Rain and Revelation Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    I walk over and pick one up. As a child, I used to love holding the flies, with their shiny bodies and feathery tails. Da taught me their names. On the table are some of my favorites: twinkle cat’s whisker, orange zonker, wooly bugger, pink tadpole and woven olive damsel. I look out at Clew Bay, resting under a blanket of sun. The seemingly harmless fly that I’m holding by its plume shimmers in the light streaming through the windows.
    After finding Granda’s keys on a hook in the kitchen and zipping the small pocket in my jacket to secure them, I leave the cottage. I can see my breath as I begin my run. The ground, heavy with water from weeks of rain, cushions my steps as I run from our cottage down toward Clew Bay. A breeze blows, carrying the sounds of seagulls and waves lapping the rocky shore.
    I put in my headphones and crank the music. The rusted bicycle propped against a sign to the beaches marks my turn to the narrow, beaten path that I run every day. It snakes through the rolling hills overlooking Clew Bay and then dips back down toward the Bunowen River. Sheep look over the rock fences and then turn away.
    My legs feel tight, and my lungs burn from the cigarettes I bummed the other night from Mikey.
    The winding path narrows. I nearly trip over an imbedded rock as I crane my head to see if Da is at his favorite fishing spot on the river. He is. I catch myself and regain my footing. From a distance, with his back to me, I watch the arc of his arm as he casts, dropping the line softly, trying to entice the brown trout. I quicken my pace.
    Eventually I settle into a rhythm. My mind clears and I can breathe. I’m free. Except from the questions. Why did Ma try to kill herself when she was young? Why did she choose to do it again on her fortieth birthday? Why didn’t I notice something was wrong with her? She acted the same as any day. What was different? Why would she take off her wedding ring? If she wanted to die, why do it that way? She hates messes. Why would she do this to me? She always said that she lives for me.
    I run faster until I can’t breathe.
    When I arrive at my grandparents’ house, my legs feel like jelly. Outside Louisburgh, in the new subdivision, their two-story house sits on an isolated cul-de-sac with a meticulously manicured lawn. I punch the code on the front door to get in and flip my shoes off on the rug. My socks slip on the highly-polished wood floor as I walk to the kitchen. I take off my jacket, fling it onto the marble countertop, and fill a glass with water from the dispenser. It cools my parched throat.
    I don’t dare sit down on the soft leather couch in my clothes soaked with perspiration.
    Digging out the keys, I go to my grandparents’ bedroom. I find the documents easily and slide the fire safe back under their bed, tuck the keys back into my pocket, and go to Granda’s office down the hall.
    As I fax the documents, I glance at the plaques on the wall and, on his desk, the framed picture of Granda receiving the County Mayo Good Citizen Award, taken just a few months ago. He stands in his dark suit, with broad shoulders and head held high, towering over the man shaking his hand. Nearly seventy, he looks half his age with his fit build and full head of thick red hair. “Hard work and clean living,” he always told me—usually when I was doing neither.
    The fax goes through. Job done. I’m free to leave.
    A light mist is falling when I resume my run. When I’m nearly to town and finished with my playlist, I see Willie Walters pedaling his three-wheeled Schwinn down the street toward Sancta Maria College, the secondary school where he has taught music for as long as I can remember. He taught Ma and Da and he taught me. His dog, a stout black and white terrier named Johnny, is perched in the square wire basket behind the padded seat.
    Mr. Walters lifts a finger in a wave. I take my headphones out of my ears. He stops. A cigar dangles from his