‘‘I know that, but I could start working on the gun by myself. It’s terrible rusty.’’ He suddenly brightened. ‘‘I know what I’ll do-I’ll go in town to the hardware store and they’ll tell me what I need.’’
‘‘I’m sure they will,’’ Mary said. ‘‘And maybe they’ll tell you how to pay for it.’’
A storm blew up in the night and set the beaded curtain rustling. Old bones, she thought. That’s what it was made of. She hadn’t listened to it much since he had come and she had a terrible premonition that she was going to lose him. It was a new kind of pain, as though she needed it. She reached for the flask under the lumpy pillow. She was going to lose that, too.
Rain came with the wind and in the morning she knew they were not going to pick a second round of tomatoes or plough under the potato field. She also knew that one thing she had to do about Denny was keep him busy. She waited for him to come up from emptying the slops and wash the bucket at the outdoor pump. By the time he came in he was soaked to the skin. From the storage bin under the sofa she brought out a checkered wool shirt of Michael’s she’d intended to wear herself someday. The someday had never come. ‘‘It’ll keep you warm hunting ducks,’’ she said. ‘‘Put it on for now.’’
At the first break in the weather they went out to the padlocked back door of the barn. ‘‘This is where the cows came in,’’ Mary said, and Dennis, with his nose in the air, said, ‘‘I can tell.’’
Piled along the cement frames where once there had been stanchions were several sheets of beaverboard and the lumber they had not used in carving a place of her own for Mary. Donel had been generous and he dreamed big dreams. She would remind him, when the right time came, of how they’d planned a second room, and maybe a second stove off Mary’s parlor. She pointed out to Denny the slit of light in the roof, a boxed vent to where a chimney pipe might be raised.
It was her dream at the moment, not Denny’s. He wandered off. He was a city boy, sure, and he’d met cows for the first time in his life at Donel’s, and he’d caught the smell of them here.
She was startled when he called out to her, ‘‘Aunt Mary, someone’s standing in the doorway.’’
As she turned to see the man, he greeted her, ‘‘The top of the morning to you!’’
‘‘Oh, my God,’’ she muttered. It could have been Donel with his make-believe Irish, but it was not.
He was holding an open wallet for her to see his identification. When she reached him she saw little except the government insignia, for her heart started to pound. She thought he was from Immigration. She’d never lost the fear of being sent back.
‘‘What is it you want, mister?’’
‘‘My name is Spillane. I’ve orders to search the premises for corn whiskey, ma’am. You’ve nothing to fear if you’re clean, Mrs. O’Hearn.’’
He stretched his neck to see behind and beyond her into the cavernous barn and he took a good look at Dennis when he came up. Whoever he was, his pale eyes had no warmth in them and he had stoked her fear. She disliked him on sight.
‘‘What kind of name is Spillane?’’
‘‘It’s Irish, as Irish as yours.’’
‘‘And you a Revenue man,’’ she said with scorn, the full use of her tongue restored.
He put the wallet back in his pocket. ‘‘So you’re one of those Irish women,’’ he said. ‘‘I have a warrant in the car if you want to see it.’’
‘‘Never mind. Take him around, Denny. And be sure to show him the still.’’
‘‘Where, Aunt Mary?’’ Denny had missed the point.
‘‘Oh, for the love of God, go where you like, Mr. Spillane, and take care you don’t miss my bedroom.’’
He did not miss much. He went to his car and brought a flashlight. A touring car with the windows all open to let out the stink, Mary thought. He’d be losing his authority soon. Maybe that was what ailed him. But he made Denny lift the cover from the mouth of the well. He searched its depth with the beam of the torch. He looked up at Mary where she watched from the back stoop and he’d have heard her laugh. He reached out and snatched the cup from where it hung by the pump and threw it into the well.
‘‘May you die of thirst,’’ Mary shouted and went into the house.
When he was gone, Mary poured herself and Denny cold tea from what was left in the breakfast pot.
‘‘What did he mean by one of those Irish women?’’ Denny wanted to know.
‘‘Why didn’t you ask him?’’ Mary snapped. She’d known exactly what he meant: They should never have been given the vote. Not, of course, that she had ever used it.
‘‘He didn’t talk much. I didn’t like him either, Mary.’’
‘‘Did he say anything to you at all?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Well, what?’’
‘‘ ‘Where’d you get those great, big beautiful eyes?’ ’’
‘‘The bastard,’’ Mary said.
‘‘Yeah. Now can we call Donel?’’
Donel came in the afternoon. He heard them out, but he shook his head. ‘‘Did you have to make an enemy of him, Mary?’’
‘‘Was I to make a friend of him, then?’’
‘‘It’s what I’ve been doing all my life, and I eat three square meals a day.’’ He dropped his voice. ‘‘They’re all over the place, so do me a favor, Mary, if he comes back, give him a cup of tea.’’
‘‘I know what I’ll put in it then, him pouring the last drop in my bottle down the sink.’’
‘‘You’ve had worse things happen to you.’’
He was out of patience-short of time, she realized, and he hadn’t offered to replenish her holy water. She saw a glint of anger in his eyes. She wouldn’t want him for an enemy, either.
‘‘And I’ve had better!’’ In spite of herself, she couldn’t yield the last word, but she rang a good change on it with a nod toward Denny. ‘‘Till this one.’’
Denny grinned. ‘‘Donel,’’ he said, ‘‘I got the loan of the gun.’’
Donel grunted as though to give his memory a jog.
‘‘I plan to clean it up myself,’’ Denny went on, ‘‘and be half-ready at least, when we can go hunting.’’
‘‘That won’t do at all,’’ Donel said. ‘‘It’s not a musical instrument. It’s a weapon.’’
‘‘I know,’’ Denny said.
‘‘You think you know. That’s worse than not knowing at all.’’
‘‘I’ll learn.’’
Mary was proud of the way he said it.
Donel said, ‘‘That’s better. Let’s have a look at it while I’m here.’’
‘‘I have to keep it at Norah’s,’’ Denny said, ‘‘but I’m to have a key.’’
Mary’s eyes and Donel’s met, for they shared a deep and silent association with the words. When Mary had run away to Chicago, she found a haven and employment with a friend of Donel’s to whose house Donel had a key.
‘‘He’ll make friends at Murray’s Hardware,’’ Mary said. ‘‘They’ll get him started.’’
Donel looked at his watch. ‘‘I’ll take you in town with me now and introduce you to Murray. If you can bring the gun, he’ll know what you’re talking about.’’
‘‘I will,’’ Denny said. ‘‘I’ll ask Aunt Norah. It’s a single-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun.’’
‘‘It’ll do,’’ Donel said without enthusiasm. It was one of the cheaper guns on the market. ‘‘And where in hell did you get the shirt you’re wearing?’’
Norah made a quick choice of where to hide when she saw Rossa stop and wait in the truck for Denny to come to her door. She wasn’t ready yet. She listened as Denny rapped and called out her name. The note of concern was endearing. She sat on the cushioned lid of the toilet and waited to hear the truck pull away. In a snatch of memory she heard Mary’s cackle: ‘‘God save the queen.’’