by Greg Fields
“Conor, you know I am. I would never deceive you like that.”
“Perhaps you’d deceive me in other ways. Glynnis, you live alone. Every night you go back to an empty apartment and climb into an empty bed. Even if you’re tired that should give you enough opportunity to clear your head. You needn’t rob time from us.”
“I’m sorry, Conor. I know I can’t expect you to understand.” Finnegan remained sullen and mostly silent during the rest of the drive. Glynnis, who had seen Conor in this humor only rarely but often enough to know its intimidating dimensions, did not want to venture further into a remote territory laden with hidden traps. She remained quiet, too.
How, really, could she expect Conor Finnegan to comprehend her mysterious moods? Glynnis knew her excuse sounded weak, but it was all she could think of. Lying was painful for her, and there was, after all, an element of truth in what she said. She did want a day to herself, to do various small things she had put off, to be for a while unhurried. But there was more to it than that, of course, and it was her real reason that she wanted to keep obscured, not that she would have been able to articulate it clearly in any sense.
In the shadow of Conor Finnegan, Glynnis felt herself to be manipulated. Her weekends with Conor had become a microcosm of the intellectual and emotional realms of their relationship. Glynnis came to him, placed herself in his security, and Conor filled their time as best he knew. In every way during their time together Glynnis became absorbed into Conor’s world. She became part of his frame of reference. And worst of all, Conor expected it to be this way with an unspoken, assumed surety that sat poorly in Glynnis’s heart. Glynnis, who had long been reluctant to cede the governance of her life to someone else, saw it happen piecemeal each time she came to Conor Finnegan. She had remained in Philadelphia despite Conor’s pleas to come live with him in Washington. Now she feared her weekends with Conor were more subtle forays against her cherished independence. Conor had lost through a frontal assault; now he was trying to capture her through guerilla tactics that, with his style, his innocence, his intelligence and passion, he made so seductive. Yet the temper of her blood rose each time she perceived herself sacrificing another shred of her true self to Conor Finnegan. She loved him deeply, but she was not ready to anchor herself in his harbor.
Finnegan that night had planned to fix an elaborate dinner, complete with wine and after-dinner Grand Marnier. Without having to watch for the comings and goings of Dan Rosselli, they might then let youthful passion run its free course. But Glynnis’s peculiar desire to go home early had cast a pall over Conor’s romantic mood. He would have resented losing time with Glynnis had there been a good reason, but her rationale now was beyond him. Finnegan had always tended to get upset when things did not go according to his plans. When those plans centered on Glynnis, his reaction was more severe. He could not take the higher pathway of intensifying the joys of the time with Glynnis that circumstances had allotted. Instead, he fumed over what would be lost, and so the entire weekend, not just the half he would have to spend alone, became tainted.
And to deepen it all, Glynnis had rarely looked so beautiful as she did that evening. Her gentle face had caught the cold sufficiently to make her high cheeks glow softly pink, her glorious brown eyes sparkled with no bottom in the city light, and her forest of hair curled at the ends that fell over her shoulders and breasts. There was, as always, a graceful feminine elegance about her. It had all been accentuated tonight.
Glumly, Finnegan set about preparing their dinner. Glynnis sat on the couch in the other room sipping at a glass of wine and listening to music. The planned enchantment of their evening had evaded them. Tomorrow at this time she would be gone, and Finnegan would be without even Dan Rosselli’s clever wit to keep him amused. During dinner, Finnegan found himself talking about Brandon Carrecker, the senator’s indifference to genuine social issues, and how dull the winters were in Washington.
Afterward, their stomachs full and their heads lightened by food and wine, Glynnis stood at the kitchen sink rinsing off plates. Conor had retired to the living room, expecting Glynnis to follow.
“What are you doing in there?” he called.
“I’m just taking care of these dishes.”
“Leave them until morning, Glyn. They’ll keep. Better still, leave them until tomorrow night. It’ll give me something to do.”
“You know, Conor,” she called back over the running water, “everything you attempt you end up doing quite well, including feeling sorry for yourself. I apologize for not being as predictable as you’d like.”
“God knows I’ve never thought you predictable. If ever I had, these past few weeks would have shattered that notion completely.” Finnegan rose from the couch and walked to the kitchen as he spoke. Glynnis was drying her hands. She had turned to face him as he entered the room.
“Oh, Conor, stop it. You’ve been pouting all night. I didn’t expect to have to put up with such childishness.”
“And I didn’t expect to have to put up with our weekend being ripped apart. You make no sense sometimes, Glynnis, do you know that? I’m not even certain I buy your simplistic and rather hollow alibi.”
“I don’t give a damn whether you do or not. I’m leaving tomorrow night. You can either deal with that fact like a mature adult or you can go on being a spoiled little boy. Whatever you do won’t change a thing, so you might as well come to terms with it so we can enjoy the time we do have.”
“A spoiled little boy, is it? It seems to me I’ve been just the opposite. You set the terms of your comings and goings, Glynnis, and I’m expected meekly to go along with everything you propose. Forgive me for being hurt. If you see my reaction as childish, then you’re more spoiled than I could ever be. Perhaps you’ve made too few sacrifices.”
“And perhaps I’ve made too many. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll cease to be Glynnis Mear altogether.”
“How the hell can that happen with you tucked away a hundred miles up the road? You’ve preserved your identity quite well, it seems to me. Both logic and emotion dictate that we should be together, Glynnis. Not being so is the greatest sacrifice I can think of, for either of us. I don’t think you’re giving up anything more important than that.” Finnegan’s voice softened; his anger ebbed. “Sometimes I ache to have you with me, Glyn. It’s almost a physical thing. I miss you, and this heavy throbbing crawls up my chest and into my throat. I see you with me, I smell you, I almost feel you as if your image is powerful enough to have weight. And knowing that I’ll be going home to nothing just deepens the ache. You’ve made a cavity within me, Glynnis, and how do I fill that? When you’re not with me a wind blows through, and it makes a vicious howl.”
Glynnis came to him, closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. They stood in each other’s embrace without speaking, simply feeling the warm and solid reality of their presence.
“Oh, Conor,” she whispered, “I do love you. I love you so very much. And I’m sorry to hurt you. Please understand.”
“It’s not easy for me, Glyn, to be without you. Everything I say and do revolves around having you with me. Forgive my anger, my love. It means nothing against what I feel for you.”
Glynnis kissed Conor on the lips, on both cheeks and on his nose. She smiled gently, her eyes softly widening. Conor plumbed them and found no bottom. She grasped his wrist and led him to the bedroom. There, in the pliant darkness, walled against the bitter winter, they made love with a ferocity they had never shared before. Conor threw himself against Glynnis like a hammer shattering concrete, and in response Glynnis discovered vaults of wild, primitive passion that had been scarcely glimpsed and never opened. She panted, she issued small screams, groped and heaved and rolled, her eyes locked shut in a heated trance. Conor ran himself the length of her body, turned her over, placed her on his lap and lost all illusion of control. He was an Aztec priest devouring the heart of his victim, Van Gogh slicing his ear. Their orgasms, when at last they came, left them both br
eathless and barely conscious. Glynnis’s long hair wrapped around her neck. She lay facedown; it flowed along her back. Conor buried his face into its lilac-scented softness and, under his breath, said a prayer of thanksgiving.
“Are you certain you want to go back tomorrow?” he whispered.
“No, my love, I am not certain. I’m certain of so few things these days. But, yes, I’ll go back tomorrow. Don’t be angry with me, please.”
“I’m not, Glyn. You worry me, though, sometimes. I never seem to know quite what it is you’re thinking.”
“Nor do I. Part of the charm of being a woman, this sublime confusion. Sometimes I grow fearful that you’ll tire of putting up with me, and I’ll lose you.”
“No chance, my love. You will never lose me. I’m yours until death, and beyond.”
“I don’t know whether to be comforted or frightened.”
“Take comfort. I’m as solid and as secure as the earth itself, and as faithful as the sweetest air you draw through your delicate lips:
Nay, but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress
And this last fairest tress of all
So fair, see, ere I let it fall? . . .”
Finnegan ran his hand through Glynnis’s hair as he recited. Glynnis looked up at him, thoroughly rapt.
“You charm me, young Conor. Whom have you quoted?”
“Robert Browning. A fair poet, although not Irish. The Irish can truly control a lyric. I wish I knew more poetry.”
“That you might intoxicate me with your words and have your way with me?” she smiled. “There’s no need, my handsome lover. You are poetry itself. Lyrical and fragile. It’s not your words, but your soul that runs through my blood.”
“And will be there forever, I promise you, if you will have me.”
“Make love to me again, Irishman. Take me in your strong arms and fill me with your power. I want you tonight through every vein and pore.”
“And will you want me with you always?”
“I love you, Conor. Tonight I love you with all my heart. There should be joy enough for both of us in that.”
CHAPTER XX
O God! O God! That it were possible
To undo things done; to call back yesterday!
That Time could turn up his swift sandy glass,
To untell the days, and to redeem these hours.
—Thomas Heywood, A Woman Killed with Kindness
Tom McIlweath stumbled from the narrow bed still warm with the radiation of his own body, and of Kathy Keane’s. Upon awakening he had had an instant of disorientation. The strange walls out of position, his body reclining in the wrong direction, the unfamiliar angle of the light had all formed a quick mystery that dissipated when, after a luxuriant stretching yawn, he recalled the wonder of the night before.
Surprisingly his head did not ache and his stomach did not churn, his usual effects of drinking too much beer. He pulled on his pants and sweater. As he walked out of the bedroom in the direction of the smell of brewing coffee, McIlweath took inventory of himself. All parts, he concluded, were in good working order.
Kathy stood by the stove about to pour scrambled eggs into a frying pan. She wore a floor-length robe that made her body monolithic, a pyramid of folds. McIlweath startled her as he approached from behind. She turned around quickly, spilling some of the whipped eggs onto the stove.
“You surprised me. I didn’t hear you get up.”
“I’m sorry.”
She finished pouring the eggs, then kissed him lightly on the lips. “Don’t be sorry. But I did want to fix you breakfast and bring it to you in bed. You were sleeping so soundly I thought I could pull it off.” She dropped two slices of bread into a toaster.
“I slept better than I have in months. It must have been the company.”
Kathy looked over her shoulder at him and smiled forth her genuine gratification. In the morning, her bit of makeup had worn off, and her tousled hair falling across her slender shoulders like thickets of hewn wheat rendered her absolutely gorgeous. McIlweath read compassion in her small and graceful movements. Her quietly radiant face hinted a satisfaction she would not have been able to hide despite any intent. Kathy Keane, of anyone McIlweath had ever met, seemed consummately in harmony with who she was, what she was doing, and the world in which she was doing it.
McIlweath poured coffee and sat at the kitchen table content for the moment to watch this unforeseen piece of great good fortune finish preparing their breakfast. She heaped the eggs onto two plates, buttered the toast when it sprang up from the slots, and poured two glasses of cranberry juice.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked as she brought the plates and glasses to the table.
“Was I?”
“You were. You look moonstruck.”
“Just the simple pleasure of watching you move about the kitchen. That’s enough to make any man smile.”
“I don’t believe you, but I’m flattered anyhow. At least you didn’t tell me I look like a Vermeer painting.” She sat down opposite him. “So you’re not wracked by guilt this morning? You’re not rolling in the throes of a brutally wounded conscience?”
“No,” McIlweath smiled quietly. “No, none of that has set in yet. I doubt it will.”
“I’m glad. You have nothing to be guilty about. I get the feeling that you’ve owed yourself a great deal for a long time and you’re only now beginning to collect. Forgive me for saying so, but that lady of yours seems to be smothering all the life out of you. Perhaps if she deflates you totally you’ll fit more comfortably into her pocket.”
“Actually, I haven’t given Anne much thought since last night, for obvious reasons. I suppose I’ll have to deal with her soon, although I’d rather not try to guess how that will be. In any event, it won’t be pleasant.”
“You’re evading my observation. I think that woman’s very bad for you. She’s consuming your better parts.”
“You’re certain of that after knowing me for, what, thirteen hours?”
“I know what I see. I told you last night that you looked lost. After you told me about this woman, how cold she is and how you’re just another gear in her little machine, I could see why. I’ve seen your type before, Tom. You’ve been too insecure for your own good. You’ve given up far too much to this woman. And it’s never enough for her. The more you feed her, the more she’ll want to eat until there are only a few crumbs left.”
“I don’t want to talk about Anne. I’ll be having my fill of her soon enough.”
“You reached a turning point last night, my friend, whether you admit it to yourself or not. In your more conservative moods you’ll no doubt try to deny it. I’m not talking about losing your virginity, although I can’t imagine how you lasted so long, poor thing. In any case, that’s no great matter. But I think that the very act of putting yourself in the position where it could have happened signified something important for you. Something lasting. Am I right?”
“Are you always so analytical with your lovers?” McIlweath was enjoying this. He was also impressed. Kathy had astutely interpreted what he had taken painful weeks (years?) to understand.
“No, but you fascinate me, Tom. You really do. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone so . . . well, so tolerant. You’re incredibly patient. You must be. You’ve been patient with yourself to go so long without what you truly desire. You must’ve been more patient with this woman than she’s ever deserved.”
“One needs to be confident to be so patient.”
“Or desperately lost. If one can’t conceive of any alternatives, then all he can do is wait for matters to change of their own accord. He’s then swept along by what he dares not attempt to control.”
“Maybe, then, the best thing you’ve done for me is to replace that misdirection with a hint of self-assurance.”
“Have I really done
that?” she asked earnestly, leaning forward on the table. “Did I really have the power to do that?”
“Not alone. It’s been coming for quite a while, I think. Since I got to Boston, and probably well before. But you’ve certainly helped the process, Kathy. If nothing else, you’ve catalyzed what was probably inevitable. For that I will be grateful to you the rest of my life.”
“Provided only that you do something with what you’ve gained. Don’t let this heroic talk the morning after come to nothing. Then you’d be worse off than ever you were before. You’d have seen the Promised Land without having the courage to cross into it.”
“Can I see you again, or was this just a one-night rescue?”
“We’re friends, Tom. You can see me any time you want. There’s so much more about you I want to learn, and that will no doubt take some time, don’t you think?”
“I hope it takes a great amount of time. Perhaps I should start to be more secretive.”
“But you must promise me that you won’t be too serious about this or come to regard me as more than I am. You mustn’t expect more than what I can provide.”
McIlweath looked her in the eye and said nothing. Kathy looked back through blue eyes of flame.
“It would be a huge mistake for you to want to substitute me for Anne. That’s not what you need right now. If you lose her, she’ll leave a gap and you’ll want to fill it with whatever’s handy. That’s only natural. But you should let it fill itself while you get on with the other parts of your life. You’ve left them unattended for too long and you’re growing bitter because of it.”
“Let’s take matters one step at a time, shall we?” responded McIlweath. “Let me get used to the exhilaration of your friendship first. I don’t choose to look beyond that.”
“And neither should I, I suppose. I shouldn’t project like that, and I’m sorry for it, but I am concerned about you. And after so little time. You’re a good and decent man, Tom McIlweath, and you’ve inspired my affection.”
“Then I am a fortunate man as well.”