Hallorans, dear.”
Barbara kept her mouth firmly closed. Her hazel eyes were hostile.
“She's only ten,” Isabella apologised. “You know how they are at that age.”
“I never had a ten-year-old daughter,” said Ursula.
“I'm sure a son is equally difficult.”
“Barry wasn't.”
“Oh. Well ⦠I mean ⦠let's get your suitcases, then we'll go to the house. I have Dad's car outside.”
The car waiting for them in the parking area was a gleaming four-door Chrysler sedan, larger than anyone drove in Ireland. “Ursula, you sit in front with me so we can get acquainted,” Isabella directed. “The children can ride in the back.”
Children!
Barry made a great show of folding his lanky frame and long legs into the rear of the sedan. The car was stifling inside. Texas in October was hotter than summer in Ireland.
Barry made a great show of folding his lanky frame and long legs into the rear of the sedan. The car was stifling inside. Texas in October was hotter than summer in Ireland.
Before turning the key in the ignition, Isabella Kavanagh adjusted the rearview mirror to check her appearance. She blotted beads of perspiration from her upper lip with a lace-trimmed handkerchief that bore her mother's monogram:
ERM.
“I'll switch on the air conditioner in a few minutes,” she assured her passengers. “The motor has to run for a while first.”
ERM.
“I'll switch on the air conditioner in a few minutes,” she assured her passengers. “The motor has to run for a while first.”
Air conditioner?
The big car drove away from the airport with a self-satisfied hum and turned onto a road signposted MOCKINGBIRD LANE. The road bore no resemblance to any country lane Barry knew. Instead of being green, the fields on either side were an unrelieved shade of tan. No stone walls, no hedgerows. Just a flat expanse traversed by incredibly wide, impossibly smooth pavement beneath an unbelievably vast sky. Cloudless prairie sky with the blue baked out of it. In spite of the lateness of the hour,
heat mirages shimmered on the road like pools of water, vanishing as the car drew near.
heat mirages shimmered on the road like pools of water, vanishing as the car drew near.
Barry leaned forward. “Ursula? Did you bring your camera?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “It's in my suitcase.” Turning back to Henry's daughter, she said, “I remember you as a tiny girl, Bella, when your parents still lived in Dublin.”
“Isabella, please. I detest nicknames of any sort. And I'm afraid I don't remember you. My father certainly did, though; he talked about you all the time.”
As they drew nearer Dallas, country fields gave way to suburban neighbourhoods. In the larger towns of Ireland identical terraced houses huddled against one another, sharing common walls. American houses were individual in design, each standing free on its own rectangle of lawn.
Architecture expresses the character of the people,
Barry thought, feeling a sense of discovery.
Architecture expresses the character of the people,
Barry thought, feeling a sense of discovery.
Barbara bent forward to claw at her bare ankles. “I hate chiggers.” Her voice was surprisingly deep for such a small girl.
“What are chiggers?” Barry asked.
“Bugs, of course. Teeny weeny red bugs that hide in the grass and jump on you. They're so little you can't see'em, but they drive you crazy. Don't you have chiggers in Ireland?”
“I think not.”
“You talk funny. Is that supposed to be an Irish accent?”
“It is an Irish accent.”
“What's it like to live in a thatched cottage?”
“I don't live in a thatched cottage.”
“You're a liar. Everybody in Ireland lives in thatched cottages because they're so poor.”
The child was bringing out the worst in Barry. “We're not poor, we're wealthy,” he claimed. “We have a fine farm and a big house with eight rooms.”
Counting the scullery, that is.
Counting the scullery, that is.
“Hunh.” The hazel eyes were derisive. “If you're wealthy you can't be Irish. My grandfather was wealthy but he had to come to America to get that way. Is that what you're going to do?”
Barry leaned forward again. “Ursula ⦔
“I heard.” Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.
The Chrysler's air-conditioning was beginning to take effect, producing a metallic smell and a clammy chill.
The houses they were passing grew visibly more prosperous.
Larger, more lavish, and all with garages.
Does everyone here own an automobile?
Larger, more lavish, and all with garages.
Does everyone here own an automobile?
Like a tour guide, Isabella directed her passengers' attention to points of interest. “This is Highland Park, one of our better neighbourhoods. I had a number of friends here when I was a girl.” A little farther on: “There's Southern Methodist University, where Hank took her degree.”
“Did you go there too?” Barry asked.
“I got married,” she replied stiffly.
When she gestured toward a modernistic building that she identified as the Dr Pepper Bottling Plant, Barry resisted the temptation to ask why anyone would put a doctor in a bottle.
They turned right onto Greenville Avenue, which took them past clusters of shops and more residential neighbourhoods. A velvet dusk falling. Street lights coming on. Barbara an uncomfortable presence beside Barry. Even his boundless energy was fading. His head nodded; jerked upright as the Chrysler turned again and yet again, eventually coming into a street lined with sycamore trees. Dark green in an increasing darkness.
“Here we are,” Isabella announced. She braked in front of a symmetrically proportioned timber house framed by shrubbery. The steeply pitched roof extended to cover a columned porch across the front of the house. Someone had turned on the porch lights, casting a welcoming glow on cream-coloured walls.
“Mother wanted the house painted white like Mount Vernon, which would have been lovely,” Isabella said, “but Dad said white wouldn't go with the Prairie Style. It's one of the few times he ever refused
her
anything.”
her
anything.”
“Mount Vernon was George Washington's house,” Barbara piped up.
“I knew that,” said Barry.
“How? I'll bet you don't know anything about America.”
“I do so. Your grandfather givesâI mean gaveâmy mother a subscription to
Time
magazine every Christmas.”
Time
magazine every Christmas.”
“Hunh.” The child's tone implied that nothing Barry might say could possibly impress her.
A statuesque woman with skin the colour of mahogany came out onto the porch to meet them. “They been a lot of phone calls, Miz Kavanagh.”
“Any from my sister?”
“Yes'm. She's still in Denver. They was some kind of mix-up about their flight but she thinks they'll be here late tonight. Probl'y. She says they'll take a cab from Love Field, but they'll phone you if they can't get one.”
“Trust Hank to be disorganised,” Isabella said. “She'd better find a cab, I'm not making that drive again. Bring the luggage inside, Pearl, and put it in their rooms.”
Pearl gave a nod and started toward the car. Barry hurried to help her.
“There's no need,” Isabella called after him. “That's what servants are for.”
He went anyway.
Pearl rewarded him with a smile. A gold tooth glinted startlingly in the light from the porch and Barry realised that she was, in her own way, beautiful. “Miz Kavanagh won't like guests he'pin',” she said.
“My mother won't like it if I don't.”
The smile broadened. “Yessir, Mist' Halloran.”
It was the first time anyone had called him that.
Isabella ushered them into what she called the “living room.” “I've told Opal to bring refreshments in here while Pearl unpacks for you.”
“I had rather go straight to my room, if you don't mind,” said Ursula. Her voice was hoarse with fatigue. “I really am ⦔
“Nonsense, you'll feel much better after a cold drink. Just make yourselves comfortable. Where is that girl? Opal! We're waiting!”
Too weary to argue, Ursula settled onto a couch. Barry was tempted by a cushiony armchair. It was like falling into a bog hole. He struggled out of the depths to perch warily on the edge.
A child could sit down in this and disappear forever.
He glanced hopefully toward Barbara, but she had flopped down on her stomach on the carpeted floor.
A child could sit down in this and disappear forever.
He glanced hopefully toward Barbara, but she had flopped down on her stomach on the carpeted floor.
Prominently displayed against one wall was a cabinet with a panel of glass in the centre like the eye of a Cyclops. The room's seating was arranged to accommodate worshippers before an altar.
Barry was about to go over and take a closer look at the Cyclops when a short, plump woman entered the room, carrying tall glasses on a silver tray. Her skin was the same shade as the creamy brown beverage in the glasses.
Isabella said, “I do think iced coffee is so cooling, don't you?”
What the hell is iced coffee?
One swallow convinced Barry that Americans were mad. The drink was sickeningly sweet and so cold it paralysed his throat. Ursula, who must, he thought, be made of sterner stuff, sipped hers and politely said it was delicious.
Don't often catch her in a lie. She must really be tired.
Isabella gestured toward the silent Cyclops. “Dad had the first colour TV in the neighbourhood, you know.
The Dinah Shore Chevy Show
is going to be on in a few minutes, would you like to watch it?”
The Dinah Shore Chevy Show
is going to be on in a few minutes, would you like to watch it?”
Barry had never seen a television programme; television was not yet available in the west of Ireland, although the owners of sets in Dublin were able to pick up BBC broadcasts from Belfast.
1
Barry had no idea what a Dinah Shore Chevy was. He longed to say yes, but a glance at Ursula's wan face dissuaded him. “I think we'd best make an early night of it, Isabella.” To emphasise the point, he stood up and offered his hand to Ursula, though he was sure his mother could stand on her own.
1
Barry had no idea what a Dinah Shore Chevy was. He longed to say yes, but a glance at Ursula's wan face dissuaded him. “I think we'd best make an early night of it, Isabella.” To emphasise the point, he stood up and offered his hand to Ursula, though he was sure his mother could stand on her own.
Barbara crowed, “Mommy lets me stay up as long as I want to!”
When he wished Ursula good night at the door to her room, Barry remarked, “That's the most disagreeable child I ever saw.”
“She's very like her mother, I suspect. Bella was a handful even as a toddler.”
I
SABELLA Kavanagh sat in front of her dressing table, removing her makeup with cold cream. “So that's the famous Ursula Halloran,” she said to the image in the glass. “What's so special about her? She's not even pretty, but Dad thought she hung the sun and moon. I could never live up to her no matter how hard I tried.”
SABELLA Kavanagh sat in front of her dressing table, removing her makeup with cold cream. “So that's the famous Ursula Halloran,” she said to the image in the glass. “What's so special about her? She's not even pretty, but Dad thought she hung the sun and moon. I could never live up to her no matter how hard I tried.”
And she had tried. After years of listening to stories of Ursula's daring exploits as an Irish republican, Isabella had married an Irish American with republican credentials himself. She had feigned interest in the tangled politics discussed night after night in her living room, she had turned a blind eye to men who came to the back door and whispered urgently to Michael but
would not step into the light, she had endured frequent raids on their slender resources to help fund “the cause.”
would not step into the light, she had endured frequent raids on their slender resources to help fund “the cause.”
None of it had done her any good. Michael was dead and the bank account was empty and she had come home with her tail between her legs, only to find her father a shell of a man, his heart in the grave with his wife.
The dark eyes in the mirror burned with resentment. Isabella regretted the impulse that had caused her to telephone Ursula. It would have been easier and much less painful simply to send a copy of the obituary. But then she would never have met her rival for her father's affections.
W
HEN Barry and Ursula entered the dining room for breakfast the next morning, they found Hank and her husband already there.
HEN Barry and Ursula entered the dining room for breakfast the next morning, they found Hank and her husband already there.
Henrietta Mooney Rice was a solid little woman, casually dressed, as genuine as her sister was artificial. At the sight of Ursula her whole face lit up. “You must be Little Business! Come here and let me hug you. You know, I've always felt as if we were sisters.”
“I suppose I did too, Hank. Henry was like a second father to me, and I owe Ella a debt I can never repay.”
“We've just finished our breakfast but I'm dying to get to know you better. We'll sit with you and have some more coffee.”
John Rice, Hank's husband, was an amiable man who spoke with a slow drawl. While Opal served the Hallorans a daunting meal of ham and eggs, buttermilk biscuits and red-eye gravy and
gritsâGrits?â
John and Barry found a common interest in sports. Barry was explaining the rules of hurling when Isabella entered the room. “John, I need you to go to with me to see the funeral director about some last-minute details. You don't mind if I borrow your husband, Hank?” Without waiting
for an answer, she clamped a hand on John Rice's arm and drew him away.
gritsâGrits?â
John and Barry found a common interest in sports. Barry was explaining the rules of hurling when Isabella entered the room. “John, I need you to go to with me to see the funeral director about some last-minute details. You don't mind if I borrow your husband, Hank?” Without waiting
for an answer, she clamped a hand on John Rice's arm and drew him away.
The American way of death was alien to Barry. There was no removal of the remains, no Requiem Mass, no cortege following the coffin on foot for the last journey to the cemetery. Death was tidied away out of sight. Friends and family had no glimpse of the deceased until they arrived at the “funeral home.” There, amidst a refrigerated hush and the overwhelming pungency of lilies, a waxen figure lay in a bronze coffin lined with white satin. The lid was open.
Ursula took one quick look and turned away. Barry noticed that her hands were trembling. He put his arm around her shoulders, something he had never done before.
After the funeral a large crowd gathered in the Mooney house. The living room was banked with flowers but there was no wake. No music, no drink except for coffee, no baked meats. Opal served cold sandwiches and sponge cake stacked in layers with filling between. Aside from a few words of sympathy to the family upon arrival, the guests talked about themselves and one another.
Only Hank and Ursula gave any outward appearance of grieving. Hank's eyes repeatedly filled with tearsâ“I'm puddling up again,” she would say apologetically. Ursula, though dry-eyed, looked so heartbroken that several of Henry's business acquaintances mistook her for Isabella.
Barry stationed himself behind her chair, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. Offering her the silent comfort of his presence.
Eventually someone recalled that Henry Mooney had been born in Ireland. A sweet-faced woman gushed, “Oh, we know all about Ireland, we saw
The Quiet Man.
You certainly come from a wonderful place, Mrs. Halloran. Everyone is so happy-go-lucky.”
The Quiet Man.
You certainly come from a wonderful place, Mrs. Halloran. Everyone is so happy-go-lucky.”
A stout man with a strident voice disagreed. “You don't know zip, Thelma. There's war between the Catholics and the Protestants over there. Always has been, always will be.”
Isabella spoke up. “Please don't, no one's interested anyway. The whole thing is so boring. My husband Michael called himself a republican but I ⦔
“You're a republican too, Mommy,” Barbara insisted. “You voted for Eisenhower and Nixon.”
“Don't interrupt, dear,” said Isabella. A reprimand issued a dozen times a day, and as frequently ignored.
The man with the loud voice turned to Barry. “You're from over there, right? So you tell me. Why don't you guys stop fighting? Shake hands and be friends, that's what we'd do.”
Barry slowly unfolded his arms and straightened up. Through some invisible chemistry he drew all eyes toward him. “After we won our War of Independence in 1921, Britain coerced us into signing a treaty that left six counties of Ireland under British rule,” he said quietly. “Would the Americans have stopped fighting if the British had insisted on keeping New England after 1776?”
“That's different.”
“Tell me how.”
“It just is, that's all.”
“Because this is America?” Barry asked politely.
“Well, yeah.”
“Where do you get your information about Ireland?” Barry enquired. Still very polite.
“From TV and the newspapers, of course.”
“Do they give much coverage to events over there?”
“Yeah, sure. I mean, when anything does happen, which isn't often. The Old World's as dead as a doornail if you ask me. But back in ⦠February, I think it was; no, January ⦠anyway,
The Dallas Morning News
reported on some IRA gangsters running amok in the north. They murdered a bunch of policemen in cold blood just for being Protestants.”
The Dallas Morning News
reported on some IRA gangsters running amok in the north. They murdered a bunch of policemen in cold blood just for being Protestants.”
“Gangsters. Cold blood.” Barry's voice dropped lower. Became deadly soft. Ursula turned in her seat to give him a warning look. “Where did they get that story?” he asked.
“From the
London Times,
I guess.”
London Times,
I guess.”
“And you think it was an accurate picture, do you?”
The loud man was starting to sweat. Something about Barry made him nervous. “Yeah, sure. Ted Dealey wouldn't print anything in
The News
that wasn't true.”
The News
that wasn't true.”
Ursula reached out and caught her son by the wrist. “I'm very tired, Barry. Would you take me to my room, please?”
He hesitated. She tightened her grip. “Now, please.”
As soon as they were out of earshot Ursula hissed, “We are guests in this house and this country, and I expect you to behave accordingly. You won't do the cause any good by starting an argument.”
“But ⦔
“Listen here to me, Barry, and remember what I say: All the words in the world won't change a closed mind.”
Long after he had gone to bed Barry could still hear the selfrighteous voice braying condemnation.
Is that what the Americans think of the IRA? That we're gangsters and murderers? Why should we care what theyâor anyoneâthink of us? We have right on our side.
Is that what the Americans think of the IRA? That we're gangsters and murderers? Why should we care what theyâor anyoneâthink of us? We have right on our side.
That night Henry's daughters squabbled about the wording for his tombstone. It was the sort of family quarrel which made witnesses uncomfortable, so Ursula and Barry went outside to sit in the porch swing. A swing for honeysuckle-scented summer days. However, the autumn night was as warm as a summer day in Ireland, and the sky was emblazoned with the same stars. Here they were in a different configuration, but they were the same stars.
Ursula remarked, “I think a person should have only one wordâaside from his name and datesâon his tombstone.”
“What word?” Barry asked.
“The one that describes him best.”
“What word for Henry, then?”
She thought for a moment. “Staunch.”
The following morning Barry borrowed his mother's old Eastman Kodak and wandered around the neighbourhood taking pictures. Not of people, of houses. He was fascinated by the architectural details that made Texas so different from Ireland. Houses were built of brick or timber, with shingle roofs instead of slate. Deep porches sheltered the interiors from the glare of the sun. Sash windows set flush with the façade could be opened at top and bottom to facilitate the free circulation of air.
They would let the rain in,
Barry thought,
if it rains very much here. It doesn't look like it, though.
They would let the rain in,
Barry thought,
if it rains very much here. It doesn't look like it, though.
Several times he went up to a house to take a closer look, noticing the small details. Observing the way they contributed to the whole.
H
AD this been Ireland, Henry's family would have observed mourning for months. In America, life reasserted itself rapidly. Isabella proudly announced that she had a full week's programme of entertainment planned for the Hallorans, including a tour of Dallas, a visit to the world famous Mesquite Rodeo, a sailboat ride on White Rock Lake, and dinner in an authentic Mexican restaurant. They would also go shopping in a world-famous department store called Neiman-Marcus, and take a trip to the neighbouring city of Fort Worth for barbecue at the world-famous Big Apple Restaurant.
AD this been Ireland, Henry's family would have observed mourning for months. In America, life reasserted itself rapidly. Isabella proudly announced that she had a full week's programme of entertainment planned for the Hallorans, including a tour of Dallas, a visit to the world famous Mesquite Rodeo, a sailboat ride on White Rock Lake, and dinner in an authentic Mexican restaurant. They would also go shopping in a world-famous department store called Neiman-Marcus, and take a trip to the neighbouring city of Fort Worth for barbecue at the world-famous Big Apple Restaurant.
How can anything be world famous if we've never heard of it in Ireland?
Ursula demurred at Isabella's plan. “We only came for the funeral, this isn't meant to be a pleasure trip.”
“Then I don't suppose you'd like to go to the symphony tomorrow afternoon either.” Isabella sounded surprisingly relieved. “My mother was on the committee that brought Antal Dorati to Dallas, you know. He's a famous Polish conductor,” she added patronisingly.
The steel returned to Ursula's spine. With one of the dazzling smiles she rarely displayed, she said, “We would love to go, Bella. That's too good an opportunity to miss, even though Dorati's not there anymore. He's conducting the Minneapolis Symphony now. And I think you'll find he was born in Hungary, not Poland.”
Isabella's nonplussed expression delighted Hank. “Let's all go!” she cried. “We can take Barbara the way Muddie and Pop-Pop used to take us.” She rolled mischievous eyes toward her sister. “You'd like that, wouldn't you, Bella?”
Isabella's father had often remarked upon how much Little Business loved classical music. As a result, Isabella loathed all forms of classical music. Now she could not think of an excuse for avoiding the symphony that did not sound as if she were denying her daughter access to culture.
“How nice,” she said faintly.
Later Barry remarked to his mother, “That little girl has no more interest in the symphony than a pig does in politics. When I asked her if she likes music she said she loves Chuck Berry.
She'll be bored to death, Ursula, and spoil it for the rest of us.”
She'll be bored to death, Ursula, and spoil it for the rest of us.”
“You can put up with her for a little while longer, surely,” Ursula said. “It's almost time for us to go home.”
“Already?” Barry made no effort to hide his disappointment. “It seems like we just got here.”
T
HE Dallas Symphony Orchestra was housed on the grounds of the State Fair of Texas, the largest of its kind in the country.
World famous, I'm sure,
Barry thought. As soon as they entered the gates Barbara begged her mother to let her ride the double Ferris wheel and the roller coaster, whose giant skeletons towered over the landscape.
HE Dallas Symphony Orchestra was housed on the grounds of the State Fair of Texas, the largest of its kind in the country.
World famous, I'm sure,
Barry thought. As soon as they entered the gates Barbara begged her mother to let her ride the double Ferris wheel and the roller coaster, whose giant skeletons towered over the landscape.
“Not now, we're going to the symphony,” Isabella said.
Barry would have liked to try the rides himself but he was one of the adults now, so he said nothing. However, Barbara would not let the subject drop. “I don't want to go to a stupid old symphony, I want to ride the rides!”
People were starting to look at them. “Not
now
, dear,” Isabella reiterated. She threw an unfocussed, embarrassed smile in the general direction of the bystanders.
now
, dear,” Isabella reiterated. She threw an unfocussed, embarrassed smile in the general direction of the bystanders.
“Tomorrow, then. Let's come back tomorrow.”
“We can't, tomorrow's for the coloureds.”
“Coloureds?” Barry was puzzled. “Coloured whats?”
“Why, the darkies, of course.” Isabella lowered her voice. “The nig ⦠Negroes. They aren't allowed to attend the fair except on one certain day, and of course the rest of us don't go then.”
Barry noticed a public drinking fountain nearby. Two drinking fountains. One bore a sign saying WHITE, and the other, COLORED.
Hank Rice saw the shocked expression on his face. “That's the way it is here,” she told him. “In the south, at least.”
“That's the way things are in Northern Ireland,” he replied. “Except for âcolored' you could substitute âCatholic.'”
It was her turn to look shocked.
Barbara complained all the way to the auditorium, where, to his chagrin, she was seated beside Barry. As the orchestra began tuning up she started to squirm, playing with her hair, fanning herself with her programme, and turning around to stare rudely at the people in the row behind her. Eventually the conductor
arrived to a round of applause. The house lights dimmed. Hushed anticipation gave way to the eerie opening bars of Debussy's
Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.
arrived to a round of applause. The house lights dimmed. Hushed anticipation gave way to the eerie opening bars of Debussy's
Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.
Barbara stopped wriggling in her seat. Barry glanced at her in time to see a rapt expression spread across her face. She sat bolt upright without saying a word, though occasionally she gave a sharp intake of breath. The orchestra followed Debussy with Berlioz's
Symphonie Fantastique.
By the time the programme concluded with the thunderous final chords of Ravel's
Bolero,
Barbara was lost in a world she had never dreamed existed.
Symphonie Fantastique.
By the time the programme concluded with the thunderous final chords of Ravel's
Bolero,
Barbara was lost in a world she had never dreamed existed.
Barry was so engrossed in watching her reactions that he hardly heard the music himself.
W
HEN they returned to the Mooney house afterwards, Barry went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He took the opportunity to strike up a conversation with Pearl and Opal. Diffident at first, they could not long resist his engaging grin.
HEN they returned to the Mooney house afterwards, Barry went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He took the opportunity to strike up a conversation with Pearl and Opal. Diffident at first, they could not long resist his engaging grin.
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