The Christmas Kite. Gail Gaymer Martin
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red cheeks.
“What does she call you? Certainly not Dunstan Mac-Auley, I hope.”
“Mac.” He poked himself in the chest. “I’m Mac. What’s your name?” He stuck his hand forward, offering a handshake.
Amused, Jordan shifted the kite string and grasped the child’s hand but didn’t answer. Instead, he eyed the slender, fragile-looking woman who came panting to his side.
“I’m sorry,” she said, gazing at him with doleful, emerald-green eyes. “He saw your kite and got away from me.” Her voice rose and fell in a soft lilt.
“You need to keep a better eye on him. The water can be dangerous.” The muscles tightened in his shoulders at the thought, and he tugged on the kite string to right it.
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. He’s never seen a kite. Everything is new to him, and—”
Jordan’s chest tightened. How could a child never have seen a kite? “How old is he?” Eyeing the boy, the throbbing sadness filled his heart.
A flush rose to her ivory cheeks, and her eyes darkened. “Eight,” she mumbled. “He’s small for his age.”
Jordan shifted his gaze from the woman to his kite, then to the child. “You need to watch him.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
She lowered her eyes, and he wished he hadn’t sounded so harsh. But then, she’d never lost a son.
“Mac,” she called, “let’s go.”
The child gave a hesitant look, but the kite seemed to mesmerize him and he didn’t move.
“Mac, I said let’s go.” She stepped toward him, then spun around to face Jordan. “I’m sorry we intruded.”
Longing and grief pitched in his mind and muddied his thoughts like a stick stirring a rain puddle. “Yes, well, this is private property.” The words marched undaunted from his mouth, and he gestured to the makeshift sign.
And so is my life.
“But anyone can make a mistake,” he added, feeling the need to ease his sharp words. His emotions knotted—pity for himself and sadness for the mother and son.
“That’s private,” she snapped, pointing to the grass above the sand. “Not the beach.” She glared at him, her eyes shooting sparks like gemstones. “It’s public.” The fire in her voice matched her blazing red hair tied back in a long, thick tail. She grabbed Mac’s hand and spun away, heading back the way she’d come. The boy twisted in her grasp, his eyes riveted to the kite sailing above the water.
Watching the woman and boy vanish around the bend, Jordan closed his eyes. She was right. He didn’t own the beach, though he wished he did. He would put up a fence to keep the few stragglers from invading his world.
After a final glance at the retreating figures, he turned his attention to the kite. With measured motion, he reeled in his paper creation. He’d lost his spirit. The intrusion settled on his enthusiasm like an elephant on a turtle’s back.
As the kite neared the shore, he shifted farther from the lake and turned to avoid a water landing. Before the fragile construction hit the ground, he caught it in his hand and then toted it up the incline to the house.
Inside, Jordan placed the kite on the enclosed back porch with the others he’d made over the past few days, then stopped in the kitchen. He’d forgotten to turn off the coffeepot, and the acrid smell caught in his throat. He pulled the wall plug and poured the thick, black liquid into a mug. Wandering to the screened front porch, Jordan took a sip, grimacing at its pungent taste.
He looked toward the beach. The waves, stirred by the wind, rolled forward in frothy caps, spilling debris along the sand. He let his gaze wander to the bend in the shoreline and wondered about the mother and child. Were they visiting someone? Jordan had never seen them before. Few people, especially strangers, wandered this stretch of the beach. Miles of the wooded, weedy acreage was state owned, without a cottage or house.
Jordan remembered a few ramshackle cabins up the road a mile or two. Had they wandered from there? If so, they’d be gone in the morning and leave him to his peace and quiet. He snorted. Quiet, yes, but peace? Never. Since the fiery death of Lila and Robbie, peace had evaded him.
He raised his arm and ran his hand across the back of his neck. Tension knotted along his shoulders, always, when he thought about them. The woman had said Mac was eight years old. The round impish face of Jordan’s son filled his thoughts. Robbie was eight, too, when he died. Tears stung the backs of Jordan’s eyes, and a deep moan rumbled from his throat. Its impact quaked along his spine. Why did he allow these strangers to wrench his memories from hiding? Three years. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Hadn’t he paid his dues?
But Jordan knew the answer. He had nothing more with which to pay the price, nothing to heal the wounds, nothing to smooth the scars. He slapped his hand against the rickety table and shook his head. “Enough!” he cried out to the heavens. “Why not my life? If You’re really up there, Lord, why not me? I’ll never forgive You. Never.”
Tears escaped his tight control and lay in the corner of his eye. His hand shot upward, catching the single fleeting drop, halting it before it rolled down his cheek. He had promised himself he would no longer cry. He had thought he’d shed every tear possible. Yet one had lived, laughing at him behind his eye, waiting to foil his masquerade.
But he’d won. He’d snuffed it out with the swipe of his fingers—as quickly as a life could end.
Meara poured the cold cereal into a bowl, then sloshed in the milk. The blurry television filled the quiet morning with local news, and Mac stared into the dish, singing one of his incessant tunes.
“Mac, let’s say the blessing.” Meara held out her hand, and he grasped her fingers and bowed his head, the tune undaunted. When the song ended, he recited the prayer, then spooned into the cereal.
Meara sipped her tea, wishing she had coffee. Gazing out the small window, she watched the glimmer of sunlight play on the nearby birch trees. The pungent smell of mildew and disinfectant that clung to the old cabin infested her lungs, and she longed to be outside in the fresh air.
Leaning her elbows against the high windowsill, she peered through the foliage toward the beach. The water dragged visions of her homeland, her lovely green Erin, from her smothered memories. Dingle and Kenmare bays and the deepest cobalt blue of the Kerry Loughs waved through her thoughts.
Shades of green and blue swirled in her memory—the Emerald Isle. How had her American visit, so long ago, become this nightmare? The question was foolish. She knew how the nightmare began. But now, it had ended. She prayed it had. She would carve out a new life for Mac and her. With love pushing against her chest, she turned to study the child intent on his cereal bowl and his song.
A deep sense of grief stabbed her. How long would she have her son? How long would God grant him life on this earth? Deep love charged through her—despite the trials, despite the incessant songs. Meara smiled as Mac’s singsong voice penetrated her thoughts. Despite everything, she’d give the world for her son to have a long life.
Meara clapped her hands. “Mac, let’s get outside in the sunshine. You ready?”
His beaming smile met hers. “The kite.” He ate the last of his cereal. “Let’s see the kite.”
“Not today, Mac. We’ll gather shells on the beach. I’ll bring a plastic bag along to hold them, okay?”
“I want…the kite,” Mac said. “You have shells.”
Meara chuckled. “You’re a generous laddie, all right. And remember, no food, no cookies.”
Mac sat deathly still, finally giving a resolute nod. He slid off the chair and made his way to her. “No birds, Mama.” He rested his head on her leg, then slyly lifted his face with a grin. “You have…the birds.”