Chapter Eleven #2
“Mom! What took you so long? That guy was sitting there when I came down. I was in my nightgown!” she wailed.
“I didn’t see him and I walked into the kitchen, and he didn’t say anything and then I came out and about had a heart attack.
He was like, ‘Do you remember me? You threw your dirty underpants at my face. I’m your long-lost Uncle Conor.
’ I mean, Mom! Why would I remember him?
God! I wanted to ride into town, but I couldn’t, I was so scared.
So, I sat up here. Dressed. Waiting for him to leave.
Nothing to do. What is wrong with that guy? ”
Faye could not land on a proper answer. The worst thing about him was that he acted like something had been taken from him, that he was owed something he’d never received.
It was infuriating that he’d stumbled upon this life of hers and had nothing to offer except his silence.
She couldn’t figure out what it was that he wanted in return.
How could Jean have let him into their life?
And for how long would Faye have to keep up this charade?
“Mom! God. Snap out of it!” Maeve rolled her eyes, pushed past Faye along the railing.
“He was Grandma’s friend. From Ireland. You remember. I’ll tell Dad we need locks on the doors,” Faye offered, shuddering at the thought of him prowling around their home.
“Great. Fine. That guy gives me the creeps.”
“Forget him,” Faye said, to herself as much as to Maeve. “Wieners and beans for lunch. And I thought I told you not to wear that shirt. It’s inappropriate.”
Maeve shrugged, headed down the stairs ahead of Faye. “I like it. And, by the way. Locks don’t stop rats, you know,” she said over her shoulder. “They squeeze in through cracks.”
The next day, Center Street was lined six-deep with spectators spangled in stars and stripes, parents craning for children performing, tourists covered in cotton candy and waving their flags.
Faye and William stood with Thomas along a sawhorse barrier while Maeve and her friends perched on a nearby curb, ignoring adults with teenage precision.
The grand marshal on the back of an open convertible led the procession, followed by antique cars and fire trucks and Shriners in clown cars, festooned floats for the garden club and the rotary club and Friends of the Lobstermen.
Queens and princesses and sea goddesses waved like royalty.
Sailors in dress whites escorted the Bath Iron Works float, which elicited big whoops from Thomas and William.
Right after the high school marching band passed, Faye spotted the dance studio’s homemade banner, girls in green dresses and Mary Janes with ankle socks behind it.
She nudged William and pointed. “Here they come!”
Only nine children took step class, and Molly, the smallest, was positioned at the point of the V, lead goose with her chin high, red springs bouncing around the white ribbon Faye had found buried in a drawer, and a grin that could bring ships home.
Molly’s arms were stiff at her sides, feet crossed, toes pointed as piped-in music from a nearby float started playing.
The older dancers were in perfect sync, while Molly and the other two littlest girls did a basic jig step.
“Looking good, Pix!” Maeve, standing now, yelled. Molly let herself get distracted for a moment, waved at her family, and they all waved back, charming the crowd even more. Mission accomplished. Her bounces got bigger, her toe-kicks higher. She was having a ball.
A voice drifted across the crowd from the other side of the street, chanting, “Good golly, Miss Molly! Good golly, Miss Molly!”
Conor O’Kane was half in the road, clowning an Irish dance.
Faye could tell from the looks of him that he’d already been in the whiskey.
When Molly saw him, she stopped in her tracks.
Arms that were supposed to be stiff at her sides shot up to her waist, and the girls dancing behind had to stop with Molly in the way.
He made an exaggerated gesture, his mouth in a circle, hands up to the sides of his head.
Faye gripped William’s arm. She read Conor’s lips, an “Oh, shit!” followed by guffawing laughter.
Glenda backhanded him then pulled him toppling into the crowd, setting off a stumbling chain reaction.
Molly, lost for a moment, stared at Faye and William.
William patted Faye’s hand. “You got it, Pixie!” he shouted as the dance teacher got her back in step.
They marched by, and Molly kept her eyes only on her family, her steps slightly muted now, but the smile back on her face.
Livestock brought up the rear, followed by street sweepers, the final act.
The crowd dispersed, and O’Kane loped across the street toward them.
“I stopped by yesterday to see you, Will,” Conor said, panting a cloud of stale alcohol.
“So I heard.”
“How’ve you been?”
“Maeve!” Faye shouted. “Will you please go find your sister?”
Glenda fluttered her fingers, and Faye raised her hand dismissively. She had no interest in yet another conversation with Glenda . . . something. Faye didn’t even know her last name. Mostly, she wanted to throttle Conor.
“Gladly,” Maeve said.
“Why don’t I catch up with you all by the bandstand?” William said, squeezing Faye’s shoulder. “I want to talk with Conor alone.”
A taunting look passed from Conor to Faye, as if they were children again, as if Conor were daring Fiadh, the other Fiadh, to say a dirty word, to lift her skirt, to secretly row a boat out into a bay.
Ooooh, what do you think I’m going to say, Fee?
Who’s going to stop me, Fee? Faye had a look for him too. Don’t test me, Conor O’Kane.
Over blueberry pie and strawberry ice cream, and with the girls out of earshot, William told Faye and Thomas what Conor was cooking up.
“Says he’s collecting money to send to Ireland, to the IRA.
He figured we’d be in a mood for revolution and independence today, me and your dad.
Apparently, Glenda’s got brothers back home all wrapped up in The Troubles. ”
Thomas dropped his paper plate on the grass, wiped his mouth with his fingers.
“My guess is he’s not trying to send money.
You hear things, down at Kelly’s. Fellas in Boston and New York, connected.
” Thomas tapped his nose twice. “Been sending ArmaLites for years. Conor is the right fool to think gun running is like cigarette running. Feds are on those guys.”
“Guns, William? The IRA? Please, tell me you didn’t give him money!” Faye said. “He’d only come back for more.”
“Faye. No. I humored him but made it clear that I want nothing to do with his stupid schemes. He’ll wind up in jail or dead, mark my words.”
Maeve wandered over for seconds. “Claire’s dad says the IRA are terrorists.” She cut a slice of pie from the tin perched on top of a picnic basket and plopped it on her plate.
“Stay out of it, honey,” Faye said.
“Does he now, and what would he know?” William asked.
“Here we are, celebrating America’s independence from the British.
Does Claire’s father think our revolution was won with sweet talk and daisies?
Perhaps Claire’s dad, the Loyalist, would like to go back to living under British rule here as well.
Is he here then?” William asked, looking around mockingly. “Flying the Union Jack?”
“Sheesh,” Maeve said, eyes rolling. “I was trying to participate? In the conversation?”
“Are you going to continue to argue Irish politics with your high schooler, or can someone get an old man more pie?” Thomas asked, nudging his empty plate with a flick of his finger.
“Sorry I snapped at you, Maeve. Sensitive subject,” William said. “I told him to beat it, and him and that goofy woman of his took off. Maybe that’s the last of him.”
“Your mouth to God’s ear,” Faye said. “What a blessing that would be. Really, there’s not much here for him with Jean—with my mother—gone.”
Molly wiped a ring of berry juice off her lips with her wrist. “Are you talking about Fonzie? We saw him.”
“Fonzie?” Faye asked.
“That Conor guy,” Maeve said. “After Claire and I picked up Molly. He made a crack, some ‘little pixie doll thing’ and then Claire asked who he was, and he was all gross, like, ‘Who’s your friend?’ What a creep.
I mean, who wears a leather jacket in weather like this?
” Maeve bit her lip. “I may have mouthed off a little.”
Faye’s heart sunk with worry. Every encounter felt likely to provoke him. “Oh, no. Maeve. What did you say?”
Maeve shrugged. “I just said, ‘Mind your own business, Fonzie.’ That’s all.”
Molly scooted closer and tapped Maeve’s thigh. “And then we ran, didn’t we?”
“Yeah,” Maeve said. “Then we ran. But don’t worry, Mom. I had Molly’s hand the whole time. I didn’t let him touch her.”
“I should hope not!” The thought sent a shiver up her spine. And Maeve, with her navel showing again below the tied-up ends of her blouse. She really had no idea what men like Conor O’Kane might read into her choices. “I wish you’d listen to me and cover up more.”
Maeve rolled her eyes. “It’s fashion, Mom. All the girls do it. Besides, he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Claire. Everyone looks at Claire.”
“Boy’s a lost soul at best. Bad penny at worst,” Thomas added, his head shaking.
“Hope he stops turning up,” William said, adjusting his aluminum chair. “I told him to get on with his own life and leave us out of it. And I, for one, would like to get on with this day. Can we agree? No more talk of him?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Faye said.
Someone tapped the mic at the bandstand, and the topic was dropped.
The grass thrummed from the bare feet of scampering children, leaves quaked with their laughter.
Pop music filled the park. Relieved, Faye stretched out on the blanket, leaned back on her elbows, crossed her bare legs at her ankles.
She let her head drop so the sun could blaze her neck and chest, closed her eyes, and played out the remainder of the day.
Later, Maeve would take Molly to the midway for rides and games.
There would be more food—corn dogs and lobster rolls, caramel corn and candied apples—until bellies ached.
Finally, her whole family would reconvene on the blanket to watch what would seem like two hundred years’ worth of fireworks explode overhead.
The girls would shriek with delight. Faye—while trying to keep old wounds from aching—would welcome William’s embrace and his gentle ribbing over her delicate nature, knowing they would return to a home still standing, their girls safe and sound under a solid roof with only stars overhead. America the Beautiful indeed.