Mostly White. Alison Hart

say: “That’s the Irish in you, lass.”

      “Papa, what’s Irish?” I’d respond, and he’d laugh, smoke his pipe and sing me a song from Kerry, where his people came from. Every night before I went to sleep, Papa would sing to me.

      “Papa, sing me a song!”

      “Okay, lass, what song should I sing …” Papa teased me.

      “The rose song! The rose song!”

      “Hmmmm, I wonder, where is that song from?”

      “From Ireland, Papa, you know that!”

      “Oh, yes, how does it go again?”

      And so, I started it:

       “Come over the hills, my bonny Irish lass,

       Come over the hills to your darling.”

      And Papa continued with his deep voice:

       “You choose the rose, love,

      And I’ll make the vow,

      And I’ll be your true love forever.” His voice became mournful:

       “It’s not for the loss of my only sister Kate

       It’s not for the loss of my mother;

      ’Tis all for the loss of my bonny Irish lass,

      That I’m leaving Ireland forever.” And I’d chime in,

      “Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows,

       And fair is the lily of the valley

      Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,

       But my love is fairer than any.”

      “Papa,” I asked, “is this song true?”

      His blue eyes watered. “Why yes, yes.” He took out his pipe, put tobacco in it and lit it with a match.

      “How did they lose each other?”

      “Hmm?” He puffed his pipe.

      “The mother got lost, the sister and the bonny lass. How did they get lost? Did they ever get found again?”

      “No, dear, no, there was a famine.”

      “What is a famine?”

      “It is when there is no more food, and we the Irish counted on potatoes to survive and one awful harvest, they turned black and rotten and people, well, they starved … to death. Babies, mothers, families. ’Twas awful, awful. I was born towards the end of it; it took my whole family. Fortunately, I had a good master, a decent master, and after my whole family perished, he took pity on me and got me a ticket to America. I was a young lad, I barely made it here, most died on the ship, a floating coffin … but God willing and with Saint Christopher’s aid, I survived by the skin of my own teeth and learned the moonshine business. I was not going to starve again. No, we will never starve here, my dear, never.” He took me in his arms and kissed my forehead. “Now off to bed, lass, off to bed.” And I curled up in my cot dreaming of roses, and water spirits.

      Sundays, Papa took me to church in Eastport. We’d row the canoe down the river, hide it in the bank and carefully climb out trying not to muddy our Sunday clothes. Mama wouldn’t go; she’d pack a lunch pail for us and stand on the riverbank as we glided past her. Mama didn’t like church, said it spread poison, said the poison was still in her. I liked it. I liked the smell of wood and incense, the grand organ and the cross. My papa took me because he said he didn’t want me growing up “heathen.” Every Sunday we went, that is, until he got sick.

      It happened slowly. His skin turned yellow, his eyes sunken, body thin and frail. My mama called it the “drinking disease.” She said many of her people died of it. I tried to stop his drinking, afraid he was dying, so I hid bottles behind a bush. One by one I carried them under my dress while my mama was cooking. I was going to make the bottles disappear so Papa wouldn’t. A bottle slipped and smashed to the floor. Mama startled and raised a wooden spoon. Papa was snoozing in the rocking chair. Mama charged after me with the spoon in the air and I ran as fast as I could, dodging her—until Papa woke up. It was too late; she got me on the ground and beat me with the wooden spoon. Papa, as frail as he was, tried to get in between us but Mama wouldn’t stop—

      “Emma, Emma darling, put it down, put it down,” Papa cried out. Mama backed away and dropped the spoon.

      “She was stealing the bottles, our bottles, Patrick.”

      “There, there, Deliah, get up now and no more taking the bottles.” He didn’t know I was trying to save him, he didn’t know.

      * * *

      It is Sunday—I pray that Papa will rise from his bed so we can glide down the river to church. His breathing rattles, his eyes a glint of blue—he is a shrunken version of what he used to be.

      “Sing me a song, Deliah, sing me a song.” His voice is raspy. So, I begin:

      “Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows, and fair is the lily of the valley …” Maybe the singing is making him better, so I keep singing: “Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne, but my love is fairer than any.” Papa starts writhing in his bed, I stop singing—

      “The famine took them, all of them, can’t you see them, lass? Skeletons all of them—what are they doing here? Oh—my mum, my mum.” His frail arms stick out like thin branches. “Mum!” Mama rushes in with a wet cloth and places it on his forehead. I run out to the river to find a river spirit to help. The water rushes past me as silver fish flicker around my legs. No spirits are here yet; they will come. Jesus, God, Mary help us. I wait for hours until light wanes from the sky and Mama starts singing in the old language. I run into our shack and into the bedroom. Mama burns sweetgrass over Papa, smoke fills the room. I don’t understand her singing. I don’t know what she is saying. My father lies stiff on the bed, his eyes are closed. My feet are cold and dripping from the river. Papa is gone. I am seven years old.

      Where is God? Where is Jesus? Where are the river spirits? I’ve never seen Mama cry and she wails as she digs a deep hole behind the house. I start to help, and I wail with her. We dress Papa in his Sunday clothes and carry him to the hole. We place him in sitting upright; his head flops forwards. I ask Mama why he is sitting, she says so he will be ready to go when it’s time. I don’t want to leave him there. We walk back to the house. Mama tells me to get his things. She gets his hat and a bottle of moonshine and I pick up his pipe and bible. We walk to the hole and Mama places the hat and bottle near Papa’s sunken figure. I put his pipe next to him and take out his bible, then decide to hide it under my dress. This hole is where Papa lives now. Mama and I weep and wail as we cover him with dirt. Mama gives me some moonshine to calm me down that night.

       FIRE

      Mama says we are going to Brunswick to stay with her Aunt Julia. She’s busy packing a lunch pail of dried salmon and potatoes. She points to a bag. “Pack it, we’re leaving.” I run to the corner where my cot is and place my bedding and my good dress in the bag. I get Papa’s bible from underneath my cot and tuck it carefully in the bag. I help Mama lift the baskets into the canoe. She wraps a bag around her back; I carry my bag like a big girl. “Where are we going, Mama?”

      “Brunswick, I told you Brunswick.”

      “Where is that?”

      “Where Aunt Julia lives, we will find her.”

      “Why?”

      “Because it is not good to live with the dead.”

      Yes, I want to leave too. I try to picture Brunswick in my mind. Mama walks to the still and rolls a barrel to the side of the house. Now it seems so lonely, vacant. She empties the barrel, strikes a match and drops it. The side of the house shoots up in