Stitch in Snow

'Now, Mom, I'm…'

'I know you're a good careful driver… but later.'

We crammed four people in the back of the Peug, with Mairead beside me, supporting the guitar case. Tim had managed to get Sheevaun on his lap with Mary beside him and Eamonn grinning as third. The trip home was devoted to catching up on all the gossip, with plans for Trish's entertainment (evidently Tim had informed all his friends of her imminent arrival), questions about mutual friends, generally catching up the threads of his life in Ireland.

We dropped the girls off in Blackrock, and then Eamonn at Shankill. As we reached the Enniskerry turn-off, Tim sat up, eyes on the road, waiting for the second turn that would give him a sight of our home. Our home. We hadn't been in Ireland but four years and yet this place seemed more homey than any town in the States: a fact that had impinged on my consciousness, too. I could experience Tim's feelings keenly for I'd felt the same way on my return.

I made a decent Irish breakfast for the three of us and we sat for several hours talking about everything until I saw Tim struggling to keep his eyes open.

'Look, if your gang is coming back here for tea, you'd better catch upon your sleep or you'll be no good to them,' I told him and shooed him off to his room.

He made a token struggle but went off. I followed in a few moments, to tuck him in, a ritual of his return even now he was nineteen.

I was planting a kiss on his forehead, when he caught my hand. 'You left Bethlehem too soon. Mom. You missed him.'

'Missed him?' My innards jolted about. So much for discipline.

'Yeah, Daniel Jerome.'

'What do you mean?'

'He got into Bethlehem Monday evening, Mom. He was extremely uptight that you'd already left.' Tim's eyes looked deeply into mine. 'You know, I'd thought I'd punch him in the jaw if I ever met him for getting you in that mess…'

'He wasn't at fault…'

'Ohho!'

'Don't be silly, Tim…'

'But Mom, I couldn't. I liked him. And you shouldn't have left so fast.'

'Oh? I had no reason to hang about. Whatever possessed him to come to Bethlehem like that?'

Tim gave me one of his shrewd knowing looks. 'Could be he felt he owed you something?'

'For telling the truth?'

Tim arched one eyebrow. 'The time, place and circumstances do make a powerful difference.'

'Perhaps. You get some sleep, now, Timothy Raymond Lovell.'

'I think it was damned white of him to come in person.'

'I agree. I certainly didn't expect it.'

'That's obvious.' Tim smashed his pillow into submission and flipping on his left side, emphasised his polite wish to follow my original advice and sleep.

I really wanted to find out more details about Dan's visit with Tim. I'd a hundred questions that needed answers, like how had Dan looked? What did he say? Where was he going? How was DJ? Did DJ get the books? (Did he like them?) Had Tim really liked Dan? Yes, Tim had said he did. And he hadn't clobbered him. Not that I would have thought Tim capable of bashing anyone about. So I left Tim to sleep and, as I turned back into the living room, there was Mairead. From the grin on her face, I realised she had overheard the conversation. When she raised one eyebrow, I also realised that my expression gave away my feelings.

'So he came buckety-buckety to see you and you, you bloody ijit, weren't there. Tsck, tsck!'

'Oh, shut up.'

'Did Tim mention if he liked the sweater? No, sorry, he wouldn't have got it if you'd only mailed it that day. How far from Bethlehem is Denver?'

'Half a country.'

'Wow!'

I was sick with the thought of having missed him and I didn't need Mairead's wise remarks. She caught that, too, and giving my arm a reassuring squeeze, she announced that she had to open the shop, the conquering hero / prodigal's return notwithstanding. She'd be in later. Maybe we'd all go out for a jar.

It was hard not to wake Tim with the assorted questions that sprang to mind to bother me. If Dan had seen Tim, and Tim had liked him, surely Dan could have got my Irish address and written me? More than likely, having made this expensive gesture, and found me departed, he'd salved his own conscience in the matter. I would not dwell on the possible motivation of Daniel Jerome. But it was also curious that Tim had not mentioned Dan's visit in his letters. I'd had three from Tim before he left Lehigh and after Dan's trip. That was odd, indeed. Such reflection robbed me of the passive content I had so narrowly achieved.

I went to the garden and weeded the vegetable rows as penance.

With Tim back, the house began to ring with a loudly-set stereo, the gruff tones of young males raised in friendly fierce debate, the muted tones of Irish girls who surely have the loveliest speaking voices in the world. The blacktopped parking area was crammed with an assortment of motor-bikes, respectable cars and chopper push-bikes. Now, however, when I ran out of coffee or milk or bread, there was a cheerful messenger service. And now, also, since most of the young people were employed, I didn't always pay for what was fetched.

Tim had had three very close friends during his years at NewPark Comprehensive: Eamonn and Tich had gone on to University and Pat had entered the family soft goods business. Beyond those three, Tim had a bevy of less intimate acquaintances who apparently were quite willing to make our house their rallying spot. (To give them their due, I'd been approached often during Tim's absence by the boys, asking if they could do any jobs for me.)

If the house was active until wee morning hours, it was also quiet until I had managed to drag Tim from his bed. He has relatively few faults, but rising belatedly out of his downy couch on what he considers his holiday is the prime one. Waking Tim takes roughly three hours, and four cups of coffee, generally consumed cold after much nagging. For particularly urgent matters, a cup of water must be poised in a threatening position above his innocently sleeping face. One douching is all that is needed per week.

I had saved tasks for him, like coping with the weeds at the back of the garden, painting the windowsills, inside and out, where the unkind sun had baked cracks and blisters, recementing certain of the garden steps which frost had loosened, rehanging the garden gate which the winter gales had ripped off its hinges. I used to do such chores myself but with a strapping young man in the house, why should I?

And I wanted them all done before Trish put in her much-discussed appearance or they'd never be accomplished. Tim had marked off the days until her arrival on his calendar, and as the time approached, there was great discussion as to the form her welcome should take. He had borrowed a bike from Eamonn's sister. I had duly finished the tasks he'd given me, but there were other things to be done. Mapping an itinerary, youth hostel cards, awaiting the arrival of the surface-mailed camper foods. He'd had a bit of a job plugging them to his other hiking partners and then began to fret that the packages would not arrive in time. In the face of such anticipation, small wonder that my necessary chores were last on the list of his making.

'June's my holiday. Mom, so please, can't I sleep?'

'This is still May, pet. In June I'll let you sleep.'

'I'll be camping in June.'

'That's your problem and your holiday.- Now it is May.'

He got everything done. He always does. And I always have to badger. I also always forget that I have to.

Tim's return had another benefit: I started writing again in earnest. As if the source of my inspiration, the touchstone of the 'Timmy' books, being in residence, sparked my inspiration.

It was very therapeutic to get involved in the intricacies of a book again. It blotted out all other kinds of thinking. I was working at a fair clip, ten to fifteen pages a day, all about a tow-headed boy with a wide blue-eyed face and a black-haired pony with an equally ingenuous face. Then June arrived. And Trish.