The Crow of Connemara (6 page)

6

“W
ELL, THE HOUSE still looks the same,” Colin said as they drove up. The tall, three-story dwelling was wedged between two others across from a small park. The house had been heavily renovated and restored by the Doyles when they'd purchased it in the late 1980s, and they'd added a black wrought iron fence with stone pillars along the sidewalk. To Colin, the fencing and general appearance of the house's facade had always felt cold and imposing, an attempt to intimidate any visitor.

That had always seemed to match his father's outward appearance as well.

Aunt Patty greeted Jen and Colin as they entered, hugging each of them warmly. “Where's Aaron?” Aunt Patty asked Jen.

“He knows we're going to discuss Dad's situation, and begged off—said it should be a private family matter. Rebecca didn't come either?”

Patty nodded. “Like Aaron, she thought this should just be a family matter. Your Aaron's a smart boy. I think you might have a good one there.”

“So far I think so, too,” Jen answered. “Where's Mom?”

“Making sure the table's set. We're still waiting for Tommy and Carl.”

“That Harris guy is going to be here?” Colin asked, and Patty pursed her lips as if she was tasting something sour.

“Tommy wanted him here, evidently,” Aunt Patty told him. “After all, he is—was—your Dad's campaign manager, and what we decide here will certainly affect that.”

Jen nodded. “I'll go in and see if Mom needs help with that table.”

“Make sure I'm sitting next to you,” Colin said to Jen. “Between you and Aunt Patty would be ideal.”

“I will.” Jen went off down the corridor. Colin lingered with his aunt. There was an 8x10 portrait of his father in a frame sitting on one of the tables in the front room. He stared at it, seeing his father as he remembered him, the smile on his face looking somewhat artificial under the stern eyes.

“It's a lousy homecoming, isn't it?” Aunt Patty commented behind him. “I'm sorry, Colin.”

“Not your fault.” He stared into his father's eyes.

“He loved you. Your mom does, too.”

“Yes, and they both showed it so well.”

He felt Patty's hand on his shoulder, and he turned to her. Her head was tilted, her gaze now edged. “You're being too harsh on them, Colin. Especially with your mother. She's really hurting right now, more than you can imagine.”

He wanted to apologize, to tell Aunt Patty that she was right and he understood what she was saying, but the words were jammed in his throat and something else slipped out. “Love is a lousy word,” he answered. “We have way too many definitions for it, and nobody knows what it really means.”

“Too many definitions for what?” The door had opened again, and Tommy and Carl Harris stood in the doorway. They were both dressed in suits—Colin had worn jeans and a button-down oxford shirt. Tommy cocked his head in Colin's direction.

“Nothing,” Colin told Tommy. “Nice suits. Don't you guys ever take a day off?”

“There are no days off in politics,” Tom answered. “At least, that's what Dad always said.”

Yes, and look where that's got him . . .
Colin smiled, holding back the comment. “Do you wear them to bed, too?” he asked, but Aunt Patty stepped in before Tommy could answer.

“I think dinner's about ready. Why don't we all go in?” She allowed Tom and Harris to precede them, and took Colin's arm as they passed. “You know, you have the most open face in the whole family. I can practically see what you were thinking,” she whispered.

“Sorry.” Then: “And sorry for what I said before, too. I know you're right. I do, it's just . . .”

She patted his arm. “No need to apologize. Like I said yesterday, I've always told Mary you were more an O'Callaghan than a Doyle.”

“And how did Mom react to that?”

Aunt Patty laughed, causing Tom and Harris to glance back at them. She waved them on. “The same way I'd react if you suddenly informed me that you wanted to be just like your father, may God take his soul.” She wagged a finger in Colin's direction. “But I'll deny ever having said that if you tell anyone.”

Dinner was another memory made solid. Colin could recall dozens of dinners much like this one around the same table, with only the menu and the ages of the diners changing. Even the absence of his father was normal. During his childhood, dinner had always been his mother's affair, his father only making cameo appearances. Tom Sr. would often be working late: preparing a case, at a community meeting, or out of town entirely in Springfield after he'd been elected to the State Senate and the legislature was in session.

It was Mom who prepared dinner, who set the table, who made certain that everyone was seated, that any guests were properly introduced around, that the blessing was intoned before the first bite of food was eaten (and woe betide anyone but a guest trying to filch a roll or take a bite beforehand), and who directed the conversation around the table from her chair nearest the kitchen as if she were a conductor in front of an orchestra, wielding a fork rather than a baton. Colin had often wondered how she managed to get everything on the table and hot at the same time; but she always had. When Colin was still a young child, with the law firm's continued success and both state and national politics taking on more of a role, the Doyles had retained the services of Beth, the housemaid who put in a half-day's work every weekday, but the kitchen was still largely his mother's domain, even if Beth helped set the table before leaving for the day.

“So, Colin,” his mother began after grace had been said and the first dishes passed around, “now that you're back, I've had Beth make up your room for you until you go back to the university.”

Thanks, Mom
, Colin wanted to say.
But I don't want to stay here.
“Mom,” Jen broke in before Colin could answer, “Colin and I haven't had much chance to talk yet. I thought he could stay at least a few more days at my place.”

“Actually, Mom, that sounds good to me,” Colin added quickly. “Jen's place is right on the ‘L' so I could get around pretty easily. I don't mind staying there, since it's no bother to her, and she has the extra room.”

“Oh.” The single, flat interjection contained entire decades of commentary. His mother drew in a long breath through her nose. “I'm just rattling around in a whole empty house with far too many extra rooms, but I suppose that's fine, then. After all, you'll be going back to Seattle soon enough, I suppose. You've that dissertation and defense to get ready, I'm sure. Another Dr. Doyle in the family; your father would be so proud.”

He ignored that.
It's not the time to tell them. Not here.
The others around the table were carefully not watching him, paying too much attention to their plates. Confusion drowned him under a roiling tsunami of doubt.

“You know, I'd love to hear you play music again, Colin,” Aunt Patty cut in. “It's been a long time since I last heard you, and you had such a gift for music. Do you still play gigs in Seattle?”

“Not as much as I'd like, but yeah, I still play,” Colin told her. He turned to her, thankful for the change of subject, but uneasy with the shift to his music. “There's a strong Celtic music scene there, and I've learned some old songs and variations on them that I'd never heard, and new ways to approach the material that I'd never considered.”

“Immersion in another culture can change the way you think.” That was Tommy, and when Colin glanced across the table to him, his brother gave him a quick wink, almost as if he knew what Colin was holding back from the conversation. “I don't think you can avoid that. I know that when Dad and I were in Paris for a two-week conference a couple of years back, it completely altered my attitude toward how food is prepared and presented. Speaking of which, this chicken's delicious, Mom. Did you do something different with it?”

As the talk around the table turned to the meal and its preparation, Colin shot a look of gratitude to Tommy, and Jen softly kicked his shin under the table. She leaned over to him. “You see, Tommy inherited Dad's ability to deflect Mom. You and I just let ourselves get dragged into those arguments with her.”

“And you'll get into another one if the two of you don't keep your voices down,” Aunt Patty commented softly from the other side. “Remember what she's been going through these last few days, and will be going through in the coming ones. This hasn't been easy on anyone, and especially not for her.” Then she smiled toward Colin's mother, a bite of chicken on her fork.

“You really need to give me your recipe, Mary,” she said, more loudly.

“Leave the dishes,” Colin's mother said. “Let's go into the back room—I had Beth set up the coffee urn, there's cake, and I brought up a bottle of your father's whiskey from the office, too. We can . . .” Colin saw her hesitate as moisture visibly filled her eyes. “. . . talk about what we need to discuss more comfortably there.”

The back room had been a combination rec room and library when Colin had lived here. It hadn't changed a great deal. The books were still there, hardbacks arranged in colorful rows along the shelves. There was a new flatscreen TV, much larger than the television that had been there when Colin left for Seattle. The game console that had sat next to the television back then seemed to be missing, and the board games were stacked on the top shelf, something for Beth to dust. The two tables that had filled the center of the room were gone, replaced by large, plush leather chairs and a small couch under the window, all arranged in a rough conversation circle around the room. His mother and Aunt Patty took the couch after getting coffee and a plate of the cake. Tommy half-filled a tumbler with whiskey: Connemara Cask Strength, Colin noted. “Colin?” Tom asked, lifting his glass. “Jen?”