by Greg Fields
***
Finnegan returned through the heart of the city, although he did not have to. His body did not sit quietly; he shifted, he tapped his foot, changed his position. Every end of him pulsed and raced. His muscles had turned to jumpy impulses, losing their definition. Each part of him swirled into an excited, dimensionless eddy.
After several minutes of city traffic Finnegan broke through to the north end where he picked up the expressway. He drove back through the speckled darkness, his self-assurance confirmed as more than mere folly, his spirit smiling at yet another stroke of his limitless good fortune.
Later that night Tom McIlweath returned home after an evening with Anne Newbury. It had been calming for him, as it always was. They seldom ventured out. McIlweath had eaten dinner with the Newburys. They had played some ping pong in the basement and watched television. Near midnight McIlweath had run out to a doughnut store for cinnamon crullers. Shortly thereafter he said good night, leaving his favored one without so much as a parting kiss. He felt no incongruity in his growing regard for Anne. She ran through his veins; he paid no mind to the context.
As McIlweath parked his old car, he noticed that a light in the living room was still lit. He glanced at his watch: 12:58. No surprise that someone might yet be awake. As he got out of the car he turned his head up and down the street. Finnegan’s and Rosselli’s cars were parked nearby.
McIlweath ascended the narrow steps to find Conor Finnegan sitting by the window, an art book in his lap.
“Evening, Conor.”
“Welcome home, Romeo. An exciting time with Lady Anne?”
“Not exciting, but nice enough. I had dinner over there and we watched some television. I enjoyed the food. Are Lanny and Dan in?”
“Both asleep, if you can believe it. They went to a couple of frat parties but they were in by midnight. Not much meat on the hoof tonight, I guess.”
“What a shame.” McIlweath headed down the hallway to the bathroom. Finnegan waited for him to return, but upon emerging from the bathroom McIlweath went to the kitchen instead. Finnegan put down his unread book and walked after him. He found McIlweath sniffing through the refrigerator. “We’re not out of milk, are we?”
“Afraid so. We’ve got plenty of beer, though.”
“Of course.” McIlweath pulled out a pitcher of orange juice, reached over to the cupboard to grab a glass and filled it nearly to the lip. He sat down at the kitchen table.
“So how was your day? Did you get to Philadelphia?”
“Yeah.”
“How was the art museum?”
“Nice. Really nice.” Finnegan paused. McIlweath looked up at him, for the other’s voice held something hidden. When their eyes met, Finnegan broke into a smile. McIlweath smiled, too.
“Yeah? What happened? Was the art especially fine?”
Finnegan turned his head downward and released a burst of silent air. He looked back up at McIlweath. “I met a girl.”
“At the museum? You sly dog.”
“Yeah. We followed each other all through the Impressionists. She left her notebook by Georges Braque. I picked it up and brought it back to her on her way out. We spent the rest of the day together.”
McIlweath’s smile broadened. He wanted to hear the entire story. Such boldness, the meeting of a girl by chance and thrusting into her life, he could never have conceived for himself. “What’s she like?”
“Mac, she’s beautiful. That’s why I noticed her at first, but it’s more than just beauty, really. She carries herself with, I don’t know, grace, for God’s sake. She’s quiet. She dresses well, at least today she did. She’s poised. Confident. Independent. There’s an elegance about her. I guess all that adds up to ’grace,’ for want of a better word.”
“What does she look like? You said she’s beautiful. Give me details.”
“Long brown hair, slight figure and brown eyes. God! Big, soft, brown eyes as deep as the Marianas Trench. She’s got a special air about her, Mac. I can’t describe it really, but it’s attractive as hell. Oh yeah, she smells like lilacs.”
“Sounds like you got pretty close to her.”
“Not as close as I’d like to.”
“What did you do all day long?”
“From the museum we walked up the parkway and got some lunch. She showed me the Rodin Museum there. We sat by the river, then I drove her back to her campus. She goes to college on the west side. Then I came home. I was home by eight and I haven’t been able to calm myself since. I’m glad you’re back.”
“Hey, what are friends for? So keep talking. You haven’t told me her name.”
“Glynnis Mear. She’s from Boston and she went away to school because she wanted to get away from her family for a while, or so she said. Her father died, and I guess that distorted her family situation for her. An art major with no career plans at this point.”
“Perhaps nothing more than snagging an aspiring attorney.”
“Not so fast, pal. I’ve only just met her. Besides, there’s no room for that.”
“Don’t try to kid me, Conor. I know you better than anybody else, and I can sense the start of something. You’ve been snared.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely. You’re struck with this girl. You’re excited by her, or else you’d be trying to sleep through Lanny’s snoring. She’s under your skin now, for whatever reason. I can tell. You can’t go to sleep yet because you don’t want the day to end. You had to describe her to someone. You’ve been home for five hours now and I’ll bet she hasn’t left your mind once.”
“How do you know all this, Swami?”
“You’re subtle, Conor, but you’re obvious, too. For one thing, it’s in your voice. You’re talking quicker than you normally do. That’s a sure sign. Plus you’ve got this moony look in your eyes like some fairy godmother just floated down and whacked you with her wand. You’re intrigued by the possibilities. You don’t know where this might go, but it’s bound to be exciting whichever way. It shows, Conor. At least to me. When will you see her again?”
“I’m going to call her.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Next week. But I think you’re reading a lot more into this, Mac. We’re not all dreamy Romantics like you.”
“You’re right, Conor. There aren’t many Romantics roaming about. But you’re one of them, friend. More so than me, even though you try to hide it.”
“Then you of all people should have some empathy.”
“Indeed I do. In fact, I welcome the company. I’m smitten, myself, as you might have noticed.”
Finnegan smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder as he walked past him. He returned to the living room to stand at the window. Behind him he could hear McIlweath walk softly into the bedroom he shared with the slumbering Dan Rosselli. Finnegan could make out the swishing sounds of McIlweath undressing.
What is the indefinable attraction that makes a man favor one woman above the next? What do we read in a first glance, in a few meaningless words? What sympathies cultivate our passion, and where do we know them? How do we know them? I have known a thousand women in a million poses, but why am I drawn to you, walking slowly through a somber museum in a springtime city? Do I perceive something there beneath you, perhaps nameless even to yourself, that shapes you as you are, that sets the parameters of your very being and, unwittingly, unknowingly, echoes my own? And if so, how do I know this? What do I sense? What greater threat is there to a logical man than to react solely on instinct? But what choice do I have, for logic demands that this is whimsy, nothing more, and perhaps a good deal less, perhaps nothing beyond the most basic and primitive urgings.
If that is so, let it remain hidden. Logic has its place. But not here. For now, I will abandon myself to whimsy, and place my trust in instinct.
But still I cannot define it. I cannot know why you draw me so, why, hours later, I see nothing but your gentle form. Where is the mingling of thought and fancy that bring
s about my attraction to you? Where does it lie, how did it arise, and, God help me, how do I control it?
How do I control it?. For you, of all women I have ever known, you frighten me. You can devour me. Something unspoken is there that tells me you can chew me into bits. Still, I have no choice. I will abandon myself to whimsy, and place my trust in instinct.
Finnegan turned away from the window and went to his bedroom. Lanny O’Hanlon, pragmatist, lay in the far bed, his back to the wall, breathing the stertorous rhythm of a peaceful sleep. O’Hanlon resided in lands forever closed to Finnegan. He envied him a bit.
Finnegan undressed and crawled into his own bed. He had spent himself, and sleep crashed over him in a wave. He had put his musings aside. Finnegan that night slept in the dreamless sleep of a sea captain whose course may not be clear, but whose ship had been solidly built.
***
A few days later, after returning from a morning class, Finnegan found a note on the kitchen table:
Conor me boy,
You received a phone call this morning, around 10:00, from a gentleman named Greeley Welsh. Claims he works for the senator and that he’s currently in Washington. Friendly fellow, he was, although we did not have time to chat. He would like you to give him a call sometime today—202-356-2200. He’ll be in until 4:00.
I have a late lab. Try to fix something at least remotely edible for dinner. I’m thawing out a pound of hamburger. Be creative.
Danny Boy
Greeley Welsh. What the hell was this about? Why would Greeley want to speak with him? Some problem with his summer position? But that’s been confirmed for months, ever since last summer. Maybe he’s just in Washington for a while and wants to waste some time on the phone.
Finnegan dialed the number, waded through the receptionist on the other end, and, after a short wait, heard Greeley’s voice break through the line. “Conor, how are you? Thanks for calling back so soon.”
“Greeley, Jesus, I didn’t expect to be hearing from you. What are you doing in Washington? The senator forget his tennis racket on his last trip west, or what?”
“Some hearings he wants to put together on Latino problems. He needed my expert counsel. I think he’s getting tired of abusing the same old faces. He wants new blood. A new cushion for his pins.”
“Been giving you a hard time?”
“No harder than he gives everyone else. But he can be a real bastard sometimes. Thank God I’m only going to be here another couple of days.”
“Are you calling for a sympathetic ear, or is there another reason?”
“You know I don’t waste time on the phone, pal. I’m flying back to L.A. out of New York in two days, an evening flight. I thought we could get together for dinner in the city before I go. I’ll buy.”
“What’s that, Thursday? No problem on my end. I think you still owe me a dinner or two from last summer.”
“Several cocktails at least. All right, then. There’s a restaurant I know on Lexington between 40th and 41st.” He gave the name. “What do you say we meet there about 5:30? That’ll beat any dinner crowd they might have. My flight’s not until 10:00.”
“Sounds great. You sure you’ll last through Thursday?”
“I never realize how good I’ve got it in L.A. until I come back here. He only comes west six or seven times a year. I get too accustomed to running my own show. I don’t know how to take orders anymore. And I’ve never been good at being deferential.”
“An independent and free spirit like yourself made to heel? The thought brings shudders.”
“Too true, my son. Got to go. See you Thursday night.”
The prospect of dinner in New York with Greeley Welsh almost superseded Finnegan’s thoughts of Glynnis Mear. He would wait until after this dinner to call her. For now, he continued to wonder if Greeley had some hidden agenda. Most likely. New York was too far out of the way for a casual dinner, and planes fly from Washington to L.A. all the time. But then, Finnegan reasoned, who am I? He knows lots of people. Maybe he’s coming on other business and wanted to have dinner simply because his evening is free.
We grow accustomed to seeing the people we know in given contexts. We come to identify individuals in certain roles, in certain positions. When given contexts are breached, we feel an excitement, as if encountering a stranger for the first time. Children often thrill to see a teacher in a supermarket or a laundromat; husbands are often fascinated by their wives at their workplaces, and conversely; the public as a whole stumbles all over itself when it encounters a celebrity walking down the street. For this reason Finnegan grew increasingly enthralled by the prospect of seeing Greeley Welsh in New York. Newer, subtler facets of a personality he thought he knew would become evident, and he would see Greeley as something fresh, and out of place.
Finnegan drove into the city in late afternoon and parked his car at the Port Authority Terminal. He wore a jacket and tie under a thin overcoat that he needed against the chill: April evenings could still be cold. Finnegan had time enough to walk the several blocks across Manhattan to the restaurant.
He enjoyed this immensely. After his first encounter with the city more than two years ago, he had come to love New York. The massing, pulsing sidewalks that had once intimidated him now filled him with what he felt to be an unfolding understanding of the various forms of the human character. He did not shrink from the squalor of certain side streets; he felt no fears in the tawdry areas around Times Square.
“I feel safer in New York than anywhere else,” he had once told a disbelieving friend back home. “It’s as if the underside calls a truce on everyone else because they realize they can’t get away with anything. Everyone expects the worst out of the city, so everyone’s on guard. The junkies and the thugs and the hookers stay to themselves. They don’t bother me, and I don’t expect them to.”
Finnegan continued to be fascinated by the ubiquitous juxtaposition of wealth and poverty. Lexington, Madison and the pompously named Avenue of the Americas housed some of the world’s most powerful corporations, yet only a few blocks away infants died of curable diseases and young men beaten into ennui by despair stuck needles into their arms to draw out the sap. It was a condition as old as the city itself, one that had outlived the musings of perplexed minds from Walt Whitman to Jacob Riis to Thomas Wolfe. Finnegan could not hope to solve it, nor even to understand it. Nonetheless it stained his perception of the city indelibly, and left an awful, pasty flavor to his trips there.
Those who did have the wherewithal to live well there lived extremely well. Finnegan appreciated the fine tailoring of the men—not just their clothes, but their bodies, too: styled, clipped, tan, lean, each piece fitted perfectly. And the women, of course. Finnegan had never seen more beautiful women than those in New York. They inspired his fantasies, but then, in an innocent way, so did the men. Everyone on these streets looked driven; they all had someplace to go. Finnegan wondered at their secrets, at the unique stories behind each confident, compulsive face.
Finnegan entered the restaurant a few minutes after 5:00. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. He noticed a theater motif. On the walls hung posters from old Broadway shows, classics as well as bombs, chosen to hang there not because of their success but because of their esthetics. A long brass railing marked off one set of tables on a raised platform to the side. The restaurant itself was long and narrow, a great rectangle, with the bar immediately by the entrance and the dining area beyond. Where no posters hung in their frames, there were mirrors. The lighting came from pockmarks in the ceiling, bright and, when reflected off the mirrors and glass below, very glittery. To the right of the dining area stood a piano, not an elegant grand, but a simple block piano as might be found in any number of living rooms. The servers, men and women both, all dressed in pin-striped shirts and black vests. They spoke animatedly with their customers, smiled, gestured and, when finally walking away, fairly bouncing on their toes. Aspiring actors and actresses, thought Finnegan to himself.
He speculated that this place had been opened by one who, drawn to the glamor and the glitter of the theater, had failed in his attempt to crack it. In his disappointingly common need to procure a living, he had bought this restaurant with his last cash. Here he could take part vicariously in what he had left behind; he could keep it alive for himself. He would hire only young people like he had been, those with gleams in their eyes and dreams in their heads. If one of his people eventually made it, that would be him there on stage, too. The city is made of dreams, Finnegan thought. He took a seat at the bar.
Greeley Welsh entered right at 5:30 and spotted Finnegan at the bar immediately. Welsh rushed to him with a broad smile. “Conor, Jesus, you look great,” he fairly shouted as they shook hands.
“So do you, Greeley. You’re tanner than I am.”
“A California advantage. Been here long?”
“Long enough for my first drink. What’re you having?”
“Scotch on the rocks with a twist.”
Finnegan ordered two of the same. The bartender had not bothered to check identification, although Finnegan still looked very young. At times Finnegan did not like his boyish face, particularly in situations such as this, but the bartender had not pressed him.
“Let’s get a table,” said Welsh. “It’s been a long day. I rode up on the Acela. Just got in.”
“No bags?”
“I sent them ahead to the airport.”
They were seated at a table on the raised platform, the only ones in that area. The rest of the restaurant was largely vacant, although the bar had started to fill. They reviewed the menus, speaking all the while of the senator and Welsh’s work in Washington.
“You don’t get back here very much, Greeley. Are these hearings really that important?”
“Depends on who you talk to. A poll in the San Francisco Chronicle last month had the senator’s performance rating lowest among Hispanics. Something like only 47% thought he was doing a good job. He got hold of that and panicked, hence the hearings. And he wants a big production, lots of heartrending testimony from mothers barely able to feed their babies. He figures that because I work most closely with our Hispanic brethren that I’d be best to coordinate this little circus.”