Counting Stars Read Free Page B

Afterward in the crowded house tender words were repeated and repeated. He was at peace now. He would be looking down on us with love. A day would come when all of us would meet again. Aunties tended to us, two of Dad’s sisters, the dark-haired identical twins. Mary and Margaret in bright new dresses and their shining new shoes squeezed in at Mam’s sides. There were many tears, and some laughter as my father’s sisters and brothers talked of his childhood. Then dusk deepened, and one by one and group by group the guests began to take their leave of us.
    I was at the back step as the priest came out. The stars had begun to thicken above our town. I felt his great hand on my shoulder.
    “Sometimes there can seem to be no light,” he whispered. “There can seem no sense in it.”
    He squeezed me.
    “You must pray very hard, my son.”
    When he’d gone Colin moved past me into the deeper darkness of the lawn. I went to stand beside him. Soon Catherine came through the threshold behind us. Our faces reflected the light from the house, and we were silvery like moons. We looked over this small place: the house with Mam and her youngest daughters visible in it, the twins moving across the window with trays of food in their hands, the lights and rooftops of this small town, St. Patrick’s steeple, the lights of the great city beyond and the sky above.
    “Why did he die?” asked Catherine.
    No answer, silence, nothing.
    The world plunged unstoppably through the wilderness.
    Ice began to form on our clothes and hair.
    I knew from school that we would journey through a meteor storm that night. We waited, close together, until the first of the falling stars appeared. We gasped and pointed and whispered the numbers, but we lost count as the storm intensified and stars cascaded out of the diminishing night.

Beating the Bounds
    W E HEARD THE TRUMPET as we walked from church toward the Heather Hills. It was Ascension Day. We were nibbling biscuits to break our fast. I had a tin of hard-boiled eggs and bread and butter. Catherine carried the water. Colin had the kettle, the packet of tea, the milk, the mugs, the matches.
    Margaret made us pause and listen on Felling Bank. It came from the east, from Springwell way. It was squeaky, tuneless, determined. It came with the subdued ringing of a bell, the screeching of children.
    “What is it?” she said.
    “Just kids,” said Colin. “Nothing. Come on. Keep moving.”
    We shrugged, and continued walking. It didn’t stop.
    “How do we know it was Thursday?” said Mary.
    We looked at her.
    “The priest said it was a day just like today and it was Thursday. How do we know that?”
    “It’s in the Bible,” said Catherine. “It was on a Thursday on Mount Olivet. He was attended by angels as he rose. The souls of those who had been in Limbo entered Heaven at his side.”
    “Hell’s teeth,” said Colin.
    “And we can follow them if we’re worthy,” said Catherine.
    Mary contemplated this, then started giggling.
    “Mrs. Minto!” she said. “Mrs. Minto!” And we laughed together at the memory: the entranced woman walking to the altar during the elevation of the Host; her moans of ecstasy or pain; the way she’d prostrated herself on the altar steps; Father O’Mahoney getting redder and redder as he tugged her coat and whispered at her to get up; her battered hat and her face all wet and wild as he returned her to her seat. Then her deep sobbing, her jabbered prayers, Maureen McNulty from the Legion of Mary sitting comfortingly at her side.
    “Maybe she saw something,” said Margaret.
    “Or was touched by the Holy Spirit or something,” said Catherine.
    “Like the apostles in that picture,” said Mary. “The dove and the tongues of fire.”
    Colin clicked his tongue.
    “That’s Pentecost,” he said. “It hasn’t happened yet. Come on. Keep moving.”
    We moved through the streets and lanes and past the allotments on Windy Ridge and on to the high playing