Chapter 1 :: Page 3

would hail, then later change quickly becoming sunny and warm. March was indecision in Ireland. It was warm in the sun and cold in the shade.
   O'Malley's House, as it was called, didn't have a house number. Everyone knew where it was and passerbys looking for it just had to ask. Mrs. O’Malley lived in the center block of Kilare Street, three blocks west of the bay.
   At the end of Kilare, I turned left on Kilarn down to the bay through the main streets of Dalkey. Further on past the carrefour, Kilarn turned into a one lane road, over a small inlet from the bay that filtered out water from the surroundings drumlins. The small green drumlins were always green, lighter in the winter and darker in the summer. In the distance higher up, there were grazing sheep, ivory tufts that stood out from the green hill.
   McMill was out on the pier fishing, huddled against a fire tin, his shagbark seamen's coat pulled up around his face. Boulders formed a large breakwall that struck out into the bay, huge rocks larger than a man, as if tumbled from the sky. The rocks made small grottos and caves, while at the same time, made perfect spots to sit and fish. McMill was tiny to the large rocks where he sat huddled within a small grotto, difficult to see like the tobacco smoke that drifted near him in hazy clouds before the wind dispersed it away.
   Wood cracked and the roof heaved as I passed by an abandoned house along the path to the water. How it still stood. The shutters and windows were broken. Warped brown wood was rotted from wind and water driving against it. No one lived there. No one had lived there a long time. Wooden fence beams were laid in piles as if small hands had placed them there. The grass was short, for when the traffic cleared, sheep would cross the rocky dirt road from the drumlin behind and eat with a view of the bay. Lake front property was expensive. The path curled around a thickly trunked and suckering Crabapple tree, then opened to the breakers.
   I climbed, oftentimes hand over hand, towards McMill and sat down. I had a careful eye towards the water. It was very cold and there was no bottom. The rocks were cold and were laid like steps that disappeared into the water. McMill didn't look up, but kept staring out over the bay. His beaten long coat was forged from the land. I never saw him without it.
   "It's gonna be a fine day."
   "They usually are this time of year," I said. I slipped two small oranges into his pocket.
   "Thanks." His face contorted as he cleared his nose loudly.
   He didn't say much then, but I felt the need to talk to him about something. Nothing came to mind. I wasn't sure where McMill went during the day, or where he went at night, but every morning or late at night, when it was dark, I found him out on the pier fishing behind the old house at the

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