Chapter 54
CHAPTER 54
Maura
It’s an odd thing sharing a house with a stranger. Mrs. Johnson keeps lodgers from time to time. Young men, mostly. Twentysomethings who have moved up from the country to attend university in Dublin or try their hand at their first job in banking or retail. They come and go independently, as young people do, and largely they keep to themselves. Regardless, they change the dynamic of the household, like a jigsaw piece that doesn’t quite fit.
Christy and I never fitted together, not the way other couples do, but nonetheless I feel his absence like a missing piece. Christy left our home eleven days ago with nothing more than the clothes on his back. Every morning I wake in fear that today will be the day he returns. And every night I go to bed thankful that another day has passed when he has not. Though my bed is empty, I cannot remember a time my life was fuller.
Nuala Tyrone moved into my house the day we met. She didn’t have a bag packed. She didn’t have a clean set of clothes, a hairbrush, or a toothbrush. And she didn’t have any intention of staying longer than a cup of tea and a chat. She must have circled the block for an hour before she turned around and knocked on my front door. As much as she needed me, she had an inkling I needed her more.
“If you don’t come on the telly with me, nothing will ever change,” she said. “I know you’re scared, but—”
“He’s gone. Christy is gone.”
Nuala lunged forward and wrapped her arms around me then. Her frizzy hair smelt of lemons and cigarettes and I hugged her tighter and longer than I’d ever hugged anyone in my life. Even my ma or Bernie.
“That’s it. I’m staying, then. Let’s see him take on the two of us.”
Nuala drops Sharon home first. Sharon lives in a flat above a chemist shop in a part of town I’m not familiar with.
“It’s a bit small, but it’s fine for me on my own,” she says, slightly defensively, when Nuala pulls up outside.
Sharon’s flat reminds me of Bernie’s. There are three narrow windows that don’t let in enough daylight across the front and a chimney on top.
“I’d ask you in for a cuppa but the place is on its ear,” Sharon says. “The downside to living alone. There’s no one to nag me to tidy up.”
“It’s late,” Nuala says. “We should head home anyway.”
Home. I would love to go home. To the place where my parents are. To the place where my childhood bedroom remains untouched by time, with the brass headboard and the hand-knitted patchwork blanket on my bed. Home. I do not want to go home to number 11 Rathmines.
“Do you think Christy saw The Late Late tonight?” I say as we begin driving again.
“Yes,” Nuala says with certainty. “And if he didn’t, he will hear someone talking about it in the next day or two.”
“Oh God, what have I done?”
“Changed everything, that’s for sure.”
“What now?” I ask, staring out the window as we whiz by dimly lit streetlights.
“We wait.”
“And what if no one agrees with us? What if we got this all wrong and the women of Ireland don’t want this? What if they’re scared?”
“Of course they’re scared. You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,” I say, my voice quivering.
“Well, I bloody am.”
I’m not sure if Nuala’s honesty comforts me or terrifies me. Nuala seems so confident, so self-assured and certain in her actions. Something wobbles in my stomach now, with the knowledge that deep down she’s as nervous as any of us.
I can barely keep my eyes open as we reach a sleeping Rathmines; curtains are drawn, porch lights are on, and families are tucked away in bed. There is no one waiting to point fingers. No one is out with pitchforks and razor-sharp tongues ready to tear strips off me for shaming our neighborhood. The stillness of a Saturday night on my road is familiar and unremarkable and I almost begin to cry with relief. I suspect wagging fingers and tongues will come, but for now, I look forward to a cup of cocoa and my bed. I have yet to experience a longer day.
“Look,” Nuala says, tapping the brakes.
I squint and search through the darkness outside. “What? I don’t see anything.”
“Look,” she says again, louder and with a finger pointed ahead. “Number nine.”
I shift my gaze onto the Johnsons’ house. The curtains are parted slightly and Mrs. Johnson and little Tilly are standing in the gap. Tilly is tucked against her mother’s hip. Up much past her bedtime, the child is rubbing her eyes. Mrs. Johnson is smiling as she offers a thumbs-up. Dazed, I smile back equally as bright and blow her a kiss. She bends, scoops her sleepy daughter into her arms, and lets the curtain fall closed.
“She waited up,” Nuala says, letting the car roll forward again. “That’s nice.”
I close my eyes despite suddenly feeling wide awake. It’s so much more than nice. It is everything. There are women who will support us, I realize. They might have to wait until no one is watching. They may hide behind twitching curtains or stay in the shadows. But they believe in us. We have to keep believing in ourselves.
Nuala parks the car under the old ash tree and turns off the engine. She helps me out and passes me my crutches. When she’s satisfied that I’m steady, she walks ahead and fiddles with a set of keys, trying to find the one to my front door. The keys clang and jangle as she hops from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm.
I’m making my way toward the house when I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. I freeze. Suddenly it’s darker and stiller than ever and I am terrified, certain that when I turn around, I will find Christy behind me. I’m about to call out for Nuala and Mrs. Johnson and any and every neighbor on my road when I hear, “I’m so proud of you.”
My knees almost buckle, but I manage to stay upright as I turn around and throw my arms around Bernie.
“I’m so proud of you,” she repeats.
“Oh God, Bernie,” I say, shaking. “I thought you were… oh God… I thought.”
Bernie’s face falls as she realizes exactly who I thought was behind me.
“Were you watching?” I ask, redundantly.
Bernie nods and, overwhelmed, I begin to cry.
“Oh, Maura. It’s all right.” She holds me so tightly I can scarcely breathe. “It will all be all right.”
I break away from my best friend and run a shaky hand under my nose. I spy Dan McCarthy’s bicycle leaning against the low wall that surrounds my garden. Bernie is red-faced from a cycle across town in the nippy night air. Her long green skirt has a black oil stain down the side where it must have brushed against the bicycle chain. But she is smiling.
“It’s late,” I say, looking up at the sky. Thick clouds hide the moon and stars. “You shouldn’t have cycled all this way. Not at this hour.”
Bernie shakes her head. “I have the light on Dan’s bike.”
“But the girls—”
“Dan is with them.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
Bernie takes my hands in hers and gives them a reassuring squeeze before she tilts her head toward my house.
“I got it,” Nuala announces loudly as my front door finally swings open. “Last key, of course, and I—” Nuala drops the keys and clutches her chest. “Oh Jesus.”
A man and a woman emerge from the shadows and make their way toward the porch. They’re an older couple, with bodies that are rounded at the shoulders like question marks.
“Hello. Can I help you?” Nuala says. She’s over her initial fright and guarding my front door like security.
The man straightens and edges closer. “I doubt that.”
I recognize my father’s voice immediately and I press down on my crutches and walk as quickly as I can. After a couple of steps, I glance over my shoulder, and Bernie picks up on my cue to follow. As if it has magically appeared from thin air, just now, I spot my father’s car parked several houses down and I am kicking myself for not noticing it sooner. How long have they stood out in the cold waiting? Why are they here at this late hour? Ma doesn’t like to stay up past ten thirty; late nights give her a headache.
She links Da’s arm as if she’s too tired to stand alone. She’s wearing an old headscarf that she’s had since I was a child. It’s sitting on her head funny, pulled too far forward at the sides, and the front is hanging down over her forehead and almost into her eyes. I have to squint to find her face behind it. Da wears a bollard hat. I balk for a second as the likeness to Christy unnerves me. My parents are hiding under long winter coats and headwear. And I know why. They are ashamed.
“Hello, Ma. Hello, Da,” I say, at last.
“Ah. Your folks,” Nuala says, relaxing as she drops her guard and bends to pick up the keys. “Did you see the show? Wasn’t she great? I’m sure you’re very proud. I know my ma would be if she was still with us. Rest her soul.”
“Oh, Maura, what have you done?” Ma says, as if Nuala is invisible.
Da unlinks Ma to fold his arms and waits stony-faced for my reply.
“Ah. I see,” Nuala says, and I feel heat creep across my cheeks. She shoves her coat sleeve up her arm and checks her watch. “It’s way past midnight. I best get to bed.” Then she turns toward me and mouths, “Are you okay?” I nod, and she yawns and stretches. “Right, so. Night, night. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Flynn.”
My parents do not speak. Nuala steps inside and hurries up the stairs. Shivering now, I tilt my head toward the house and my parents brush past me to wait in the hall. The unforgiving plastic of my crutch handles digs into my palms and I feel the pop of a blister as I step inside. I want to go to bed. I want nothing more than to bypass my stern-faced parents, climb the stairs, and pull the blankets over my head.
Inside, the ceiling creaks as Nuala walks around her bedroom. Pacing, I can tell. Da grunts, irritated by the sound.
“Who’s this?” he asks, his eyes narrowed like glazed almonds as he peers past me to glare at Bernie.
“Erm, this is Bernie McCarthy. Ma knows her husband, Dan. They own the butcher’s shop on Talbot Street.”
“Hello, Mr. Flynn,” Bernie says, extending her hand, but Da doesn’t shake it.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Ma says, as if life’s problems can be solved with tea leaves and boiled water. She walks into the kitchen and Da waits in the hall for me to take his coat and hat. I hang them on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.
“Are you planning on staying?” Da asks Bernie.
Bernie grimaces and looks at me, unsure. Da is making her uncomfortable, but my eyes are wide and pleading with her to stay.
“Eh. I am. I’m stopping for a while.”
Da pulls his pocket watch from the inside of his tweed jacket. “At this hour, you’re stopping for a while?”
“I am.” She nods.
Da shoves his watch back in his pocket and rolls his eyes. “Well, I think it’s best if you get on home now, young lady.”
Bernie swallows. She’s taken a dislike to my father, and knowing Bernie, she won’t try much harder to hide it. “I said, I’m stopping for a while!”
I open the sitting room door and Da takes a seat in Christy’s chair next to the fireplace. I don’t intend to sit down, but after a drawn-out silence I suspect Da isn’t going to open his mouth until I do. I lower myself onto the couch and Bernie sits next to me. It’s not long before Ma returns with the silver tray she gave Christy and me as a Christmas present last year. Four cups rattle on top, and she’s found the biscuit tin. Ma places the tray on the coffee table and passes Da a cup first, then me and Bernie. Finally, she takes a cup for herself and Bernie shuffles down to make room for her on the couch. Da dips a fig roll into his cup and stuffs it into his mouth, all the while with eyes on me.
“Well, this is a fine mess you’ve made, Maura,” he says at last.
“Da, I—”
My father raises his hand and I shut my mouth. A flare of temper, the color of uncooked bacon, creeps across his face, sweeping in from his cheekbones and gliding over his nose. Da always wears his temper on his face. “The red band of rage,” my brothers and I called it when we were children. Oftentimes, the temper band meant one of my brothers would get a leathering with the back of Da’s slipper. Da never once hit me.
“How will your ma and I ever face Father Walsh again? You know your ma likes to sit in the front pew at mass. Now she won’t be able to show her face in the church. We’ll be the laughingstock of Dublin with a tramp for a daughter.”
“Da.”
My father shakes his head.
“I am not a tramp,” I say.
“Going on the television and talking about… talking about…” Da’s eyes drop to the floor. “Well, talking the way you did. That’s a tramp in my book, Maura m’girl. A tramp, pure and simple.”
I look at Ma, hoping she will say something. Anything. Her eyes don’t meet mine as she sips tea that must be too hot.
“You’ll fix this, Maura. I don’t know how, but you damn well will.”
“Fix what, Da?” I say. “I didn’t break anything that wasn’t already broken.”
The redness in my father’s face spreads. It creeps up his temples and toward what remains of his hairline. “We know Christy isn’t here. He’s been staying with his parents. Poor man. Goodness knows the shame this must bring on him. Imagine a doctor with a wife who can’t keep her business to herself. Poor, poor man.”
“Christy hits her,” Bernie blurts.
My mouth gapes. Ma’s too.
Bernie looks at me with heavy eyes. “I’m sorry, Maura. But I have to say something.”
I inhale sharply. I’m stunned for a split second, but I hold my head high and listen as the dark secrets of my marriage spill past Bernie’s lips.
“Her leg.” Bernie points at my cast. “He broke it with a kick of his boot. And her face. I can’t remember what her face looks like without bruises.” She points to the yellow hue of a healing knock on my cheeks. “Your fabulous Dr. Davenport slammed her face into the wall. And it’s not the first time. He pushed her down the stairs. He broke her ribs, for God’s sake.”
I wait for sympathy or understanding to register on Da’s face, but he remains expressionless. And then the cold, stark realization hits me. It hits me like the pound of Christy’s fist in my gut.
My da already knew.
“Ma,” I say. “Did you hear? Did you hear what Bernie said about Christy?”
“I heard her, Maura,” Ma says, as a silent tear trickles down her cheek.
Ma’s heart might be breaking for me, but that’s as far as it will go. She will not raise her voice and speak for me. She will not stand up for me, or even stand with me. She will honor and obey my da no matter what. Even if the cost is her only daughter.
“Oh, Ma,” I say, feeling as sorry for her as I often have for myself.
I think of Josie. Beautiful, young, innocent Josie. No one stood up for her and, at just fifteen, it cost her life. I think of Bernie and Dan; of how much they love each other and how dangerous it would be for Bernie to carry another baby. I think of their children. All three McCarthy girls, whom I love as dearly as if they were my own. I can’t bear to think of their future filled with the same worries and fears we have today.
“I won’t stop.” I stand up and place my untouched cup of tea back on the tray. “I won’t stop demanding rights for women. I can’t. This is who I am now. No one was going to stand up for me, so I had to stand up for myself.”
“This behavior will stop!” Da gets to his feet and stomps his foot. Tea sloshes over the edge of his cup and against his fingers. “Dammit,” he grumbles, burned. “Dammit to hell, Maura.”
“I think you should go home now,” Bernie says, on her feet too.
She takes the cup from Da, placing it on the tray, and then walks into the hall to fetch his coat and hat. Ma has begun sobbing. I want to comfort her, but I don’t. Da snatches his things from Bernie’s hands.
“How dare you,” he snarls.
“Please,” I say, choking back tears of my own. I don’t want my da to see me cry. “Please just go home.”
“What will you do?” Ma asks. She’s slower than Da at getting to her feet, and she seems shorter than usual, as if the weight of it all has whittled an inch or two off her. “What will you do if Christy doesn’t come back? How will you put food on the table? Oh, Maura, can’t you see how foolish all this is? There is too much at stake. Too much to lose.”
My mind wanders to the biscuit tin under the sink. The one Ma didn’t find. I keep it hidden behind bottles of bleach and scrubbing brushes. The small, silver tin was once home to custard cremes, Christy’s favorite, but for quite some time now it’s been my secret money box. The first time Christy hit me I placed two pounds in the box. Then again, the next time. And the time after. Soon, I was hiding money at every opportunity. The change from the grocery shop. The coins I took from Christy’s pants pocket while he was sleeping. I’m not sure why I did. Christy was never mean with money. I could buy beautiful dresses or expensive shoes. But somewhere deep down, I knew that life with a man like Christy couldn’t last. I knew someday I would be alone. I just always thought I would be the one to run.
“I’ll be all right, Ma,” I say. “Don’t worry about me.”
Ma brushes the back of her hand gently against my cheek, tracing the outline of an old bruise. Her fingers are icy and for a moment I worry that she’s ill. The thought hurts me.
“Come along, Maureen,” Da says. “We’re wasting our breath here.”
“Da—”
Da’s hand goes up again. “We’ll speak to you again when you come to your senses. Not before.”
Ma and Da shuffle toward the door, and their bitter disappointment in me exaggerates their age and slow walking. Bernie drapes her arm over my shoulders and we watch together as my parents walk away.
“I’m sorry,” she says, placing her hand on the door to close it.
“Leave it open,” I say, swaying slightly on the spot as I watch my father open the door of the car for my mother. “I love them, you know.”
Bernie nods. “Do you think they’ll understand someday?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Bernie holds me a little closer. “And can you live with ‘maybe not’?”
“Yes. I have to.”