“I believe in my heart-of-hearts it was better for you to have one set of parents. And this Irish traveler’s life is no place to raise a child. Look what happened to your sister, to your niece Courtney … and to your brother.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I’d heard he left the carnival work and formed some kind of cult following, acting like he was a prophet. There are some people here in the village who know where he is. They follow him. They talk with him. But they don’t give details. Even before you knocked on my door, I know one of them let Dillon know I had a visitor. Through the years, I discovered he stays in touch with only one person.”
“Who?”
“His father, the man who raped me … Father Thomas Garvey.”
71
There was a knock at the trailer door. Three seconds later a man with a baritone voice and an Irish accent asked, “Mrs. O’Sullivan, is everything all right in there?”
She stepped to the door and opened it slightly. A slender man, long neck, ruddy face, had his nose close to the door. He said, “Just checkin’ to see if you needed anything from the store.” He tried peering in through the reflection on the glass.
She said, “I’m fine, John. I have plenty of groceries. Everything’s okay. Thank you for asking, though.” She coughed and braced her hand against the doorframe, her balance off.
He stood there for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say. He ran his tongue inside his left cheek and licked his dry, thin lips before turning to walk to his blue pickup truck.
Katherine returned to the couch. “Living in this village has its good and bad points. Sometimes the word clannish really means nosey when it comes to minding everyone else’s business. But, for the most part, they mean well. John McCourt’s a sweet man.”
“You said that this priest, Father Thomas Garvey, the man who raped you is Dillon’s father, and the person most likely to know where to find Dillon.”
“He’d be the one person who’d know Dillon’s whereabouts, but he’d never disclose it. To openly disclose it is to publically admit to being his father … and the rape.”
“Courtney is trying to find him, isn’t she?”
“There’s no stopping her. God knows I’ve tried. Although she won’t admit it, I know she’s searching for him to avenge the deaths of her parents and to return something Dillon stole from me.”
“What was it?”
“Are you wearing the triquetre?”
“Yes.” I pulled the silver chain from under my T-shirt, the pendent hanging from it.
She slowly reached out and touched it, her lined face filled with awe. She raised her eyes up, meeting mine, and she smiled. “Sean, this is very old. It’s believed to be the first metal works of the Celtic Trinity Knot. It was estimated that metal workers fashioned it two thousand years ago. Your father found it and an ancient Irish torc in a bog. He was using a metal detector, and he found it under a foot of muck. The torc is a holy bracelet, maybe worn by a prophet not long after the death of Christ. And the triquetre is one of the earliest artifacts in history unearthed that gives historians a physical indication of how long ago the Holy Trinity was part of the Celtic culture — part of its Christian religion.”
“And Dillon, your son … my brother … stole the torc from you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he sold it?”
“No, he knows of its symbolism and its connection to the time of Christ. He’d rather possess it than sell it because …”
“Why?”
“Some believe the torc, like the triquetre you wear, is made by man from a mold made by God. It’s said to be a physical instrument from a higher power. Man was the blacksmith. God the designer. But it’s a power that really begins in the heart of its owner … an unselfish heart. Dillon may own it, but he’ll never be part of what it means. Sean, maybe you can get to Courtney before she comes close to Dillon. She’s blinded by her darkened heart for blood. She needs to come home, bring her back to me.” She paused, her face occupied with thoughts from an earlier time. “I used to take her to elementary school, and pick her up, too. The John Calhoun School.”
“I’ll do my best to find Courtney.”
“She’s been through so much. She kept cutting herself … self-mutilation. It got so bad I had her with at least three therapists, and she was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for two months. I was terrified she’d kill herself. And now she has turned all that anger into hunting down Dillon.”
She glanced down at the image of her and the man she said was my father. “This photograph was taken on a bluff in County Kerry overlooking Puffin Island.” She touched the glass with two fingers. “I so loved being there. The little puffins put on such a magnificent show, riding the air currents. They’re superb fliers, it’s as if they can perform ballet in the air.”
I gestured to the art on the walls, paintings of the coasts of Ireland, castles, wildlife, grazing sheep in the foreground, the sea as a backdrop. “Did you paint all of these?”
“Most of them. I don’t paint much anymore. Between the arthritis and my failing eyesight, I’m afraid I’m not very good. If I can’t do it to the best of my abilities, I won’t do it.”
I pointed to a medium-sized painting of a young woman standing in a lush field of clover, pink and white heather at her feet, the blue ocean behind her, gulls and puffins in the air. She wore a wide brim hat and a sundress. “Did you paint that?”
“No, your father did. He was very gifted — a good artist and a writer, too. And sometimes a drinker. He enjoyed his Irish whiskey, but he never abused it. He painted that canvas one Sunday by the sea. He wouldn’t let me see it until he was finished. Then he gave it to me for my birthday.”
“Is that you in the picture?”
“Yes, so many years ago. Would you like to have it?”
“I couldn’t take it.”
“If you’d like to have it, the painting is yours. It’s the only thing in this house I can give you that is part of your father and me.”
“Where’s his grave?”
“He’s buried in the Old Abbey Cemetery in County Kerry. I put flowers on his grave before I left for America. I always wanted to return to place flowers on his grave, but—”
“What?”
“Too much time has slipped by, and now my health isn’t what it once was. Makes travel difficult.”
“What if I paid for it?”
She smiled. “My health might be failing, but I still have my Irish pride.” She looked at my shoulder and asked, “May I see your birthmark? I haven’t seen it since I put my last diaper on you.”
I pulled up the sleeve on my T-shirt, drew it beyond the birthmark. She slowly reached out, her hand trembling, the tips of her fingers touching my skin, gently caressing the birthmark no larger than a quarter. She looked up at me, her eyes welling with tears. “Sean, I am so sorry for what I did … so very sorry.” Tears spilled down her lined face.
“It’s all right. You did the best you could — did what you felt was the best thing for me. I don’t want you to feel bad for what happened. I had a good life as a kid, just like you’d hoped. You succeeded. I’m fine. And better now that I’ve found you.” I reached over and hugged her, she sobbed — deep long sobs, her warm tears spilling onto my arm.
“It’s okay, Mom … it’s okay now.”
72
Mambo Eve wrapped Courtney’s head. Courtney sat on a stool in the voodoo shop as the old woman slowly wrapped her head in a royal blue and canary yellow African head scarf. When she finished, Mambo Eve handed her a hand mirror and said, “You look lovely, child. You have the face of an Egyptian queen.” She smiled.
Courtney looked into the mirror and said, “The headdress is beautiful. Thank you. Do you have any hoop earrings?”