Chapter One #2
He didn’t know if he was managing to fling his pointed look at any of them, as he was only vaguely aware of where they all were. But his efforts must have been good enough.
Acknowledgments of the neglect his brothers and brothers-in-law were guilty of preceded the sound of what he thought was probably footsteps walking away. But they were going in so many different directions that he couldn’t be entirely certain.
Finbarr bent forward and whispered to Madra, “That was something of an ambush, wasn’t it?”
She answered by licking his face.
He was granted only another minute before his reprieve was interrupted.
“I feel I should warn you,” Joseph Archer said by way of a greeting.
“Warn me about what?”
He heard Joseph sit in the chair Ma had been using. It wasn’t to be a brief warning, then.
“Ivy is looking for you,” Joseph said. “And she is upset about something.”
“Again?”
Ivy was one of Joseph’s children. She and her older sister had been little girls when Finbarr had first started working at the Archer farm when he was only a little older than they were. The girls had been like little sisters to him, a novel thing to the baby of a family.
“Fifteen is a difficult age,” Finbarr acknowledged. “Perhaps by the time she reaches sixteen, Ivy won’t be upset about things all the time.”
“I don’t remember Emma being so exhausting,” Joseph said with a sigh.
“Perhaps because, at fifteen, Emma left home to live on the other side of the country. If she was difficult, she was difficult for your mother.”
“She has been an angel,” Joseph said. “My mother would have told me otherwise. She was never one to mince words.”
“Perhaps that’s where Ivy gets her forthrightness from.”
Finbarr could hear a little bit of a laugh from Joseph. He was grateful to have broken a bit of the tension.
“How’s Katie?” Finbarr asked.
“I suspect she wishes she had two weeks left of this pregnancy rather than two months. She’s tired.”
“Finbarr.” Ivy had arrived “Your nephew is a terrible person!”
“Good evening to you as well, Ivy.”
He could hear her drop onto the chair on his other side.
And, though he couldn’t see it, he suspected she had her arms folded petulantly across her chest and was pouting quite dramatically.
She’d been prone to that as a five-year-old; he didn’t know if she was still.
He’d not actually seen her in ten years.
The only image of her he could conjure was of that little girl who had long since grown up.
“My nephew is not a terrible person,” he said.
“You don’t know which nephew I’m talking about,” she retorted.
“None of them are terrible people.”
“This one is,” she said firmly. “He’s been talking to Dr. Jones all night and hasn’t asked me to dance with him even once.”
Ah. She couldn’t have been speaking of anyone other than Aidan. He was a few years older than Ivy, which made him a good age for a longed-for dance partner. And Aidan had a keen interest in medicine, which made it likely he had spent all night talking with the town doctor.
Ivy had never been one to shy away from direct talk, so he simply chose that as his strategy. “Are you sweet on Aidan, then?”
“No.” Her tone was entirely sincere. “I just think he ought to dance with me.”
“And what am I meant to do about it? I couldn’t even find him in this crowd, let alone force him to come ask you to dance.”
“Why do you think you would have to force him? Am I such a hideous prospect as a partner?” She’d gone from petulant to on the defensive very quickly. Fifteen really was a difficult age.
“If I wasn’t certain that doing so would lead to massive injuries, I’d dance with you myself,” Finbarr said. “But I still don’t know what it is you want me to do about Aidan.”
“I don’t want you to do anything about him. I just wanted to tell you that he is being horrible.” And now they’ve made the journey from petulant to defensive to obviously wounded feelings.
Fifteen.
“Why would you want to tell me, in particular?”
“Because I do.” And that, apparently, was supposed to be answer enough.
“You could always tell me.” Joseph had kept so quiet during the conversation that Finbarr had forgotten he was there.
“Are you eavesdropping, Pompah?” she demanded.
“I’m sitting too close to not overhear.”
“You are all impossible.”
The thump of footsteps and the swish of skirts told Finbarr that Ivy had left in something of a huff.
“I don’t know what to do with her,” Joseph said.
“Maybe start by warning Aidan that he’ll ignore her at his own peril.”
“Actually, that is not a bad idea.”
A moment later, Finbarr assumed he was alone again. At any moment, a dozen different people could suddenly start talking right next to him and he’d have no idea they were even there.
The musicians switched to a much more boisterous tune. The shadows that flitted across his almost non-existent vision grew more tumultuous and chaotic. He breathed a little more tightly and his pulse pounded a bit harder.
He quickly went over the list in his head, determining whether he had spoken to at least one person from each of the O’Connor clan’s branches.
Da and Ma, yes. His oldest sister’s husband.
His oldest brother’s widow’s husband. Ian.
Tavish. Keefe. And he’d talked with Joseph, which marked the Archers off his list. Ivy had stormed off, upset with him, which was a fairly regular occurrence of late as well.
All in all, he’d accomplished everything he’d expected to at the céilí.
Finbarr took hold of his cane, gave Madra a quick scratch behind the ears, then stood up. He set the tip of his cane on the ground in front of him. Madra knew that signal and took up her place directly beside him. As he began walking, so did she, brushing into him to help guide him.
It was possible people offered words of farewell, but in the chaos of it all, he couldn’t hear well enough to know.
All totaled, he’d guess he’d been there less than thirty minutes.
He usually managed to endure it twice that long.
Perhaps he was just overly tired. Or his family was overly attentive.
Whatever the reason, he likely wouldn’t be permitted so swift an exit from the next céilí he attended.
He was all the way across the river before the sounds of the party faded into a distant hum.
And by the time he turned off the main road down the one leading to his farm, he was breathing a little more easily.
A breeze rustled the bells that marked the edges of his fields.
He’d perfected over the years the right number and the right pitches for him to be able to make them out individually.
It had shifted from a sound that reminded him of what he’d lost to the sound of home.
He stepped into his humble house and hung his cane on the nail next to the door where he always kept it. He knew every inch of this space. He could navigate it without any aids at all.
Madra even knew that. Once inside, she always made directly for the blanket on the floor near the fireplace that served as her bed.
Finbarr sat in his chair. It wasn’t cold enough to need a fire, and the light it put out wouldn’t be sufficient enough to give him any vision at night. So he sat in the pitch black, breathing in the silence.
He took up his whittling knife and the block of wood he was slowly transforming into a little dog.
His family would likely have a collective stroke if they knew he’d taken up the hobby.
It did require a great deal of care, and he had managed to cut himself more times than he cared to admit.
But, overall, it was doable, enjoyable, and satisfying.
He’d carved hundreds of things over the last few years, and he was proud of himself for it.
He was proud of a lot of things he’d learned and managed. He could feed himself. He could tend his own crops. He lived on his own, which he’d not thought would ever be possible again. He was living a life.
But he wasn’t really . . . happy.