Foster

by Claire Keegan

‘Dan,’ the man says, and tightens himself. ‘What way are you?’ ‘John,’ Da says.

It is something I am used to, this way men have of not talking: they like to kick a divot out of the grass with a boot heel, to slap the roof of a car before it takes off, to spit, to sit with their legs wide apart, as though they do not care.

‘Where there’s a secret,’ she says, ‘there’s shame – and shame is something we can do without.’

‘God help you, child,’ she whispers. ‘If you were mine, I’d never leave you in a house with strangers.’

Kinsella takes my hand in his. As soon as he takes it, I realise my father has never once held my hand, and some part of me wants Kinsella to let me go so I won’t have to feel this. It’s a hard feeling but as we walk along I begin to settle and let the difference between my life at home and the one I have here be. He takes shorter steps so we can walk in time. I think about the woman in the cottage, of how she walked and spoke, and conclude that there are huge differences between people.

‘You don’t ever have to say anything,’ he says. ‘Always remember that as a thing you need never do. Many’s the man lost much just because he missed a perfect opportunity to say nothing.’

‘Eventualities. A good woman can look far down the line and smell what’s coming before a man even gets a sniff of it.’

This is my mother I am speaking to but I have learned enough, grown enough, to know that what happened is not something I need ever mention. It is my perfect opportunity to say nothing.