The Silver Boat Read online

  “Please, Cathleen,” Dar said as gently as she could, with her heart banging inside her rib cage. “Prevail how?”

  “He was another McDonough McCarthy, my friend Michael was,” she said, her language halting. “Hardheaded. There was . . . a violence. Never for me and Tim.” She paused, staring into Dar’s eyes. “Toward himself. A tortured soul.”

  “Why, Cathleen?”

  “You see, he let his family down.”

  “Is he still alive? My father?”

  “Oh, Michael. My poor friend Michael,” she said, hands over her eyes, in such obvious distress Sister Theresa heard and came into the room. The nun put her arm around Cathleen, brushed the sugar from her mouth.

  “It’s not your fault,” Sister Theresa said. “She can get like this. They all can, thinking of what’s gone by. This part of life is full of terrible mystery. And then, all of a sudden, profound joy. Please don’t worry. But I think it would be best for her to rest now.”

  The three sisters stood still, not wanting to leave. One by one they bent over to kiss Cathleen’s cheek.

  Still she wouldn’t look up or stop whispering “Michael, Michael . . .”

  Dar, Rory, and Delia left the room, walked down the gleaming hall, and stepped out the front door.

  Dar couldn’t shake the sound of Cathleen saying her father’s name. She breathed in the fresh, flower-scented air.

  Slowly she and her sisters began to walk through town. There were signs, and Dar followed them to the Dalua Bridge. She thought of the woman in the pastry shop and looked for the carvings.

  Engraved in six stones on the northern parapet was a poem in eighteenth-century rhyming couplets. The words were in Irish, but an English translation was provided on a plaque beside the last stone. The three sisters read.

  “Look, there’s Bluepool,” Rory said, touching the stone. “The verse Cathleen quoted.”

  Dar read to the end:

  The weary here in safe repose

  Forgetting life’s attendant woes

  May sit secure, serene and still

  And view with joy yon famed hill.

  The sisters read the words, Dar trying to make out what any of it meant. They were all tired, and began walking slowly toward their little car, and Dar thought security, serenity, and joy a long way off.

  “She sounded so sad,” Delia said.

  “I can’t figure anything out,” Rory said. “Where is he? And what does some romantic poem carved into a seven-arched bridge have to do with him? I feel we’re more in the dark than before.”

  “Dad sought her out because she was a McCarthy,” Dar said. “And she said he didn’t prevail at first . . . but did he at all?”

  “She must have meant the land grant,” Delia asked. “But from what she said about the castle, it sounds as if the king would have been more likely to take land from Irishmen than to give it to them.”

  “Is it worth searching more?” Dar asked. “She sounded so sincere.”

  “She might not know everything,” Delia said.

  “Dad kept some things secret,” Dar agreed.

  “I miss my kids. I want to go home. Oh, Dar,” Rory said. “Let’s leave.”

  “But we’re still missing something here,” Dar said.

  “I want to call the airline,” Rory said. “Change our tickets and leave tomorrow.”

  “You know what’s crazy?” Delia asked. “We thought life was one way, and then we came here and now it’s another way. We wanted to find a place to say good-bye to Dad. But that seems even less possible than before. Where did he go from here? Why didn’t he come home?”

  “Because he didn’t ‘get what he was owed,’” Rory said. “Just like he said in the letter. He was too proud to return to us. I think we have to accept that.”

  “I don’t want to,” Dar said.

  “Neither do I,” Delia said. “But isn’t it time to stop all this and let him be in peace? We’ve already learned so much more than we knew before.”

  “It’s not enough,” Dar said.

  “Maybe not, but will anything be? Anything short of finding him alive? Cathleen saying ‘my poor friend Michael.’ He’s dead, Dar. Can’t we help each other try to face it?”

  Dar closed her eyes tight because, no, she couldn’t yet.

  “I’m not staying!” Rory said. “If you want to keep searching for him, I guess I can’t stop you. But we’re not getting anywhere, just more upset.”

  “I agree with Rory. I just got here, and I’m jet-lagged,” Delia said, putting a conciliatory arm around Dar’s shoulders. “Too much time has passed. Everything is buried too deep.”

  “Dar, we mourned Dad before he was dead. He never even called us to tell us he was okay, or that he was on his way back to us. I don’t know how to think about any of this!” Rory said.

  “I know,” Dar said. “You’re right, Rory. But in his own way he’s brought us here, and we have to see it through!”

  “Look, we’re all upset. Just get us back to that fleabag we so fondly know as our hotel,” Rory said. “I need to lie down.”

  “Me too,” Delia said.

  So Dar drove them back to the guesthouse on the busy, noisy, boatbuilding quay of Cobh seaport, the sign McCarthy Manufacturing towering over it all, the dark reflection of the stone building and the sign’s letters shimmering in the deep blue harbor.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sisters napped in their separate rooms, each of which had barely enough space for a single bed, a bureau, and a crucifix on the wall. Dar fell into hard, instant sleep. She dreamed that she was trying to draw a straight line; with pencil first, then fountain pen, and then outdoors with a shovel and a pickax. She couldn’t keep the line straight, but her determination was fierce. Rocks just below the surface made her zigzag back and forth until she felt herself rocking and tilting, first walking with a crowd of others on a collapsing mountain road, then on the deck of a passenger liner pitching on high seas. She had drawn herself into this danger, created it with her pencil, and it had come to life around her.

  Her scream woke the other two up. They both knocked on her door, found her sitting on her bed rubbing her head.

  “Are you okay?” Rory asked.

  “I had an awful dream,” Dar said.

  They all sat still, letting it come back to her. “I felt I was going to fall off earth’s surface, or that the boat was about to sink. The worst part was, I was taking other people with me.”

  “Who?”

  “I couldn’t see their faces; I just felt them nearby. The strange thing was, it had started with me drawing lines, as if starting a new Dulse. Except instead of her, it was me.” She glanced at her sisters. “And maybe you. It feels as if we were together.”

  “On the deck of a sinking ship,” Rory said.

  “But why now? Just when we’ve found out for sure that Dad made it here, didn’t drown?”

  Rory kissed her and stood up. “Let’s go down for tea. Oh—I checked messages, and Morgan is trying to get hold of us. Should we call?”

  “I’ll try her,” Dar said. But the hotel had terrible cell reception, so the call didn’t go through.

  “Tea time,” Delia said.

  The three sisters went downstairs. No frills, just an electric kettle and a plate of soda bread. They sat in peace, not talking. Dar let the shock waves from her dream ripple away. She put on her green fleece and stepped outside to call Morgan.

  “Hi, Morgan,” Dar said. “Sorry to not call sooner, but reception is sketchy over here.”

  “That’s okay. I’m just relieved to have you on the phone,” Morgan said. “The title is a mess. I had asked you very clearly about rights of ownership, and you told me your mother sold it to you for a penny and loving kindness.”

  “She did,” Dar said. “Her mother did the same before that.”

  “And what about before that?” Morgan asked. “The buyers’ attorney is very thorough; he investigated records on the Vineyard, but because the prope
rty has been in your family for so long, he needed to trace it back to the very beginning. So he went to the State House in Boston.”

  “What did he find?” Dar asked, her heart kicking over.

  “Well, it’s confusing. Please listen to this list and tell me who’s who. Archibald Daggett, Jr.”

  “My maternal grandfather.”

  “Archibald Daggett would be his father, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Percival Daggett.”

  “Great-great-grandfather,” Dar said.

  “John Daggett, I assume, would be your great-great-great-grandfather.”

  “Yes,” Dar said.

  “Well, there’s a lien on the property dating back to 1625. There is no information whatsoever on precisely who placed it there, but there’s a seal stamped into the record. The lawyer is having the image analyzed. Does any of this make sense to you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Dar said, staring across the harbor.

  “Dar, you are not taking this seriously enough. The Littles are about to walk away from the contract. Because of this title problem, we’ll have to refund their deposit. Their architect has flown over from London twice, and he’s lined up a construction crew that’s ready to go the instant we solve this.”

  “What happens if we don’t?” Dar asked.

  “Then the Littles will sue you for breach of contract. They are already in this for the cost of their architect and his first-class travel and the plans he’s drawn up.”

  “They shouldn’t have jumped the gun,” Dar said quietly.

  “The Littles may try litigation, but they’ll be one step behind the IRS, who will padlock your doors and post signs around your property. They’ll seize it and sell it at auction.”

  “So far we’re not behind on taxes,” Dar reminded her.

  “No, but in June you will be. That’s when the reassessments will translate into tax bills. You’ll be sunk. You need this sale to go through now. Please do what you can to help me on it.”

  “Okay, Morgan,” Dar said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Dar hung up, staring out the window.

  The sun began to set. Its reflection blazed orange in the windows of McCarthy Manufacturing. Dar heard the whistle blow, watched ten or fifteen men walk out the side door and head for their cars. She walked along the cobbled quay, entered the manufacturing building just as the last man was leaving.

  Glancing up, she saw that lights were still on in the office. She climbed the stairs quietly, stood standing at the top until Tim McCarthy turned and saw her.

  “Did you have a good visit?” he asked.

  “I’m sure Sister Theresa called you the minute we left,” Dar said. “Didn’t she?”

  “She keeps me informed about my mother’s visitors,” he said.

  “Your mother is lovely,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Dar breathed slowly, looking into his eyes.

  “She told me my father was good to you.”

  Tim nodded. “He was.”

  “I can’t figure out why you sent us to see your mother instead of telling me yourself. I’m worried that we upset her.”

  Tim shook his head. “She’s fine. They tell me she’s been more restful since your visit than she’s been in a long time. I’ll go see for myself tonight.”

  “She seemed the opposite of restful while my sisters and I were there.”

  “Well, it was a huge deal to her, meeting Michael’s daughters. I sent you there because I couldn’t have let you leave without having you visit. You see, for many years, she was obsessed with getting in touch with you.”

  “Why didn’t she?”

  “Because he never told us where he lived in the States. There are more McCarthys over there than in Ireland.”

  “Can you tell me what happened? How it started and how it ended?”

  Tim pulled out a heavy mahogany chair, worn and burnished, and held it for her. They sat across his desk from each other. He offered her a cigarette; she shook her head, so he lit one for himself.

  “He was drawn by the name, of course. His own parents were dead, and his relatives spread around. His grandfather’s boat shed was just down the quay from our building. We’d always been here, and he remembered.”

  “So he came here to ask questions?”

  “Initially I guess. But he became our lodger. His sloop needed refitting after her long voyage, and he couldn’t stay aboard. My mother let him move into our guest room.”

  “For how long?” Dar asked.

  “A couple of months? Maybe three,” Tim said. “He was very occupied with business at the church, and then in Cork City, after something that seemed very valuable to him. My mother would drive him, or let him use our car.”

  “Did either of them ever tell you what he was looking for?”

  “Not really,” Tim said. “I just knew it was incredibly important to him. My mother really tried to help him.”

  “She called him her friend today.”

  “Well, yes. He was that to her.” He paused, gauging Dar’s reaction. “More, in fact. My father was dead, so after a while, one thing led to another. She wanted marriage, badly, and for him to be a dad to me. And he was fatherly. I remember that. He was very good to me. But he wouldn’t marry her. He said he still had a family in the States.”

  “The other day, when you said we were from separate branches of the clan . . .”

  “That is the truth,” Tim said.

  “He left us when I was twelve, Rory ten, and Delia seven and a half.” Dar felt dizzy, just thinking of it all. “He spoke of being poor, but I know how much he missed his life in Ireland.”

  “Everyone who lost grandparents, ancestors in the famine, thought they were poor. We’d always had the Manufacturing in our family. Enough for all. One thing my mother told me was that he said he was going to take care of his daughters. That you’d be set for life without your grandmother’s money.”

  “He came out to our island looking for something that belonged to him,” Dar said. “That’s how he met my mother. We loved him the way he was.”

  “He was proud,” Tim said. “We could all see that. He felt guilty for leaning on my mother, when he had no intention of staying.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, he always planned his return to the States. To all of you. Once he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.”

  “But he never did come back!” Dar said. “Did he change his mind? Did he get so attached to your mother that he couldn’t leave? She said he didn’t ‘prevail at first,’ but she didn’t say he succeeded, either. Does that mean he didn’t find what he was looking for, couldn’t bear to return to us without it?”

  The large room was dim. One green-shaded lamp glowed on Tim’s desk. He pushed back his chair, walked over to Dar. He stood so close, she could smell him: sawdust, machine oil, tobacco. He touched her hair tenderly. For a minute she thought he was going to kiss her.

  “That’s not what happened, Dar . . . Come with me.”

  Tim led her downstairs, through the main boatbuilding shed, outdoors, down to a smaller shed with iron tracks running down to the water. Dar’s heart beat so hard she could barely breathe.

  Could her father be living here? Was it possible? She thought of Harrison on the Vineyard, living in a storage unit. Her father loved the sea; did he live aboard one of the boats in the cavernous loft? Or in a dock slip outside? Or inside this smaller shed?

  “Are you ready?” Tim asked. His face was full of grief. Dar knew but didn’t want to know. She wavered, and he steadied her. He kept his arm around her waist as he unlocked the brass lock, and eased her inside.

  The space was dark, about thirty by forty feet large. It smelled of must, shellfish, and salt water. Tim turned on the light, and Dar spotted green crabs scuttling out of the glare and into the ironbrown water sloshing under the door. Blue-black mussels grew in colonies against the submerged iron rails.
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br />   “Look,” Tim said.

  Dar sensed the bulk behind her, but couldn’t make herself turn. She felt Tim’s hands on her shoulders, easing her around. She kept her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to see.

  “No,” she said, trying to push away from him.

  “But you know already, don’t you? He tried to sail home to you and your family—it was all he wanted. He left from here, this very dock, to attempt a second solo crossing.”

  Dar opened her eyes. She eased away from Tim, and walked over to the Irish Darling, up on a cradle. She looked just the same as Dar remembered her, except her white paint and brightwork were peeling and covered with algae, and there was a deep gash in the front quarter of the starboard side.

  “She’s been here for twenty-eight years,” Tim said. “He sank just a mile off Kinsale Head. The weather was fine; he’d left on the outgoing tide of a full moon night. We’d stood at the end of the quay, watching him go.”

  Dar closed her eyes, trying to imagine that moment, wondering how her father had felt to be leaving, to be sailing home.

  “We can only imagine that he hit a shoal, something uncharted. He never had time to radio for help. She must have filled fast, and he went down with her. My mother tried so hard to reach your family, but he’d never given her your mother’s name, or where she lived. He must have wanted to spare her.”

  “Was he trapped inside?” Dar asked.

  “No,” Tim said. “We never found his body. He’d taken off his boots, belt, anything that could weigh him down. Maybe he’d tried to swim for shore once he was sure there was no hope for the Irish Darling. We found his belongings in the hold when we salvaged her.”

  “Would you mind if I went on board?” Dar asked. “Just to see?”

  “If you want. But the old clothes are gone. We took them off. There’s nothing of him left in there.”

  Even so, Dar climbed the ladder. She stepped over the rail, pitted with salt and mildew. She was standing in her father’s grave. She touched each surface tenderly, whispering his name. She squeezed her eyes shut as hard as she could, tried to bring up his face. But she couldn’t—it was gone. She had to reach into her pocket and take out the black-and-white photo.