Patricia Falvey (12 page)

O
ne Sunday in late September, I took it into my head to go and see Frankie. He had been weighing on my mind since the night I had seen him at the Ceili House. I needed to know that he was all right. Something told me he was hurting desperately, and I could not bear to think of that. On the other hand, I didn’t know what kind of a welcome I would get, but I made up my mind that wasn’t going to stop me. I had survived worse than Frankie’s angry looks. P.J. wasn’t so keen, however.

“Sure I told you the lad was in fine fettle the last I saw him,” he said.

“Maybe. But I’ll go and see for myself.”

P.J. rubbed his cheek. “You may not get such a warm welcome.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

P.J. sighed. He knew I was not to be talked out of it, although I didn’t quite understand why he was trying to do so. We threw my old bicycle in the back of the cart and drove to mass. It was agreed that after mass P.J. would drive me as far as the village near the Fitzwilliam estate. He would wait in the local pub, and I would cycle the rest of the way up to the house. I wanted to visit Frankie alone.

It was a gorgeous late summer day as I rode out from the village. The last of the summer field roses bloomed wild along hedgerows, creamy clusters of meadowsweet and clumps of red clover painted the fields, the grass was a fresh, moist green, and everything seemed lush and ripe. Men passing me on the road touched their caps in greeting. Children laughed and waved. I waved back. But as I came in sight of the massive stone wall that surrounded the estate, my heart began pounding. I rode through the open gateway and dismounted, wheeling the bicycle beside me as I approached the big house. It looked as foreboding as ever, like a haunted house in a fairy tale. I felt soulless eyes watching me from the high arched windows. I looked down at the flower beds. No beautiful late summer blossoms grew there. Instead, dead brown twigs and weeds covered the ground. I dropped my bicycle and climbed the broken and cracked stone steps to the oak door. I squared my shoulders, lifted the heavy iron knocker, and let it fall. I waited. Eventually, I heard the squeal of locks being released and the grunt of the door as it opened.

“What do you want?”

My grandfather looked smaller than I remembered. He stooped forward and his clothes hung on his frame like a coat on a scarecrow. The change in him shocked me.

“I’m Eileen,” I began.

“I know fine well who you are,” he snarled. “What do you want? Your ma’s not here.”

I swallowed down a sudden anger. “I’m here to see my brother,” I said.

He looked me up and down, his rheumy eyes taking in every detail. I shivered. Then he opened his dry lips and let out a laugh that sounded more like a croak.

“Mr. Frank O’Neill, is it? I believe you’ll find that gentleman beyond in the stables where he belongs.”

Before I could answer, he stepped back and shut the door in my face.

“Oul’ bastard!” I swore out loud.

I backed down the steps, picked up my bicycle, and wheeled it along the path that ran around the house. I assumed the stables were somewhere behind the main house. So Frankie was out tending the horses? I winced, remembering how he disliked animals. God spare the horses, I thought. The path ended suddenly at the side of the house, but in the distance across a rough patch of grass, I saw a cluster of white buildings. As I walked toward them, wheeling my bicycle, I saw the stables. The buildings stood in a square around a wide, stone-flagged courtyard. A couple of horses peered over latched half-doors, and straw was scattered around the ground. As I approached, one of the half-doors opened and Frankie appeared, wearing overalls and carrying a bucket and a shovel. He did not see me right away, and I stopped and watched him. He had grown, although he was still a good six inches shorter than myself. His skin was brown from the sun, and new muscles stood out on his bare arms. He walked with his head high and his back straight, defiant despite the load of dung I guessed he carried. He was still the old Frankie. My heart soared at the sight of him.

“Frankie,” I called.

He stopped when he saw me, and the look he gave me made my heart squeeze shut. His dark eyes, like those of a missionary priest, seared into me. He set down the bucket and shovel and sauntered toward me, coming to a standstill so close to me that I could smell the sweat and dung off him. His sneer reminded me of my grandfather’s.

“Well, well,” he said. “The high and mighty Miss Eileen O’Neill, daughter of the great O’Neills, has come to see the bastard son.”

His words cut through me. I was about to lash back at him when I remembered his poor, frightened face the day he rode off from the Yellow House with Ma.

By this time, two stable hands had stopped their work to stare at us. They elbowed each other and giggled.

I turned on them. “I’m his feckin’ sister,” I yelled.

They giggled louder. I turned back to Frankie.

“Can we go to your room up at the house? I’d like to talk in private.”

He laughed—a low, mirthless sound. “You can come to my room if you like,” he said, “but you’ll have to watch out for the dung on your nice, shiny boots. My quarters are in there along with the horses.”

I gasped. “What?” I said.

“Aye. Quarters fit for a bastard like myself.”

“Och, Frankie, will you stop calling yourself that.”

“Frank to you, miss. The old Frankie’s long gone.”

I fidgeted with my bag and brushed my skirt. I had dressed in the long black skirt and white blouse I wore to play in the band. I had polished my boots that morning and brushed my hair until it shone. I wanted to look nice for Frankie. But now I felt overdressed and embarrassed.

“Can we walk a ways, then,” I whispered, “away from here?”

He shrugged but began walking across the courtyard and out toward the open fields beyond. I followed him. When we came to a stone stile over a brook, he sat down, and I sat beside him.

“I’m sorry, Frankie—er, Frank,” I said. “I didn’t know it was like this.”

He said nothing. A sudden anger shot through me. “How could Ma have let him treat you like this?” I exploded.

Frank waved his hand. “Sure I was her sin, don’t you remember? No punishment was too good for me.” His voice was sharp as acid.

“But it wasn’t your fault,” I said. “You had nothing to do with it.”

He shrugged. “I was here all the same. A reminder of the curse God had put on her.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out at the sky. “Anyway, she went astray in the head after that.”

“I went to see her,” I said. “She didn’t even know me.” Tears pricked my eyes. I turned to Frank. “Why didn’t you come to Da’s funeral? I needed you there.”

Frank snorted. “And why would I go to that oul’ eejit’s funeral?” he shouted. “He was nothing to me.”

“He was your da in every other way,” I said.

“Not in the way that counts.” Frank paused and laughed. “And since when did the proud Eileen O’Neill ever need anything or anyone?”

“That’s not fair,” I said.

We sat in silence. In the distance, horses’ hooves clattered in the stable yard, and dogs barked. The sun was high in the sky. Frank pulled his cap down over his eyes.

I sat erect and cleared my throat. “I have a job now,” I said, “at the Queensbrook Mill. And another job playing with the Ulster Minstrels.”

“Aye, I saw you once,” whispered Frank

“It was you, then,” I cried out in delight. “Why didn’t you stay?”

Frank shrugged.

“And I’ve a good bit of money put away,” I went on. “The Yellow House didn’t burn to the ground that night in spite of what the bastards tried to do, and when I have enough saved I’m going to get it repaired and move us all back—Ma, Paddy, you, and me—”

Frank’s laughter cut me short. He stood up and faced me.

“Will you listen to yourself,” he said. “Jesus, will you just listen to yourself. The great Eileen O’Neill is going to make the world right for all of us!”

“I’m serious,” I yelled.

Frank stopped laughing. His face turned dark despite the sunlight. He felt in his pocket and pulled out the stub of a cigarette and a match. He struck the match on the ground and lit the stub, inhaling long and hard and blowing the smoke into the air. He coughed.

“Well now, I have a surprise for you, miss,” he said, looking straight into my face. “The Yellow House belongs to me. Isn’t that a joke? Oul’ P.J. came and told me that being as I’m the oldest surviving son, it’s to pass to me when I come of age. That eejit Billy Craig’s father beyond at the bank is holding all the papers on it.”

“But… but you’re not even an O’Neill,” I blurted out. I was sorry the minute I said it, but the shock had knocked all sense out of me.

“No, I’m not. And that’s why I’ll be selling it as soon as I’m able. Good riddance to all it stands for.”

“No!” I cried. “Ah, Frankie, no. You can’t mean that.” I reached out my hand to his. He shook me off. “But what about the O’Neill legacy?” I said.

“I don’t give a shite about the O’Neill legacy.”

“But you used to,” I cried. “You believed in it as much as I did. We used to fight over who would make the best warrior. Remember? Remember?”

He said nothing and turned to go. I caught his arm and wrenched him to a stop. “You can’t do this,” I cried. “This is my dream. This is what keeps me going.”

“You’ll just have to find another dream, then, won’t you?”

He strode off toward the stables.

“Have you no loyalty?” I shouted after him.

He turned briefly. “None at all,” he said.

I sat on the wall and watched him go. My body felt heavy, as if I had been thumped and pummeled by some marauding animal. I did not think I could move again. I rode the emotions that flowed through me: anger, sadness, shock, pity, fear—I could take my pick. Eventually, I picked anger, and I turned it on P.J. P.J. had known about the house ever since Da’s death, yet he had let me blather on for months like a fool about how I would restore it and reunite us all. Now I understood why he had not wanted me to see Frankie. He knew the truth would come out. The fury gave me energy, and I jumped on my bicycle and pedaled across the grass, past the stables, down the avenue, and out the gate. I had to get away from that evil place. It was cursed. I pedaled down to the village, the rosebushes a blur beside me, the greetings of strangers unheeded. I marched into the pub and tapped P.J. on the shoulder.

“I’m ready to go now,” I announced.

P.J. did not press me. He knew by the look on my face what had happened.

“We’ll go home, so,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Take me up to Glenlea. I want to see the Yellow House.”

I SAT ON
Calmor’s Rock, an outcropping halfway up Slieve Gullion, where Frankie and I played as children. Images of the small boy grinning in triumph after he scrambled ahead of me and claimed the rock for himself brought unwanted tears. How could I stay angry with him? I could not hate him for clutching the small staff of power that fate had handed him and lashing out with it at everyone who had hurt him. I would likely have done the same myself. But I also knew myself well enough to know that I could not give up my rage. Rage is what had fueled me all this time. If I let it go, what would become of me? Would I become like all the other women beyond at the mill—passive, powerless, destined for a life of slow, creeping despondency that even marriage and children could not cure? No. I had been baptized a warrior. I was born to fight. And I needed rage to drive me forward. But where was I to find it now?

I stared down at the ruins of the Yellow House far below me. No longer did she stand glinting gold in the afternoon sun. She stooped instead like a spent warrior, the damaged, scarred symbol of our broken family. Och, Da! I am so tired of fighting. Why can I not forget the glow of your face that night as you fought to save our house? Why does your ghost keep bringing me back here? I’m just a girl, Da. I’m only sixteen. What do you want me to do?

A wet nose poking against my knee startled me. I looked down to see a rust-colored Irish setter with big brown eyes staring up at me. My heart jerked at the memory of our own old faithful dog, Cuchulainn. He had died the day after Da and was buried beside him near the Yellow House. This dog was more like Cuchulainn had been in his prime, lively and alert. I smiled in spite of myself and bent forward to pet him.