by Greg Fields
“Okay, I’ve found someone untried. You’ve heard what we Americans say about variety.”
Kieran flopped his head toward McIlweath and squinted at him with mock seriousness. “I don’t know, Kath. He looks a bit undernourished. No meat on him at all.”
“Lean and mean,” said McIlweath with more effort than it should have required. “I’m tight, see? No fat.” He patted his stomach with his free hand. His other arm he wrapped around Mulrooney’s shoulders as a sincere rush of friendship swept through him. He liked this tall Australian very much. He wanted to know him through and through. He clutched Mulrooney’s bony shoulder in a wave of affection, in respect for the distances he had come for reasons so personal, and of warm envy.
Mulrooney smiled at McIlweath’s reaction. “You seem a reasonable soul, Tom McIlweath. We shall spend some time together, and it shall be good time, time well spent. But tonight,” he disengaged himself, faced McIlweath and bowed deeply, on wobbly legs, “tonight I will leave you to your lass. Take good care of her for there is no one like her, even remotely like her, on this campus, in this cold city, and in this decaying country. Take care of her, I say,” he waved a finger with affected gravity, “and I shall bid you good evening now. You may not have noticed, but I’ve had quite a lot to drink.”
“Pining for the Outback, Kieran?” teased Kathy.
“After a fashion, my love. But that is not the reason I am now so drunk. I am now drunk simply because, like Mount Everest, it was there.” With that, Kieran Mulrooney kissed Kathy Keane on the cheek, then turned and kissed McIlweath similarly.
“Be careful going home, Kieran,” said a blushing McIlweath. “Do you want a ride?”
“He only lives two blocks away,” said Kathy. “He’ll be fine. Won’t you, sweet?”
“Very fine. Good evening once again,” and the thin figure stumbled up the stairs for his coat. Neither McIlweath nor Kathy noticed him come back down.
The crowd had thinned to a scattered few sitting, no longer standing, around the living room and four people near the liquor in the kitchen. “We’re left with the long ball hitters,” said Kathy. “This group won’t break up until 3:00 or 4:00.”
“I don’t know if I can handle that,” said McIlweath.
“Normally I’d hang with them, but I’m too drunk. Let’s have one last beer before we go.” McIlweath dutifully fetched two bottles from the kitchen. Kathy leaned against the doorframe, her sweater riding up above her belt, a languorous smile on her tilted head. She watched McIlweath’s every move. Her blue eyes reflected green in the dim light and a lock of rebellious curls fell across her cheek, a wisp of blonde spray against her ruddy skin. As he turned back toward her, bottles in hand, and saw her there, Heloise in the doorway, McIlweath thought that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Your beer, miss,” he barely whispered as he walked to where she leaned, the fairest of barriers.
“Thank you, M’lord. Let’s finish these quickly and get out of here.”
They threw off their beers in four or five swallows. By now the bitter, stinging flavor no longer affected McIlweath. He did not really like the taste of beer. He had been relieved when he realized that his drunkenness had carried him to the point where the beer was just a presence on his tongue and had no definable flavor. The beer went down now as easy as water.
What he and Kathy spoke of while they drank the final beer he did not know. He paid only enough attention to make replies that were not completely inappropriate or offensive. He tried to avoid non sequiturs. Glimpses of Kathy laughing and smiling told him that he must be fairly entertaining, or at least relevant, though he did not know exactly how he was doing it.
McIlweath knew that he faced the endgame. The moral demons that otherwise would be ripping apart the tender flesh of his conscience had been banished, for the moment. They would return, he knew, fiercely. But let them wait until tomorrow. Tonight, for one night of a forlornly frustrating life, he knew what he wanted to do.
Kathy shook her empty bottle in his direction. “We seem to have finished what we set out to do. I want to go.”
McIlweath took Kathy’s bottle and returned it to the counter with his own. He walked back to her, but before he could say a word Kathy locked her hands behind McIlweath’s neck and kissed him hard on his astonished lips. They tasted like orchids. He responded, and felt himself grow tumescent. After several seconds he drew back; she smiled up at him. McIlweath could feel the firm pressure of her breasts against his chest, so he did not move. Kathy ran her hands down McIlweath’s back and kissed him again. Her impish tongue played along the insides of McIlweath’s mouth and along the corners of his lips. They stood in close embrace for uncounted minutes, oblivious to the others near them and unconcerned about how their show might be regarded.
Kathy at last paused and whispered, “Take me home, Tom. I want to leave now.”
McIlweath’s mind was too disoriented for him to respond immediately. “Tom,” she repeated, “take me home now.”
“Oh . . . yeah. Of course, yeah. We should leave. Shall we pay our respects to the host?”
“You do it. I’ll go get our coats. Which one is yours?”
“Blue jacket with a yellow lining.” McIlweath sought out Joel, who was in a corner of the living room engaged in animated, drunken discussion with three other people, one of whom was a thin redhead whose hand had found its way to the inside of Joel’s thigh.
“Joel,” interrupted McIlweath, extending his hand. “I’m leaving. Thanks so much for asking me by.”
“You’re not leaving alone, I hope? That would defeat the purpose of a Joel Pleasance (’There it was, the last name. I’ll remember that.’) party.”
“No. Kathy asked me to drive her home. We’re leaving now.”
Joel whistled deeply, as did the other man in the group. The girls just smiled. “Some pretty impressive company, friend. Well done.” Joel shook McIlweath’s hand warmly. “Really, you didn’t meet everybody, and I think you should. You’ll have to come back.”
“I’d love to. Thanks, Joel. See you around?”
“Count on it. Be careful tonight, okay?”
“I’m well enough to drive.”
“That’s not what he meant,” piped the other man, and they all laughed. McIlweath clapped Joel on the shoulder.
“Good night. I’ll see you,” and McIlweath left to friendly farewells. Kathy was waiting for him in the entryway with her coat already on. She helped McIlweath pull on his.
“Respects paid?”
“And respect won. Let’s go.” They walked out into the cold and down the street to McIlweath’s car. The street was black and still.
“How did you get here? Do you have a car?”
Kathy hung onto McIlweath’s arm. He tried to lean against her as they walked but he was afraid of losing his balance altogether and bowling her over.
“I walked,” she said. “I only live a few blocks away. A lot of students live in this neighborhood. It’s cheap and it’s safe, at least as safe as Boston can be.”
They reached McIlweath’s car. He fit his key into the door on the passenger side after three futile attempts. When he entered on the driver’s side, Kathy slid next to him, then grabbed his collar with both hands and pulled his face to hers. They resumed their position there, in the cold, sprawled across frozen leather seats. The windows steamed. Kathy reached for McIlweath’s hand and guided it to her breasts where he plied the firm, sweet flesh while she ran her own hands the length of her companion’s rigid, excited body. She filled his nostrils, his mouth, his ears—all senses focused themselves upon the young figure around him. He licked her, he breathed her scent, he heard her yip in small gasps of pleasure.
After some time of groping and fondling, Kathy slowed her pace and straightened up in the seat. “This is so juvenile,” she panted, “and I haven’t done anything in a car in years. There’s a more comfortable place.” She leaned over and whispered in McIlweath’s ear
, her lusty breath running through the cavity and down his spine. “Take me home.”
He started the car and wiped the steam away enough to see. The street looked blurry. Kathy gave directions, and McIlweath drove slowly, concentrating on his drunkenness to make it ebb long enough so he could get them safely where they were going. He made several turns and had no idea where he was.
“It’s right here. Turn in at this driveway.” McIlweath navigated the car into the narrow lane between two dark houses. “The upper flat is mine.”
“You live alone?”
“Yes. The landlords live downstairs but I have a separate entrance. Step lightly.”
They walked as quietly as they could to the back of the old house on their right. Kathy unlocked the back door and led McIlweath up a stairway. Her flat was far more tastefully decorated than his own: bright colors, books neatly arranged, impressionist prints on the walls.
“Let me take your jacket.” She hung it up with her own in a large closet off the main room. Then, with her blue eyes flaming, she grabbed her young man’s wrist and led him to the bedroom. There she let him go and began to undress herself slowly, smiling teasingly at McIlweath’s intense stare.
“You finish,” she purred after pulling off her sweater and unbuttoning her blouse. McIlweath ran the blouse off her shoulders while Kathy kissed to tips of his nose and lips. With her own hands she unzipped the young man’s slacks. When McIlweath removed her bra he gazed with wonder at Kathy’s gentle breasts, the first he had ever truly seen. He ran his hands over them so lightly that he barely touched them at all. He fingered her nipples as if convincing himself of their reality. Within a few minutes, a long time given the simplicity of their task, they stood naked, their hands roaming into the nooks and crevices of each other’s youthful body. For Tom McIlweath, respect flooded him and mixed with naive awe. He floated outside himself; he viewed what was happening from across the room, across the city. He would remember it better that way, detached in mind while his body reveled in its senses. Across the room, across the city. Across the city. Anne . . . Anne.
They climbed into bed. McIlweath’s passion did not eliminate his inherent fears. The alcohol had strengthened him, but he believed it only fair, only right, to let his partner know the implications of what was at hand.
“Kathy,” he whispered, “I think it best to let you know that I’ve never done this before. I’m what you would call ’inexperienced.’”
“So I should be gentle with you?” she giggled. Then at once she grew serious. Her eyes widened and she looked up at McIlweath with genuine surprise. “Oh my God . . . you’re serious. You mean you’ve never made love to this girl you told me about? After all those years, you never once made love to her?”
“No. We’ve never slept together. I’m embarrassed to tell you that. I’ve never made love to her, or to anyone else.”
She stoked his hair. “Through her choice, I presume.”
“Through mutual consent.”
“Meaning you were always afraid to press it. Am I right?”
“Yeah. Yes, you’re right.”
“Oh Tom. You look so sad,” and she held him, asexually, as tightly as she could. “You poor sweet innocent,” she whispered. “You good, good man. Make love to me, Tom, as hard and as long and as richly as you like. As you can. Pour yourself into me. I can make you whole again. I can make you what you deserve to be.”
Tom McIlweath returned Kathy’s caresses. He ran himself over her breasts and neck, over her stomach and the musky, mysterious, uncharted territory between her thighs. Each part of his own body came alive with intense, spasmodic pleasure. He thrust himself into her, time and again, reaching into his core to create the power and the grandeur of the redemptive act, thrusting deeply into Kathy Keane, thrusting deeply into the sweet, warm, cleansing darkness there and in losing his innocence, regaining it, this time permanently, this time to be clutched with the fury of life itself and never relinquished, upon penalty of death. The womb received him after so many years ago releasing him into savagery and frustration. A joy, a wordlessly throaty ecstasy, crept through him as his muscles tightened in a final explosion, and with it he expelled his youth, his temerity, and the quick, fast bonds that wrapped his tender conscience.
Their bodies parted. Without speaking they smiled at each other and shared a last kiss. Tom McIlweath dropped off at once into a deep, dreamless slumber, unbroken until the smell of coffee prepared by his new lover brought him back to consciousness the next morning.
CHAPTER XIX
I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as
they sleep; even so
For the glass of the years is brittle wherein
we gaze upon for a span.
—Algernon Charles Swinburne, Hymn to Proserpine
The preceding day, several hundred miles to the south and well before Tom McIlweath’s cleansing had begun or even been considered, Conor Finnegan pulled his car into a parking space marked ’Visitor.’ He bounced out of his old machine and locked the door behind him. Despite the cool air that typified a Washington winter, although a temperate contrast to the wet, penetrating, slushy chill of his past four winters, Finnegan’s blood ran warm. Tiny droplets of perspiration popped out on his forehead just below his hairline. His heart pumped grandly.
He crossed the parking lot and entered the low white building. At the reception desk he asked to see Mr. Carrecker. The lady behind the desk, a brittle, unsmiling, prickly creature, picked up a phone and dialed a single number. After speaking a few words the Finnegan could not hear, she asked, “Your name, sir?”
“Conor Finnegan.”
“You have no appointment.” This was a statement and not a question.
“No, ma’am. I was hoping he might be free for a few minutes.”
“This is highly irregular.”
“I know, ma’am.” Finnegan tried to muster his most appealing and boyish demeanor. “My grandfather may be referred here in a matter of days. I’d like to speak to Mr. Carrecker before granddad comes. If he’s not free, I can come back, but I was nearby on other business and I thought I’d take a chance.”
The hedgehog relayed this to the voice on the other end, who paused and then squeaked something in response.
“Have a seat, Mr. Finnegan. It appears Mr. Carrecker will be right with you.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Conor sat in the empty lobby. He would have expected someone else to be here, some casual visitor or possibly a vendor, but he was alone. He had seen other nursing homes where patients sat in the lobby to look out the front windows or to chat with whomever happened by. Some kept private vigils for the visits of family or friends. But not here. There was no point in that here. The poor souls here were bereft of hope in any form.
Finnegan had returned for a final look. Griffith Ross’s admonition, that whatever he found here had to suggest some practical legislative step, had been difficult to swallow. Conditions in this facility had so outraged him that he felt obliged to the point of compulsion to do whatever he could to put Brandon Carrecker and the bandits who supported this enterprise out of business. He had been truly surprised when Ross had dismissed his initial report, and he could not believe that in the face of such abuses a United States senator could be so powerless. He attributed Ross’s reluctance to a conservatism that had become more apparent the better Finnegan had gotten to know him. Ross was, above all else, a pragmatist. Why risk alienating people, and powerful people at that, if there were no assurances of anything to be gained? Finnegan thought that, at the very least, his report might spur the senator to urge a complete investigation by the VA of facilities receiving their patients for long-term care. But if Ross needed a more practical angle, Finnegan would try to find one.
After more than a little thought, some of it fueled by glasses of wine, Finnegan came to the idea that the processes of certifying these facilities might be intensified. If, as Ross contended, these homes must meet certain standards, yet at fir
st glance those standards were not only broken but thoroughly shattered, then the certification processes must be too lax. It takes time for a healthcare facility to degenerate. Perhaps the VA could be legislated into more frequent inspections. In the meantime, until the practicality of that idea could be more fully evaluated, along with the sources for the budgeting the VA would need for increased inspections, Finnegan thought he might pass on a new, more detailed report of this hellhole to the VA’s enforcement office. They might then be compelled to look more closely before throwing additional funds—in the form of infirm, helpless old men—in this direction. Whether he succeeded in conjuring a practical legislative approach or if he would have to content himself with a vindictive strike carried out through existing channels, Finnegan concluded that another visit to this septic backwater was in order. He had to refresh his memory, and reinvigorate his outrage.
In a few minutes a young girl came out from the hallway and motioned to Finnegan. “Mr. Carrecker will see you now, sir. Come with me.”
Carrecker received him behind his wide desk. He shook Finnegan’s hand weakly, with neither warmth nor strength. Again, Carrecker struck Finnegan as having no blood.
Carrecker sat back in his chair with Finnegan seated opposite. The older man laced his fingers in front of his chin. “How may I help you, Mr. Finnegan?”
“Well, sir, as you recall when we spoke earlier, my grandfather was about to be referred here. The poor man had some health setbacks, though, so he had to stay in the hospital longer than we had planned. He’s due to be released again in a couple of days and he’ll most likely be coming here. I thought, with your permission of course, that I’d like to look around again. Granddad is awfully nervous about coming here. If I told him I just visited again it would do a lot to calm him down.”
“Hmmmmm,” responded Carrecker. His face knitted in feral thought and when at last he spoke, he spoke slowly. “What is the exact nature of your grandfather’s health problems, Mr. Finnegan? Why is he in the hospital and why will he be coming here?”