Exit Laughing (10 page)

And so the discussion goes on, Molly claiming she could place each body that lived and every soul that expired.

“I doubt that,” says Oona.

“I can so!” says Molly, with a jut of her chin.

Oona chews on her beef, then swallows, and pauses awhile. “All right, Molly, tell me this. What happened to Alice Duffy?”

My grandmother looks at her sideways. “Alice Duffy?”

“Where did
she
end up?” asks Oona.

“She took herself to Dublin,” says Molly, keeping her eyes trained on her dinner plate.

“Is that so?” says Oona.

At this point, I reach for my sherry, and I’m already thinking of second helpings, because this could turn into the sort of performance I’ve witnessed countless times, when Molly has been caught out. I have a notion Alice Duffy was plucked
out of thin air, but Molly won’t back down now. She’ll spin a tale until she has her audience and herself convinced this woman existed.

“Alice Duffy had eyes as small as black currants,” says Molly.

And we’ll be treated to details such as this, and if it’s raining, we’ll feel it, and if Alice is sad, we’ll sense it. And if there’s music, we’ll hear it.

Oona resumes eating and tells Molly she is losing her marbles, so Molly suggests Oona might be suffering the onset of dementia.

“I’ll have you know, Molly Keagan,” says Oona, “that I’m as sharp as a diamond!”

“Not as sharp as you think,” says Molly. “You can’t remember Alice Duffy.”

My grandmother is a feisty little character. She’s inventive, ingenious, and as cunning as a fox. And for a while, all to be heard is the ticking of the clock, and the gurgling of a stomach, and the scraping of a knife, during which time Molly is most likely setting her stage, painting her scenes, and selecting her dialogue.

“Of course, I remember Alice Duffy,” says Oona, finally.

“She had ears the size of an elephant,” says Molly.

“And legs as big as his trunk,” says Oona.

Oona is a wise woman. If she continues to play along, she’s in for a treat.

“Was Alice married to a Fergal, maybe?” Oona ventures.

“She was indeed.”

“God, I
love
the name
Fergal
,” says Oona.

Molly pours gravy over her potatoes and proceeds to
mash them to a pulp before announcing that Alice Duffy was famous for making caraway seed cake.

“Come on, Molly,” says Oona, smiling widely now. “Tell us your Alice Duffy story. I know ye have one.”

And so the story unfolds, with Molly only pausing here and there for Oona’s interruptions, prompts, or interjections. Or to gather a portion of meat on her fork, along with a shred of cabbage, a scoop of potato, and a slice of carrot.

“The bog was damp,” she begins, “and deathly quiet.”

The turf was piled low like burial mounds, and the sky had a frown on its face, and soon rain would send slanted mists across the lake. Molly and her sister Bridie watched Alice Duffy bend down to pick up yet another sod, and just above her ankle sock they saw a bruise the size of a chicken egg, in shades of blue and yellow and gray.

“Was it the kick of a mule?” asks Oona.

“It was the mark of a man’s leather boot,” Molly tells her.

It was always Fergal’s job to fetch the turf, but he had been missing for seven days by now. Daddy and Uncle Mickey were tending the Duffys’ cows, and Mammy and Grandma were seeing to the hens and the geese. Fergal will turn up sooner or later, they said, and no doubt as drunk as a louse.

Alice promised Molly and Bridie a wedge of caraway seed cake if they’d help her fetch the turf. Aw, Jesus, they thought, and if Fergal decides to come home, she’ll want to keep us all night.

But Mammy said it would be bad manners to refuse.

Alice’s caraway seed cakes were as big as cartwheels. She’d spread great slabs of it with butter and vegetable marrow jam, and when you’d finished an hour later, she’d beg you to stay, because sure, hadn’t you only just arrived? And she’d brew yet another pot of black tea, and fetch her knitting, and urge you to keep on talking as she plained one, and purled one, and passed one stitch over, stripe after stripe.

“And sometimes she’d stick a needle up her nose,” decides Oona. “To prize out the bogeys.”

“Oona McNally,” says Molly, “I’ve never understood why you’re so fascinated with dirty habits.”

“
Arrah
, shut up,” says Oona, “and get on with it.”

I nudge my grandmother to urge her to keep going.

Well, Alice’s mule did nothing but bray and bellyache because the threat of a storm was scaring the living shite out of him.
Yip
, you ould fecker, said Bridie as she pulled him along.
Yip!

And then Alice said, Wait a minute, girls, while she squats by this bush, because she’ll die if she doesn’t pee soon. And when she hoisted her skirts, the sisters were horrified to see her shins were a mess of open sores.

“Sounds like the poor creature had ulcers,” says Oona.

“More likely wheals from a man’s belt,” says Molly.

“Was there a lot of yellow pus?” asks Oona. “Because that’s one way of knowing you definitely have ulcers.”

“Jesus, Oona,” says Molly. “Will ye give over?”

My grandmother pushes the dish of potatoes toward me and hands me the carving knife. “Carrie, help yourself to more beef, and whatever else you want. Don’t wait to be asked.” She waits for Oona and me to pile our plates again before she takes us back to the bog.

By the time the panniers were full, the rain had turned into a deluge of pitchforks. Alice decided they’d best be on their way, and now she had turf she could boil the kettle for a nice pot of tea, to wash down the caraway seed cake.

She’d ply caraway seed cake on the tinker who stole clothes off the washing lines. She’d urge the postman to try a piece, go on,
do
. She’d suggest he take the weight off his legs for a while. The baker, the tailor, the soldier, the sailor: she’d invite them all in, to pass the time of day. Even the Royal Irish Constabulary, who carried carbines, and handcuffs, and bayonets.

Fergal couldn’t land Alice a fat lip if they had company.

And as Molly, Bridie, Alice, and the mule left the bog for drier land, they heard a mournful cry that was laden with anguish, and heartache, and pain, and Alice said they mustn’t look over their shoulders at the marsh, in case they saw the Banshee walking there, dressed in her shroud, and wringing her bony hands.

As they trudged through the fields of Cloonfree, the storm subsided. They passed hedges, and strings of trees, and a stretch of brooks. Their clothes were drenched, and the mule farted with every skid of his hoof. But Alice would soon have a fire burning, and she had some dry clothes to spare. They passed the ruins that crumbled under shawls of ivy, and when
they finally reached the wall that bordered Alice’s cottage, she yelped with excitement, because she spied a little gathering in her yard. She had visitors!

And, what’s more, there was plenty of caraway seed cake to go around.

When the picture ahead focused into a clear view, Molly and Bridie saw that it was three men that stood by the old well, and they had a horse harnessed to a cart. Then Alice clapped her hand to her mouth, and lifting her skirts, she galloped the rest of way, through puddles, and mud, and a scatter of hens.

Molly hitched the mule to the gatepost, and as she followed her sister, she clenched her fists, for God save us and bless us—there was a dead body in that cart.

“Jesus, Carrie,” says Oona, laying down her knife and fork. “Hand me that packet of cigarettes—I need a smoke.”

The solemn faces of Father Hegarty, Gyles Pelly, and Sergeant Smyth told Alice it was Fergal lying in that cart.

The priest reached out for Alice, but she shrank away, stopping her ears with the heel of her hands, like she wanted to block out all sounds. Like she didn’t want to hear any words.

Sergeant Smyth raised the edge of the blanket, and Molly and Bridie saw a gray toe that was missing a nail, and that’s when Alice let out a piercing cry. And then Fergal’s body was exposed, to show rags adhering to flesh, and he was bloodless
like a pig in a larder, and his eyes, like marbles, stared at the thundercloud above. Sweet Jesus, wasn’t a toe enough for them to see? said Bridie. And Alice slipped to the ground, and lay motionless, reduced to a loose heap of shawl, and skirts, and headscarf …

“Well!” says Molly. “I think it’s time for dessert now.”

“For the love of God,” says Oona, wiping away a tear. “Will you give us a minute? Now I’m depressed as hell.”

Oona strikes a match to light another cigarette, and Molly is riled to see she stubbed the first on the Royal Doulton. So I stack the plates and promise to return from the kitchen with an ashtray. “And I might as well fetch the trifle from the fridge, while I’m at it,” says Molly.

The trifle is a flamboyance of custard, cream, and peaches, over sponge fingers doused in cognac, and all is arranged in a glass bowl the size of a basin. It’s a sight to see.

So back to the parlor I go and I hand Oona the ashtray, and I set the trifle in the middle of the table, so pretty against the damask tablecloth.

Oona takes a puff of her Woodbine and sizes it up. “The best trifle I ever had was at a wake,” she says. “God! Were you at Fergal’s wake, Molly?”

“I was. And so would you have been, if ye knew Alice Duffy, like ye said.”

I serve the trifle, a scoop each, and I’m careful to include a bit of everything.

“Wait now, wait now,” says Oona, tapping her head. “It’s all coming back to me.”

“Put out your cigarette,” says Molly. “You’re shaking ash into your trifle.”

“Fergal drowned in Lough Ree,” says Oona, “and his body swelled like a balloon.”

“He drowned, did he?” asks Molly.

Oona looks at her steadily. “Yes. He did.”

So Molly tells us to imagine Alice Duffy’s cottage, which was built of limestone, and had three rooms, a thatched roof, and a small row of outhouses.

The sisters didn’t want to look inside the casket, but Mammy said it was expected. It was called
viewing
. Fergal was on the kitchen table, and Molly wanted to know why there were pennies on his eyes, so Mammy explained it was to keep them closed.

Sure,
he
won’t be waking up any time soon, whispered Molly.

Alice asked them if they’d do her a favor and start knocking on doors to beg for the loan of a few candlesticks.

When evening came, people swarmed Alice’s kitchen and clogged every corner.

Ohhh, Fergal, sighed Old Mary Godfrey. Why did ye have to drown? And then she howled like a wolf, and Mammy said that was called
keening
.

He was a fine man! cried Old Mary Godfrey. A lovely man! A holy man!

Was he, my arse, said Ethna Fitton.

He must have taken the boat too far out, whispered Kathleen Doody. The middle of Lough Ree is treacherous.

The boat washed up only this morning, said Ethna Fitton, and there were three empty bottles of
potheen
inside.

Dear Mother of God, no! said Kathleen Doody. The ould rascal!

Still, said Ethna Fitton, it might be the best way to go, drunk as the
divil
himself.

And all this time, Alice remained in her corner, and Mammy was urging her to take a bite of something, come on now, do, or maybe a little drop of brandy, to give her strength. And Father Hegarty was saying, Now, ’tis well that Fergal went first, Alice. He’ll intercede for you in the next world, so he will. And he averted his eyes, knowing full well there’d be no ascending any golden staircase for the likes of Fergal, may God have mercy on his wretched soul.

Kathleen Doody and Old Mary Godfrey sliced Alice’s salt ham and handed it around liberally, along with the last of her bread. And they followed up with slices of caraway seed cake, spread with butter and vegetable marrow jam.

“God, Molly, ye’ere great at remembering all those names,” says Oona. “I’ll give ye that.” She leans forward. “What’s the betting Fergal had some fancy woman!”

“Fergal wasn’t always fishing at the lake,” says Molly. “He cast his rod in a few other places, too.”

And so we return to Alice Duffy’s house.

It was midnight before the Mullan boys trooped in. They expressed their sympathies and shook their heads. Such a tragic, tragic occurrence, Alice, where will we play? Over here,
perhaps, away from the door? Instruments were carried over shoulders, or under arms, or in their pockets: the bodhrán, the fiddle, and a tin whistle.

And following close behind, in stepped none other than Fanny Lynch, with her scarlet lips and penciled eyebrows. She had bosoms the size of two barrels and was known for her loose morals and paid favors. And she looked in at Fergal lying there with his clasped hands, and his copper pennies, and she ranted and raved, and sobbed and spluttered, and Father Hegarty was pulling at her saying, Go home now, Fanny Lynch! Go home to yer three children that are left all alone.

Alice Duffy thumped across the kitchen and lunged at Fanny Lynch, and they pinched, and they punched, and they spat, and they squawked, and Gyles Pelly yelled, Stop! For the love of God, stop! Sure, Fergal planned on leaving ye both, anyway!

And he showed them papers he’d found in Fergal’s pockets, which he’d had a divil of a job drying out. But Alice couldn’t make out the words, because she couldn’t read or write.

Read out loud, Gyles Pelly! everyone shouted. And let us see the pictures!

“I have an awful pain in the head,” says Molly, touching my arm. “Would ye brew a pot of tea, Carrie?”

“Jesus, Molly,” says Oona. “The suspense is killing me. Take off the toque, and ye’ll be fine. It must weigh a ton.”

“I will not.”

“I’ll be two minutes,” I say, tearing out of the parlor.

I slam the kettle on the Aga, shovel Ashbys Irish Blend into the pot, and slosh milk into a jug. China cups, doily on a tea trolley, sugar in cubes. All presented the way Molly likes it.

Rattle, rattle, rattle into the hallway, past the coat stand, past the grandfather clock, past the picture of the Immaculate Conception, and back into the parlor.