Rosewater and Soda Bread (18 page)

Dr. Hewey Parshaw led Marjan and Estelle into the kitchen, where they resumed the talk they had started earlier in the hospital.

“I would have preferred another week, but it's not a possibility we can entertain, you understand.”

He tried to keep his worry in check, knowing it would be of no help to the two women. The fact that they'd had to rush through the discharge procedures, bundling his patient into Mrs. Delmonico's little Honda—with furtive glances over their shoulders—had not helped maintain the calm he strove to achieve most times.

As it was, all three women looked as though they needed
some medical attention. They were far too pale and agitated for his liking.

Estelle laid her chubby hand on his arm. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said. “You have done enough. Now I take it from here.”

Dr. Parshaw shook his head. “I should have known someone would surmise the cause of the infection. Her skin has all the markings of trauma.” He leaned out the doorway to check on the young woman. She was still sitting in the wheelchair, looking down at her hands.

“I will have to show the guards those records if they ask. It is my duty, you understand.” A look of unease came over him.

Estelle turned to Marjan. “So you think that will happen, Marjan? Will the police come to ask questions?”

“I can't be sure. Padraig Carey seemed to take it that it was only an infection.” Marjan paused, biting her lip in consternation. “I did lie.”

“There is lying and there is lying. You did what was right, darling. I only pray that this is not bad for you, Doctor. For your job,” said Estelle.

“If it comes to pass, then I will deal with it. Though I must say, it would be a pity to leave Mayo. Homesickness aside, I have come to appreciate this Ireland. A fine place, despite some of its more archaic laws.”

Dr. Parshaw left the Delmonico cottage after helping to settle his patient in Estelle's four-poster bed. Uncomfortable with the money Estelle had offered for his extra services, he had bartered with the women for a plate of barberry rice and cucumber yogurt dip instead.

“Just one more thing,” he said on his way out. “Try to get her to say something. If she talks, we can get a better grasp on things. Then she can defend herself and her decision.”

Marjan stood next to the bed as the widow rushed about pulling open drawers.

“I will take in all of Luigi's pantaloons, yes?” Estelle whipped out an enormous pair of striped pajama bottoms. She added them to a pile growing on her arm. “You are a quarter of his size, can you believe this?” She looked nervous, thought Marjan, not her usual exuberant self. “A man must be round, that is what I always say. Round and soft. Yes, yes.”

The old widow threw the pile of pajamas on the edge of the bed. The young red-haired woman remained in her usual silence, staring out the nearest window, which in this instance looked onto Estelle's fine lavender and rosemary garden.

Marjan bit her lip, took a deep breath. This was as good a time as any to try talking, she decided. Dr. Parshaw was right: they needed something to hold on to in case Padraig Carey came knocking.

She moved around to the right side of the bed, choosing a spot halfway down the patchwork cover. The girl kept her eyes on the outside garden as Marjan sat down.

This would be the first time she would be speaking to her directly, Marjan realized. All the other days, when she had delivered food or helped Estelle with arrangements at the hospital, she had kept her distance, unsure of what, if anything, she could say that would make a difference.

The silence had never stopped Estelle from chattering away. But that was Estelle, thought Marjan. Kindness incarnate.

She turned to the young woman. At the moment she was wearing one of Layla's T-shirts, one with cartoon bears frolicking on a marshmallow cloud. This close up Marjan could see the freckles on that smooth, pale face, the girl's delicate nose and wide gray eyes filled with immeasurable pain.

She looked only a few years older than her youngest sister,
thought Marjan, feeling maternal instincts rush over her. She looked down at the girl's hands. They were clenched at the duvet's end, the thin skin between her fingers almost indiscernible when they were closed so tight.

Syndactyly, Dr. Parshaw had called it. “Webbing of the digits. It is an abnormality that is quite rare, especially the kind she has. A linking of all the fingers is almost never seen, even among syndactylics.”

“So she is not a mermaid?” Estelle had looked somewhat disappointed.

Dr. Parshaw's tired face had cracked into a smile. “No, not a mermaid, I'm afraid, Mrs. Delmonico. But you never know, eh?”

The hands suddenly disappeared under the duvet. A stark look came across that young face.

“Hello,” Marjan started. Where was she going to begin, she wondered. “I'm Marjan. I'm Mrs. Delmonico's friend.”

Those gray eyes took their time to travel up.

They concentrated on a point right behind Marjan's shoulder, glistening with a wet sheen.

“You know who Marjan is, yes?” Estelle stepped beside the bed. She had a pair of Luigi's striped pantaloons wrapped around her neck like a scarf.

Marjan nodded, continuing. “I know this is really hard for you to do, to talk, I mean. I want you to know that whatever you tell us, it'll stay right here.”

Marjan paused, floundering for the next sentence. “You are not in any kind of trouble,” she said finally.

“No trouble at all!” exclaimed Estelle, moving closer to the bed. “Eh, remember when I told you the story about the War? How me and my mama hid in an underground train station while there were bombs flying everywhere? Remember I said we
were so quiet, like a mouse, catching our breath so those soldiers above our head did not hear our thoughts? Yes?”

She perched on a nearby armchair. “That was a time for silence. Sometimes it is right to keep quiet. Sometimes it is right to shout. Yes?”

The girl looked from Marjan to Estelle, then back to the coverlet's cross-stitched squares. Her long, pale lashes held back the welling in her eyes, but only just.

Marjan looked at Estelle in desperation. This was not going well.

Estelle took her cue. “Maybe you have a mama, a mama that is looking for her little girl. Maybe you tell us, and we can bring her to you?”

The tears began then, streaming steadily, hanging on the girl's small chin before plunging onto the cross-stitch.

“Oh …” Estelle flew up from the chair and put her soft arms around the girl's shoulders. “Shhh,
cara mia
, it is okay. It is going to be okay.” She rocked the girl and shushed her crying as the soft sobs kept coming.

Marjan felt the heavy lump in her throat. It wasn't time for secrets after all.

“Marjan?” Estelle tilted her head to the dresser. “Can you please turn on the radio? A bit of music for everybody?”

Marjan nodded thankfully and made her way to the oak dresser. A blue transistor radio, with fabric-covered speakers, sat to one corner, staid and petlike. She twiddled with the power setting, the lump of sadness making its way down to her stomach.

She should have been more sensitive with her tone, she told herself. She should have taken her time and not rushed the girl.

“Forty-five point five AM. That is the nice Irish music,” suggested Estelle, rubbing her hands up and down the young
woman's arms. She had quieted her crying, but the girl's face was still bent with the weight of her troubles.

Marjan turned the dial, stopping just before the desired number. She thought her ears had tricked her, but no…they had been right.

Her eyes widened when she heard the familiar voice crackling through the static lines: “And that's it for our brief history of the Rat Pack. Sure, Sin City never sounded so grand.

“Right so, folks, the bell has rung for my first day on the mighty airwaves. A big thank-you to my lovely assistant, Mrs. Boylan, who kept the sanity and craic aflow, not to mention lovely takeaway cups of bergamot tea from our very own Babylon Café. Couldn't have gotten through the three hours without some salubrious refreshment of the liquid sort.

“I'd also like to thank the good folks at Mid-West FM for their lend of an ear and a hand when it came to my proposition. We all know what a competitive world it is, this business of show, and I'm glad to say that there are a few pure hearts left out there to shine the way.

“So it's a
sláinte
from me until the next. You've been listening to Craic FM! And don't forget to tune in every teatime but Sundays for your regular dose!

“Here's a bit of Cyndi Lauper to take you into the noon hour—‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’…This is Father Ma-honey and all is right with the world!”

“
A GRAND MORNING TO YOU ALL!
This is your deejay, Father Fergal Mahoney coming to you live on Craic FM!

“Well, folks, I was laying out the tunes and craic for the day when I came across a bit of local trivia that might be of interest to some of our older listeners—and maybe those with a long memory as well: there seems to be a newcomer among our fold. That's right, folks, a certain prodigal son that's returned to claim the ancestral home, not far from the shores of our own village. It's been a good few years since we've seen life in those hallowed grounds, and I for one am welcoming a return to the good old days.

“Speaking of good old days: my lovely assistant, Mrs. Boylan, has just reminded me of the Samhain next fortnight Saturday— that's All Hallows' Eve for the more puritanically minded.

“Our very own councilman Padraig Carey has graciously offered the Town Hall for what I hope will be our last hurrah of a fund-raiser—a ceili, in the name of all the sprites and fairy creatures
who will be roaming the land at midnight. The dance will be one of many get-togethers for this holiday season, and I'll be expecting all your earthly faces there.

“And on that note, to celebrate the start of the holidays, and to welcome the latest addition to our shores, I'm starting things off with one of my favorite love tunes, 1968's ‘Son of a Preacher Man’: take it away, Dusty!”

Father Mahoney felt his stomach flitter and flutter. He didn't think he could not do it. Not really. But done it he had, and with just that bit of pizzazz.

It wasn't as hard as he'd thought it would be. All it had taken was one little money order in the mail, and six weeks later here it was: his very own radio studio, transmitting throughout the whole of the West of Ireland!

Was this feeling, he wondered, what artists called “tapping into the collective unconscious”? Now there was something to think about, all right. The priest leaned back in his chair and studied the bulky transceiver on the table before him. It had weighed a mighty kilo, he'd discovered while taking it out of its large carton, but it was a sciatic he was happy to pull for the joy it was going to bring him.

Of course, the priest reminded himself, it wouldn't be enough to play his extensive collection of Hall and Oates records and be done with it; he needed a platform of sorts, a metaphysical pulpit that would serve to expedite witticisms without the slightest hint of preachiness. It was all about seduction when it came right down to it; he needed a hook at the very get-go.

Having curtailed a heady and youthful career as a stand-up comedian before entering a Tipperary seminary in 1945, the jolly priest knew more than your average frocked professional about the importance of seducing one's audience. In the bustling world of entertainment, he would be vying for hearts and souls with a
vast and varied selection of options, all of which were growing more fractured and peculiar as the years rolled toward the millennium.

Take Beta machines, for instance. Those cumbersome boxes were nothing compared with the elegance of a silent projector, beaming Keaton and Chaplin onto a giant screen. Still, “videos” were all the rage at moment, as were the emporiums to rent the tapes.

Even nearby Castlebar had its own video rental store now, a likely reason why the film house was advertising two-for-one tickets to the latest Eddie Murphy blockbuster.

Now there was a comedian, thought Father Mahoney that wily Eddie. He had hoped to catch the ever-cheeky chameleon's show on his trip to New York City last May but had ended up going to an interesting do in a place named Brooklyn; it was called a house party, if he remembered correctly. Not unlike the ceilis, the dances and roaring sing-alongs one could still find in homes on this side of the Atlantic.

Father Mahoney shook his head. He had been daydreaming again. Sure, if he didn't stop himself, he could go on forever, contemplating all the trappings of entertainment now available to the public at large: he hadn't even gotten started on the uncontrollable charms of those singing devices, those very Japanese of creations, the karaoke machines. He could devote an entire show to talking about those electronic Circes.

A gentle tapping on the large window in his makeshift studio ended the priest's mental meanderings. He looked up to find Mrs. Boylan's kindly face staring back at him.

His housekeeper was making gestures akin to those of an air traffic controller giving the go-ahead for another takeoff. The priest motioned for her to come around to the small side door at the vestry, where she appeared a few moments later.