by John Coyne
Across Ballycastle the old man dampened the forge and shut off the lights. At the door he paused, squinted into the storm. He could no longer see the river or the mooring, but he thought again of Carmel Burke and the nights they had danced at the edge of the woods, in the soft light of the great glass ballroom. He had told the lad too much, he realized; he had gotten carried away with his tale. The boy might talk, say something that would start again the rumors. Then he shook his head, as if to reassure himself. They were all dead, he thought. All of them-Carmel and Peggy Connolly, Monica Healion and Nuala O'Neill, everyone who might know a thread of the truth. All that remained was the tombstones, and the cabin, and Conor himself, who had known it all and said not a word.
Seven
"You should have telephoned me," Derek said. He got up from his desk and began to pace about the office, as if her story had upset him. Barbara shrugged. "I didn't think of bothering you with a family problem." She was across the large room, sitting sideways in the small seat of the high, narrow windows. From this second floor vantage she could look across the fields toward the main gate. When Fergus had built Ballycastle he had banned cars from the property, and guests were met with a horse and carriage at the main gate. It was less than a mile across the fields to the castle, but Fergus had landscaped the property so that the drive curved through the trees, going deep into the woods. His goal had not been to impress people, Barbara had been told, but rather to give them a sense that they had come upon a Brigadoon sort of world, an enchanted place lost in time. "But from what you say, it sounds like the Foundation's problem," Derek replied. "I'll have a talk with Conor, put the fear of God into him and warn him to stay away from Scott. But I can't fire the man. According to Fergus's will, Conor must be employed as long as he can work and taken care of until his death. He's even to be buried on the estate. There's really no way of getting rid of him." He sounded worried, as if he had let Barbara down in some way. "Oh, I don't want to have him fired. Actually, it isn't Conor's fault. Scotty is just so impressionable." "How is he now?" "Fine, but it took hours to calm him down. First I had to talk through the story Conor told him, find out about the hobgoblins. Then I gave him a Valium and put him to bed. He slept for a solid fourteen hours. That's why I wasn't in yesterday. I stayed home just to be around when he woke up." "He's okay?" Barbara nodded. "I went home at noon. He's up and around, watching television. I kept him home from school just to be on the safe side." "Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I mean, there's nothing around here that can't hold," Derek said casually, fighting his desire to go to her, to wrap her in his arms. His weakness, he knew, was for women like her-women who needed caring for. But he stayed away from where she was perched on the window seat like some rare and fragile bird. He kept the distance of the office between them like an expanse of water. Barbara shook her head. "It's better that I give him some time alone. I don't want him to think that I'm afraid to let him out of my sight." "Are you?" She nodded reluctantly. "Yes, I'm afraid so. And I keep checking in by phone. When I called a few minutes ago he answered, `Yes, mother, I'm still alive' and hung up. I can't blame him. Even I'm feeling like a pest." "Why play it so close? He's not suicidal, is he?" "No, of course not. After his father died he did make one flamboyant attempt to asphyxiate himself with carbon monoxide, but he was simply acting out, feeling this enormous guilt that he was alive and Warren was dead." She smiled again, the same sad, wry smile. "I didn't blame him. I wanted to kill myself then, too. Warren was only forty." "But Scott's all over that now," Derek stated carefully, still feeling his way with her, as if he were in a room full of unexplored emotions. "Yes, he's over that" She looked up and caught his glance and added quietly, "We're both over it, Derek." "And what's next?" He smiled, attempted to change the atmosphere. "I think we should get back to work, both of us." She slid off her perch, as if taking flight, and came across the office toward him. She had her eyes on him, as if he were a beacon light and she was tracking her way home. He looked apprehensive as she moved closer. "Barbara?" he asked. He reached out and touched her arm, pulling her to a stop. She turned her head slowly to one side and her eyes widened. He had stopped her impulsively. The way she had slid off the window seat-the gracefulness of her moves-had made him decide to kiss her, to play his hand. Now he saw, as if reading the thoughts behind her brown eyes, the fear she felt, her uncertainty, and he realized for the first time how alone she surely felt in her life, without a husband, with only this strange son at home. "I'll help you," he said. It was not what he had meant to say, or do, but her vulnerability stopped him. He couldn't tamper with this woman's life. She needed his friendship more than his love. "Thank you," Barbara said. She moved her arm away and smiled quickly, once. She felt let down, but did not know why. It was only when she went into the hallway, into the cooler breeze of the building, that she realized what had happened between them. Her pace slowed as she kept playing back the brief exchange, seeing the expression on his face, then seeing the doubt cloud his eyes like cataracts. It hurt her. Feeling betrayed, she ran all their recent exchanges through her mind, trying to document her growing sense that he was interested in her. She could clearly hear him saying, "Do you mean Scott is my competition?" There-she was not crazy. That was certainly flirtation. She reached the main floor and went slowly toward her office. It was Scotty, of course, and her hysterical story of the hobgoblins. That was what had scared him off. What normal man would want to get involved with her and Scott? And office affairs were always messy, especially at a small place like the Foundation; she should have had more sense herself. She would be crazy to jeopardize her own work by getting involved with the director. She sighed, tucked away her bruised feelings the way a sleeping cat curls his paws beneath him. She was all right, she realized, reaching her office. Their encounter upstairs had been like a near accident on ice. Both of them had spun out, but in the end they'd each skidded safely to a stop. And she walked into her office briskly, smiling, feeling sure of herself again. "Mrs. Gardiner?" The girl's voice came at her from the corner like a sniper's bullet. "Yes, I'm Mrs. Gardiner," Barbara answered sharply, then softened her voice. "May I help you?" She kept smiling, seeing that the teenage girl was nervous. "I'm Valerie Dunn," the girl said, rising from the chair where she'd been huddled. She had an armful of books and when she stood, several of them tumbled from her grasp. "Oh, God!" she exclaimed, mortified. "Here, let me help," Barbara offered. Bending quickly she picked up a few books, noticing their Flat Rock High School jackets as she handed them over. Town people rarely ventured near the Foundation, and as she took her seat behind the desk Barbara wondered what had brought the girl to Ballycastle. Barbara rarely met young girls and the way they dressed always astonished her. She couldn't imagine what could have possessed this girl to wear such a collection of items: tight jeans and cowboy boots, a long-sleeved blouse, bright pink, with a man's narrow plaid tie knotted at the neck, and topped with a brown leather vest. She was a girl whose figure was still boyish, Barbara saw, and she was almost as unkempt as a boy. Looking at the girl's loose black hair, Barbara had to keep herself from rushing to the child and combing out the tangles. Still, Valerie Dunn was cute. Her smile was large and lopsided, and it made her look fresh and trustworthy. And she had lovely eyes, very bright and arresting, swatches of sea green velvet. "I'm a friend of Scott's," Valerie announced. "Oh, I see." At that, Barbara reappraised the girl. "Scotty didn't say..." She kept scanning the tall teenager, as if searching for faults. "Well, we're sort of in the same class. The same homeroom. And when Scott missed two days of school I thought...well, I knew he lived here at Ballycastle, and..." She sighed, exhausted by the tension of explaining. She shouldn't have come, she realized. His mother would think she was some kind of creep. "It's very nice of you to stop by. Scotty wasn't feeling very well on Monday, so I-he decided to stay home for a few days." "I thought he might be sick or something, and I live out this way anyhow, at Nolan's Corners, and I always cut across the grounds, you know, after school." Valerie tigh
tened her hold on her textbooks and edged toward the office door, as if planning to run. "Did Scotty tell you I worked at the castle?" Barbara asked, halting Valerie with the question. The girl's explanation hadn't told her any of the things she really wanted to know. Was she just a classmate, or someone with a crush on Scott? Barbara couldn't imagine Scotty having a girlfriend without telling her. But this Valerie Dunn was, in spite of her nervousness, curiously appealing, and Barbara found herself pleased to know the girl existed. "No, Scott never talks about the castle. I knew you worked here because of my older sister, Karen DeWitt." "Oh, Karen, yes." "She handles the Foundation tours," Valerie went on. "Yes, I know Karen; I just didn't realize she was your sister." Barbara smiled. "Now I see the family resemblance." She was disappointed that it wasn't Scott who had told the girl about her. "Well, I guess I better get along. I just wanted to stop, you know, and see if Scott was okay, not sick or anything. A lot of kids have been catching the flu." "Valerie, if you like, why don't you stop by the house and say hello to Scotty...since you're here," Barbara suggested, thinking quickly. "I'm sure he'd be pleased. He's been by himself for two days, and you could also tell him what homework he's missing." Barbara stood and moved around her desk. Now, standing next to Valerie, she realized how tall the girl was. She and Scotty made a good match. Perhaps that was what had happened at school; they had been thrown together because of their height. But they were bound to have noticed each other eventually, Barbara thought; they had the same rangy style and intelligent eyes. "Scott won't mind, will he?" Valerie asked, sounding apprehensive. "He'll be pleased. I'm the only one he's seen since the weekend. I'm sure he'll be thrilled that you were nice enough to drop by. We live in..." "Yes, I know. The guest house. I was around Ballycastle a couple of times during August. I saw where you were living." "Well, just tell Scott I'll be home at five o'clock." Barbara put her arm around the girl's waist and walked her out into the entrance hall. "It's been very nice meeting you, Valerie, and I hope to see you again soon. Tell Scott he shouldn't keep you hidden away." Valerie glanced sideways at her, then took a deep breath, as if she'd just decided something. "Mrs. Gardiner, you know, Scott...he and I...well, we're not exactly going out together or anything. I mean, I don't want you to get the idea we've been sneaking around or something. I mean, I'd like to go out with him." She grinned, embarrassed by her own forwardness. "Well, maybe we can push him along, Valerie. You know, the two of us. Scott was in a boys' school before coming here. He didn't have much of a chance to meet girls his own age." "I think he's really cool. I mean, he's not like the other kids at Flat Rock. They're always showing off, getting into trouble. Drinking and stuff. But Scott...he's sort of above all that. It's all kids' stuff to him, juvenile." She had not talked to anyone about why she liked Scotty. She had not said anything to her girlfriends, even her best friend, Tracy, knowing what they'd think, and she found it a relief to be telling someone her feelings, even if it was Scott's mother. She liked Mrs. Gardiner. She was beautiful, Valerie thought; it would be great to look that way, trim and cool, and always in control. "Thank you, Valerie, I think he's pretty neat, too. And so are you." She hugged the girl briefly. "Now go down to the house and cheer him up. He needs a friend like you." When she returned to her office, Barbara thought of telephoning Scott so he could straighten up the house before Valerie arrived, then decided against it. It was better to leave them alone to work it out themselves. She couldn't force them together. She just hoped it would work out. And she went back to her work, typing out rapidly:
Ballycastle, like all great houses, reflects the lives of the people who lived in it. Fergus O'Cuileannain changed little of this ancient castle, and destroyed less, so that it can be presented as an almost pure example of its style. It is a living memorial to this strange man who lived here all his adult life.
Barbara paused a moment to look through her rough draft, read again what she had typed. The page seemed to blur before her eyes. She couldn't concentrate. Something was wrong. She closed her eyes and tried to let whatever it was float to the top of her consciousness. She saw Scott. His figure flashed into her mind. Something was wrong with Scotty. Reaching for the telephone, she dialed quickly. She would just hear his voice, she thought, and hang up. He would think it was a wrong number, and not suspect that she was checking up on him. She counted out five rings. Two more, she decided, and she would go down to the house. No room in the guest house was that far from a phone. She could picture the extensions: one on the kitchen wall and another in her bedroom, a princess phone on the night stand. One. Two. "Hello?" Barbara pressed her palm across the phone's mouthpiece and said nothing. Her hand was shaking with her intense relief. He was all right, nothing was wrong. "Hello?" He sounded angry and upset. She must have woken him from a nap, she realized. "Shit!" He slammed the phone in her car. Slowly she replaced the receiver. Barbara smiled wryly, thinking this time it was she who was being irrational, not Scott. He was all right, she told herself once more. Besides, a pretty girl was on her way to visit him. She turned back to the typewriter. That was another worry: two teenagers together in an empty house. Well, whatever happened, she thought, at least it would be normal and healthy. She shook her head and went to work.
Scott sat trembling beside his mother's bed. The ringing phone had upset him, broken his concentration. He had been in the upstairs bathroom, kneeling beside the tub with the water running. He had been there for almost twenty minutes, waiting for the right moment, waiting for the courage to rip the razor blade across his upturned wrist and get it over with. He knew it had been his mother on the phone, calling to check up on him. He jerked the telephone plug from the wall and went back into the bathroom, knelt down again beside the tub. It was harder than he had expected. That morning when he'd made up his mind it had seemed easy, even restful. Lying in bed, he had planned how to do it. There would be no mess. She wouldn't be able to blame him for leaving blood on the bathroom tiles. He would simply fill the tub and submerge his wrists, numbing the pain with the soothing warm water. He liked the idea and he imagined how she'd react, finding him slouched over the bathtub, his face white, his eyes wide open, his mouth gaping. The way a fish looked washed up dead on shore. For a while he thought about who she would telephone first. The police? Conor? Mr. Brennan? He knew she would be calm and controlled. Scott remembered how she had reacted when his father died. Scott turned on the water again, measured the temperature so it wouldn't be too hot, then, taking one of her hand towels, he looped it around his right arm and held the ends in his teeth. The veins in his right arm popped up, clearly defined and pulsing. In his left hand he held the straight blade, pressed it gently to his wrist. He could feel the cold metal of the blade, like a piece of sharp ice on his skin. It was so easy, he told himself. Just press hard and the blade would cut into the vein before he felt the pain. He could already imagine the warm blood squirting his face as the vein burst open. Then he'd douse his wrist in the water, let the blood flow freely until he weakened and lost consciousness. Still he couldn't cut his skin. His knees began to hurt from kneeling on the tiled floor. He pulled the bath mat under him and repositioned himself against the tub's high side. All right, he told himself. Get it over with. Make her be sorry for how she had treated Dad. He leaned forward, his ear inches from the rushing water, and closing his eyes, squeezing them tight, he thrust the blade's edge into his flesh.