Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [10]
“This has to be him,” she said, pointing to the picture. “He’s the image of my father, except for the hair.”
Peg nodded.
“I was hoping he’d still be alive but I knew it was a long shot.” She hesitated. “I’m glad that you are here, Peg. May I call you Peg?”
“Yes, my dear, you can indeed. Most people calls me Aunt Peg, but call me whatever you please.”
Nora sat down.
Peg had stopped rocking and now leaned over to speak to Nora. “That letter you have that Matt wrote to your father…” She searched about, looking for the right words. “My dear, I have to tell you about that. It was me got him to write that letter. I didn’t know for sure but I felt in my gut that it was the right thing to do. It was some hard for him, writing that. Said he didn’t know what to say. A man that loved words so much didn’t know what to say! I told him: Write what’s in your heart, that’s all you need do. You see, he knew a little bit about you all. There was someone lived in Boston who gave him a bit of news time to time. He knew there was grandchildren and he knew when she died, his wife, I mean, and where the family lived to. Just a few facts, far as I could make out, but that was all. Day in, day out, he watched for the mail, looking for a reply. Then, one day, there it was.”
“There’s a letter, come from Ireland, looks like.” She was trying her best to stay calm but her heart was flapping like a sheet in a stiff breeze.
Matthew’s shoulders tensed, his grip tightening on the newspaper in his hands, but otherwise he never moved.
Peg held out the thin greyish-white envelope edged with green and orange squares. “Here, Matt, take it. It’s for you.” She pushed the letter towards him, nodding encouragement.
After a moment he folded the newspaper carefully and set it to one side. She put the letter in front of him. She watched, as, like a dog sizing up a new bone, he regarded the rectangular envelope. He touched the stamps, running his finger corner to corner around the serrated edge. “Eire.” He spoke the word on the stamp softly and a moment later picked up the letter and asked for a knife.
Peg hurried to the drawer and set a knife by his hand.
He turned the envelope over and then carefully slit it along the crease. The single sheet of thin transparent paper was folded neatly three ways from top to bottom. It crackled to the touch.
Peg moved away and busied herself at the fire, but a few minutes later when she glanced over her shoulder he was staring out the window. The single sheet of paper lay discarded on the tabletop.
“What does it say?” There was no need to ask who it was from.
He didn’t answer right away but then, without even a glance at the paper, he spoke the contents in a dull monotone:
Dear Mr. Molloy,
I regret to inform you, that at this time, I cannot see my way to issuing you an invitation to come to Ireland with a view to meeting with me, my wife and my children. As you have not seen fit to contact me over the past forty-six years and consequently know little about us, I think that this move would be inappropriate and an exercise in futility.
Yours sincerely,
Eamon Molloy
“I don’t want to say anything out of turn about your father, but that letter, well, the letter sounded just like something from a government official. I tried to console him, saying that one day maybe things would change. Now, can you believe it? After all these years, you’ve come. I was right. Now, I think we should have a cup of tea, girl, or maybe a bite to eat. It’s getting on for lunch time.”
3
Peg held the loaf of bread close to her chest, drawing the serrated blade back and forth with a well-practiced hand. Crumbs tumbled to the floor and onto the table but she took no notice. Balancing the thick slice of bread between the knife blade and her thumb, she passed the bread to Nora and then proceeded to cut a second slice for herself.
“I’ll get the soup.” Nora went to fetch the two steaming bowls.
“It