The Long Game (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

JIMMY BOY JERKED the pickup sharply off State
Highway 90 onto a side road. Other than a white sign with black
letters that warned this was private property, there wasn’t any
indication where the road might lead. The truck sped along smooth
macadam that was maintained better than any laid by St. Tammany
Parish. The narrow lane disappeared into dense woods, but the hot
sun beat down on the truck again as soon as we crossed through the
line of trees into a section of cleared land.

From the front, the Village looked like any
other trailer park around this part of Louisiana. A little nicer,
maybe, since the doublewides were all in pristine condition, but
there wasn’t much to make it stand out from the crowd unless you
were really looking. Statues of the Madonna, Jesus, or one of the
saints guarded each front yard without exception. The statues
varied in size and number, but each one was painted in colors
bright enough to make a Mardi Gras float look tasteful.

Every driveway was home to at least one car,
usually more, and they were all as bright and new as the statues. A
few looked more expensive than the trailers themselves. The
wheezing engine under Jimmy Boy’s hood seemed even older and louder
in such company, and I mentally rehearsed the speech I’d make to
Maggie about why she had to let us buy a new truck this fall.

I squinted against the dusty air that blew
through the open window. The Village was alive with activity—not
typical on such a hot day when most would rather stay inside and
enjoy the bought air. Today, though, the women were going through
their return-from-the-road routine, which went far beyond unpacking
a few suitcases. They congregated in small groups, updating one
another on their family’s latest purchases or comparing the gifts
their husbands had bought them while they were away. They chitted
like birds over gold and diamond jewelry in voices so loud I could
hear them over the noise of the truck. I could almost see them
making mental calculations to determine whose husband spent
more.

Their younger daughters, dressed like
miniature versions of themselves in sequins and beads, hovered
outside these little klatches, mothering similarly dressed dolls.
The older girls, those closer to their teens, attempted to join the
conversations now and then but more often quietly observed in an
effort to learn the role they’d be expected to play in a year or
two. A few boys who were still young enough to hang around with the
ladies chased each other with thumbs and forefingers stretched out,
shouting “bang!” at one another and irritating the girls who were
unlucky enough to be in the way of their game.

This time of year, the Village would normally
only be home to the elderly and a handful of women whose husbands
had died or been incarcerated, but the wedding of Pop Sheedy’s
daughter had brought nearly everyone back from their summer travels
to the north and west. Once word had spread about the newly
arranged marriage, the men had left their work on the road and
brought their wives and children home a full two months before the
end of the season. Most hadn’t arrived until late the night before,
but Jimmy Boy and I had been back for a few weeks since neither of
us were comfortable leaving Maggie on her own for long
stretches.

“Think those boys need any help?” I asked as
Jimmy Boy snaked the truck around the large pavilion that marked
the center of the Village. A group of men dressed in dirt-smudged
jeans and plaid button-up shirts rolled large aluminum kegs into
the pavilion. Another set of men lifted the kegs into tubs of
ice.

Jimmy Boy slowed but didn’t stop. “Nah. Looks
like Scrud Daly’s got it under control. Knowing him, he’s probably
gone ahead and made those kegs a little lighter anyhow.”

I chuckled. “Yeah. Besides, Bridget’s on a
rampage. You better step on it before she sees us.”

I pointed toward the women who were
decorating the support posts and roof beams of the pavilion with
white Christmas lights and overworked garlands of colored ribbon.
In the center of the concrete floor, a flower arrangement stood so
tall its highest point scraped the ceiling. Thousands of blossoms
spray-painted in awful shades of pink and red were intertwined to
form a massive heart. An older woman, her gray-streaked hair
tightly wound around plastic curlers, stabbed a bony finger at it,
issuing commands. Bridget Sheedy, mother of the bride, had no doubt
paid a local florist a small fortune for the flowers, but there was
always room for improvement as far as she was concerned.

Weddings took the typical Traveler garishness
to extremes, and this one promised to be even crazier than most.
The goal of each family was to outdo every other wedding that had
come before it, and since the Sheedys were the wealthiest family in
the Village, this would be the most elaborate we’d seen. Pulling
together such a big event was no small feat when you thought about
the fact that Traveler engagements lasted for no more than a week
or two.

As we continued toward the back of the
Village, mobile homes were replaced by new-ish houses set back at
the furthest end of the clearing. Travelers jumped on any
opportunity to display their success to one another but didn’t look
kindly on drawing the attention of outsiders. If country people saw
all these fancy houses, it wouldn’t be long before questions would
be asked about where we got all that money, and questions like that
were usually followed by visits from the cops.

Around three-dozen houses had been built over
the past 30 years, and like our weddings, they were each larger and
more elaborate than the last. One house, the largest mansion in the
Village and home to the Sheedys, had a façade of bright red brick
interspersed with chunks of black coal that glared in the
sunlight.

There were still trailers in this part, but
these were usually reserved for in-laws or elderly parents,
purchased as a sign of devotion by successful children. They sat
scattered around the mansions like foothills at the base of
mountains, attached to the larger buildings by the power lines that
stretched between them.

I looked away from the window when the truck
slowed a second time. A small trailer sat off to the side of the
clearing, like it was ashamed to be seen in broad daylight. And it
was right to try to hide itself away. Even the most modest mobile
home was a palace compared to this tiny travel trailer with its
hitch propped up on a pile of cinderblocks. Several yards away
was a seafoam green house, larger than some but humble compared to
the ones built in the last ten years. The same umbilical lines
of power connected this house to the tiny trailer. Even though
Jimmy Boy and I tried to keep the exterior of the old place in good
condition, its bare lawn and empty flowerbeds were as good as a
neon vacancy sign flashing outside a motel.

We pulled to a stop next to an old picnic
table. When I was a kid it had been bright red, but the sun had
bleached it to a faded brick color and no one had taken the time to
do anything about it. I swung the door open and climbed down from
the cab. Jimmy Boy made a beeline for the trailer, the door banging
shut behind him. That morning, the leg of our foldout table had
thrown in the towel and collapsed under our breakfast dishes. I’d
hoped the mess would finally convince Maggie it was time to move
back into the house and have some real furniture, but she’d just
set herself to cleaning up and shooed us off to the hardware
store.

Instead of going inside to help, I settled
myself on the faded red bench and rested my back against the picnic
table’s edge. I stretched my legs out across the patch of grass in
front of me and tried to imagine what tonight’s party would look
like. In years past, the bride’s family would rent a fire hall or
hotel ballroom for the reception, but that was before the clan’s
reputation as “a bunch of rowdy gypsies” got us banned from every
rental space in St. Tammany Parish.

“Back so soon?”

I turned, startled by the voice behind me. It
was all brogue without a hint of slow, Southern drawl. Maggie
emerged from around the side of the trailer. Our massive
wolfhounds, Yeats and Beckett, flanked her, obediently keeping pace
as she strode across the lawn. Their wiry coats were a gleaming
variety of blacks and grays, but each had a twin patch of white at
his chest as if they’d lain down in a puddle of bleach. The mud on
Maggie’s long skirt and the basket of lavender she carried on her
wrist told me she’d been digging in her garden out behind the
trailer.

My mam was different from the other women in
the Village—really from any woman I’d ever seen. To be honest, I’d
never been certain of her age, but the skin of her face was still
as smooth as it had been when I was small enough to sit in her lap
and tangle my fingers in the charcoal curls that hung loose around
her shoulders. She seemed older and wiser than any woman in the
Village, but still as young and spirited as any girl. She paused
and turned her face up to the sun. When she looked at me again,
something flashed in her green eyes, and I was immediately
suspicious. It was a look I’d become familiar with; it meant she
had a secret she was anxious to reveal that I might not be thrilled
to hear.

In spite of my sudden discomfort, I smiled at
her. “Hey, Maggie.” I almost never called her mam anymore. She was
simply Maggie to everyone who knew her. “Just got back. Jimmy Boy
is already inside working on the table.”

“And you’re out here lazing around instead of
helping.”

I shrugged. “There’s hardly enough room for
both of us to sit at the table, let alone work under it.”

“If this is going to be another conversation
about living in that house, Shay, you might as well save your
breath.”

She walked to the table and set her basket
down. Shadowing her every movement, the dogs sat. Even in that
position, they were impressive animals. Their long, narrow heads
reached the height of Maggie’s ribcage.

“It’s hot today.” I scratched Beckett behind
the ear, and he inched forward, nuzzling his head into my hand.
Drops of saliva from his panting tongue dripped onto the knee of my
jeans.

“Aye,” she said, swiping the back of her hand
across her forehead. “It certainly is. It’ll be hard for those
lasses to stay looking their loveliest when they’re melting in
their fancy gowns.”

I chuckled at her. Though other Traveler
women reveled in the opportunity to put on expensive dresses and
decorate their hair with jeweled ornaments, Maggie had far simpler
tastes. She preferred light cotton dresses, and she only ever wore
one piece of jewelry: a silver pendant with three interlocking
spirals hanging from a leather cord.

If she were any other member of the clan, her
tendency toward simplicity would’ve been looked down on—might’ve
even gotten her dragged—but Maggie was special. She was a Traveler
in the truest sense—born in Ireland and still clinging to the
oldest traditions of our kind.

I appreciated that she wanted to honor the
old ways, but I never understood why that meant we had to live in a
tiny trailer while my father’s house sat empty next to it. Still,
when my father’s people had fled Ireland during the Great Famine,
Maggie’s had stayed behind and struggled through it. The same
strength that allowed her people to survive such a nightmare had
been passed down to her.

“Speaking of the wedding,” Maggie said,
drawing my attention back to the conversation. She took a seat next
to me and inclined her head slightly. Both dogs stood and ambled to
the shade of an oak, then collapsed with a thud at its roots.
Yeats, the larger of the two, stretched his jaw in a whining yawn
and settled his head on Beckett’s back.

“Yeah?” I asked cautiously.

“Little Rosie Sheedy stopped by here this
morning, just after you left.”

I turned to look at her. “Yeah?” I said
again, though now curiosity replaced concern. “Looking for me?”

“I believe she was, though she knew better
than to say so.” Maggie wrinkled her nose. “She asked me for a love
charm. Said now that her sister’s getting married, she’d like to
attract her own husband.”

Maggie’s connection to the old ways meant her
handcrafted charms for luck, love, fortune, or health and her
herbal teas to calm nerves or promote fertility were highly coveted
in the Village. It wasn’t unusual that a young woman would stop by
seeking such a thing, but apparently Rosie wasn’t such a welcome
visitor.

“You’d better watch your drink tonight,
boyo,” Jimmy Boy said from the steps of the trailer. “I wouldn’t be
surprised if she tried to mix up a love potion of her own after
Maggie turned her away. You could end up with lavender and Clorox
in your Guinness.”

Both dogs raised their heads. Their bodies
remained motionless, though the fur at their necks bristled and
their ears perked. Maggie lifted her hand without looking at them,
and both dogs lowered their heads but continued to keenly observe
the scene.

Maggie cocked an eyebrow at Jimmy Boy as he
crossed the lawn to join us. “And who says I turned her away?”

“You did, didn’t you? You know what kind of
trouble Shay could get into messin’ around with the clan leader’s
daughter.”

Maggie stared at him for a moment, a curious
expression crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Sit down, lad,” she
said.

After a moment, Jimmy Boy plopped heavily
onto the bench next to me and crossed his arms over his chest. We
both looked up at her, waiting to hear what she’d say next, and it
occurred to me that my brother and I both yielded to Maggie almost
as obediently as the wolfhounds. She stood back to take in both of
us for a long moment.

Due to decades of intermarriage, everyone in
the Village vaguely looked alike, but somehow this hadn’t extended
to us Reilly boys. Jimmy Boy and I hardly appeared related at all,
let alone brothers. He had a stocky build with hair the color of a
rusty tractor wheel, which I assumed he’d inherited from our Da,
though I’d never seen more than a grainy picture of him in the
twenty years I’d been alive. Jimmy Boy’s eyes were a dull gray-blue
that looked downright colorless compared to the emerald green eyes
I’d inherited from Maggie, along with her tar-black hair. I was
lean and at least an inch taller, despite him having three years on
me.