Page 17 of The Scald Crow
“Will ye be booking the hall, Polly? Does Father Mike know?” Mam’s eyes were bright.
“Don’t I wish. Don’t I wish. I’ll be back in a wee moment, ladies.” Auntie left the kitchen, mumbling something about melting candle wax.
“Will ye have a drop of comfort, laddie?” Eamon leaned his hefty frame on his shillelagh, his good hand grasping the knobby-horned walking stick. He cut a dashing figure in a tailored tweed jacket and tapered trousers the color of a misty morning, with a white cotton shirt casually unbuttoned at the collar.
“Aye.” I nodded to the ladies and followed Eamon down the long hallway.
“I’ll be missing your da. Taken too soon. He was.” A blanket of silence lay before us. His mention of my father raised a well of emotion I had yet to deal with.
“Aye.” I stared at the ham sandwich on my plate. I didn’t trust my voice.
“We go back a long way, Colm. A long way.” He waved the thorny stick toward the nieces and nephews. They clattered away, screeching like the river banshee the woman called Clodagh spoke of.
“We do, Eamon.” I shifted in my boots, squaring my shoulders.
“I’ll be calling on you, laddie. Soon enough.” He peered over his spectacles, his rheumy eyes flashing quicksilver, his soft voice contradicting his tough exterior. “Come, let’s sit a while.”
He turned and walked into a parlor filled with overstuffed couches. The haze of tobacco smoke didn’t dissuade him.
“How are you doing, Eamon?” The wing chair groaned under my weight. I set my plate on the coffee table, my thoughts lingering on his comment. This was an odd time for Eamon to mention an assignment. I studied the lines etched into his brow. The older man had my attention.
“Ach, no worse than usual.” He poured whisky into two glass tumblers. The brown spots spreading over the back of his hands reminded me Eamon’s twilight years were waning.
I scratched my head, wondering where the years had gone.
“About time you joined us, bro.” Hugh Jr. tipped his head, raising his glass. “To Hugh Xavier O’Donnell. May his soul rest in peace.”
We threw back the whisky and slammed down the glasses. Others lifted their glasses in reverence, filling the space with resounding echoes of sympathy.
“Such a hardy soul he was.” Eamon removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ll miss him.”
“As we will.” I topped up Eamon’s glass and my own, fortified by the Irish and my brother’s companionship.
“I could use your hands, Colm. If you’re around? The north field.” Oisin helped himself to four ham sandwiches.
“Aye.” I nodded. Stacking hay on a hot, sunny day soothed the soul.
“What are you doing?” Ten months younger than Pádraig, Cillian planted his tattooed hands on the table’s edge. He came from away, living in Paris for the last three years.
“What?” I glanced up from the food left on my plate—one ham sandwich, four pickles, and one strawberry—the bread slices piled on the side.
“Pádraig will lose his shite. He sees you decimating his prized sourdough.” Cillian turned, showing off the rose tattoo on the shaved side of his head.
“The mohawk suits you.” I lifted my chin, acknowledging the edgy hairstyle and the bold shade of blue that set him apart from most Ardara men. I grabbed the mustard and squirted each open face.
“Jaysus, what is it? What is it now?” Pádraig, the eldest O’Donnell, rounded the corner. He dropped a platter overflowing with sandwiches onto the table.
“Nothing,” I murmured. I liked to avoid trouble.
“Is it bad? What’s wrong with it?” He lunged toward my plate, lifting each abandoned crust toward his spectacle-covered eyes.
My brother lived for baking. His shop, The Fat Bastard, was renowned for fresh baked goods, butter tarts, sticky buns, and Pádraig’s famed sourdough bread.
“I’m watching my weight.” I dug into the last crustless sandwich, smearing mustard on my chin.
“Your weight? Do you have any idea what goes into this?” He gestured with his hands, his voice rising.
“It’s the best I’ve ever had.” I grinned. I remembered a much younger Pádraig, his fire-engine red curly hair dusted in flour, his hands deep in dough, and our dear departed Nana supervising the delicate procedure.
