Arc of the Comet

by Greg Fields

  “What on earth is there to be nervous about?”

  “There are things left unsaid, Glynnis, that we’ve both been avoiding.”

  “Say them then. Please.”

  “They’re things I’ve never said. And I’m not sure enough of myself even now to say them well. The Irish are supposed to be wonderful with our words. My blood notwithstanding, I’m afraid I’m not so graceful. Not now. I’m afraid that you might find me too forward, or too brash, or too presumptive.”

  “Conor, you’re the sweetest man I’ve ever known. Nothing about you could be base. I know what you’re moving toward, but I want you to say it.”

  “Okay.” Finnegan backed away slightly, freeing his left hand from the small of Glynnis’s back and grasping her own to hold it on her lap. “Glynnis, where will you sleep tonight?”

  “With you, of course.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Conor, nothing in this world could please me more than making love to you tonight.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. Glynnis stood and with both her hands pulled Conor to his feet. “All right then. I’m ready to see the rest of the house now.” She continued to hold his hand as they walked up the stairs.

  Glynnis undressed slowly in the dark, as did Conor. She came to him then, her flesh quivering. Conor saw the outline of her body against the dim light of the window. He smelled the deep rich lilac scent that surrounded her. Conor held her close, burrowing against Glynnis’s neck, drawing in her scent, simply holding her and feeling the wonder of her there before him, trembling and naked. He kissed her neck, then her cheek and eyelids. Glynnis clung to him tightly.

  “Conor,” she whispered, “I want you to know that I’m still a virgin.”

  Conor stepped back a bit and smiled down at her. She had spoken without her usual calm self-assurance. He was not surprised, neither by her admission nor by her tone. In a way that made him slightly ashamed, he relished her exposure, yet knew that he would be thoroughly solicitous of it.

  “So am I, Glyn.”

  “Please don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying,” said Conor, very softly. “There’s never been any reason until you.”

  She kissed him hard on the mouth, channeling every frustration, every moment of alienation and loneliness, every empty, listless day through her frame into the gentle, strong figure of Conor Finnegan. She saw him then as the final regulator of her current existence, an aurora quietly exploding along a darkened horizon. She pulled him to the bed and there, for the first time in their lives, they shared their tragic vulnerability.

  Lay your sleeping head, my love,

  Human on my faithless arm;

  Time and fever burns away

  Individual beauty from

  Thoughtful children, and the grave

  Proves the child ephemeral:

  But in my arms till break of day

  Let the living creature lie,

  Mortal, guilty, but to me

  The entirely beautiful.

  —W. H. Auden

  The next morning Jade crept into the bedroom and sat in the corner by then door, patiently waiting for some motion. After a while her patience wore thin and she began to yowl her throaty complaint. It was time to be fed.

  Glynnis woke first and rolled to her side, throwing an arm around Conor, sleeping on his back. He opened his eyes and saw Glynnis, her face framed by her tousled hair.

  “Hi.”

  Glynnis placed her head on Conor’s shoulder. “You know, I slept pretty well for a fallen woman.”

  “You’re not fallen, Glynnis. You’ve just blossomed. And so have I. I haven’t slept so soundly in months.”

  “Mr. Finnegan, you inspire me. I may yet become lusty.”

  “You’re off to a wonderful start.”

  They lay together in their wedded position, not speaking. Conor reveled in Glynnis’s naked touch, her flowery scent, the silken tangle of her long, thick hair. He let himself feel each part of his own body. He became conscious of the pressure of the bed against his back; he felt the sticky softness of the sheets where they had made love. From the open window the branches of a tree cast morning shadows on the far wall. A cat’s paw wafted through the curtains; Conor felt it blow over him and cool his body. He felt most of all the warmth of Glynnis—her head on his collarbone, her willowy arm lying across his chest, the firmness of her breasts at his side, her leg sprawled across his abdomen and resting against his delicate manhood. Glynnis moved her toes along Conor’s ankle.

  Conor had experienced the whole of his passion. Now he broke it down into its parts, analyzed and catalogued them for future memory. He thought it important to do so. Each piece must fit together, and he must know each piece, each sensation, each breath, each touch, each kiss, each rising and falling. A mosaicist, regarding the tesserae, in wonder at what they have joined to create.

  Jade destroyed it all by jumping onto the bed. Glynnis started, and sat up quickly, but seeing it was Jade she merely held out a hand. Jade came to it, mewing.

  “She startled me.”

  “She wants to be fed. And what Jade wants, Jade gets, or so I’ve been commanded.”

  Conor gave Glynnis a final kiss, then rolled out of bed. He became aware at once of his nakedness, intimately proper in the bed but now stark and bold. He reached for his robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door.

  “Stop, Conor. Let me look at you.” He turned around shyly. Conor sensed the irony that he should now be regarded for his body by an attractive young woman, just as he so often regarded the women he would see on the street, on campus or at the office.

  “You have a lovely body, Conor. Did anyone ever tell you that? You’re so strong and solid.” Glynnis paused, but Conor had no idea what to say. He stood awkwardly, one hand holding his robe, the other on his hip.

  “I just wanted to tell you that.”

  “Thank you, lass. I know I’ve told you how beautiful you are, but now’s not the time. Tonight. I’ll share my body with you, and all the thoughts it inspires.”

  Conor pulled on his robe and went downstairs. All romance was put aside, for it was now time to boil the cat’s chicken livers. The cat followed his every move expectantly. ’The servants,’ she thought, ’are getting lazy.’

  A few minutes later Glynnis came down the stairs in her own robe. She had brushed her hair and it fell now to her breasts. She smelled the boiling livers and made a face. “That’s disgusting. You have to do this every day?”

  “First thing. I’ll make some eggs and sausage once the odor clears. I’ve plugged in the coffee already.”

  Glynnis sat down at the round kitchen table while Conor pulled the pan of livers off the stove. Coffee perked on the counter.

  “So what shall we do today?”

  “There’s plenty left to see. I thought we might go over to Arlington, to the cemetary. If you can get over the fact that you’re surrounded by moldering corpses, it’s very pretty, and quite inspirational. Then maybe we could just walk through Georgetown and look in the shops at all the things we can’t afford. Or maybe we can just drive west and see the hills.”

  “That sounds terrific.” She hesitated. “Conor?”

  “Yes?”

  “I bled last night. The sheets are very bad.”

  He smiled. “A small price to pay, wasn’t it? I’ll buy new sheets.”

  “It may have soaked through to the mattress.”

  “I’ll see if I can clean whatever’s there. I’ve got an organic solution that works on anything protein-based.” Conor mashed the livers into Jade’s bowl and he put it by the door to the basement. The cat bound across the room and plunged her face into the dish.

  “It just seems so dirty, Conor. I’m sorry.”

  “Glyn, don’t worry about it.” Conor paused, then added lightly. “Do I detect a note of Catholicism coming out?”

  “Fr. Francis wouldn’t approve.”

  “Fr. Francis need never know. It�
�s none of his concern. What matters is whether you approve.”

  “You know I do, Conor.”

  “But in the morning, looking at the blood, it somehow seems a bit different that it did at the time, right?” Conor’s sat at the table and took one of Glynnis’s hands in his own. “Glynnis, what happened last night was the most beautiful expression I’ve ever made. It grew out of emotion, lass, not lust. And I don’t think God could ever condemn what the heart feels so purely. If so, then I want no part of Him. Fr. Francis might not understand that, but I believe it wholly. I was raised the same way you were, Glynnis, but what we did last night was the finest, richest thing, and we’ll both remember it until we die. Please don’t trouble yourself. Religion is just a series of formulas. What matters is ethics. What matters is the heart.”

  Glynnis leaned across the table and kissed Conor deeply, then again. “Thank you, Father Confessor.”

  “Any time. I could go on, but I told you I can take metaphysics only in small doses.”

  “I’ll prepare myself. Someday you can give me the Conorian view of life in detail, from top to bottom. But not today. Feed me, and let’s get going.”

  ***

  Summer had not been kind to Anne Newbury. The season had provided little of the carefree release from concerns, duties and pressures she typically enjoyed during her youth. Although it was still June, Anne had concluded that the pattern of these erstwhile vacation months now allowed for nothing in the way of relaxation. There was too much to do, and too much on her mind.

  It began with her swimming. The World University Games were scheduled for August in Belgrade. Anne estimated the times she would have to beat to earn a spot on the national squad, and, as soon as the competitive swimming season had ended in the spring, she mapped out a comprehensive training routine to bring her to Eastern Europe. But, as the ancients discovered, the weaknesses of the flesh can undermine the loftiest intentions. Anne had fallen behind her training schedule, skipping a day here, shortening a workout there. Her times were slower than what she had wanted them to be. She felt weak. Unless she could pick up her training pace considerably, her summer would be spent solely in the smothering boredom of New Jersey.

  Perhaps it was her frustration with her swimming that forced her into frequent conflict with her parents. Anne had never been of an independent mind. She had never had the slightest desire to go her own way. It was enough for her to remain safely protected under her parents’ scrutiny. She did not wish to be bothered with the mundane details of daily living: let her parents provide food and shelter. She in return had little difficulty honoring the scattered requests her parents put forth regarding her clothes, domestic contributions or social habits. They were generally of the same mind concerning these things anyway. Anne had embraced the ethical, religious and social systems of her mother and father. That was the natural course, in any event. Anne allowed herself little room for deviation, and so she had never permitted the opportunity for conflicting views to incubate. She had grown up comfortably nurtured in the beliefs of her parents, and that was her preference. The strife of an independent evolution held absolutely no appeal for her.

  So it disturbed her that, this summer, she had somehow managed to become involved in almost daily disagreements with her mother or father. Anne supposed that most of it was her doing, but that realization had little effect on their frequent jousts and barbs. Subject matter was varied, and, in the end, irrelevant. Virtually anything—any action, any inaction, any response, any movement—could set her off. In past weeks Anne had wrestled with her mother, her father, or both over such matters as whether Anne might want to cook dinner on a given night, whether the latest addition to her summer wardrobe was truly worth what she spent on it, which television show to watch after dinner, and how often the family car should be washed. More substantive issues, such as which medical schools to consider, would wait for later in the summer after these preliminary skirmishes subsided.

  And then there was Tom. Anne had never bothered to think through their relationship. That sort of thing would be a waste of time, for any introspective analysis was bound to be subjective, and therefore invalid. Rather, Anne felt that what she and Tom had together would proceed of its own accord. She did not believe in counterbalances, that the wishes of one would find an equilibrium with the wishes of the other, giving in some places, pushing back in others until a steady, acceptable level of behavior and sentiment would crystallize for both. Anne had her own standards, her own habits, her own preferences. If Tom could fit into those patterns, then he would be welcome. If not, then she would rather be without him. He would only disrupt those things what were genuinely important.

  Now, though, Anne had become uncertain as to where and whether Tom McIlweath belonged in the general scheme of her existence. She had grown fond of him for many reasons. She appreciated his quick wit and the broad range of his intelligence. Moreover, he was accommodating. He rarely disagreed with her, he was constantly solicitous of her opinions, and he willing to subjugate his own desires to hers. The times they shared had been quiet ones. Tom had provided companionship, support, amusement, reflection and human warmth, qualities that Anne had always enjoyed from other sources but which now came together nicely in Tom McIlweath’s sinewy frame. In short, Tom had all the requisite characteristics to have earned a berth in Anne’s affections.

  And yet she was not completely comfortable with him. She could not define her unease. Perhaps she saw it as a foreshadowing, or perhaps it grew from being unaccustomed in her role as Tom’s focus. That’s what she was, after all. That was apparent, especially to her. Or perhaps it was a realization that, as the princess who slept on the pea, something, somewhere, lay out of line.

  In the final analysis he was a very different sort of person from those to whom she had been accustomed throughout her sedate, sheltered life. He had fled family and friends to set himself up in the most distant part of the country. Anne could not understand his flight. It didn’t make sense to her, this self-exile, despite his impassioned efforts to explain it. He used such terms as ’lack of identity’ and ’suppressed ego’ and it all sounded so inflated, so self-pitying. There was something strange about it. She was not certain she could trust someone who had abandoned those points from which most reasonable people fix their perspectives.

  If Tom felt no loyalty to his past, what could Anne expect of his attitude toward his future? Tom had not yet set a firm course. With his final year of college looming a few weeks ahead, he had made no plans. Perhaps he would teach somewhere, maybe in a prep school, or he might go to graduate school in the Classics. Law school wasn’t totally out of the question, but even Tom acknowledged that it was getting a bit late in the game to be deciding on that. He had even mentioned the possibility of the Peace Corps. Tom’s lack of a solid career goal unnerved her. She preferred not to think about it.

  Nor did Anne like Tom’s friends. They were a crude lot, unversed in the areas Anne deemed important. Tom spoke fondly of all three of his roommates, especially Conor Finnegan, but Anne thought them all too loud, too base, too interested in fleeting physical pleasures. Finnegan and Lanny O’Hanlon even worked in politics, which Anne knew to be the lowest of the professions, fit only for the dregs who could not find more respectable paths. They dressed too casually. She had seen Dan Rosselli sitting around their apartment nearly naked. They spoke too casually, too. She did not like their easy, off-handed manner of getting along with one another. She could not understand them, and because of that, she could not understand why Tom would ever willingly spend time in their company. That he did merely underscored Anne’s uncertainty in Tom’s commitment to the higher things, like a good book, a good swim, or an evening spent walking in the park.

  And on top of Anne’s other cautions, subtlest of all lay her instinctive perception that within Tom McIlweath ran a stream of discontent so strong that, should he release it, it would sweep her away entirely along with all traces of his present character. Tom’s deme
anor hid it well, but something—a word, a series of words, perhaps a facial expression he thought she would not notice—had burrowed into Anne’s suspicious subconscious, and there it stayed. She could not shake it. There was in Tom a heavy reluctance about him, as if his current state—his friends, his pursuits, his very self—were in transit, or, more frightening, devoid of meaning altogether. She knew that Tom’s scope was broad and that he wanted to give it wide range. So, in the end, he might well be torn between aspiration and duty, for Tom too had immersed himself in ethical responsibilities, not the least of which he held toward Anne. If so, what must he do with the heat of opposing compulsions in frictional movement? Where might it lead him, and what, ultimately, did he seek? That Tom’s discontent was volatile Anne had no doubt, just as she had no doubt that Tom would be wasting his time in any pursuit of a broader fulfillment.

  One did what one had to do, that was all. The rewards of doing things well were obvious. One might look to enjoy some comfort, some companionship, a family and a sense of accomplishment. Anything beyond that was quixotic, Anne felt certain of that. And so what she perceived in Tom—his Romantic hope that he might find something more plausibly in step with his unnamed and unnamable longings—unnerved her most of all.

  Anne sorted through her reasons, and sensed a lack of control. ’This is not at all what I thought it would be.’

  Her summer had become, in all, a compendium of frustrations, all too definable and so all the more present. She was unaccustomed to dealing with patterns and reactions not of her own choosing, of having to face her own inadequacies. It made her irritable.

  Tom McIlweath saw Anne’s frustrations as they manifested in distance and reserve. He sensed, too, that somehow he probably had a hand in Anne’s moods, but he could not see precisely where. Anne had been very quiet with him of late—not that they had ever spoken in unusual depth, but now there rose great stone walls that muffled even the sounds they did utter, forcing them to speak quickly, in short bursts of words and thoughts small enough to fit through the fissures. Tom never pressed Anne. If her reserve was just a passing humor, he could wait. It was more than that, he would know in time. Meanwhile, he felt it best to present himself as one who respected whatever it was she was going through, one who would be at her disposal, reflective and nonjudgmental, if she would only say the word.