Chapter 33

Cathal flexed his fingers. He was ready for this phone call. Never again would he be tied to home in this way. Yes, it turned out all right. But he could have done with more time.

He rose and took some deep breaths. The phone must have rung nine or ten times before it was picked up.

“Hi Cathal.” Cormac was using his why-are-you-calling-me tone.

“Didn’t make it for Christmas?” Cathal asked in a mild tone that masked lava-hot anger.

“Lot going on here.”

“Saving yourselves for Father’s memorial mass, I suppose. Tenth of January?”

“Well…”

“Here’s the deal, Cormac. Unless one of you comes home for it—either you, or Cian, or Conor, or Caelan, or Ciara—I’m selling the farm. The whole lot of it.”

He was greeted with pure and utter silence. Then a stammered, “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cathal. You can’t sell the farm.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s our family home, and has been for generations. How dare you even suggest it?”

“Because I’m the only one looking after it. But it’s too much for me.”

“Father appointed you, Cathal.” Cormac’s tone grew dark. “You’d be letting him down.”

Cathal refused to take the bait. “I’m only asking that one of you comes home for his memorial mass so I’m not sitting on my own with Mother in the church. You organize it, Cormac, as head of the family. Ask around, gave me one volunteer from the five of you by the end of the week. One volunteer.”

“Cathal—”

Cathal clicked the call off before his brother could crush him with some reasonable alternative. He’d rehearsed this, and it had paid off. God, it felt good.

His mother was staring over, fully awake now, an intelligent gleam in her eye. She could be clued in when she wanted to be. “What was that about?”

He strode over and took the armchair opposite her. “Mother, are you happy here?” He slid his palms over the threadbare upholstery. “Truly happy?”

She stared crying. “I can’t believe you’d sell our home,” she said between sniffs. “Five generations of Cosgraves and you’d—”

“Are you happy?” he insisted, steeling his heart. “Comfortable, even? With a dripping roof, inadequate heating; squealing, oppressive neighbors? A banshee?” He no longer considered her banshee bogus. He, too, had started to avoid the downstairs bathroom.

“But your father—”

“Is dead.”

She flinched and stared into the fire. He explained to the side of her face about how working in an office didn’t mix well with pig farming and beekeeping on a dilapidated farm. He explained how his office job was the only thing keeping the farm going. He explained the basic details of their deepening debt, the paltry returns after paying for the farm hand's help and the most basic expenses of feed, electricity, and water. He didn’t mention the upcoming repair bills or the vet bills that would come in springtime.

“But what are we to do if we don’t live here?” his mother asked in a quavering voice, finally catching his eye again.

“This place is worth a pretty penny if we find a buyer. Of course, I’ll have to do improvements first.” He explained how much their shares would be if they sold, and once it was clear he wasn’t trying to cart her off to a geriatric home, the look of anxiety on her face softened into one of mild concern. After stepping through a host of options—from emigrating to Canada to relocating to Monaghan Town—and sipping several cups of tea, she was even starting to show the first hints of enthusiasm.

“You know…” Her eyes grew dreamy. “Forty years ago, I came here as a young bride. Your father—he was twenty years older than I was, and so much more mature, and he took me under his wing. I’d had a hard time at home, as you know. I was glad to escape your grandfather. But your father was the best husband a woman could have asked for.” She reached for a tissue to wipe a tear.

“I questioned nothing,” she continued. “I obeyed him. And I went along with every word that his siblings—your Aunt Patty and Uncles Jim and Paul—said too. They weren’t always nice to me, but I worked the farm hard and gave him his six children. Never once complained.”

“I know, Mother, I know.” Indeed, she had outlived all the Cosgraves, who had died at various points in his childhood and had done more than their fair share of complaining. He didn’t feel he was missing out on much not having them around today.

“I never imagined another life, didn’t want another one. But maybe… maybe that life is gone now.”

This was the closest she’d ever come to admitting that she was unhappy. She had only a tenuous, bitter connection to the place anyway. It was a cross she didn’t have to bear, and he was offering to lift it from her prematurely stooped shoulders.

She gazed up at the chipped plaster of the ceiling. “I could see myself in a nice, modern house.” A new energy infused her voice. “I wouldn’t ask for much. A little kitchen, bathroom, and a room to sleep in. My widow’s pension might cover it. But…” She fiddled with the cross on her neck chain. “What if your brothers or Ciara come home at Christmas? Then you won’t be allowed to sell. You gave them your word.”

Cathal exhaled slowly. Legally, he could do just that. “And they have my word. But they won’t be able to agree. They’ll convince themselves I’m bluffing.”

“But you’re not, are you?” In her voice there was a telling note of hope.

He held her gaze levelly. “I’m not.”