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“Okay?” Mac asked, standing up. They had to head back. “Any more questions?”

“Poor whaley,” Mary said, patting the bone. “His mom was probably looking for him.”

THAT NIGHT, THE JOYCES WENT down to the pub as planned. Mac and Barry were stood pint after pint as they caught up with the few around their age who were left in the Cuan. The windows steamed just as Mac remembered. For a few pounds the bartender ladled out fish stew and a fat slice of brown bread for anyone who wanted. They laughed and remembered stories of their school days, their GAA days. The radio played Whitney Houston and Journey until someone turned it off and the ones who’d brought instruments opened their boxes and removed them and began playing the tunes they’d been raised on. They drank and shouted over one another. Coleman walked the children home after they’d eaten and Mac and Barry stayed until late. On their way home, well after midnight, Barry fell into the hedgerow outside the rectory and couldn’t get out. Mac had to sit down in the middle of the road he was laughing so hard.

“Help me, Macdara!” Barry shouted, but Mac only laughed harder.

“Do I’ve a scratch on my face?” he said, crawling out backward, finally. “I think it’s bleeding.”

“You’re as beautiful as ever,” Mac said. “Don’t you worry.”

The next day was the funeral but since Nuala was to be buried with her own people they took the coffin back to the funeral home after Mass. The congregation went straight to the pub, where Cathal hosted a luncheon. Mac’s head was splitting and Barry looked a bit green. They had small sandwiches and though most men had whiskey, Cathal had one cup of tea after another. Coleman sang. Mac overheard someone talking about him, saying that he had a lovely house in New York, three girls, was doing well in America.

NEXT THING, WITHOUT MUCH TIME to think about it, the visit was nearing an end and it was almost time to go. They had two nights left in Ireland and one must be spent with Lillie’s parents, as Mac had promised. He missed Lillie. He missed Bridget and the baby. He was scheduled to work on the day they’d land back in New York—fingers crossed for no delay—and he’d be tired for a whole week after.

It was too short a trip, Cathal said. Far too short. He asked why they’d come at all if they had to go so soon. Mac, Barry, and Coleman hiked out to the island with the children. Cathal stayed back, said it was too hard and what was out there anyway but crumbling houses and stones, and that he’d have the tea ready for them when they returned. They cleared their grandparents’ graves, and then they stomped across the hip-high grass into the house. Mac went in first, in case the floor collapsed under him. Barry was more concerned about the crossbeams overhead. The thatch had held up surprisingly well, considering it had been at least fifteen years since a drying fire had been lit in there. Cattle driven from the mainland for grazing had gotten in over the years. There were smashed dishes, an overturned chair, a box of Corn Flakes on the ground, the big familiar rooster looking up from the floor. The portrait of the Sacred Heart of Jesus had mold creeping from the corner of the frame. Set on the counter were two bottles of black leg vaccine, as if Grandfather had just come back from treating the cattle. Mac opened a closet and there were his clothes, still hanging there.

“Should we take something?” Mac asked Barry. “His hat?” But Coleman seemed upset at the idea.

So they left everything, and watched in silence as Coleman struggled to pull the door tight after them, as if locking precious items from thieves.

On their last night in the Cuan, people stopped by the cottage for one more chance to see them and Cathal looked old to Mac. He and Barry had driven to Clifden to buy the TV for Coleman and everyone who came admired it, voted on where it should be put. What would Coleman do when Cathal died? Mac wondered. Would he stay in this lonely place by himself?

Mac hadn’t had a chance to talk alone with Cathal yet. Or rather, they’d had chances but hadn’t taken them. Cathal asked Mary questions about her sisters, about her school. Mac asked questions about the big industrial oyster farm they could see from the back garden. Mary would report to Lillie that he was a kind old man who’d shown her how to smear a bit of honey on the lip of her teacup to make it sweeter when she sipped. Nothing Mary would say to Lillie would match what Mac had told her.

They were packed up to leave in the morning. Mac walked Honnie home in case she tripped on a root in the dark, but she protested the whole time, said she’d been getting up and down the lane by herself just fine for more years than she’d care to count. “Are you lonesome, Honnie?” Mac asked as they neared her gate, but she only laughed, asked how she could be lonesome in the place where she was from, but on the other hand she was ready whenever God wanted to take her.

“You’re sure about that?” Mac asked. It was late, and he’d had whiskey, and it was dark, and it was only Honnie so it seemed all right to ask.

“About heaven? St. Peter?” Honnie asked. “I hope it’s all true. I think it is. I can’t quite imagine how it all works, none of the descriptions I’ve heard seem right if I’m being honest, but I’m not afraid of dying if that’s what you mean. Everything dies. The flowers, the grass, the animals, our parents, our sisters and brothers, our husbands and wives. Sometimes our children. I lost two children. Your mother lost one. We live close to it here, don’t you think? Closer than other places. I’m not afraid to do what so many people before me have already done. If I go now, my children are raised. I certainly wouldn’t be robbed of anything.”

Mac considered that and felt her hand grasping for his forearm. “Unlike your mother, who was robbed. And you children left behind. I admit there are things I don’t understand.”

“I wonder why people die before they’re meant to. Disease is one thing, long illness. But the surprise deaths of people in perfect health. Did you see that earthquake in Mexico last month? Was it in the papers here? The news said five thousand people died. Little children, even.”

“I don’t know the answer, love,” Honnie said.

“We thank God for all the good in our lives—our health, our homes—but why would God give me those things and not the woman in Mexico City who was just running an errand and now her family will never see her again.”

“I don’t know,” Honnie said again. “I don’t know at all. But look, do you want to come in to rest a minute before you walk back?”

The offer pushed Mac out of his mood, and he laughed. The walk back to Cathal’s was two hundred yards at most. “No, but I’ll see you again, Honnie,” Mac said. “Next time I visit I’ll bring my whole family. Maybe we’ll coordinate so I’m back at the same time as Martin. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“It would be lovely. You and Martin always with your heads together trying to think how to get yourselves to that Friday night dance in Maam. But you won’t be seeing me again,” Honnie said.

“Don’t say that,” Mac said, feeling a wave of grief.

“Why?” Honnie asked, and now it was her turn to laugh. “Why? I’m surprised at you, Macdara! It’s only the truth. Look it. You’re a good boy. I’ve always said it and I’ll say it again. You always were a good boy.”

“Hardly a boy. Next birthday I’ll be thirty-nine.”

Honnie patted his arm. “The boy is in there, gray hair or no.”

FRANKIE AND MARY WERE USED to the loft by then. They’d gone up without protest and had fallen asleep straightaway despite the talking just below them.

“Now,” Cathal said, once the last guest left. “I need to show ye something.” He locked the front door of the cottage and turned off the music. “If I’d known ye were coming, I’d have had it better organized.”

He went to the press and opened a door to reveal a pile of papers. He searched for a while and eventually withdrew a folder. “Have a look at that.”