Page 79 of Dark Ink

Rian told me very little about his family on our drive into Cork County in the west of Ireland; I asked even less.

I knew there was something unresolved between him and his father, some dark past to justify Rian’s state on campus. I feared what I was taking him into, what I was taking myself into, as Rian pointed mutely to the turn onto his family’s farm. Every sign seemed to point to something terrible just around the bend: the gravel path littered with potholes left long unfilled, the broken fences, the equipment left to rust in fields given to weeds and wild grasses.

The road to the house was long and several times I glanced over at Rian to see if this was indeed the way as mile stretched after silent mile. Every time I found Rian staring straight ahead. A part of me hoped that I would find his head swivelling from side to side, a forefinger at his chin, mumbling something like, “Well, maybe it was a little way still down the highway…”

We came to halt in front of a dilapidated monstrosity that stuck out on the land like a last rotten tooth in an otherwise empty mouth. I hesitated to turn off the engine as I leaned forward to study the house through the rain-streaked windshield. A wrap-around porch should have conveyed a homey, welcoming presence, but it buckled and warped and sagged from water damage, speckles of mould, and termite-rotted planks of old wood. Clearly unused, it collared the house like a strip of bad leather. Big windows were made small from thick, heavy drapes. All drawn tight. The roof moulted like a flea-ridden dog and the smoke from the chimney coughed up at the low-hanging sky like a deadly black lung. I tried not to grip the steering wheel tighter; I didn’t want to show my nervousness in front of Rian. I knew full well he didn’t want to be there. If he’d been more conscious, I knew we probably wouldn’t be there.

The feeling of unease persisted in my stomach as the motor idled, sputtering and popping in the rain. Something terrible was going to happen here. Something completely outside my control. It was too dark a place, too haunted a place for it to go down any other way.

My dread did not lighten when the front door creaked open, a screen door slapped against the weatherboards like a shotgun, and two towering men, careful of their step across the porch, lumbered toward us. In the grey light, shadows made their eyes dark; heads bent against the steady rain made those shadows long, gouging into their coarse, leathery skin. They had shoulders as wide as Conor’s with Mason’s height. They wore coats made for farm life, durable and thick and unrelenting. They had their hands stuffed into their pockets, but that didn’t change the fact that I feared these men capable of violence. It rippled across their tense postures like electricity across power lines; I was sure if I was brave enough to reach out and touch them that I’d jump back with a shock. They were the kind of men you didn’t want to encounter alone in a dark alley. And knowing that Rian didn’t like them confirmed all of this in my mind, tired by a long journey: be wary, be careful, be on your guard, lock your doors, stay safe.

All of this combined made it all the more startling when Rian, without a word or even a glance in advance toward me beside him, hauled himself with a stifled groan from the car and met his brothers halfway. I expected balled fists or angry words, but Rian held out his hand, awkwardly, and shook first one brother’s hand and then the next.

I was numb as Rian came to open my door. Numb as he introduced me first to Liam, handsome in a sturdy, rugged way; he had the same pale blue eyes as his little brother. And then to Alan, who shared nothing at all, who really was the polar opposite of Rian physically, unidentifiable as kin. Where Rian’s broody smouldering features were perfectly proportioned as if from a sculptor’s loving hand, his eldest brother was gruff and weathered, a harsh chin and hooked nose set upon his face.

I shook their hands, feeling swallowed almost whole by the roughness and size of their calloused palms. Simple but pleasant enough small talk about the trip from the city, the weather, and the food cooking for tonight’s dinner was shared between us. We ignored the falling rain just like we apparently ignored the cause of the estrangement in the family, as we ignored the reason we were even all there: a dead man who Rian loathed so much that he’d drown himself in drugs.

“Come on then,” Alan finally said when the conversation lulled. “Let’s all get inside.”

I walked beside Rian as we followed the brothers, who made our hoisted luggage look like handbags. I glanced over at him, raised an eyebrow to express my confusion. He just smiled as an answer, which was really no answer at all. In fact, it raised a million others. I took his hand when offered because the rain was cold and his fingers warm and I wanted to believe everything would be okay.

Inside, the ceilings were low, the air thick and musty, the furniture fading like an old Polaroid picture, but the flames that licked at the blackened stone of the fireplace gave it warmth. I kept waiting for something to cross Rian’s face as we were introduced to Alan’s wife, Anna, and their children. Something like I had expected: anger, resentment, bitterness. Hatred even. But he shook hands with what I thought was a genuine smile for the small, rather timid woman. He even drew one of Alan’s five children up into his arms, a little boy named, I learned later, not just after his father, but his father’s father, the now deceased. Little Alan tugged at Rian’s wet hair with chubby fingers and I laughed, because Rian did first.

It felt nice. Right. This little world I’d never thought I’d have for myself, this little world of a family. I was invited to cut vegetables for the roast with Anna and it was a simple pleasure to be there in the dingy kitchen with its peeling cabinets and stained linoleum. Anna threw a carrot top at Alan when he teased her about the way she chopped everything to pieces.

“It’s all going in the same place, love,” he told her. “Stop torturing yourself.”

Rian excused himself to the restroom, but came back quickly and with a smile; all was, it seemed, well.

Beers were popped and a quiet little chatter filled the kitchen as we worked and the men leaned heavily against the counters, watching. How backwards, but how little I cared. I liked it. The easy passing of the minutes and then the hours. Children running in, children running out. I smacked at Rian’s hand when he tried to dip a pinkie into whipped cream meant for that night’s dessert; he grinned at me playfully and it was nice.

From what I could tell there was no tension. No strain. Little Amelia’s favourite doll getting stolen by one of the older boys was the most drama I witnessed. I kept checking on Rian as the smell of the roast filled the house and imbued it with a homeliness the bones clearly lacked, and I saw nothing but a brother amongst brothers, family with family. He was relaxed. He smiled easily and often. He joked with his brothers like we were gathered for a reunion or a wedding or baptism and not a funeral. There was life there, in that desolate house. Not death.

I’d always imagined a big dinner like the one we shared together. A big table that left just enough space in the dining room to squeeze in your chair. It laden with so much food that it threatened to buckle the legs should one more side dish of mashed potatoes be placed on top (as if there was even room). It was a silly but sweet dream to lock hands and say grace. To hear the murmur of a dozen people echo “amen”. This followed by the screech of chairs pulled in, napkins snapped open, and forks and knives busy at work. I’d always wondered what it would be like, to have the noise of a dinner table rise to the ceiling like a hot air balloon, to hang up there happily, to feel the roar of its flame.

Dinners with my father before that night that ended everything were quiet, fast, and dark, giving Stewart and me the best chance of not setting him off, not incurring his rage, not being forced to huddle against the wall as the little Formica table was flipped with a roar.

It felt like a second chance, there at the dinner table, to get the big family dinner I’d always dreamed of. I almost forgot to eat. I was so enraptured with watching everyone, Alan with Anna, the little kids all up and down the table with smeared and glistening chins and pea-stuffed smiles. A nudge at my elbow reminded me I had my fork and knife suspended above my untouched plate.

“It’s good,” he said in a soft voice.

He said it like a secret and I suspected he meant more than just the food. I smiled and rested a hand on his knee beneath the frayed white tablecloth, which had been dragged from some dusty closet. He briefly kissed my shoulder.

“It’s good,” I repeated, before I’d even taken a bite.

During dessert, Alan and Liam shared stories of Rian as a child. They told of a quiet, shy little boy, all elbows and knees. I found myself leaning forward as I heard about Rian nurturing a tiny kitten back to health, a runt much like himself. He caught fireflies while Alan and Liam wrestled, he learned about wildflowers while his two older brothers kicked over anthills, and he spent hours in the attic of the barn staring up at the dust suspended in the golden afternoon sunlight while they wondered what the fuck he was doing.

“Daydreaming,” Rian said with a soft smile and a distant gaze.

“About being a cowboy or something?” Alan asked, ruffling the hair of his little boy who he bounced on his knee.

“Or something,” Rian replied, gazing down at his lap.

“About being an artist, I’m sure,” I piped in, speaking for what felt like the first time. I smiled at Rian, squeezed his hand beneath the tablecloth. “I can’t imagine him having any other dream than that.”

Rian kissed my cheek.

“Having a good woman like you in his life ain’t such a bad dream either,” Alan said, nodding politely to me.

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