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“Look,” Thomas said. “I don’t know if it matters to you, but his real name is Rian Joyce.”
Sarah smiled and tilted her face to the sun. “God, I’m truly very stupid.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have spoken to him more recently?”
“I don’t,” she said. “I’m sorry. But if I were a betting woman, I’d say he headed toward Montana. He was always talking about it. A place there he said he’s been wanting to see for a long time. He mentioned it more than once.”
“LARKSPUR,” MAC SAID TO LILLIE. “It has to be.” His brothers had been stumped, but Mac knew immediately. The others didn’t know what an impression it had made on Rian, that night at the Lees’ house listening to PJ and Kevin go on, PJ’s book of photographs. And then there were Mac’s letters. Rian had never replied but Mac kept sending them, describing and describing to give his brother something to look forward to one day.
“But Larkspur is gone,” Lillie said.
Mac couldn’t remember if he’d ever explained to Rian that it was a ranch, not the name of a city or a town. And by the time Larkspur sold, Rian was long gone.
A few weeks after the get-together where Noel and Thomas shared what they’d learned in Chicago, and after ruminating for a while, Mac called Martin.
“You would have called me if you’d seen him or anything,” Mac said. “Even if he asked you not to.”
“Of course I would.”
“I know. It’s just maybe he looks different. Have you met anyone lately with a west of Ireland accent? A new person?”
“All the Joyces look alike, Mac. I’d know him in one second.”
“You would of course,” Mac said.
“You might be forgetting what a big area this is.”
“It’s big but small, too, in a way. Remember that Irish festival near Butte we went to once to hear the music. People came from all over. Is that still going on?”
“Sure, but—”
“It’s not crazy. I think if he went there he’d look for Larkspur. He’d be in your area. That would be the whole point.”
“And then when he found a golf course instead? He’d move on to someplace else.”
“I don’t know. I’m only saying to look out. Keep your eyes open.”
His friend seemed unwilling to say what was on his mind. It was a big place, Rian might have lost his accent over the years, they didn’t know what kind of work he did, they didn’t know anything at all.
“Sure, Mac. But you know if he wanted to be in touch, all he’d have to do is call the—”
“I know,” Mac said. “I know I know I know I know I know I know.”
MIGRATION
NEW YORK, IRELAND, MONTANA
LATE 1980S TO 2002
TWELVE
Something shifted for Mac after that, and for all the brothers in New York. There came a natural split into the ones who had families, and the ones who didn’t, yet. Lillie went back to work after Annie; it was the sensible thing to do. Mary was in kindergarten all day, Bridget in preschool followed by day care, and Annie went to Lillie’s sister for minding. Mac’s hours were more flexible. If the girls needed him home at a certain hour he could be there, and he could either bring them along on a job or reschedule the rest of his clients that day.
The Joyce brothers saw one another less. The ones with children worked all day and then took care of their houses on weekends. The rest of their time was filled with school performances, teacher conferences, ShopRite because they were out of milk once again, dance recitals, track meets, pediatrician visits for strep throat, broken arms, lice, soccer and softball games, getting chains back on bicycle gears, discussing orthodontics and shouting at everyone to turn off the lights and line their sneakers by the door. Mac and Lillie were always having to tell the girls to stop talking to their friends and do their homework for god’s sake; ten times a day they would trip on the cord of the phone where one of them had stretched it all the way to the hall closet for privacy. They wanted cordless phones for Christmas. They wanted extensions in their rooms. They wanted call waiting so their friends could beep through when they were talking to another friend. “Goddamnit, get off the phone!” Mac shouted one afternoon when every time he picked it up to call a stable in Warwick, check how one particular horse’s night had been, one of them was always on it.
“Dad!” they shouted when they heard the sound of him pressing buttons. “Five minutes!”
At thirteen going on fourteen, Mary liked boys already and there was a boy who called the house every afternoon and sometimes came around bouncing a basketball, pretending he just happened by. On one occasion, they stood talking on the driveway for fully an hour. “What does he want?” Mac asked, after Lillie returned from glancing out the window once again.
