But his anxiety was about more than that. He was returning to Alice with his arm in a sling, stitches in his shoulder, and the blue suit that Dempsey had purchased for him: his Plaza Hotel outfit. Alice would have a laugh at the idea of him, her Tom, squirming in that suit among the millionaires and the socialites. But how could he tell her any of the story without telling her all of it? Or would she already know, just from the look of him?
The terrain was becoming familiar. The hills, bursting with green, were illuminated by the low-angled sun. Fat white clouds billowed upward, pinking at their edges. He wanted to reach the farm before dark. He didn’t want to creep into the house like a thief, nor did he want the dark to provide any cover. He wanted Alice to see him—all of him, who he once was and who he was now—so he could tell by her eyes if he was still her Tom.
He knew this road now. He had driven this way when he took Henry to the county fair last summer. Alice had been pregnant with the baby—a surprise, though it shouldn’t have been; a blessing, and one he could never do enough to deserve. She needed her rest and could never get it with Henry about, so she’d sent them both out for the day. They had all been to the fair already, just like a family, but Alice had kept them from the livestock sheds. Didn’t she get enough of that at home? Without her, Cronin and the boy spent hours surveying the Holsteins and the new milking machines. They considered the sheep and gaped at the hogs, all the while sweltering happily among the loamy scent of hay and manure. Henry, only four, stayed with Cronin step for step, shaping his folded arms to match Tom’s, cocking his head the way Tom did when he listened to one of the 4-H’ers extol the virtues of Jersey milk. Riding home in the truck afterward, Henry slept across the bench seat, his little belly full of lemonade and cotton candy. There were worse things you could do than spoil a boy at the county fair. When Cronin carried Henry into the house, Alice was sitting on the sofa knitting something soft and pink. She looked at him and at the sleeping boy, so slight in his arms, and Cronin could have sworn that tears welled in her eyes. He had never in his life seen anyone so beautiful.
At last he turned, and the road leading to the farm was like a cave through the forest. On each side, the trees bent toward the center of the road. The leaves, backlit by the fading sun, glowed like stained glass. He pressed the gas pedal and felt the Packard respond. Down this road and then to the right. He was almost there.
Alice had been waiting on dinner, later each night, pretending to herself that Tom had lingered in the fields looking for the calf that never seemed to return with the rest of the herd. But she could make a five-year-old wait for his food only so long, and then they sat in silence. Tonight, Henry had looked at her once, about to speak, but he had swallowed his words and returned to the mess of chicken and dumplings, his favorite meal, which he’d been pushing around his plate. He was learning that there were questions it was best not to ask.
Alice was in the kitchen now, a plate in each hand, as a pair of headlights swept the front of the house. A car she did not recognize drew up between the barn and the milking parlor, out of sight of the road. She set the plates down unsteadily. The sun had nearly set, and in the onrushing twilight, with the cicadas rattling their last song, she heard a car door shut, heard footsteps on the gravel, and for a moment her eyes went to the hutch, where the loaded gun was sheltered. But then she saw his silhouette over the lilac hedge he had planted last year. Before Tom could reach the front door she was running to him. Her arms were open and she called out his name and then she had him, and Henry was at the screen door, his little boy’s voice singing, He’s home! He’s home! He’s home!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book began as a single handwritten page in the summer of 2009. Most of the pages that followed were written in coffee shops, libraries, or at the kitchen table. I’d like to thank the coffee shops of Berkshire County for space and caffeine—especially Lenox Coffee, Haven, Dottie’s, Fuel, Rubi’s, and Six Depot—and the Lenox and Stockbridge libraries for their tables and stacks. Thanks, too, to the Mount for allowing me to write in the haunted sewing room, just down the hall from Edith Wharton’s bedroom.
This book needed space and time, but it also needed the support of true believers. And so I offer a thousand thanks to my editor, Ben George, a comrade in the cause who saw from the first pages where this long journey could lead. And a thousand more to my unflappable agent, Gail Hochman, for her patience and wise counsel.
For their generous support, I would also like to thank the University of Virginia, the Massachusetts Cultural Council, the Martha Boschen Porter Fund of the Berkshire Taconic Community Foundation, the Sustainable Arts Foundation, the Simon’s Rock Faculty Development Fund, the Fulbright Scholar Program, and the Fulbright Commission of Ireland.
Crucial to the shaping of this book was a semester my family spent in Ireland. For making that time possible, I owe a great debt of gratitude to Claire Connolly and everyone at the School of English at University College Cork. And for making six wayward Yanks feel right at home, cheers to Claire, Paul O’Donovan, Linda Connolly, Andy Bielenberg, Kieran and Sheila Hannon, Nuala Fenton, Mick O’Connell, Tony McGrath, the members of the Sidney Park Men’s Debating Society, and the staff and families at St. Luke’s National School. Thanks as well to Paige Reynolds, who put it all in motion.
Thanks to my colleagues and students at Bard College at Simon’s Rock, and to my friends in the Berkshires and beyond who cared enough to ask, How’s the novel going?—and actually wanted to know. Thanks also to Mary Beth Keane for reading a much rougher version of this book, George Valli and Mel Goldberg for their memories of the Bronx, and Beverly Kellar for always being here when we need her.
Special thanks to my grandparents, Eileen and Thomas McKiernan, who left the Bronx for Dutchess County, and Helen and Peter Mathews, who united Queens with County Meath. And of course to my own band of brothers, Colin, Devin, and Kiernan, who breathed life into the Dempseys, and to my mother, Susan McKiernan Mathews, and my father, Robert Emmet Mathews, who raised us in families with plenty of stories to tell.
Finally to Nora, Fiona, Cormac, and Greta, who cheered me on from first page to final draft, and who often asked at dinner, Did you finish your book today? And to Margaret: my first reader, toughest critic, and fiercest champion, who always believed and whose love has sustained me all these years.