Heading Home (3 page)

“Can I ask you, missus,”
he said, “if the way you speak is because you’re American? I’ve got
nothing against Yanks, mind,” he said hurriedly. Not everyone in
Ireland shared his tolerant attitude, Sarah knew.

“Yes, that’s right,” she
said. “I’m from Florida. I was on vacation in Ireland when The
Crisis happened.”

The man seemed to relax a little. He knelt
in the dirt and shrugged off his pack and then slowly sat down,
crossing his knees Indian-style on the ground. “Well, it’s mebbe
that I do have news for you, in that case.”

Mike, who had been
watching the newcomer closely, turned his head to look at Sarah.
Had she gasped? News about America —other than groundless rumor—was
rare these days.

“Yes?” she said. “You’ve news about the
US?”

“It happens, I do, missus.
I’m coming from Rathcoole. Been on the road, I guess, three weeks
since but I reckon the news is still fresh.”

Jimmy appeared with a ham
sandwich. He had a few deviled eggs wrapped in paper, too. “Sorry
about no juice,” he said. “But we’ve been dry for months now.” He
handed the newcomer a flask of water.

The traveler shook his head and took a large
bite. He looked at this audience apologetically as he chewed.
“Forgive me. Fresh bread…I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

He’s starving,
Sarah thought. It was sometimes easy to forget
that outside the walls of Donovan’s Lot there were many who
struggled daily just to survive.

“I’m Mike Donovan. You’re
welcome to stay the night. Jimmy’ll find a place for you to throw
down a bedroll.”

“Ta very much. The name’s Randy Paxton.”

“English?” Sarah asked.

“No, missus. I’m from up north.”

“You’ve come a long way.”

“
This news,” Mike said,
eyeing the man suspiciously. “Where did you come by it?”

“News? He’s got news?” Jimmy looked at Mike.
“Should I rouse the camp?”

Mike waved him back down into his seat.
“Unless the news is that the bloody British are invading, we’ll
have time enough tomorrow.”

Paxton finished off his sandwich and drained
the water flask. “Thank you kindly for the food,” he said. “I came
by my news in Dublin.”

“How is Dublin?” Mike asked.

“It’s…I don’t rightly know how to say it. I
was there just shy of three months. It was the three longest months
of my life.”

“Crime?”

“Aye, and sickness.”

Sarah felt her pulse quicken. “Disease?”

Paxton nodded grimly. “Garbage in the
streets. And worse.”

Mike grunted. “It’s not surprising. The
wonder is people hadn’t started getting sick before now.”

“You said you had news of the Americans,”
Sarah said, tapping her nails against the seat of the bench.

“Aye, missus. In Dublin it
was just a rumor, but when I came through Limerick I saw it for
myself.”

“Saw what? What did you see, man?” Mike
asked.

“The Air Lift, they call it. The Yanks have
their military in Limerick and they’re coming and going back and
forth to the US like nothing ever happened. I saw the transport
helicopters and also the big planes. Looked like whole families
were leaving.”

Sarah gasped and stood up, knocking the two
teacups she’d shared with Mike to the ground. She was vaguely aware
of his hand on her arm.

Limerick was only a day’s ride away.

She turned to look out beyond the boundaries
of the camp, her eyes glittering with awe and wonder. “We can go
home,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Thank you, God, it’s finally
happened. We can go home.”

2

The road home started the
next morning with a rock wedged tight against a horse’s frog, a
steady drizzle, and a morning so quiet not even the birds seemed up
for it.

In spite of the bad weather and the bruised
hoof, the nine-hour ride to Limerick was uneventful. Mike rode
without speaking, and Sarah decided that was probably a good
idea—at least until they knew all the facts. If she and the
children really were going to be able to go back to the States
there would be plenty of time to deal with the emotional fall-out
later.

And if they weren’t, well, she assumed the
ride back to camp would be a little merrier for at least one of
them.

Nine hours later they
entered the first gateway leading to the center of town. One thing
was certain, Sarah thought, as they rode through the city center,
now that the Americans had come to town, Limerick was a vibrant,
noisy metropolis of controlled chaos. As they passed groups of US
servicemen, Sarah couldn’t help but think this must have been how
it was during World War II when England was damaged, rationed and
shell-shocked and the American GIs showed up with their chocolate
bars and nylons. The 1940’s lament “
over
paid, over sexed, and over here
” was
accurate
then,
and it looked to be pretty accurate now.

The streets were full of
working military jeeps shuttling well-fed American servicemen from
one point to the other. Up and down the main drag, food kiosks and
makeshift pubs were doing a bustling business, whereas not six
months before they had heard news that the whole place had been
little more than a ghost town. Sarah’s first thought when she saw
all the trading activity was that they would be able to get some
supplies they needed for Donovan’s Lot. Then she remembered they
had nothing of value to bargain with. She tried to see what was
being used for currency and thought she saw people handling
greenbacks.

The excitement in the
streets was palpable. The feeling that things were definitely
getting back to normal imbued every happy face she saw as they rode
down the paved street to the cul-de-sac where the American
consulate was located.

Mike took the horses and
went to buy sandwiches. He would wait for her in the little
courtyard out front of the embassy. Before The Crisis, it had
featured a koi pond and a cultivated French garden, with careful,
manicured lines of lawn and flower beds. Since then, it had clearly
been used as a parking lot for horses and wagons.

The moment Sarah stepped inside the
consulate, the sight of the American flag that hung over the main
foyer brought tears to her eyes. A young man in a US Air Force
uniform sat at the reception desk. He looked up with a smile.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “Can I help
you?”

“I’m an American,” Sarah said, feeling her
throat close up as she said the words.

The young man’s face broke into an easy
grin. “Well, ma’am,” he said with a Texas drawl. “Then I guess
you’re home now.”

The consulate was able to
find suitable, if separate, lodging for both Mike and Sarah, as
well as boarding for their horses. In the meantime, she met with an
adjutant who scheduled the necessary travel arrangements for her
return to the States. Later, she shared a largely silent meal at
the pub with Mike and fell into her borrowed bed exhausted and too
excited to sleep.

The next morning, after an
American breakfast of fresh orange juice, steak, eggs, and grits,
which Sarah noticed Mike pushed around with his fork instead of
eating, they tacked up their horses and left for the return ride
back to Donovan’s Lot.

A very quiet ride back to
Donovan’s Lot.

In Sarah’s saddlebag were three travel
vouchers to the United States.

In the nine hours it took
to ride back, Sarah hadn’t been able to think of three things in a
row she could imagine Mike would want to hear. The thoughts that
buzzed relentlessly through her mind were a jumble of giddy
excitement the upcoming reunion with her parents, and the growing
knowledge of impending loss.

When they finally arrived
in camp, worn out more by the tension of all that was unspoken than
the actual ride itself, Mike, his face unreadable, took both horses
and disappeared in the direction of the stable.

Sarah walked across the length of the camp
to its center and her cottage. Papin and John would be sleeping at
Fiona and Declan’s.

She hesitated on the porch of her cottage
and watched the moon dip behind the lacy shreds of remnant clouds.
There were a few gypsies sleeping by the fire.

Her glance strayed toward the direction Mike
had gone. To be physically so close to him all day long and yet
feel so far away from him was not something she was used to. Mike
had a bigger-than-life quality that seemed to push down barriers
and grab a person by the lapels. She smiled sadly remembering the
first time she’d ever laid eyes on him. She had pointed a loaded
Glock at him while he stood, regarding her with bemused interest,
unarmed and blocking her only escape route.

The truth was the man had always crossed her
picket lines—whether she’d been married or not—right from the
start.

And nothing had ever felt more right to
her.

She sighed and sat down on
the porch steps. Whatever joy she felt yesterday when it was
confirmed that the Americans were indeed gathering up their
stranded nationals for the trip home had long given away to stark
practicalities. Witnessing the crushing disappointment of the man
who in the last year had become the single biggest part of her life
felt like a knife in her heart. It took every ounce of courage she
had to remember that as much as it hurt her to see Mike so
miserable, it was necessary to endure if she were to stay resolute.
And for John’s sake, she knew she
must
.

John.
She flinched at the thought of her last conversation with
him.
Turns out Mike isn’t the only one who
can’t celebrate the good news.
Before she
left for Limerick, John had told her flat-out he wouldn’t
leave.

Sarah rubbed the night’s
chill from her bare arms. There was no sense in waiting for Mike to
finish with the horses. Anything she could have said to him, she’d
had nine hours to say. She stood up and surveyed the camp briefly
before turning toward her front door, the exhaustion of the day
finally settling on her shoulders like a fifty-pound sack of
feed.

No, there was nothing for the fact that this
wonderful news would bring no joy to the people who mattered most
to her. But that didn’t stand in the way of the fact she knew it
was the right thing to do.

The next morning, Sarah
awoke to a pounding on her cottage door. She wore a long tee shirt
of David’s that she slept in and opened the door to reveal Fiona,
fully dressed, her hands on her hips and clearly ready for
battle.

“Goodness, you’re up
early. I don’t even have the stove lit,” Sarah said, stepping out
of the way to let Fiona storm past her. “I don’t suppose you
brought a thermos of Starbucks?”

“So, it’s official, is it?” Fiona strode to
the center of Sarah’s cottage and whirled around on her. “You’ll
have your on-demand television and upscale chain grocery stores,
and sure, nobody could blame you. Why not? Nice to know this is all
we mean to you. A hardship made a little less hard, that’s
all.”

“So I guess that’s a no on the coffee,”
Sarah said as she shut the door. “I haven’t gotten the tea started
yet.” She moved into the kitchen and began sticking wood and
kindling into the cook stove.

“I cannot believe you’re doing this, Sarah.
I cannot believe this is all we mean to you. A stop-over until you
could get where you really want to be.”

Sarah straightened up and faced her. “And
you wouldn’t do the same, Fiona? If you could go home again? See
your folks again?”

“
You can
see them and then come back. If you stay there it’s because you
value convenience and drive-thru banking over your
friends.
Over
Mike
.”

“That’s not true.”

“If you don’t come back,
then it
is
true.”

“Look, Fi, if it were just me, I would—”

“Oh, please. Spare me.”

“I can’t leave John there. Would you ask me
to do that?”

“He loves it here! Mike is
as close to a father as the lad’ll ever have after David. Why don’t
you ask
John
if
he wants to go?”

Fiona obviously knew John was vehemently
opposed to going back to the States.

Sarah turned to light the
stove. “Sometimes, the best things for our children
aren’t
the things
they’ll thank us for in the moment.”

“Got an answer for everything, don’t you,
Sarah? Why do I bother? Clearly, you want to go. And here’s me
thinking we were sisters and all.”

Sarah whirled around to
face her. “We
are
sisters! If you were a mother you’d understand why I can’t
leave my only child in the US! You wouldn’t even suggest
it.”

“Then
don’t
leave him. Bring him back with
you.”

“I can’t. If he has a chance to go to
college and live a normal life, which he does back home, then he
deserves to have that chance. His father was a college professor,
for crap’s sake. Am I going to allow David’s son to pick pole beans
for the rest of his life instead of going to college?”

“Is that what you think we’re doing here?
Growing pole beans and scratching our bums?”

“Well, you’re not doing a whole hell of a
lot of reading and writing as far as I can see. And I get it. This
life is hard and it’s about surviving. How can you fault me for
wanting something better for my son? This kind of life can’t
compare to the opportunities he’ll have in the States.
Opportunities that are his birthright.”