The Mermaids Singing (16 page)

“Ah, come on,” Kieran soothed, trying again.

“Stop,” I said, pushing him. I sat up, pulling the velvet back over my thighs. I thought suddenly of the mermaid's enchanted red cap which Liam had told me about. If a man snatched it, she was doomed.

“What's wrong with you?” He said it meanly, and I half considered lying down and letting him, to avoid the confrontation.

“I don't want to, okay?” I said.

“Ah, why not?” He grabbed my breast, that same one, and tried to kiss me.

“Cut it out,” I said. “I don't even like you.” And I didn't. What was I doing with this guy? I wanted to be inside the warm pub; I wanted Stephen to be here.

“Could you not have told me that before?” Kieran said, standing up. He kicked sand at my back. “You fucking tease.” He went back to the pub. I sat by the fire, trying not to cry. Magic skirt and all, I would never be a sexy woman like my mother. It wasn't possible to be a seductress and a tease at the same time.

I got up, flicked the sand from my backside, and went back to the pub. I saw Kieran by the bar, saying something to his friends. Probably about me, because they laughed. I went into the grubby bathroom, lit a cigarette, and inhaled, watching myself in the mirror. “Gráinne,” I whispered. It should have been my mother's name, not mine.

I left the bathroom and sat down next to Liam, who had his flute in his lap. He was glaring at Kieran's group. He'd probably heard them talking about me.

One of the men was singing, and everyone in the pub was politely quiet, listening to him. I recognized the song—it was the one my mother used to sing, when she broke up with a boyfriend, the one she'd typed up for me on her last night.
Go and leave me if you wish to
…. I wanted to tell Liam, who was listening to it like it was
any old tune. Only Stephen would have understood, would have heard the words and seen my mother flirting, then blood clots and distant notes tacked up in a deserted kitchen. I could never have explained it to anyone else.

Liam took my hand under the table. Like he had at Granuaile's castle, squeezing my palm softly and smiling. We stayed like that, holding hidden hands, until Liam was asked to play again.

Seamus wasn't easily seduced. Once Grace came back to herself, the memory of Michael only a sting, she began to wonder what it would be like to make love to Seamus. Heat would be a part of it, she knew. She wanted new hands to touch her, wanted a body she wasn't familiar with to explore. With all the confidence that had tempted Michael, she now turned to Seamus. He seemed immune, at first, then like he enjoyed proving that she couldn't get to him.

He'd had sex before, she knew by the unsurprised look he gave when he first saw her naked. They'd gone swimming, and she'd let her bikini top float away. He only looked at her for a moment, maybe appreciative, but certainly not enthralled. He fished the bikini top out of an island of seaweed.

“Did you lose that?” he asked, and when he handed it to her, she felt stupid as well as angry. It occurred to her that sex with
Michael had been more like playing doctor, two kids poking and giggling at private parts. She hadn't thought so at the time, but now Seamus, who was nine years older, treated her like a child.

He seemed altogether unimpressed by her body. Once, when he was tutoring her in her little bedroom, the door left open at Clíona's insistence, Grace had leaned back on the bed, letting her skirt fold up above her thighs. He glanced up from the Seamus Heaney poem he was reading, and looked at her like she'd grown a tail.

“Have you got a brain in that leg of yours?” he said, and Grace lifted her knees, checking. “Apparently not,” he said. He tossed the book at her, and the corner of it bruised her thigh. “Read some of that aloud now,” he said. “And tell me what you'll write for an essay.”

Grace sighed and sat up properly on the bed. She read with exaggerated annoyance, imitating an Irish accent.

“Give me that,” Seamus yelled, but he was smiling. “It's blasphemous, that rendering.”

Sometimes, he forgot himself, and touched her, on the back of the neck when she had her hair up, or on her hip, gently guiding her along the dark island roads. The brief contact left her greedy, and she moved into him, hoping he would kiss her. He never did, just backed away like it was an accident. He would be careful then, and she'd have to wait a few days before he forgot and reached for her again.

One night the family was gathered at the pub, celebrating Mary Louise's engagement to Owen MacNamara, a fiddle-playing fisherman whom Grace thought was too handsome for her prudish stepsister. Grace was watching Seamus order a round of Guinness at the bar; he was laughing at something Marcus had said. She didn't notice that Mary Louise was at her side until she spoke up.

“You fancy him, don't you?” Mary Louise said. Grace sipped her Coke, crunching the ice loudly.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said. Mary Louise smiled that wide, annoying smile.

“I know what it means when a girl looks at a fellow the way you're looking at Seamus O'Flaherty,” Mary Louise said.

“There's not much else to look at,” Grace said. “The rest of the men in this place are as ugly as your fiancé.”

Mary Louise only laughed. When Grace was being mean, Mary Louise seemed to think she was trying to be funny.

“Don't worry,” Mary Louise said. “I can keep my sister's secrets.” She squeezed Grace's arm and walked off to her table before Grace had the chance to shake her off.

Later, when Seamus was leaving, in a cloud of cigarette smoke and hearty singing, he took hold of Grace's arm. His lips grazed like dry, heated feathers just to the side of her mouth, and he whispered something she didn't hear. Then he was walking away. She should have put an arm around him, pulled him in closer, asked him to repeat what he'd said. But it all happened too fast and she was distracted by the drunken idiots dancing on the corner table. She was encouraged, though. Surely he would do it again. But he didn't, not even the next time he was drinking at the pub, where she was hanging around, anxious and thirsty. He bought her a Coke and sent her home.

 

Now that Grace was feeling better, Clíona was pushing her to go back to school. Grace returned to classes for winter term, but quit again after the teacher, Mr. MacSweeney, whacked her across the knuckles with a ruler.

“You can't just drop out of school because the master smacks you,” Clíona said. “If I know you, you asked for it.”

“I told him to fuck off,” Grace said.

“Jesus in Heaven! Are you mad?” Clíona said. “You'll go back tomorrow and use that smart mouth of yours to apologize.”

“How can you send me to a school where they beat you up?” Grace said.

“Listen to you. You've no bones broken. He didn't beat you,
just gave you the thwack you deserved. I got them when I was a girl, and I've given you a few in my time as well.”

“Not since I hit you back,” Grace said. Clíona was silent. They'd had a fight when Grace was thirteen; Clíona had smacked her cheek for swearing, and Grace had punched her mother in the mouth. It had turned into a wrestling match, broken up by Michael. Clíona hadn't touched her since that day.

“How do you expect to get an education so?” Clíona said. “Mr. MacSweeney's the only teacher on the island.”

“I'll study with Seamus,” Grace said. “I hate that school. We have to pray between courses. They have no right to make me pray in public school.”

“You're not in America now, Miss Know-It-All.”

“I will be,” Grace threatened. She stomped up the stairs, slamming her door and waking Tommy from his nap.

Clíona insisted that if she wasn't in school, she work at the hotel. Grace only agreed because she'd make some money—maybe not enough to escape right away, but it was a start. She went around with Mary Louise in the mornings, changing bed linens and cleaning toilets. She made jokes about the stains on the sheets but Mary Louise ignored her.

“Mary Louise, there's a condom in the bin here. Want to see what they look like?”

“Ah, cut it out, would you?” Mary Louise said, blushing. “We've five more rooms to do before lunchtime.” She was a pathetic prude, Mary Louise—Grace was sure she hadn't even had sex with Owen yet. She was the type to wait until her wedding night.

Clíona worked all day, ordering everyone around. No detail escaped her. The beds had to be made up so tight, the guests would have to rip the sheets apart just to get into them. The paperwork had to be flawless. One day, she yelled at Grace just for poor penmanship.

“Look here, girl. What's this booking for—Conroy or Connor? I can't read it if you write it with the wrong hand.”

“I wrote it with my right hand,” Grace said. “What difference does it make? Everyone's name sounds the same anyway.”

“Are you looking to get sacked?” Clíona asked. Grace slammed the reservation book shut, just missing her mother's fingers.

“Stop pretending like you're my boss,” she said. “We both know you're just a servant. You were a slave at the Willoughbys' and you're the same to Marcus.”

“You bold thing,” Clíona said, taking the book away from her. “I'd a job that bought you the things you needed, remember. And I'm part owner of this hotel—Marcus and I are fifty-fifty. I'm no doctor, sure, neither are you. Dropping out of school and just after lifting your skirt to catch that rich boy in America…. I'd watch who you call a slave from now on, cause I've a few choice names for you if you push me.”

“If you hate me so much, why don't you just send me home to Boston,” Grace yelled back.

“You won't be going anywhere before you're eighteen,” Clíona said. “And I don't hate you.” Her voice dropped a bit, and she looked away.

“Yeah, well I hate you,” Grace said. “And I hate this place, and next year you'll wish you were nicer when you realize you'll never see me again.” If Grace hadn't known better, she'd have thought her mother looked hurt. She would have liked that. But Clíona closed her eyes and opened them, glaring at Grace with dark indifference.

“I think you'd be better off working at the shop,” Clíona said. “Where you can't get under my feet all day.”

“Fuck that,” Grace said. “I'm not going to waste my life in your husband's crappy little shop. Or should I call him your master?” She walked away, leaving Clíona with her mouth poised to respond.

At Christmastime, there was a dance in the island hall. Seamus walked Grace down, but was soon surrounded by Anties, who were praising him for his first article in
The Irish Times
. It had been published that morning, and Marcus had ordered extra copies for the
shop, so Seamus's family could collect them. Grace, a little tipsy from the poteen an uncle had slipped her in her lemonade, stood in the nook by the doorway flirting with four of the island boys. Not one of them compared to Seamus, but they were attentive. They teased her and dropped their eyes to her breasts when she laughed. Brendan was the one she focused on because he wasn't at all related to her family, but a cousin to Seamus. He was thick-chested and callused, his complexion almost rashy it was so red, his lips full and kissable. Grace leaned into him, and he kept one hand, hidden from the others, heavy on her back. She was really hoping Seamus might see them, but he was buried in relations at the other end of the hall. When the other boys left to drink beer in the car park, Brendan took Grace's hand. She let him think he was luring her outside.

He pinned her against the cold concrete wall on the dark side of the building; he kissed like a cow and pinched her breasts. He had no idea what he was doing, but she let him go on for a while. She pressed her palm against the crowded fly of his jeans.

“Jesus!” he said, grinding against her hand. He kissed her so hard their teeth banged together, sending a ringing through Grace's temples. Then Brendan was propelled backward, his mouth still open, and for an instant Grace thought she'd shoved him.

“What the fuck do you think you're up to?” It was Seamus, holding Brendan by the collar of his jacket. “And your mother right inside these walls.”

“Ah, Shamie, leave us be,” Brendan whined. He was hunching over, trying to hide his erection.

“If I ever catch you with her again, I'll break your chopper in two,” Seamus said. He pushed Brendan toward the hall door. “Get your hole someplace else.” Brendan jogged along, giggling now, and disappeared around the corner.

“Who do you think you are,” Grace said. “My father?” She was thrilled at the possibility that he was jealous.

“Looks like you need one,” Seamus said. He stood at a distance from her, his arms crossed.

“I know what I'm doing,” Grace said.

“Sure, that's what I'm afraid of,” Seamus said. “Come on in now.”

“You're acting jealous, Shamie,” Grace said, stepping forward so her breasts pushed into his arms. He stepped back.

“Stop that, would you?” he said. He was in the light from the doorway now, looking furious. “What's wrong with you? You don't even fancy that boy, you're only using him, and you don't seem to care that he's using you as well.”

Grace shrugged. “What do you know about anything?” she said. If he wasn't jealous, why didn't he mind his own business?

“I know a ride won't get you what you want,” Seamus said.

“Maybe all I want is a ride,” Grace said. Seamus stuffed his clenched fists deep in his pockets.

“High aspirations,” he said, and he walked back inside. Grace went in briefly to look for Brendan, but he was dancing with an island girl. Clíona motioned for Grace to join her and Marcus at the bar, but Grace pretended she hadn't noticed, and left, walking back to the hotel alone.

 

Grace turned eighteen in April, and on her birthday a storm attacked the island with sharp hail and moaning wind. Clíona made a special family dinner and a cake, and the children all feigned enthusiasm, wearing the paper hats they kept in the closet for their own birthdays. Mary Louise gave Grace a pair of fake pearl earrings, which Grace thanked her for but knew she'd never wear. Marcus offered her a job at the pub, which Grace refused so passionately he ended up leaving the dinner table to smoke by the fire. When Clíona brought the cake out, with candles like a forest fire melting the frosting, the children sang quietly and out of tune. Grace wished she'd never see any of them again, and blew out the flames.

“It's hard to believe my baby girl is eighteen,” Clíona said, looking suspiciously sentimental. She tried to smile at her daughter, but Grace looked away, plunging a knife into the cake. Clíona started
the dinner dishes, leaving the children to stuff in as much dessert as they could while she wasn't watching. Grace came into the kitchen with the stray glasses, plopping them into Clíona's dishwater.

“Did Seamus not say he would come?” Clíona asked. She'd adopted a sweet tone for the day, which Grace hated more than her normal nagging.

“He did,” Grace said, shrugging. “It doesn't matter.”

“That's not like him,” Clíona said.

Grace tossed the butter dish in the refrigerator so it clanked loudly. “Would you leave it alone?” she snapped.

“Don't take that tone with me,” Clíona threatened.

“Pardon me,” Grace chirped. “Would you fuck off, Mother dear?”

“Can you not be civil on your birthday at least?” Clíona asked. “I'm only trying to make it nice for you.”

“You only did all this because you know I'm going to leave soon,” Grace said. “And you're jealous.”

“Jealous?” Clíona laughed. “I'm content where I am. You've not even money for the ferry, so I don't envy you trying to go anywhere.” The knock at the door stopped Grace from answering. Clíona wiped her hands on a towel and went out of the room. It was Eamon, looking like a wet dog, bringing a rush of wind and a few hailstones in with him.

“Princess Grace,” Clíona called, laughing. “Your chariot awaits you.” She offered to take Eamon's dripping hat. “How're keeping, Eamon?”