After Eli

by Terry Kay

  The dim picture of her father focused in Sarah’s mind like a photograph yellowed with age. He had been away so often, and for such a long time now, that it was hard to remember his presence—his size, his touch, his voice. When she thought of her father, Sarah thought of the photograph he had mailed her from Chicago. He was sitting in a posed angle on a large rock, a boulder, with his right foot propped against the rock and his hands wrapped around his kneecap. In the background was a canvas as large as a room, painted with a scene of wild horses stampeding across a western plain, chased by Indians wearing feathered headdresses that fluttered like flowers in the wind. In the foreground, angry and powerful, was a single horse, white as powder, rearing up, pawing the chipped canvas sky with its front hooves. Beside the horse was a thorn cactus as tall as a tree. And her father, sitting on the rock, wore an ill-fitting suit with a fancy straw hat tilted smartly down over his forehead. A smile broke across his face like the eternal crackling of a laugh and the light of the camera’s flash bounced merrily in his eyes. No one had ever told her, but Sarah knew the scene was rented—the Indians, the great white horse, the suit, the hat; perhaps even the smile. Beyond the borders of the photograph Sarah could sense a line of onlookers, holding their tickets, goading her father into the smile, waiting their turn to have the suit coat pinned to their shape, and she had wondered about the photographs of other fathers, propped on the dressers of other daughters.

  * * *

  There was a knocking at the front door, a soft, rhythmic rapping, and it startled the three women sitting at the table. They did not move. The knocking fell again, louder. Rachel stood and pressed her hands over the apron that covered her dress, smoothing it to her body. She walked into the living room and to the door.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “It’s a gentleman come callin’, in the proper way, at the front door,” Michael boomed from the outside. “It’s my understandin’ there’s a party waitin’ for company.”

  Rachel smiled at the game. She motioned for Sarah and Dora to remain seated, then tossed her head emphatically and pulled her body erect and opened the door.

  “Mr. O’Rear?” she said in mock sophistication. “We’ve been expectin’ you. Please come in.”

  Michael stepped proudly through the door and raised his arms and did a dance spin to the middle of the living room.

  “Ladies, how do you like it?” he bellowed.

  He was dressed entirely in green. In a forest-green suit that was slightly too tight. In a bright green shirt with an open collar. A green paper shamrock was pinned to the lapel of his coat. And a green handkerchief covered something in his right hand.

  “It’s my Saint Paddy’s Day suit,” he announced before anyone replied. “Green from top to toe, and in places you can’t even see. Bought it for a parade in New York City and it’s been with me since, packed away in the bottom of my knapsack.”

  He turned again, strutting around the room.

  “I know how you feel, awestruck like you are,” he continued. “Seein’ a true Irishman for the first time, in his own true colors. It’s little wonder that you can’t speak. First time I put eyes on this fine garment, I was the same. Stood there like a statue, I did. The salesman had to kick me in the shins to bring me around. Why, I’ve worn this in some Saint Paddy’s parades and had people paralyzed in their tracks by the sight of it. They’d bring a wagon along and load them up like blocks of wood, and sure enough there’d be a story in the newspapers about that fellow O’Rear and his green suit.”

  He stopped at Rachel s side and offered her his left arm and then marched officiously into the kitchen with Rachel beside him.

  “Sarah, birthday-girl Sarah—no—birthday-woman Sarah—tell me what you think of this wonderful sight before you,” he said happily.

  Sarah looked at him carefully and a smile eased into her face.

  “Don’t be timid now. Try hard. The words will spill out of you if you let them,” he added. “What do you think of this handsome green sight?”

  “You—you look like—like a—a tree,” Sarah answered.

  There was nothing funny in what Sarah said, but Michael threw back his head and roared with laughter. His whole body shook and he pulled away from Rachel’s hand and leaned against the wall. The three women looked curiously at one another and then began to laugh awkwardly with Michael, and then the laughter grew until it pealed uncontrollably in giggles and loud bursts, subsiding and building again, until they were spent.

  “I don’t know what’s funny,” Sarah said innocently.

  “Nothin’s funny. It’s the celebratin’,” Michael replied. “So I look like a tree, I do? Well, I’ve been called worse, for sure. In fact, a tree’s a fine thing to be called. There’s lots you can do with a tree. Reason I’m standin’ here with my hand covered like a bloomin’ magician’s is due to a tree.” He leaned to Sarah and kissed her on the forehead. He could feel her push against his lips. “It’s your birthday present, Sarah. Made it with my own hands, I did. Go on, now. Take away the handkerchief.”

  Sarah stared at the green handkerchief folded over the object in his hand. She reached timidly and pulled the handkerchief away and her eyes widened as she saw the gift he held. It was a woodcarving of a girl on her knees, bending backward, letting her long hair fall free to the ground. Her elbows were pointed up and her hands were cupped behind her head and her fingers pushed into her hair like combs. Her delicate wood face seemed caught in a seizure of ecstasy, her lips slightly parted, as though the last touch of the knife blade had been unbearably sensual.

  “It’s—it’s beautiful,” whispered Rachel. “Dora—”

  Dora did not answer. She was numbed by the figure in Michael’s hand.

  “It’s beautiful,” Rachel said again.

  Michael offered the carving to Sarah and Sarah accepted it hesitantly, holding it carefully in the cradle of her hand. She turned it slowly, memorizing it and the moment of receiving it.

  “I’ve been workin’ on it for weeks, now,” Michael said proudly. “I got the idea for it the first time I saw you, Sarah, sittin’ on the edge of the woods, watchin’ the cows.” He laughed. “It’s a way of relaxin’ with me, workin’ with a knife,” he added. “Two things I know I can do. Make paper flowers and carve wood. There’re those who’ve said I’ve a genius for the knife, and there’re times when I’m holdin’ one, I think they’re right. But that’s my favorite of all the carvin’s, Sarah. And it’s right for you. A girl, risin’ up out of bein’ a child and becomin’ a woman, and that’s what you’re doin’.”

  Sarah could feel the blood rushing through her throat, under the tight fitting of her dress collar. She looked up at Michael and held his eyes with hers. She did not care if her mother or Dora saw how she felt.

  “Thank you,” she said in a small voice. She slipped from her chair. “I want to put it up. On my dresser.”

  “Well, do it quick,” Dora said. “Supper’s gettin’ cold.”

  “That it is,” Michael declared, picking across the table with his eyes. “And it’d be a pity to let it go to waste. Ah, ladies, you’ve outdone yourselves. There’s enough here to feed the county, and before I go and completely forget my manners, I’ve got to say how lovely you look. All of you. Why, you’d be courted royally in New York City, and by the richest of men there. If I look like a tree, Sarah, the three of you look like flowers. Lilies bloomin’. Or daisies. Yes, that’s it, daisies. Like white velvet petals with soft yellow eyes. I’ve a song about daisies. Made it up myself. Later on, I’ll sing it.” He turned to Sarah. “Now, do as Dora says,” he told her. “Run along and put up your gift and put on your crown of honeysuckle, if it’s not too drooped, and let’s be for havin’ a party.”

  Sarah left the kitchen and went into her room. She sat on the edge of her bed and rubbed the carving of the girl with her fingers and thought of her night with Michael. She could feel him against her, invisibly pushing, bruising her with a tender pain. His fingers fed h
er and filled her and her body rose weakly to him, obeying his touch. She could feel the hot, volcanic stream splattering across her in heavy pearl drops and the sighing of his body as he dropped over her like a blanket.

  “Sarah!” It was Rachel.

  “Comin’,” she answered. She placed the carving on her dressing table and picked up the garland of honeysuckle with its withered blossoms and placed it on her head. She went quickly back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I was just lookin’ at it.”

  “You can look at it later, all you want,” scolded Dora. “It’s time to eat.”

  * * *

  A drizzling rain began during the birthday supper, falling from a thin, rolling sheet of clouds that had been cast like a net out of the black heart of a thunderstorm that roared through the North Carolina mountains. The lightning of the storm flickered dully and its thunder echoed like the fighting of a distant war. And as it rained, the wind lifted, cooling the house.

  “There’d be those who’d say rain puts a damper on a party,” observed Michael. “I’d say it makes it cozy.” He laughed. “Now that’s a word I like: cozy. Not the kind of word a man says, but it’s a good one. Means a lot, if you’re not afraid of usin’ it. What d’you think, Miss Dora? Does the rain make a party cozy?”

  Dora felt a flush of embarrassment in her face. She replied, “Rain’s needed. It’s been dry.”

  “Miss Dora,” chided Michael, “that’s not the question. How does it make you feel? Cozy? Wet? Like you’d be drownin’ if it keeps fallin’? How?”

  Dora flipped away the question with her hand. She began to stack the dishes on the table before her.

  “What about you, Rachel?” Michael asked softly. “How does the rain make you feel? Do you like it?” His eyes followed her, as teasing as his voice.

  Rachel met his eyes. “Yes,” she said simply. “Yes, it makes me feel cozy.” Yes, she thought. Why are you asking me? You know. You must know. She stood at the table. “We’d better get the dishes washed,” she added.

  “Not after a birthday supper,” protested Michael. “They can wait for a while. We’ve got a party to carry on.”

  “We always wash after supper,” Sarah told him.

  “Well, tonight’s not always, Sarah,” argued Michael. “Tonight’s a party. And to show you I’m a sportin’ man, I’ll even volunteer to help out later. Me and Rachel, we’ll wash them. Rachel, are you willin’? Is that a fair enough bargain?”

  Rachel looked at the dishes she held in her hands, and then to Dora, then to Sarah.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’d be worth it just seein’ you in soapsuds up to your elbows. And you’ll do the washin’. I’ll dry and put up.”

  “And I’ll watch,” Dora added. “Wish I had me a camera.”

  “It’s settled then,” thundered Michael. “Come along, ladies, it’s dancin’ time.”

  * * *

  Michael stood in the middle of the living room, turning slowly on his heel, nodding.

  “Now, ladies, since you’ve been good enough to elect me parliamentarian of this event, this is what we have to do,” he announced. “Move all the furniture along that wall.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand. “We’ll put the radio in the corner and light some candles for the mantel. Wouldn’t you like that? Candles? Sarah? Rachel?”

  “Candles, yes,” replied Rachel. She stood beside Sarah in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “Candles it’ll be then,” Michael responded. “Miss Dora, you’ll be in charge of the candle-lightin’ ceremony. And we’ll need music. Sarah, you’ll find us somethin’ on the radio, and if the battery’s weak, you’ll be hummin’ for us all night. Rachel, lend me a hand with the furniture.”

  The room was prepared as Michael commanded, with laughing and playing, with Michael’s voice riding throughout the room like a ringmaster building suspense for a great show. The finger flames from the candles made amber pools, like hearts, on the scrubbed wood walls, and the rearranged furniture opened the room like a hallway. It was, Michael pronounced, the equal of any ballroom east of St. Louis, and he had been a guest in all of them. It was a room that was warm and inviting, he said. A room where you’d gladly tip the waiter a handsome sum for a table.

  But there was a storm and static and the only sound from the radio was a crackling like a fire. It was not a problem, Michael concluded. Not a problem as long as there were people with willing voices that could be tuned, as fine as a violin, to the proper song. “We’ll do it that way,” he determined. “All sing out like we was a London, England, choir, and since I’m the only gentleman present, I’ll take turns dancin’ with every lady on the premise.” Sarah first, he said. Sarah first because it was her birthday and it did not matter that she protested she had never before danced. “You’ll learn,” vowed Michael. “You’ll learn. It’s a matter of your feet listenin’ to what your heart tells them. And, besides, I’m the man and the man does the pushin’ and shovin’ when it comes to dancin’. You go where I push and shove and you’ll be dancin’.”

  The song, decided Michael after deliberation, would be “Jeannie.” That was it. “There’ll be no hagglin’ now. That’s a song an Irishman would’ve been proud of writin’. ‘Jeannie, with the Light Brown Hair.’ Listen to it. Sounds Irish, it does. May have been. Stephen Foster. Could have been Irish. Someday I’ll ask some of my music friends. Come on, now, everybody, on the count of three. One, two, three…”

  And they began. Softly, haltingly, until Michael stopped them.

  “Is that singin’?” he bellowed. “Why, I’ve heard many a chicken more excited over the layin’ of an egg. Now, sing it out. It’s a party, not a bloomin’ wake.”

  They began again and Michael’s strong baritone-tenor opened over the three women like an umbrella. And as he sang, he extended his hand to Sarah and pulled her into the middle of the room and began to dance with her in wide, strong steps. Sarah stumbled awkwardly after him, but she was not embarrassed; she was with him, holding him, and he was playing with her, tenderly, comically, and her whole body was happy.

  And then it was Rachel’s dance. A slow, polite dance, hands and arms touching but with distance between them—distance that Sarah watched with confused jealousy. Michael and Rachel sang “Beautiful Dreamer” as Sarah and Dora’s small voices struggled to follow them, and Rachel felt she was alone with him, holding him.

  The dance ended and Michael bowed theatrically and escorted Rachel back to her chair. Then he turned to Dora.

  “Miss Dora,” he said earnestly, “I have heard it mentioned in Yale that you are the dance queen of the Naheela Valley. There are men who have smiles frozen in their faces like a carvin’ in granite when the talk of a dance comes up and the name of Dora Rice is said. I have been told—in secret, of course—that even in cakewalks you used to put to shame every other lady in the hills. So, it’d be an honor if you’d permit this hobbled old man a short dance.”

  Dora’s eyes widened as she stared at him. Her mouth was opened in disbelief. She twisted in the armchair to look at Rachel.

  “It’s the truth, Miss Dora,” Michael continued. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Well, you’ve been listenin’ to some of them drunks in Pullen’s,” snorted Dora. “I don’t remember the last time I tried dancin’ and I ain’t about to try it now.”

  Sarah giggled behind her hands.

  “Miss Dora, you’re hurtin’ my feelin’s,” pleaded Michael.

  “Go on, Dora, dance,” Rachel urged. “You know he’s actin’ the fool, but what he don’t know is how you used to dance. I remember it.”

  “See,” Michael said. “See. I knew you did.”

  “She was as good as anybody,” added Rachel. “I remember when I was little and they used to have street dances in Yale. Dora would dance the night away.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Dora said simply.

  “Time? Time’s nothin’, Miss Dora,” argued Michael. “Look at me. It’s been a year or tw
o since I saw twenty, and I’m still a fool, like Rachel said. One of the worse things a person can do is quit bein’ a fool.”

  “Dora—”

  “No, Rachel,” Dora snapped. “I ain’t gonna dance.”

  Michael stepped away and surveyed the three women. He began to hum a lively Irish tune and his feet began tapping lightly across the floor. The hum grew into a trumpet sound blaring from his lips and his feet stamped harder, faster, like a pounding drumbeat.

  “What’s that?” Sarah called above the trumpet and feet.

  “Irish jig,” answered Michael, picking up the rhythm.

  “Don’t look like no jig to me,” Dora said. “Looks like cloggin’.”

  Michael did not stop. He bounced happily about the room, his shoulders and arms swinging free, his legs driving like pistons.

  “It’s a jig,” he shouted between music stops. “And it’s somethin’ you can’t do, Miss Dora. I’d bet a week’s worth of woodcuttin’ on it.”

  “Call it what you want, it ain’t nothin’ but cloggin’,” Dora shouted over the noise. “I know cloggin’ when I see it.”

  “Then, let’s see you do it,” roared Michael. He passed before her and grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. Then he backed away, facing her. His feet slowed to a soft, sweeping tap-shuffle, playing the floor like an instrument.

  “Come on, Miss Dora,” he teased. “Let’s see it.”

  “Go on, Dora,” Rachel urged.

  “Please, Aunt Dora. Please,” Sarah squealed, applauding.

  Michael lifted the pace. He was breathing hard and his face had reddened. He began a rhythmic finger-snapping to the tune that squeezed through his lips, and Rachel and Sarah picked it up. He moved closer to Dora, motioning to her with his arms.