The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [91]
“I’ve been angry,” Muire Boland began. She spoke hurriedly, as though she had little time. Sitting closer to the woman than she had yesterday, Kathryn could see that Muire had the same enlarged pupils as her daughter, which accounted for the dark eyes. “Angry since the accident,” Muire continued. “Actually, I’ve been angry for years. I had so little of him.”
Kathryn was astonished. Was she meant to forgive the woman? Here in this room? Now?
“It wasn’t suicide,” Muire said.
Kathryn felt her mouth go dry. Robert asked, still operating in a world the women had abandoned, if Muire would like a cup of coffee. She shook her head tensely.
“I have to hurry,” Muire said. “I’ve left my house. You won’t be able to get in touch with me.”
The woman’s face was pinched. Remorse did not produce such features, Kathryn knew. But fear could.
“I have a brother whose name is Dermot,” Muire said. “I had two other brothers. One of them was shot by paramilitaries in front of his wife and three children as they ate dinner. The other one was killed in an explosion.”
Kathryn tried to process the information. She thought she understood. She felt buffeted, as though someone had knocked into her.
“I’d been a courier since I’d started with the airline,” Muire continued. “It’s why I went with Vision, for the Boston-Heathrow route. I carried cash from America to the U.K. Someone else would then see that it made its way to Belfast.”
Later, it would seem to Kathryn that it was here that time stopped altogether, looped around itself and then slowly began to unwind. The world around her — the diners, the waiters, the vehicles on the street, even the shouts from passersby — existed in a kind of watery pool. Only her immediate surroundings — herself, Muire Boland, Robert, the white linen with its coffee stain — seemed sharply defined.
A waiter came to the table to blot the coffee, replace the napkin. He asked Muire if she wanted to order breakfast, but she shook her head. The three sat in awkward silence until the waiter had left.
“I’d be met at each airport, Boston and Heathrow, coming and going. I had an overnight bag. I was to put the bag down in the crew lounge and walk away. A few seconds later, I’d pick it up again. Actually, it was quite easy.” The dark-haired woman reached across for Robert’s water glass, took a sip. “Then I met Jack,” she said, “and I got pregnant.”
Kathryn felt her feet go cold.
“When I left the airline, Dermot came to the house,” Muire said. “He asked Jack if he would carry on. He appealed to Jack’s Irish Catholic heritage.” She paused, rubbed her forehead. “My brother is a very passionate man, very persuasive. At first Jack was upset with me because I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t wanted to involve him. But then, gradually, he became intrigued. He was drawn to the risk, certainly, but it was more than that. He began to take on the cause for himself, to become part of it. As time went on, he became almost as passionate as my brother.”
“A convert,” Robert said.
Kathryn closed her eyes and swayed.
“I’m not trying to hurt you by telling you this,” Muire said to Kathryn. “I’m trying to explain.”
Kathryn opened her eyes. “I doubt you could hurt me any more than you have done,” she said.
Unlike yesterday, the woman sitting across from her seemed unkempt, as though she’d slept in her clothes. The waiter came with a coffee pot, and Robert quickly waved the man away.
“I knew that Jack was in over his head,” Muire said, “but he seemed a man who was not afraid to get in over his head.” She paused. “Which is why I loved him.”
The sentence stung. And then Kathryn thought, surprising herself with the thought: It was why he loved you. Because you offered him this.
“There were others involved,” Muire said. “People at Heath-row, at Logan, in Belfast.”
Muire picked up a fork and began to scratch the tablecloth with the tines.
“The night before Jack’s trip,” she continued, “a woman called and told him he was to carry something the other way. Heath-row to Boston. The same procedures would be in place. It wasn’t absolutely unprecedented.