Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

It isn’t a surprise, but still she’s unnerved by the gall of it. “You mean given to you.”

“No, not to me! It is parish that has needs. Church roof is old, robes are worn and frayed.”

“You think my father would want you to have new robes?” She has spoken so quickly that he doesn’t understand her words, but the comment doesn’t bear repeating.

“You must come to Mass on Sunday,” he says. “I know some part of you is wanting this.”

“You’re wrong. No part of me wants it.”

“You are full of grieving. Church can help you.”

“I don’t know how it could.”

The priest goes silent. “In September, you come to dinner that time,” he says finally. “Lenka talks to you about abortion, yes?”

Maggie’s dumbfounded. Is there any confidence Lenka hasn’t betrayed? Maggie wants to be outraged with her, but she can’t quite manage it. She pictures Lenka facing another night in the rectory with Josef as her only companion, drinking too much at dinner and blurting out all manner of secrets to him, then apologizing over and over to an absent Maggie, sick from booze and regret while her brother comforts her. The scene is so vivid and dismal that Maggie can almost forgive them both. Almost, but not quite.

“Yes, Lenka and I talked about it,” she tells him.

“I do not wish wrong impression,” says Josef, “so I must explain, is not Lenka who has abortion, is another girl in Prague. My girl, when I am sixteen. You understand?”

“Yes,” she replies. She doesn’t know why he’s telling her the story. Does he think she’s been judging Lenka all this time?

“I do not ask the girl to do this thing. I want big family, yes? But I am no fool, sixteen is too young, so I do not stop her, either. A boy this age, he is frightened easy.”

As he speaks, she finds her impatience growing. Maybe this is his way of seeking intimacy, but she has no interest in playing his therapist.

“I don’t see what this has to do with you wanting the money,” she says.

“I tell you, is not for me! Parish is what matters. I am trying to explain about the needs of others. Surely you understand this. You are the girl who tries to start commune, no?”

The question takes her by surprise. She would never think to describe herself in such a way. It makes her out as more ambitious than she is. It also makes her out as a failure.

“I should go,” she says. “It’s late.”

“But you will consider what I say?”

To be done with the conversation, she says she will.

When she returns to the living room, the television programme has departed Laos and the silver-haired man in the red sweater has reappeared, now sitting by a fireplace. He says that one day Gordon Dunne could be recognized as a modern-day saint. He says the followers of Freud would have you believe that the age of saints is over, that because we all have unconscious motives, there can be no purity and thus no holiness. But the unconscious of the saint is God. The saint is a projection of God’s mercy, a sign of our ability to transcend our fallen state.

Hearing this, Maggie only feels more powerfully than before that her father is lost to her forever.

The next morning, she passes through the farmhouse half a dozen times without settling on what to do. She considers going to the barracks and removing every trace of George Ray, but it would be painful to see how complete a job he has already done. She should check on Brid. She should rake the lawn. She should do anything that will make her feel needed in the world.

When the phone rings, she picks it up and a woman speaking another language asks her a question. Maggie comprehends a single word: “Wale.” Not quite believing it, she accepts the charges. There’s a click, and then his voice comes on the line.

“Maggie, I’m sorry, I fucked up.” He sounds drunk. He sounds as if he has been drunk the whole time since he last called.

“Where are you?” she says. “I thought you were dead.”

“I found them, Maggie. I found them both.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was too late for your old man. He’d escaped by the time I got to Sal. We spent days in the jungle looking for him.”

“You and Sal?” The idea of it is sickening.

“It’s not like Sal’s my friend, all right? I’ve been doing my best to make up for what he did. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I found Yia Pao and his baby.”

“What? Where?”

“The kid was in an orphanage right here in Vientiane. Sal told me to watch the place, thinking Yia Pao might show. It was a long shot, but guys like Sal don’t give up so easily.”

“You were helping Sal?”

“Listen, will you? Today Yia Pao turned up, just like Sal hoped. So I grabbed him and the baby. I didn’t hand them over to Sal, okay? I’ve got them stashed in a safe place.”

Maggie can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Can I talk with Yia Pao?”

“There’s no phone where he’s staying.”

“Then take him where there is one.”

“It isn’t that easy. Sal has guys out looking for us.”

“I’ll come to you, then.” She’s thinking of the money, how she’ll give it over for the care of Yia Pao’s son. Then she’ll have washed her hands of it.

“You can’t come to Laos,” says Wale. “It isn’t safe. Sal has friends all over Vientiane.”

“So bring Yia Pao and the baby here.” She hasn’t thought it over; it simply comes out of her mouth. “I’ll wire you money for the tickets.” She almost tells him about the clay saint, but she doesn’t trust him.

“I can’t just put a couple of Hmong on a plane.” He sounds unsure, though. “I have a friend here,” he says after a time. “He might be able to handle the papers. Give me a few days, will you?”

She’s tired of waiting for letters and phone calls. “How can I get in touch with you?”

“You can’t. I’ll call you.”

A suspicion comes over her. “Have you asked Yia Pao about Sal’s money?”

“Not yet. I don’t want him getting skittish and taking off.”

But Wale must assume that Yia Pao hid the cash somewhere; she can’t believe he wouldn’t ask about it. She can’t believe he was really looking for Yia Pao all this time just so he could help him.

“Wale, why didn’t you call until now?” she asks.

A hush comes over the line. She knows he’s still there because she can hear his breathing grow uneven.

“I couldn’t talk to you,” he says. “I felt too bad about your old man.” There’s the sound of drawn air, as if he’s taking a drag on a cigarette. “I thought I could get there in time, Maggie. I really did.”

A part of her wants to console him, tell him not to sweat it, but she isn’t quite big enough. “You should come here too. Brid needs you.” There’s no way to explain further, though, not with the line crackling and foaming as it is.

“Shit, I can’t come back.” He sounds desolate. “I couldn’t look her in the eyes. You, neither.”

Before she can respond, there’s a noise from nearby. It’s Brid, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall, glaring at her.

“Is that him?” Rushing forward, she snatches the receiver from Maggie’s hand and shouts into it. “You asshole! Leave us alone!” She slams it onto its cradle, hard enough to set off the bell.

“It’s all right,” says Maggie, though it isn’t, anyone can see that. “He was just—”

“I don’t care,” says Brid. “I don’t care, I don’t care.”

Brid slides down with her back against the cupboard until she’s sitting on the floor, her knees drawn against her chest. Elliot appears and nuzzles her side, prowling around her, looking for his chance to climb into her lap. It’s going to be a disaster. But when Maggie kneels beside her, Brid looks at her with an expression of confusion, not despair, as though wanting reassurance, as if she might be able to accept the giving of comfort. Maggie hopes for the phone to ring, for Wale to call back, but it stays silent. With a deep breath, she puts an arm around Brid and begins to explain.