Pete Hamill - Forever

The old woman came to John Carson and took each of his hands and brought him to a clear spot between two of the stone columns. One of the gowned old men handed Da an oak-handled shovel. He turned the first wet clod of black earth, and then three of his friends joined him. They dug until the lip of the long rectangular trench was almost even with John Carson’s shoulders. Then they paused, their faces blistered with sweat, hands and furs black with earth. A robed man offered each a hand to climb out of the grave. Robert followed his father as he walked back to the altar where the body of Rebecca Carson lay, and a burly man produced a goatskin bag, translucent and plump with liquid. He handed it to Da, who drank of it, then passed it to the man on his right, who passed it to Robert. The taste was harsh and bitter in the boy’s mouth, but he swallowed the liquid and knew to hand the bag to the next man. Robert felt his stomach burning. The old woman was the last to drink.

Then his father lifted his wife’s body for the final time and carried her to the grave. There were rush mats now on the bottom of the trench. Da sat on the muddy lip of the grave, holding the body while his son watched, then slid down with her into the grave. He hugged her tight, his face a pained mask, then laid her on her side on the rush matting, with her arms and legs drawn up. The old woman passed an earthenware bowl full of apples to Da, who placed it beside his wife. To Robert it was clear that this moment was about his father’s wife, not the boy’s mother, but he felt that it could be no other way.

Then one of the old robed men handed John Carson an iron wheel, about eight inches across, with arrows at the cardinal points, and his father rested it against her drawn-up thighs. A sign of the world, Robert supposed, as he inched forward to look down. He realized then that his mother was not wearing her spiraled earrings and he felt better. At least his father would have them as a sign of his loving her. And being loved back.

Finally John Carson grabbed his son’s offered hands and climbed out of the grave. There were no signs of obvious grief: no tears, no sniffles, no choking sounds. He took two more rush mats from the old woman and floated them down over Rebecca Carson’s body. With the spade, he began to cover her. He threw down seven loads of black earth and then handed the shovel to the boy. “Seven,” he said. “Only seven.” The soaked dirt was very heavy, and Robert didn’t want to do this, but his mother was already covered, and so he added earth to earth. Seven loads. And then John Carson handed the shovel to one of his friends, and he to another, until as many as were needed had taken their turns.

Then she was covered, a black mound rising above her grave. John Carson placed one hand on his son’s shoulder and the other on the shoulder of the man next to him, and they all joined together, the men and the women, making a full circle, almost sixty of them, their backs to the stone columns. For Robert, the word they had become we, and them had become us . The old woman stood in the center, gazing intensely at the ground beneath her feet, and began again to chant. The rest of them responded, but because the boy didn’t know the words, he whispered: Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma. And Rebecca. Rebecca. Rebecca . Then the old woman began to sing, a reprise of the opening minutes, and everyone was quiet. Her pure, ethereal voice seemed to rise from the bowels of the earth and reach to the roof of the sky. When she was finished, Bran howled once more from his place on the edge of the woods. And then they were finished. Robert knew that a piece of his life was over.

There were some final embraces and whispered good-byes. Then Da and Robert walked to the wagon. Bran refused to sit in the back where Rebecca Carson had lain, cold and alone, on roads where trees talked to men. The dog squirmed between father and son, and they started for home, the talking trees uttering baritone farewells as they descended from the hidden places of the mountain.

After a long silence, Robert found strength to talk to his father.

“So we’re not Christians, then, are we?”

“No.”

“Are we Jews, then?”

“No.”

“Is it Catholics we are?”

“No.”

“What are we then, Da?”

“We’re Irish, son,” he said quietly. “We’re Irish.”

That night, facing each other before the hearth, the father told his son their true names. They were O’Connors, not Carsons. Da’s true name was Fergus O’Connor. His son was Cormac Samuel O’Connor. The O’Connor name went all the way back through history, the father said, back before the settlers arrived from Scotland a century earlier, back before the Normans, back before Saint Patrick arrived with his lonely Christian God and before the Viking invasions, all the way back, in fact, to the arrival of the Celts.

“We’ve lived a long secret,” the father whispered, as they stared at the hearth and sampled the stew that they had made for the first time without the loving touch of Rebecca. Bran was out by the dark barn, in the company of the sleeping Thunder. To the boy, the stew had a strange, alien taste.

“Is it still a secret?” he said. “Our own true names?”

“Aye, among us it is. And will remain a secret, lad.”

“Why?”

“Because this is a country where religion can be dangerous. They will kill you for having one. Or for having the Old Religion, which to some is like having no religion at all.”

“You mean…”

“I mean that the name Carson was taken by my father to keep us alive. It was a mask, lad. A way to live, to work, to eat, to get educated. It will remain that way, perhaps for a long time, but I believe you must know all this, and say nothing to anyone but me.”

The boy tried to think of himself as Cormac but he still felt as if he were Robert. His legs and hands trembled. This was the most his father had ever said to him at one time, aside from talk of horses and iron. Cormac or Robert, he felt as if he had suddenly grown up.

“And where does the Samuel come from in my true name?”

“From your mother. Her true name was Rebecca Samuels. She wanted the name to live in you.”

“Do we have a religion?”

“Aye,” he whispered. “We call it the Old Religion.”

He was about to explain when they heard Bran barking. Then there was a knock on the door. Da looked at it warily and signaled with an open palm that the boy should be quiet. He stood up and went to the door. Bran was barking more fiercely.

“Who is it?”

They heard the muffled voice of the Rev. Robinson. Da opened the door.

“Yes?”

“May we come in?”

Behind Robinson stood three other men, their faces familiar from Sunday services. All wore dripping coats and fur hats. Bran still barked, making feints and passes at them, unnerving them.

“Of course,” Da said. “Do you want some tea?”

They stepped in, smelling of rain and the waxy sulphur of chapels. Da hushed Bran, telling him to remain outside. The dog growled with hostility and suspicion.

“No, thank you, Mister Carson. No time for tea. We’ll be brief.” The boy thought, in a secretly excited way: My father’s name is not Carson. His name is O’Connor. Fergus O’Connor. And I’m Cormac Samuel O’Connor. Not Robert Carson. He watched as the man he knew was Fergus O’Connor placed himself between his son and the visitors.