by Greg Fields
She had long brown hair, acres of it, flowing down her shoulders to the small of her back. It hung in gentle waves, curling slightly at the ends. Finnegan noticed, too, her eyes—large, brown, somewhat almond-shaped. They tapered at each end to high cheekbones that softly punctuated her face. Her body seemed delicate, although Finnegan noticed well the rise of her breasts beneath the tight black top. She walked in long, slow strides conveying composure, confidence, elegance itself. As she passed, Finnegan breathed her scent and recognized the deep, richly pungent aroma of lilacs.
He watched her move down the hall, trying to read her direction. After a few seconds he followed the same way, again furtively, hoping he was not obvious. She enchanted him. Finnegan felt confused, not knowing how he might go about speaking to her, or even if he wanted to. But she was distinct. He wanted to see more of her, to study her as he would a fine painting. Her color and line seemed to him to be superb.
Finnegan continued behind her through most of the second floor. He put Degas out of his mind; he could always return to him if she left. For the time being, he was most intent on observing this new work of art. She moved about in slow steps, pausing here and there to study a painting or a small sculpture. She carried a notebook, opening it occasionally to jot some reaction. Finnegan at first tried to do the same, if for no other reason than to maintain his guise of serious study, but his concentration soon wandered even from this simple ruse. Her mere presence made him feel awkward.
At one point, near a group of works by Georges Braque, the girl sat on a long rectangular stone bench. She placed her purse and notebook beside her, crossed her legs and tucked her chin between her left thumb and forefinger, clenched into a gentle fist. She looked straight ahead, casually glancing from time to time at the Braques.
When she rose after a few minutes, Finnegan, only a short distance away in the same chamber, saw her notebook on the stone bench. She had left it behind, and now she was walking down the steps to the first floor, possibly on her way out—of the museum, and of Finnegan’s romantic musings. He hesitated, then gathered himself, walked quickly to the bench and picked up her notebook. For a blind second the thought of looking inside it crossed his mind. He held it in one hand and regarded it. The name of one of Philadelphia’s better colleges was emblazoned on its front, but her name was not. No, he thought, he dared not open it. That would be an unfair advantage. He hustled down the steps to find her.
Sweet Lorelei, singing on the Rocks of Time.
She was near the foot of the steps, walking her long, slow strides toward the entrance doors. Finnegan caught up with her.
“Excuse me,” and she turned. Finnegan extended the notebook in his hand. “You left this behind upstairs.”
She smiled and took it from him. Her voice came out sweet and musical, with a hint of mischief, as she responded, “I was wondering how long it would take you. You’ve been following me for several galleries, haven’t you?”
Finnegan felt himself blush. “Caught me.” He smiled, then leapt forward, “You’re not easy to ignore.”
“Nor are you. You’re very handsome.”
“And you’re quite amazing.” Smiling now, “Not to mention straightforward.”
“I see no need to be coy. You don’t come here much, do you?”
“No. How can you tell?”
“I haven’t seen you here before. I would have noticed. I can recognize most of the regulars. Art students, mostly. A pretty dull lot. You stood out. You’re not an art student. What brings you here?”
“Degas. A term paper for a course I’m taking. I wanted to look at some of Degas’s things.”
“And you looked at me instead. I’m glad you did.” She had a lovely smile, subtle, not broad. “Where are you from, stranger?”
“I go to Rutgers. It was such a gorgeous morning that I decided to come down here for a look at the museum. What about you? You go to school in the city.”
“I do. I’m one of those dull art students. I come here a lot.”
“Even on gorgeous Saturdays.”
“Especially. What’s your name, my new friend?”
“Conor. Conor Finnegan.”
“Ah, an Irishman with two last names. I’m impressed. You look Irish, you know. Your face is friendly. You look as if you should be wearing a great wool sweater, sitting in some pub with your friends, laughing and drinking ale. What do you think?”
“I think you’re incredibly perceptive. And I think I’d like to find a pub, or at least a café. It’s nearly noon. Can I buy you lunch?”
“That would be lovely, Conor.”
“You haven’t told me your name.”
“Glynnis Mear. My father was Irish, too, but my mother was Italian. I suppose I’m something of a hybrid, not as pure as you.”
“Even so, that’s a name that rings of heather on the moors. Where shall we go? You know the city much better than I do.”
“There’s a cheap restaurant down the Parkway. We can walk. On the way back I’ll show you the Rodin Museum. That is, if you’ve seen enough Degas.”
“I’ve seen all I need to see.”
They left the museum and walked down the steps to the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. There was little traffic, although the park itself had begun to fill. Runners, mothers with children, people strolling through. Even with minimal traffic, the noxious odor of the city’s exhaust hung in the air.
On the walk they probed and bantered. It was necessary groundwork, this production of raw data. From there they would go on to more interesting matters.
“What brought you to Rutgers? Are you from New Jersey?” They had reached the restaurant. It lay on a short side street that ran into the Parkway near the beginning of Fairmount. “Not at all. I was born and raised in California, near Los Angeles.”
“And you came clear across country just to go to school. My Lord, you are an Irishman. Restless and Romantic, no doubt.”
“No doubt. It was a challenge. I think I might have been a touch simplistic about it.”
“How so?”
“I had done extremely well all my life, academically, athletically and personally. I wanted to see if I could do as well somewhere else, where I was less protected. To conquer new worlds, so to speak. But I don’t think I can look at college, or adulthood, or life itself, as some type of contest. It’s a process, that’s all. Everybody has his own victories. Some are just more obvious than others.”
“We all have our defeats, too.”
“Exactly. The struggle isn’t to see if we can do better than everyone else. The struggle is just to see if we can get things right for ourselves.”
They were seated and given menus, which neither read. The restaurant was small and dark, not at all crowded. The walls were of thick oak, as were the tables. The servers wore bright red vests.
“I guess Irishmen like to throw philosophy about, too,” continued Finnegan with a smile. “The world thinks the Irish are such wonderful storytellers. But we’re all so full of crap that it comes naturally. The stories, the philosophy, and all the lies we ever tell.”
Glynnis chuckled, a small gurgle riding her smile. Her brown eyes shone in the dim light.
“And you, Miss Mear. Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
“You don’t sound it. There’s no New England accent there.”
“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”
“Just an observation. Why did you come to Philadelphia when there are so many great schools in Boston?”
“I’m part Irish, too, remember?”
“Restless and Romantic.”
“Partly. I wanted to get out on my own. I grew tired of my family.”
“A big clan?”
“Big enough. Two brothers and a sister. But the tipping point came when it got smaller. My father died a year ago. I had to get away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. His death changed the whole complexion of things. He did everything for all of us,
even my mother. He was so devoted. After he died, I just didn’t want to face them, or face the new thing we had become. I thought it best I get away so I could start to appreciate them again.”
“And have you?”
Glynnis shook her head. “No. Not really. My life is here now. I don’t even go home during the summers. I stay on campus and work in the library.” A red-breasted server returned with their food. They had each ordered a simple lunch. “Do you get back to California much?”
“Christmas. And the summers, too, but I really go back there to work. If I didn’t have my job there I’m not sure I’d go back at all.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a legislative researcher for California’s junior U.S. senator.”
“Very impressive,” said Glynnis with a slight bow of her head.
“Speechwriting and answering angry phone calls. But there’s some element of glamor in it, I must confess. I have an office on the fourteenth floor of the Federal Building, and I know a United States senator. There’s something to be said for that.”
“That should help you down the road.”
“If the boss cooperates. A recommendation from him might open doors, to law school or whatever else.”
“Will you be going back this summer?”
“Next month, after finals. Sometime around May fifteenth.”
“I really hate the summers here. It’s so hot and sticky. No one’s around, and there’s not much to do.”
“Then why do you stay here?”
“There’s really no comfortable alternative, Conor. That may sound harsh, but there’s nothing else I care to do. I couldn’t stand the thought of being home for three months. But tell me about California.”
Conor did. And he told her about his family, and about Rutgers, and about his apartment there, with his three friends. For most of the meal Finnegan wove the tales of his past and his present. Glynnis listened deeply, drinking in his stories and looking at her new friend with her constant wry smile. He amused her with his diversity. There was no need for her to say much, and she preferred that. At the end of lunch Finnegan paid the bill and, allowing the red-breasted server to share in his billowing mood, left a liberal tip. They walked back into the sunlight.
On the way back up the Parkway, Glynnis took Conor to the Rodin Museum as promised. Glynnis loved Rodin, the strength and taciturn power of his great sculptures. Conor feigned interest at first, but found that, under Glynnis’s enthusiastic descriptions and genuine understanding of the artist, Rodin took on an authentic vibrancy he had not seen before. He hung on Glynnis’s words and studied the sculptures now coming alive through his new curiosity. Glynnis’s excitement was almost childlike and Conor felt flattered that she should show this to him. She, in turn, felt completely comfortable; it was right that she should share Rodin with him.
They walked through the park for much of the afternoon. At one point they sat on the banks of the Schuylkill to watch the rowers. “They’re always there,” said Glynnis. “At every time of day. I like them. They’re so strong and yet they’re so graceful. When they row there’s an element of anguish in them that I find intriguing.”
“An Irishman loves the sea,” said Conor. Glynnis turned her head to him, away from the river, and smiled.
“Do you love the sea?”
“I do. I miss it here. I miss the Pacific. The Atlantic’s different, not the same. The Pacific is beautiful, especially when the sun goes down.”
“And I bet you’d like to sail after it sometimes.”
“Just to see where I’d be.”
“Restless and Romantic, my Irish friend.”
“The stuff of poetry.”
“So why the law? Why do you want to go to law school and not the Merchant Marine Academy? Follow your Romantic leanings.”
“I am, in a way. I don’t want to live my life solely for my own benefit. I’d like to think that my life might have value for other people, for those who might gain something they need from what I do. That’s the ultimate virtue, I think. We have the capacity to do that. The law is a means. Government work, too, if I can stomach it. I think you can do great things through existing channels, if you’re committed enough. And if the channels don’t work, then you have the capacity, maybe even the obligation, to try to change them. The system works through the law. If you can master the law, then you can master the system. And if you master the system, or at least your own part of it, then you can bring it to work for the right things. You can address injustices, and create your own peace. Does that make sense?”
“You’ve thought this through. Are you sure you’re not just rationalizing? It would be easy to lose those ideals once you start to draw a comfortable paycheck, which lawyers often do.”
“I think my ideals will remain intact. I really can’t justify sticking my head in the sand if I see something that bothers me and I can do something about it. I’m just not put together that way. But I’m probably putting myself in line for a lot of grief, though.”
“Only if you’re strong enough. It’s the strong who get broken. The weak just flow along with the currents.”
“Do you think I’m strong?”
“I think you’ve got heartbreak written all over you. Not past, but future. Yes, I think you’re strong. You’re bound to get hurt terribly somewhere along the way.”
Finnegan turned back toward the river. “What makes you so certain?”
“You’re young, and you’re trusting, and you’ve got a conscience. Burdensome traits, those are. The primary ingredients for pain.”
“I’ve been pretty successful at avoiding it so far.”
“All the more reason. Your luck will run out.”
Finnegan turned back to her. “That’s fairly pessimistic.”
“That’s part of being Irish, too, O’Finnegan. I remember reading what someone said after President Kennedy was assassinated—’I don’t think there’s any point to being Irish if you don’t believe that the world is going to break your heart eventually.’ That seems right to me. We’re an ill-fated people, a sad people, even on these shores. There’s heartbreak in our blood. You show it clearly.”
“I hope I can prove you wrong.”
“You won’t. But in the end it might be good for you.”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
“There’s no choice. It’s getting late, Conor. The sun’s going down.”
“It’s quarter past five.”
“I should be going back to campus.”
“Do you have plans for tonight?”
“No. But I should get back.”
“Can I give you a ride?”
“That would be fine, Conor. Thank you.”
They walked to Finnegan’s car a short distance down the park road. Finnegan was reluctant to see the day come to a close. He had not considered going back to New Brunswick, and now the thought weighed him down.
Finnegan turned the car onto Schuylkill Expressway following Glynnis’s directions. She spoke little except to tell him how to get to the city’s west end. She, too, seemed subdued. At length Finnegan drove through the campus gates. The sun now was very low, and the entire campus sat in shadow. She directed him down a side road to her dormitory.
“Glynnis, I’d love to be able to ask you to dinner but I can’t afford it.”
“A poor struggling student. I wouldn’t go with you anyway. I want to eat on campus tonight. I want tonight to be as quiet as possible.”
“Let me walk you to your door.”
“Oh my, you are a gentleman. I suspected as much.”
They walked from the drive up a stone path to the entryway. The dorm was silent. No one entered or left.
“Thank you for returning my notebook, Conor,” she said softly. “And thank you for a lovely day.”
“Can I call you? I’d love to see you again. You have all the makings of an obsession.”
“You don’t mind driving to Philadelphia?”
�
��On the contrary, any escape from New Brunswick is always welcome, especially for such a beautiful reason.”
She wrote down a phone number on a page of her notebook, ripped it out and gave it to him.
“Thank you, Glynnis. For the whole day. And I will call you. Very soon, I expect.”
“Please do.”
Conor took both her hands in his. It was his first touch of her, and years later he would recall the warmth that brewed up behind it, the soft strength of her long fingers. He leaned forward, careful to be neither too bold nor too rough. The lilacs drew him in, a web that snared his very marrow. There was no escaping this. He had withheld himself all day, but now he would unfold the merest glimpse of his passion. Conor did not seek her lips. Instead he bent his mouth gently to the crook of Glynnis’s neck, just below her ear. He kissed her there, at the nexus, barely pursing his lips. Conor drank her down, and with a second motion closed his eyes and nuzzled himself into her rich, warm flesh. If he could, he might have crawled through her skin into the exotic fibers that lay beneath. For an instant, Conor released himself totally, alone, fulfilled, immediately and ultimately redeemed.
In a brief second Conor withdrew from Glynnis’s neck as gently as he had moved to it. She smiled up at him, neither shyly nor brazenly, but with a glow of comfort. “Have a safe drive back.”
“I will. Take care of yourself, Glynnis.”
“I always do. Call me.”
“Soon. Good night.”
Glynnis turned back to her dormitory with a quick spin. Conor walked down the pathway. At the foot, near the entrance to the parking lot, he looked around him. Finnegan had never been on this campus before. Of course there had never been a reason. Behind him, on the far side of the dormitory, a wide green mall sloped down to a group of stone buildings. The road emptying from the lot ran to Finnegan’s left and disappeared in a grove of shade trees. The morning’s freshness had not faded with the day. Finnegan paused briefly to look around at the scene, to etch it into his personal archives. He could not help it as he broke into a bouncing, loping run to his car.