He scrounged two bottles of beer from the icebox and threw down into a chair. Twisted the caps and slid one across to her. “Didn’t you hear that bullshit back there?”
“His family was killed.” Emma took a pull, felt the bottle sweat in her hand. “He’s angry.”
“It was a hundred years ago for Chrissakes.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s still wrong. The man has every right to be angry.”
“You believe that story? Emm, he accused everyone in town.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
Jim tilted his beer, then dismissed it all with a wave. “He’s just trying to stir up trouble.”
“That’s not what I asked. Is his story true?”
“It’s complete nonsense. Those people were killed by a gang of escaped convicts and that’s the end of it.” He shook his head again. “Hell, even if it was true, what does he think he’s gonna do? Lay charges against folks already in the ground?”
“Still,” she said. “It’s an awful thing.”
“It’s ancient history. Got nothing to do with us.”
Emma leaned back and fanned her face with yesterday’s newspaper. The peak of the midday heat blowing in through the open window and it not even high summer yet. The knock at the screen door startled them both.
Will Corrigan stood on the other side of the torn screen. A bottle of wine clutched by the neck. “You must be Emma.” He pulled the door open and thrust out a hand. “Will Corrigan. Pleased to meet you.”
Emma didn’t know what to make of their guest. For someone who had just offended twenty people and taken a hard right to the jaw, he was remarkably chipper. All smiles and warmth, complimenting Emma on their lovely home and asking about the flowers she had blooming all around the yard.
He took a seat at the kitchen table but refused a drink or even coffee. Jim had withdrawn to the sink, watching the man with mute hostility. Emma scolded her husband with a look and joined their guest at the table.
“I’m sorry I had to bushwack you back there.” Corrigan placed the bottle on the table. “I didn’t want anyone spoiling the surprise, you see.”
“We
“Then you’ll forgive me.”
Jim levelled a finger at him. “That’s one nasty accusation you threw down.”
“That was a history lesson. One that seems to have been conveniently forgotten about.”
“You expect everyone to believe that story?”
“It’s no story. God’s truth.”
Emma looked at him. “How do you know it’s true?”
“From my father, who was told the story by his father. The sole survivor of the Corrigan massacre, Robert Patrick Corrigan.”
“It’s a helluva story, I’ll give you that.” Jim, not buying any of it. “But that’s not what happened. Your family was attacked by a bunch of lunatics who busted out of the jailhouse in Garrisontown.”
Corrigan laughed. “Aye, I’ve heard that one too.”
“But you don’t believe it,” Emma said.
“As much as I believe it was a band of renegade Apaches or hobgoblins.” He slid the wine bottle across the table to her. “This is for you. A little peace offering.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s not much, I know. The wine selection around here is a little slim.”
Jim slugged back his beer. “We’re not really big on wine.”
“Then I’ll bring champagne next time.” He turned back to her. “Everyone likes champagne.”
Emma shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.”
“Okay? Then you’ve never had the good stuff.” He winked at her. “I’ll bring you some.”
Emma smiled back. The man had his charm. “So where are you from, Mister Corrigan?”
“Will, please. Lately of Halifax.”
“I’ve never been there. I hear it’s lovely.”
“It is. Lots of history too.”
Jim, wanting him gone, went for bluntness. “What do you do, Corrigan? Besides entertain people, I mean?”
“Security. Or I used to. Time for a change.”
Emma seared Jim with a look for his rudeness, then leavened her tone. “Is that what brings you here? Looking for a place to settle down?”
“In a way. I wanted to find my roots, my history. I wanted to find out who I am, if you know what I mean.”
“I do.” Emma smiled. The man seemed sincere. “But why now? Why haven’t we seen any Corrigans before this?”
“There aren’t any others.” Corrigan glanced about, taking in the room. The photos on the fridge, grade school drawings their son had made. The lopsided sugar bowl on the table that Travis had made for mother’s day. “My brother died years ago. A car accident. Dad passed in oh-two. That left me. The last one bearing the Corrigan name.”
Jim killed his beer. “Why wait so long to come here?”
“I was in jail.”
Emma’s face fell, as did her husband’s. The sound of crickets filled the vacuum. Corrigan remained stone- faced for a moment then guffawed.
“Gotcha!” His laugh boomed big and bellied through the kitchen. Emma broke and laughed too. Even Jim cracked a tiny smile.
“Enjoy the wine.” Corrigan stood and gave a cockeyed salute. At the door, he stopped. “One more thing. Does Travis want the job? I would sincerely appreciate the help.”
Jim was about to nix the idea when Emma brightened. “I think an after-school job would be a great idea,” she said.
“Who is this son of a bitch anyway?”
The bristling topic of conversation inside the diner. Speculation, fuelled by the offence hurled at their town, ran wild and rabid through Pennyluck. The attendees of the inaugural Corrigan Horrorshow crowded the tables of the Oak Stem, the rest eager to hear the tale and partake of the collective outrage. Any other day of the week, the crowd would have reconvened at the pub but this being two o’ clock on a Sunday, they demurred and settled for coffee and rhubarb pie.
Across the table, Puddycombe grumbled what many were thinking. “He’s got no right saying garbage like that. Corrigan or no.”
The mayor, just now coming through the door, was set upon. Joe Keefe waved her to his table. “Kate, what do you know about this guy? Where’s he from?”
Kate had been home, finally getting to the flowerbeds, when her phone went crazy. The last three weekends had been swallowed up with work and she was determined to get the gardening done now before spring was gone. She knew about the tour at the old Corrigan place and sure enough, her phone rang as soon as it was all over. Better come meet us at the coffee shop, the caller said. You’re not gonna believe what just happened.
Now she was in the thick of it, patrons talking over each other in their rush to get out all the details, all the horrible things that man said. And now they all looked at her like she had an answer. “I’m sorry,” she confessed. “I’m as much in the dark as you are.”
“Meaning what exactly?” Berryhill thumped the table, rattling the coffee spoons. “You ain’t gonna do anything about his slanderous shit?”
“I’m not sure what I can do.”
“Useless,” Berryhill grumped. “Fucking useless.”
“We’ll sue the bastard.” Hitchens pointed a finger at the faces assembled around the tabletop. “Slander. Defamation of character. Whatever else you got. All of us, like a class action thing.”
