Chapter 37 Pagan Rituals
I served dinner, bright with spring vegetables, hearty with grilled rib eye steaks, comforting with mashed potatoes, everything piping hot as we sat down to the table. The boys said a quick prayer and I started serving the meal. When I went to place my portion on my plate, Murphy's long fingers wrapped around my wrist, stilling my motion. He shook his head just slightly, looking at me from beneath his brows.
"Ye canna eat t'night, Lass." Connor leveled his eyes with mine, dead serious.
"What? Why not?" I asked, looking between them.
"Tis an old t'ing. Ye jus' canna do it," Murphy agreed, releasing my wrist, but watching me carefully until I returned my portion to the serving dishes.
"What do you mean, she can't eat tonight? You let them tell you when and when you can't eat?" I could hear the incredulity in Michael's voice and saw the disapproval plain on his face. I tensed at his look, hoping this wasn't a situation that would undo all the good of this afternoon. I was surprised as well at their high-handedness in front of my brother. They had never tried to control my actions before.
"Dat's not it." Connor held Michael's gaze. "Tis a fire feast t'ing, from de old country. Tis Midsummer's Eve here." He turned to me then. "Dat's why we had ye eat so much at lunch, Lass." I narrowed my eyes at him and bit my lip, calculating. It had to be important if they were doing this, especially in front of my brother.
"Can I drink at least?" My boys looked at each other and then Murphy nodded to me, handing me another beer.
"O'course, m'girl. Just dinna get sloshed, aye? We've plans fer tomorrow." I must have looked flummoxed, because Murphy continued. "If a maiden fasts on d'Eve o'Midsummer…"
"Rallentare, Fratello" (slow down, Brother), Connor said, a clear edge of warning in his voice, smacking his brother in the back of the head over my shoulder.
"No," Murphy scowled back at his brother and nodded obliquely at Michael. "Dey need t'know, what it tis we're about, Brudder." Connor sighed theatrically and ran his hands through his hair, causing it to fall down in disorder. I automatically reached to smooth it and he quieted under my gentle fingers.
"Tell me," I said softly. "You won't scare me, Connor." Michael shifted and frowned at this interplay, but thankfully didn't interject.
"Later, Lass, we'll show ye." Connor smiled at me. The conversation turned general at that point, Michael catechizing the boys, but doing it with tact, drawing them out. Murphy was fairly quiet, asking only occasional pointed questions about Michael and our home life. Connor on the other hand, true to form, was more direct, though Michael did me the honor of not telling any embarrassing childhood stories about me.
oOo
I cleared the dinner dishes away and came to sit back down, a fresh round of drinks served. Connor kissed me quickly and then shook a pair of cigarettes out of his pack. I thought the boys might go out on the balcony for a smoke, but Connor had other ideas. I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
"Dere's more to t'night dan just fastin,' a shearc," Murphy smirked at his brother and then lifted his hand to touch my cheek.
"On Midsummer's Eve in Ireland, lovers clasp hands an' jump ower a bonfire an' den de ashes are spread t'de four corners o'de land, ensuring fertility fer de comin' harvest." Connor was busy crumbling tobacco from the a pair of cigarettes onto a plate.
"We canna have a bonfire in Southie, but we'll maybe make do wit' dis," Murphy finished the thought. His brother set the plate on the table in front of me. Michael looked at us skeptically, but I put my hand in Connor's when he held it out to me.
"Hold me brudder's hand too." Murphy's fingers threaded through ours, our three hands linked as one. Connor lit the tobacco with this Zippo, lazy tendrils of fire licking at the kindling before it. A small column of smoke rose towards the ceiling before finally angling over, being pulled away by the range hood. The sharp tang of nicotine bloomed in the air. When the fire was going well, a small puddle of flame glowing brightly, Connor turned to me, eyes level on mine.
"De ye trust us, Lass?" I nodded my head, hand clasped tightly, held between their two larger ones.
I glanced at Michael, watching us, unperturbed now, following the rite with fascination. I could see the wheels working in his head and knew he had taken several classes in Irish Studies while a BC in an effort to better know our father's history. My brother had taken full advantage of his hockey scholarship, whereas I had focused on nursing school to the exclusion of all else. If I hadn't had Michael in college, I would have had absolutely no social life other than Kelly. When I ran to Massachusetts from San Francisco after having my heart broken all those years ago, I had run to Michael and Boston College. I was grateful our relationship was still as close as it was when we were children.
Connor passed our hands through the flames three times. The first time, his hand was on the bottom and I could barely feel the singe of heat. The second, he turned our linked hands so that all three could feel the bloom of heat, but moved so quickly through the flames, there was no harm to skin. The third time, Murphy controlled the motion, passing his hand below, mine between, with Connor's on top. He paused for just a second, letting the burn come up around us, and then passed our hands back out of the fire. All four of us sat there, watching the fuel turn to ash, quiet in reverie of the ritual. I should have felt a fool, but didn't.
Murphy was the first to move, pouring out four shots of whisky with water backs. I was surprised to see the water, but made no comment. Connor raised his glass and the three of us did as well. Michael was included, but I know that Connor's eyes never left me or his brother, and though I never looked at Murphy, I could feel the weight of his gaze on my face.
To live above wit' de Saints we love,
Ah, dat tis de purest glory.
To live below wit' de Saints we know,
Ah, dat is another story!
"Sláinte chuig na fir, agus go mairfidh na mná go deo" (Health to the men, and may the women live forever), both brothers said in unison. We drank to it and I felt like something golden and warm had settled in my chest, not all due to the effects of the whisky. I moved to clear the table, but both boys insisted I drink the water first. I did, not demanding an explanation.
The men spoke desultory of this and that, finding common ground on some topics, arguing, as men are wont to do, about others. I thought I could see a relationship form between them, something solid based on mutual respect. It was a mixed blessing when the Sox lost five to eight, but it allowed the men in my life to commiserate together. It was getting late, nearing midnight when Connor and Murphy stirred the cold ashes of our makeshift bonfire. Each grabbed a tiny pinch of ash and took them to the four corners of my apartment, tiny puffs of hope turning to gray motes in the air.
Murphy was in the kitchen, rummaging around, when I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his back. He turned then and handed me a can of beer, a bit of cheese, and a heel of bread. He turned and retrieved a clean plate.
"Reset de table, seein' as we already ha'de white tablecloth." This time, I did feel like an idiot, but did as he asked without question. Connor touched my back as I was setting things down.
"If ye fast on de Eve o'Midsummer an' set yer table wit' a white cloth, well fettled wit' bread, cheese, ale, an' salt, de man ye'll marry will come ower de threshold t'eat wit' ye." He explained quietly and then kissed me quickly.
"Come t'bed soon, m'girl?" Murphy came around my other side and kissed my lips briefly, then disappeared into our bedroom. Connor followed him; just as he reached the threshold to our room, he turned, the corner of his mouth lifted mischievously.
"An' do try t'dream o'us t'night, aye?" When Connor disappeared, I looked at Michael to see the surprise on his face. I bit my lip.
"I didn't lie to you, Mike. I am dating them."
"Yeah, but they sleep here? Both of them?" I could hear the strained disbelief in his voice. I started to laugh quietly.
"Sorry. That's just how it is." I shrugged and bent to kiss his forehead goodnight. I left him to grapple with the situation on his own, hoping his imagination would be dampened with beer.