We Came From Away, page 18
The gravel driveway that had widened at the top was already lined with too many vehicles to count. There were pick-up trucks, several SUVs, an old grey Toyota that looked like the first car I’d owned in the 1990s, and, oddly, at least to my eye, a bright red Mercedes convertible. I wonder who owns that one, I thought as I extricated myself once again from the truck. I could feel my old reporter curiosity coming alive and thought, This might just turn out to be interesting after all.
By the time we were all out standing beside the truck, several people had appeared on the front porch.
“Well, if it isn’t Peter O’Brien,” a voice from the doorway roared. A tall, thick-set man with dark curly hair shot through with grey strands, wearing a plaid shirt rolled up to reveal beefy forearms, smiled broadly as he moved toward the top of the steps. He had a bottle of beer in one hand.
“Everett Malone,” Peter called. “I’ve brought you Nora’s family.” Peter then turned to the group of us who were standing there stupidly as if we might be facing a firing squad. “Everett is Mary’s grandson. He and I go back a long way. Classmates at one time.”
At that moment, a woman emerged from behind Everett. She was about Mom’s age, with short, spikey red hair, an odd colour for a woman clearly approaching eighty, I thought. Dear god, I was beginning to sound like Eliza. The woman was wearing a tight cream-coloured sweater, leggings and high heels.
My mother, who was standing beside me, grabbed my arm. “It’s worse than I even imagined,” she whispered.
“Who is that woman?” I said.
“That, my darling daughter, is Bernadette McCarthy—I suppose Bernadette Malone at this stage if she’s still married to Harold Malone, whose father owned every car dealership in the city when I was growing up. Everett’s mother. Mary’s daughter, or should I say evil spawn.”
I raised my eyebrows. It was so unlike my mother to talk about people that way. I needed details, but I could see now was not the time.
“I suppose that flashy red car is hers,” Mom hissed as she plastered on an artificial smile and moved toward the porch.
I looked at the Mercedes and then at Phillip. “The plot thickens, brother.”
“I guess,” he said. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is a bit like Alice in Wonderland.”
BY THE TIME WE GOT inside, we could see the party was in full swing. There were people everywhere.
“I thought this party would be in the kitchen,” Emma said, looking around at people milling about the living room.
“It is, too, in the kitchen,” Peter said. “But one of Mary’s parties is everywhere since there are so many people. But the kitchen is where the musicians will be set up and where the singing and dancing will be.”
“How can a kitchen be big enough for singing and dancing?”
“You’ll see,” he said. “In the meantime, you might want to check out the hors d’oeuvres.” He pointed toward the dining room.
I followed Emma into the huge dining room. Eliza and Phillip followed behind. Uncle Fred and Mom seemed to have disappeared. The décor was what I would call country style, with maple wainscoting on the lower part of the walls and floral wallpaper above. The heavy drapes were the same pink and purple floral as the wallpaper. It must have been quite the place in its day, but it had a kind of tiredness about it. It was a tiredness that was in direct contrast to the ebullience of the people. And there were people of all shapes, sizes, and ages, although there were actually few people in the dining room. Perhaps they had already eaten.
The colossal table that looked as if it could seat twelve comfortably for dinner groaned under the weight of the food. If everyone had already eaten, this must have been the second helping. Peter had directed us to hors d’oeuvre platters that held food I’d never seen on a menu before. Eliza just stood there and stared. I wondered how a culinary “expert” would view the food.
“What exactly are those?” she said, pointing to skewers on a large platter.
Emma leaned over to take a better look. “They are certainly not vegan-friendly,” she said.
At that precise moment, I heard a snort of laughter from the other side of the table. I looked up to see a woman, possibly sixty or seventy—it was hard to tell—with her hands clasped across her ample mid-section, smiling broadly at Emma—a bit like one might smile at a daft child.
“No, my dear child. No one breathes that word in the presence of Mary McCarthy, mind.”
Emma looked over. “What word?”
The woman looked around conspiratorially. “That V-word, child. Trust me. Do not suggest to Mary that anyone in the world would choose to be a V-person.”
“V-person? Do you mean vegan? But I am vegan,” Emma said.
“Are you still?” I could not help myself. After that little display the other evening at the bar, I wondered.
Emma looked daggers at me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just asking,” I said as innocently as I could manage as I picked up one of the skewers. I turned to Eliza. “Eliza, you’ll be familiar with these.”
Eliza picked up a skewer just as three children ran madly past her in one dining room door and out the other. “Dear god,” she said. “Not more bologna.”
Someone had spent a lot of time threading bologna cubes, pickled onions and cubes of what appeared to be cheddar cheese onto dozens of skewers. I nibbled the cheese off the end and then the onion. Then, there was a pickle resembling a minuscule cucumber. “Eliza, do you remember these?”
Eliza’s nose was twitching, but I knew she remembered. We’d loved them as kids at Gran’s summer place on her cold plates, a gourmet delight I hadn’t thought about in years. These were tiny gherkin pickles. I popped it in my mouth and savoured the crisp tang of the vinegary flavour. I felt that satisfying crunch as I bit down, and summers at Gran’s filled my mind. I hadn’t eaten a gherkin pickle since I was about fifteen years old and now, I wondered why. “Eat it, Eliza.”
Eliza took a deep breath and ate the bologna and cheddar. Then she bit into the gherkin, and I could see she remembered as vividly as I did.
“Well, what does your gourmet palate think of that?”
“Salt, herbal notes of dill and the acidic tang of vinegar,” she said, her eyes closed. Was she almost smiling?
Emma, on the other hand, was picking off the bologna and cheese as if touching them might somehow betray her putative veganism while the woman across the table continued to look on, a bemused look on her face.
“You lot are Nora’s people, aren’t you?” the woman said. We all nodded. “Her grandchildren here on the island for the old bat’s birthday, I suppose.”
I almost choked. Old bat? Didn’t everyone love Nora Houlihan?
“Glad to meet you all. I’m Iris Noseworthy, Mary’s niece.” We introduced ourselves. “Well, girls,” she said while I wondered how three middle-aged women could be referred to as girls, “take my advice. I’ve known Nora since I was a girl, and I have to say one thing about her. She’s as constant as the North Star. Never changes. Never has. Still as bigoted and crotchety as ever.” She turned to Emma. “And one more word of advice for you, my ducky, don’t mention your affliction to your grandmother and eat whatever she has on offer. You might practice with those,” she said, pointing to a plate filled with little sausages on toothpicks that I recognized as another summer delight—the Vienna sausages that Gran used to extract from a little can. Then she turned to the cabinet behind her that held what looked to be a large slow cooker surrounded by bowls. “And Aunt Mary’s moose stew.”
Emma blanched. I suppose I did as well, but Eliza looked intrigued. Emma swallowed and said, “You don’t mean that someone killed a moose and put it in that pot?”
“Well, of course I do, ducky. How else would you make a moose stew?” Iris laughed. “And don’t forget to sample the fish cakes.” She pointed to another platter in the middle of the table. “Aunt Mary will ask you how you liked them.” She stared at Emma. “Anyway, there’s drinks in the kitchen, and the music is about to start. That’s where everyone’ll be.”
That explained why there were now so few guests here in the dining room. I absently picked up a Vienna sausage on a toothpick and popped it in my mouth—salty and smoky with that smooth, over-processed texture I’d loved as a child. I needed a drink.
We followed the sound of instruments tuning up into the enormous kitchen. It was more of what I would think of as a combination kitchen-family room with its expansive counters, maple cabinets, an old woodstove in one corner beside a gleaming, stainless-steel stove, two sofas and a rocking chair. In another corner, there was a massive plastic basin filled with dozens of bottles of beer nestled in a bed of crushed ice. On the counter sat an enormous punch bowl where I saw Peter standing, ladling something from it into a plastic cup. He gestured us over.
I picked my way through the crowd, followed by Eliza, while Emma stayed in the doorway. Phillip was with Peter, and I saw Mom and Uncle Fred over by the rocking chair, chatting with the woman sitting in it. I concluded that it was Mary McCarthy herself. Red-haired Bernadette hovered near the musicians—a guitarist, an accordion player and a drummer holding something I recognized as a Bodhrán, an Irish drum played with a short stick. They were getting ready.
When we arrived beside Peter, he handed me the cup and filled another one for Eliza. It looked like one of those slushies that kids like so much in the summer.
“Here’s the local version of Newfoundland slush, ladies. Don’t drink it too fast.”
I took a tentative sip and was startled at how it warmed my throat all the way down despite its icy cold mouth feel. It was no regular slushie. “What’s in this?” I said, trying to make myself heard over the noise level that was increasing by the minute. The music began, and three people went to the centre of the floor and started dancing. The style resembled what I imagined step-dancing to be.
“Well, this version seems to be apricot brandy and vodka with a hint of lemonade and orange juice, if I’m not mistaken. I also taste a bit of pineapple. Frozen and served with a splash of lemon-lime soda.”
I could see my education was severely lacking. This particular party offering was new to me, and I could see by Eliza’s face that it was certainly new to her. “What do you call it?” I said.
“Well, just Newfoundland slush,” Peter said, “but I’m driving, so a sip’s all I get!”
Peter’s friend Everett maneuvered his way toward us and started introducing us to anyone who came near. The names went in one ear and out the other. Then I could see Mom gesturing for us to come over toward her.
Peter saw her and said, “You better go over and meet our hostess herself. Then you can relax and have a good time.”
We made our way past the dancers and singers—everyone was singing something about there’s going to be a time and fishing off some rocks. It was a catchy tune that we may have heard earlier in the day if I didn’t miss my guess.
Mary McCarthy was sitting primly in her rocking chair, wearing a crocheted sweater over a floral dress and a string of pearls. Her thin white hair stood in wisps, and I judged her to be near Gran’s age. She peered at us through large plastic glasses with thick lenses. Mom introduced us one at a time, and Mary took each of our hands and said, “Welcome, girls. I want you to know that we all love you here despite you all being CFAs. Nora wasn’t as lucky as I was, all her offspring leaving her—although you might say I couldn’t blame them.” She cackled. Although Peter had suggested Gran and Mary had once been friends, it sounded to me that there was little love lost between them. “But rest assured,” she continued, “I’ll be at her party with bells on.” I was surprised to hear this and wondered how many of the rest of Mary’s family might attend Gran’s birthday party the following week in St. John’s.
After meeting Mary, I wandered around the house for a while, dodging people here and there, introducing myself as necessary. Eliza, Emma and Phillip had all found a second and maybe third drink, and I think I even saw Emma singing. I decided to search for a bathroom. I made my way up the wide staircase with its turned maple balustrade and its carpeting that matched the dining room drapes and wallpaper. I found the bathroom down a corridor on the second floor, and when I’d finished, I wandered a bit further, my reporter’s curiosity piqued. At the end of the hall, there was another narrower staircase leading up to a third floor. I walked up, and at the top, there was a third, even narrower set of stairs. This must lead to that widow’s walk, I thought. There must be a great view from up there. What harm could there be in going up?
As I emerged at the top of the staircase, I could see someone leaning on the railing, looking out over the water. It was just past dusk, and I couldn't discern the person’s identity. As I took a step, a floorboard creaked, and the person turned. It was Peter.
“Hey, Erica, fancy meeting you here.”
“What are you doing up here, Peter?”
“Looking at the view. I used to come up here with Everett to drink beer when our families were visiting. I haven’t been up here in years. Things can get so hectic, and sometimes, you know, I just prefer the quiet.” I joined him at the rail and looked around as he continued. “What are you doing up here? Doing some journalistic snooping?” I was surprised he knew about that. “You the kind of person who looks in other people’s medicine cabinets?” He laughed.
“You’d be surprised what you can learn about people from their bathrooms,” I said.
“I know you, Erica Flanagan,” he said.
I was startled. “What do you mean? I don’t think we’ve ever met before these last few days.”
“We actually did, very briefly, one summer decades ago. You wouldn’t remember, and that’s not what I meant, anyway. I know you from television.”
I looked closely at his face. “I would never have taken you for an afternoon television kind of guy, Peter.”
“Ah, I suppose I’m a man of many surprises, Erica,” he said, laughing. “I have seen you recently on your evening show a few times, but, yes, I first stumbled upon you on afternoon TV. I was also a great fan of your husband’s work. Andrew Taylor was the greatest national news anchor this country ever had. I missed him when he retired. I still miss him.”
“Then you know more about me than I know about you,” I said, realizing that I knew nothing about Peter O’Brien other than what I had surmised—and I had no way of knowing if I had nailed him.
“Tell me about Eliza,” he said before I could ask him anything.
“Eliza? Well, my cousin is pretty much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of woman. She’s an uptight, bossy, snobby New Yorker.”
“I’m not so sure,” Peter said, gazing into the darkness over the trees toward where the moon shimmered on the water.
I started to worry about Peter’s evident interest in Eliza. “Are you married, Peter?”
“I was. Not anymore.”
“Well, Eliza is married, as I mentioned to you at dinner yesterday, so if you have any ideas about an attraction to her, you might as well let them go. Besides, I did mention that she’s snobby and a bit elitist, if you ask me.”
“Elitist, eh? I suppose you’re implying that I might not fit into the rarefied atmosphere of the elite,” Peter said without a shred of offence.
“I told you her husband Jake is a member of the Bluestone Pharma family—with more money than brains, as far as I’m concerned. Eliza seems to have developed certain expectations about the people she associates with. Anyway, as I said, she’s married, so the discussion is all academic.”
“Tell me more about her husband.”
“Jake? He’s a vain, pretentious mommy’s boy. I’ve never liked him. I remember their wedding. It was at the Plaza Hotel in New York, and it was attended by hundreds of obnoxious friends, relatives, and business acquaintances of Jake’s family. As Eliza’s family, we were in the minority in a big way. I remember how offended Uncle Fred had been when he’d suggested they be married in Eliza’s hometown and that he pay for it as the father of the bride in those days always did. Jake’s mother wouldn’t even entertain that idea. I always thought that Eliza might actually have given her father that privilege if she’d had any say in the matter. She didn’t seem to. It must have cost hundreds of thousands. But that’s just a drop in the bucket to her in-laws. And did I mention that her mother-in-law is a nightmare?”
“You told me you thought Eliza and Jake might be having a long-distance argument of some sort. What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. Honestly, Peter, if you’re developing a crush on my cousin, I’d recommend that it’s in your best interests to step away. Really.”
I could see Peter’s smile in the semi-darkness. “There’s something about her, Erica. I’m convinced there’s more to your cousin than meets the eye—yours or mine. And I’m going to find out what it is.”
Twenty-Two
Eliza
I WAS FEELING TIRED and dusty as I stood there beside the truck in the parking lot in front of our new “hotel” in Rocky Harbour. The drive had been quiet, almost as if everyone else might also have found the landscape as profoundly moving as I did. I had never expected to begin to question decisions I’d made in my life—none whatsoever. But now...well, now I didn’t quite know what to think. All I knew at that moment was that after only a few days, I was already tired of Gran seeming to have control over our lives while we were here. Then Dad said that none of us had chosen to be there, and I began to consider why that might be.
