The Parting Glass

She was perspiring by the time she arrived at the outskirts of Shanmullin. Her legs ached, and her behind protested the narrow plastic seat. She still felt exhilarated. Playtime was a concept to introduce to Kieran, not something she indulged in herself. She reveled in it now.

The town of Shanmullin could have been a National Geographic cover. The main street curved in a gentle arc leading farther uphill. Buildings lined it, some white with bright trim like Tierney Cottage, more in varying shades of green, gold or blue. The signs looking over the sidewalk were half divided between “Irish,” the country’s original Gaelic language, and English. Some fair number of the signs advertised pubs, and the Guinness signs were a nostalgic reminder of home.

On one side of the street a dog ambled in and out between parked cars, stopping long enough to sit and scratch in a sliver of sunshine; on the other side a woman stood talking to three men in Wellingtons and woolen flat caps outside one of the pubs.

Peggy parked her bike against one of the buildings and started up the sidewalk, window shopping as she went to discover what Shanmullin had to offer. She found the church, a restaurant, even Finn’s “surgery” tucked away on a side street with an air of abandonment. An hour later she came out of the grocery store, Irene’s shopping list completed. She’d bought hairpins, knitting needles—because Irene was determined to make Kieran a sweater—and the latest issue of The Irish Times. She’d experienced good “craic,” or “crack,” as a bonus, not the illegal variety but the Irish version: lively conversation. The proprietor at the news agent had asked for her life story and given his own, his more colorful than hers. She thought she’d made a friend.

At the end of the sidewalk she saw the same dog she’d noticed earlier. He was floppy-eared, varying shades of red-brown, and vaguely bloodhound in appearance, a change from the multitude of Border Collies that had observed her trip to town. His long body stretched from one end of the slate walkway to the other; his head was pillowed on his paws. If a dog could look forlorn, this one did.

She approached him tentatively. She had great respect for man’s best friend, and she stopped a few feet away, debating just walking around him instead of approaching.

“Hey, fellow.”

He thumped his tail lethargically. He was too thin, and droopy-eyed to boot. As she stared at him, a girl in a school uniform of plaid skirt and navy sweater came out of the shop to her left and joined Peggy in the investigation. She had a cloud of white-blond hair that would undoubtedly darken someday, and delicate features distorted by a frown.

“He’s been out here a week,” she said, her voice rising and falling like a sad Irish ballad. “His owner died.”

Peggy shook her head. “Well, that’s a shame. Does he have a name?”

“Banjax. Mr. McNamara said he wasn’t good for anything, but he’s good for mourning Mr. McNamara, isn’t he?”

“I’d say so.” Peggy stared at the poor tragic beast. “Nobody’s claimed him? Family doesn’t want him?”

“People feed him, I guess, from the pubs at night. Crisps and things. But my father says somebody will carry him out to the country before too long, and he won’t be coming back.”

Peggy didn’t like the sound of that. “I guess there’s no organization in town to take care of homeless pets.”

“Just people who take them in if they can.” The girl looked up at Peggy. “You’re not from Shanmullin.”

“Ohio, in the United States.”

“I’m Bridie O’Malley.”

Finn’s daughter. Peggy hadn’t suspected, not only because the odds were against meeting this way, but because Bridie didn’t resemble her father in the least. She was as blond as he was dark. Peggy thought she had a good idea what Finn’s wife had looked like.

Peggy introduced herself. “Irene Tierney tells me you’re a good friend.”

“Oh, you’re the American who’s living at Tierney Cottage. I’ve heard about you.”

“Your father was kind enough to give me a ride up from Shannon Airport.”

“He was off work that day. I wanted to come, but I was in school.”

Peggy glanced at her watch. It was only one-thirty. “You’re off early today?”

“The teachers are talking to the parents this afternoon.” She made another face.

Peggy smiled at her. “Are you worried? I was always worried about conferences, even if I was doing okay.”

“Oh, my father won’t be there. He’s working in Louisburgh all day.”

Peggy hadn’t realized that Finn worked at anything besides his medical practice. She should have figured that out; after all, he and his daughter had to eat, even if he refused to see patients now. She stored this question away to ask Irene.

“I want to take Banjax home,” Bridie said. “I’d like to own a dog.”

Peggy heard an unspoken “but” in that sentence. She supposed it had to do with Finn. He seemed like a man who wouldn’t want any extra warm bodies to feed or care for. “You’re worried about him. Let’s think, is there anybody who might take him? Anybody you could ask?”

Bridie screwed up her face again. While the father rarely allowed thought or feeling to show in his expression, the daughter repressed nothing. “Granny ’rene!” She looked up. “You can take him home with you, Mrs. Donaghue.”

Peggy was the one to grimace now. “Bridie, I don’t think—”

“But Granny ’rene’s dog died last year. Pickles. A little yappy dog who nipped at my ankles every time I visited. Irene didn’t like him, either, but she said an old friend, even a nasty old friend, had to be protected. Well, Banjax was an old friend of Mr. McNamara’s, and now he has to be protected, too. And Granny ’rene’s the one who will do it.”

Against her will, Peggy felt herself sinking deeper into the conspiracy. Irene wasn’t well, and she was already dealing with two strangers in her house. A dog, a dog in urgent need of Prozac, at that, seemed like the ultimate imposition. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll ask her, and if she says yes—”

“But that won’t work,” Bridie insisted. “He could disappear tonight. What if he does? How will we feel? How will poor Granny ’rene feel if she’s decided she wants him?” She saw Peggy begin a protest, and she added quickly, “I saw some men pointing at him and shaking their heads before I went into the store. I really did. Please?”

Peggy supposed there was little harm in bringing the dog home with her. She could buy dog food to carry in the basket on the front of her bike. And with a little encouragement and a few dog treats, Banjax would probably lope along beside her. If Irene objected, as she surely would, Peggy could just bring him back the next time she came to town and hope someone else adopted him. Or she could send him back with Finn in the morning, if getting rid of him was important enough.

Bridie seemed to realize the odds were leaning Banjax’s way. “I can help you get him home. I’ll leave my father a note and tell him I bicycled out to Granny ’rene’s. He won’t mind. Really. And between us, we can get him there. I know we can.”

“How old are you, Bridie?”

“Eleven.”

“Once you’re fifteen, we’ll have a talk about the dangers of using those pretty green eyes to get everything you want.”

Bridie smiled up at her, and Peggy thought her new young friend had already figured out everything she needed to know about green eyes and a charming smile.

“A dog? And a big, ugly odorous dog at that?” Irene stood on the stoop and stared down at Banjax, Peggy and Bridie. “Well, I declare, Peggy Donaghue. What were you thinking?”

“I’ve been bamboozled,” Peggy said. “Tricked. My brain was turned inside out by a pair of lovely eyes, and not Banjax’s.”

Irene was trying to hide a smile. “Bridie, this was your idea, was it now?”

“He needs a place to hide, Granny ’rene. They were going to carry him out to the country!”

“So you did it before they could?” Irene couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Well, he can’t come inside, not ever. I put my foot down about that.”

“I’ll give him a bath,” Bridie promised. She had bought a bar of flea soap with her own pocket money when Peggy bought dog food. “Tomorrow after school. I promise. But he needs you. He really does.”

Irene looked at Peggy, and Peggy shrugged. “He’ll make a good watchdog,” Peggy said.

“And what will he watch for out here?”

“Crows? Butterflies?” Peggy couldn’t even add snakes to the list. St. Patrick had taken care of that.

“We’ll give him a try, poor old thing,” Irene said. “He can sleep in my shed if he likes.”