YES, of course, even if it's raining," Mary Sullivan said. "But you must tell me the train, Jimmy." The noise of the bar he was calling from, across the Atlantic, was as clear as if he were here in Galway, as clear as Lyle's heavy steps coming down the stairs. Some cloud moved on, and a rare brilliance lay across the breakfast things.
"I don't know which train," Jimmy said. "He'll just call you from Dublin, okay?"
"That's fine, then. Will you speak to your dad?"
"I'm out of money, here, Mam. Tell him hi for me. Thanks again." And he was gone.
The sunshine faded, flashed again, and disappeared for the day. Lyle would make a fuss, and Jimmy himself wasn't coming. She'd not seen him in the year since Lyle had retired and they had come here to live. She had never imagined she'd miss Jimmy so, this steady yearning like a wedge in her chest. And now, on the telephone, he'd said "Mam," let slip his baby name for her (hadn't he?), startling after years of his American "Mom," and she held it.
"How much does he want?" Lyle said.
"He didn't ask for money," she said. She turned the bacon in the pan. "He's the promise of a job, he said, with a landscaping concern."
"Landscaping." He pulled out his chair and sat down. "He called collect in the middle of the night to say he might have a job mowing lawns?"
"He didn't call collect." She lifted the bacon and eggs onto the plate and put it on the table between his fisted hands. "He sent you his love."
"Like hell he did," Lyle said. He began eating.
She poured his coffee and fixed her own plate, but she didn't want to let it hang too long between them, so when she sat down, she said, "He's a friend coming over."
He kept eating, so she said, "He thought we might show him about."
"I bet he did," Lyle said. "I just bet he did. What else did he think? That we sit around over here with nothing else to do, waiting to show his friends around?"
"It won't be so much," she said, watching her own fork cut into an egg. "Only a few days, and he'll be off to Belfast for the rest of his holiday."
"Belfast! Is he nuts?"
"He's studying something in Irish history. It'll only be a few days he's here." She spread jam on her toast. Lyle would get used to the idea; he had fussed the same way when his niece came over, the summer before, and then he'd been lovely once she was there.
"He's not staying here," Lyle declared.
"We've the room," she said, which they did. She had insisted that they buy a house with a second bedroom and bathroom, so that the boys could visit. She didn't say anything more, but just waited while he wiped his mouth and left the table, while he put on his coat and hat.
"Not that it makes any damned difference what I think, but when does this all happen?"
"That's a hell of a lot of notice -- two days." He opened the door. "I suppose this guy thinks he's Irish."
"He may think what he likes," she said, and stood. "With the name of Gilbert Monaghan, I'd think he'd some connection."
AFTER thirty years with Lyle she wasn't surprised when he came back from the shop with the newspaper and said that Gilbert Monaghan sounded Protestant to him, and snorted when she said she'd enjoy having a young one to cook for again, and grumbled about the expense they'd have when she bought a bit extra in the way of food. But she was surprised and pleased when, after lunch on Friday, he said, "You ought to make him walk out to Mutton Island," and passed her the newspaper folded to a piece called FINAL WALK PLANNED. The piece explained that the tides were rarely but predictably so extreme that one might walk on dry land to the island, almost a mile out in Galway Bay. This Sunday the walk would be possible, for the last time before construction began on the sewage-treatment plant to be built there.
Mary had a faint memory of a narrow spiral of stone steps inside the abandoned lighthouse. "I might have gone once as a girl," she said, and then, vividly, she remembered the wind as she stood with her sister Róisín on a wall, wishing mermaids from the far water. And a woman -- her mother? Aunt Nora? -- scolding. A magic thing, an island was.
"Bunch of protesters this time, probably," Lyle said.
Being American, he hadn't joined the long quarrel between people who wanted to save the island and people who wanted the plant, but he'd said more than once that no American city the size of Galway would be allowed to pump its raw sewage into the river and canals, where it would be carried out to sea.
And she'd replied that Galway wasn't an American city, praise be to God, and was growing by leaps and bounds, was a different city entirely from the Galway she'd grown up in, and poor as they'd been for so long, it was no wonder they'd not tended the plumbing -- but she supposed he was right. When the canals got low in the summer, the smell was foul. It couldn't be healthful. Still, it was a pity about the lighthouse, and the pretty island itself.
"Maybe not," she said. "There's a magic to it, I'd say." She tried to imagine Gilbert Monaghan seeing the magic. "We might take him," she said.
"We?" Lyle said. "You got a mouse in your pocket?"
"You might try it," she said. "It's not so far."
He turned the page.
"Gilbert Monaghan and I, then," she said, smiling, and though he didn't smile, he answered the telephone when the boy rang, and was civil.
"Seven forty-five," he reported when he came back to the table. "Is any coffee left in there?"
Mary lifted the pot and nodded. "Could you tell what he's like at all?"
"No," he said, holding out his cup for her to pour. "He was polite. That's enough." And he took his cup back, added sugar, and picked up his part of the newspaper again.
THEY walked to the train station through a light rain that misted Mary's glasses, so when the boy stepped down from the train wearing a green high school athletic jacket, she saw her son. It was only a moment, a leap in her heart, a flash of light -- Gilbert Monaghan indeed! when it was Jimmy himself come! But in that moment trembled the food she would fix, the talk they would have, the plans they would make. She could feel already his cropped hair (whatever was the boy thinking, all his pretty hair cut to stubble that way!) against her palm; she was already shaping the scolding she'd laugh him home with.