Buried in a Bog (19 page)

“I never said he used it, did I? He had a soft spot for Jimmy—I think they were related somehow, maybe through his father’s people. Jimmy’s always been a sharp one, looking for a quick deal.”

Maura smiled in spite of herself. “Seems everybody around here is related to everybody else.”

“It’s true, most of the time. You’ve heard of the Potato Famine?”

“Of course, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“This area was hard hit—there’s a mass grave at Abbeystrowry, the other side of Skibbereen, where there were thousands of dead dumped in a pit. Of course, a lot of people left the country—it was better than starving to death. I’d guess it made the ones who survived, and who stayed behind, all the more close. For a while there, it looked as though we might have a chance—that Celtic Tiger business—but we should have known better. We muddle on,
in our own way. I think the Irish expect to be knocked down. We’re used to it. But that’s why we stick together.”

Maura thought about how different the attitude was back home, where it seemed that some people expected the government to create jobs where there were none and hand out money the government didn’t have, just because they felt entitled. She had no patience for that, nor had the people she’d grown up with. They worked, sometimes at more than one job. Like Gran. Maybe the Irish had it right: expect the worst, and be happy about anything better.

“Mick, do you think you could make a go of this place? Once the legal part is settled?”

He shrugged. “We don’t know what will happen. We don’t make much off-season, but it’s enough to keep us going until summer each year. And whoever ends up with it will get a place that’s ready to step into, if that’s what they want.”

“What if that person wants to turn it into a tacky souvenir store selling plastic leprechauns? And why keep it a pub at all, if it makes so little money?”

“The place has a history—remind me to tell you about the days when there was music each week, and people would come for miles to hear the
seisuns
. That was Mick’s doing. It’s fallen off the past few years, but it could happen again.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to see the place just fade away?”

“We’ll see.” He turned away then, and Maura wondered if he felt he’d said too much.

“You know, maybe you could just ship it to Boston—pubs go over real well there. All these wannabe Irish types, pining
for a place they never knew, that probably never existed anyway except in their heads. Green beer and sappy songs after you’ve drunk enough of it.”

“Aren’t you the bitter one? And what’s so wrong about selling this nostalgic Ireland, if it makes people happy?”

“Because it’s a lie, a myth, a fake. Gran left here with nothing, worked hard all her life, and died with nothing plus not much. She didn’t spend time glorifying her days here in Ireland.”

“She had you, did she not? You’re thinking her life would have been better if she’d been born somewhere else, or if she’d stayed on here, after her husband died?”

Maura struggled to put her feelings into words. “No, not that. I just wish that she’d put herself first, fought for something better. She gave so much away that there was nothing left for her or for me. I wish we could have enjoyed the last few years of her life.” She turned away from Mick so he wouldn’t see the tears starting. She must be more upset than she had realized.

Mick’s voice was surprisingly gentle when he answered. “Did you never stop to think that it made her happy to help people? And I wouldn’t say she looked back on her time here as unhappy. Why else did she keep in touch with my grannie?”

“I don’t know!” Maura burst out as she turned back to face him. “She never talked to me about it! Why did she think it had to be a secret? Why didn’t she ever tell me about all this? Why couldn’t she have shared some of the good parts? Told me about family or friends, like your grannie? Or did she hate this place? Was she glad to get away from this place, where with no husband there was no way to
support herself or her child?” If Mick kept on being nice to her, she really was going to lose it.

“Maybe the only way she could handle the regret at leaving was to try to forget,” Mick said, then added gently, “Maura, are you all right? You’ve had a bad few weeks since she died, and a worse day today.”

Maura shut her eyes for a moment.
Damn all these kind people!
She took a deep breath, then looked at him again. “Sorry, you’re right, and I shouldn’t unload it all on you. As for now, like I said before, I’d rather be around people than sit in my room and stew. But thank you for asking.” She changed the subject. “Listen, if you want, I can have a go at that espresso machine, since it’s here.”

“Surely you don’t mean we’ll need to get some of those sissy little cups with handles too small for a man’s fingers?” He smiled.

“Of course not. But if you’re going to offer coffee, it should taste like something other than the roofing tar you’ve got coming out of those pots there.”

“Point taken. It’s all yours.” He paused for a moment. “Maura, there’s something I think you’d like to see. Do you have plans for tomorrow morning?”

Why was he being so mysterious? “Other than visiting your grandmother again, no, not really. You’re not planning to kidnap me, are you? Because that’s the way my luck has been running this week. But then, you know nobody’s about to pay you a ransom for me.”

“You’ve nothing to fear. I’ll be bringing my grannie to town for church, but this is better done early. You’ll understand when you see it. I’ll meet you at the Keohanes’ at, say, eight? I’ll drive.”

She studied him a moment. She’d been joking about the kidnapping thing, but maybe there was just a bit of truth in it. Someone had it in for her, if that incident with the car on the hill wasn’t just a jerk making trouble, and Mick was one of only a handful of people she’d met in Ireland. Not that she could see any reason why he’d want to do her harm. If anything, he seemed to be trying to cheer her up. Well, she couldn’t go around suspecting everyone of a hidden motive, could she? “Fine.”

The door opened and Rose came rushing in, apologizing. “I’m sorry, but Da kept wanting something else like a glass of this or that and a bite to eat, and he looked so pathetic I couldn’t say no. The doctors said he’d be right in a few weeks, and he could do everything but the heavy lifting, but you’d think he was at death’s door to hear him talk.”

“Gran always said that most men are lousy patients—they feel a twinge and they’re convinced they’re dying.” Maura laughed. “And worse, they want you to be sympathetic.” And then there were the women like her gran, who wouldn’t complain about a physical problem until she dropped.

People began trickling into Sullivan’s in ones or twos, and greeted Mick, who they all seemed to know, and nodded to Maura. They joked with Rose, who bantered with them and smiled as she poured their drinks. By six the place was full; there was a constant stream of people, both in and out. There were more women in the crowd now, mostly with husbands or boyfriends. The noise level rose, and so did the temperature in the room, with the smell of damp wool joining the constant background scent of burning peat. Maura circulated around the room and tried to keep what she hoped was a friendly smile on her face as she picked up glasses.
All the while she listened, and the words she picked up most often were “murder,” “death,” “that poor man,” and “awful.” Maura scanned the faces in the crowd. A few already looked familiar from the last few days, presumably regulars. She seemed to be the only tourist there, this time of year. Most people would be local, stopping in for a bit of news and a quick drink before going home.

She saw a middle-aged woman approaching her. “Can you give me a cider, darlin’?”

“Magners?” Maura asked.

“Grand. So, you’re the American?”

“I am, from Boston. But my grandmother was born around here.”

“That’s right, I heard you were Nora Sullivan’s granddaughter?”

“Yes.” She really should get over being surprised that everyone knew.

“My mother has Sullivan cousins, though they moved to Clonakilty, I think, or maybe it was Bandon. They knew each other at school. Me ma said…”

Maura listened, amazed anew at how everyone she met seemed to have an encyclopedic memory about their families, no matter how distant, extending back at least a century. Of course, she’d met a few people in the Boston area who were happy to tell you how many of their ancestors had come over on a boat in 1623, and how many had fought in the Revolution, and so forth. She wondered if everyone here could trace their family back to the seventeenth century.

“You know how to manage that thing?” the woman asked, pointing behind Maura.

“What, you mean the espresso machine? I think so. You want a cup? I’m not sure what kind of coffee we have.”

“Wouldn’t mix well with the cider, now, would it? But I might try one tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”

“I’ll make sure I’m ready for you.” Maura smiled.

“Grand. By the way, I’m Johanna Burke, and that lout in the corner is my husband, Seamus.” She nodded toward a burly man in a dark sweater laughing with several other men. She slipped a few coins across the counter and raised her glass. “I’ll see yeh.”

T
he evening had been busy right until closing and then beyond, and Maura had been happy to fall into bed. She’d chatted with more people than on earlier nights—maybe they’d finally accepted her as one of them. Ellen was still feeding her family, including her husband, who was wearing a sports jacket, when Maura came into the kitchen upstairs the next morning. “You’re up early, Maura. No, Sean, that’s Patrick’s toy—yours is over there. Kevin, finish up or we’ll be late for church. Tom, can you start herding them toward the door?”

Oh, right, it was Sunday. The tolling of the bells up the road should have clued her in. “This early?”

A harried Ellen replied, “I like the early Mass. If we wait for the later Mass, the day is lost. Will you be coming?”

“I, uh, don’t think so.” Gran had dragged her to Mass as
a child, but by the time Maura had reached high school Gran had given up. Maura couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to church on a Sunday; the last time she’d been in a church at all had been for Gran’s funeral.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We get all kinds here, those that are wanting to go daily, and others who think Sunday is for sightseeing. Have you other plans?”

“I’m meeting Mick Nolan at eight—he said there was something he had to show me. There, now I’ve told you where I’ll be, in case I disappear.”

“You’re thinking Mick’s going to throw you off the bridge?” Ellen smiled, quickly sponging breakfast crumbs off the counters.

“Or kidnap me,” Maura said cheerfully. “Is he the type?”

“And what would I know about kidnappers and the like?” Ellen retorted. “Okay, out the door, now! Kevin, you keep an eye on the little ones. Maura, there’s a later Mass if you find you’ve the time.”

“Ma, I’m not little!” Patrick complained.

“Then you’re big enough to follow instructions, aren’t you? Now, come along!”

The three older children followed their father out the front door, and Ellen brought up the rear, carrying Gráinne. At the door she turned and said, “There’s coffee, and food’s ready on the stove there. Can you see to yourself?”

“Sure,” Maura called at her retreating back. She made a quick circuit of the kitchen, grabbing and filling a mug, loading a plate with the contents of a covered pan on the stove—apparently the whole family indulged on a Sunday—then sitting down to eat. As she made her way through eggs,
sausage—including the blood sausage that she was growing fond of, much to her surprise—she wondered what Mick thought was important enough to show her, and why so early. She hadn’t seen much of the local sites, apart from the middle of Skibbereen. But between talking with Mrs. Nolan mornings and filling in at the pub, she really hadn’t had much time to sightsee. What should she see? she wondered. And why should she care? It had always seemed pointless, to pack up and drive across a state or two just to look at something, take a few blurry pictures, then turn around and drive back again. Not that she’d done much of it. Now and then she and Gran had spent a few hours at one beach or another near Boston, but that didn’t really count as sightseeing. She knew in theory that Boston was rich in history and art, but she had to admit, deep down, that she really wasn’t interested. What did it have to do with her?

She cleaned up her few dishes, then went downstairs to find her bag and, after a glance out the glass doors, put on a rain jacket: it was either raining lightly or misting heavily, and the fields across the harbor had disappeared into the murk. She went back upstairs and let herself out the front door to find that Mick was already waiting for her, his car idling at the top of the drive.

He greeted her with a nod. “Come on,” he said, reaching over and opening the passenger-side door.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“I told Ellen I was going somewhere with you. In case you’re kidnapping me.”

“What?”

“In case you’re an ax murderer. Maybe you belong to
some weird cult that demands ritual sacrifice, and I’m the guest of honor.”