Set in Stone

by Catherine Dunne

  ‘Maybe if I just pay him off—’

  Lynda had shaken her head. ‘Even if we could, it’d never be enough. You said it yourself: Danny the eternal victim. And a victim feels entitled.’ She’d paused, memories crowding. ‘That’s what he said after he stole from us, three years ago. After he ripped off your credit cards. “I’m entitled,” he said. “I needed it,” he said. And your rationality will not change that.’

  Then she’d started to tremble. The room swam. Robert was beside her in an instant. ‘Sit down, Lynda,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll get you a glass of water.’ When he came back, she’d started to weep, silently. Tears of rage and frustration.

  ‘Don’t let him destroy us, Robert, please. I have such a bad feeling about this.’ Lynda had rummaged for a tissue in the pocket of her dressing-gown. She’d been frightened at how isolated she felt. Robert did not see what was happening all around them: at least, not in the way she did. Last Saturday, over lunch, he had tried again to reassure her.

  ‘Even if it is Danny,’ he’d said, ‘he’s sabre-rattling. The letters, the cars – he’s doing it because that’s all he can do. He can’t get any closer.’

  But Lynda didn’t believe that. She’d leaned towards Robert, aware of all the other people around them. The restaurant tables were much too close together. ‘I feel vulnerable in a way I never have before. Last time, I could see what Danny was doing. We were able to fight him. But now, he’s both everywhere and nowhere.’

  Robert had reached across the table and taken her hand. ‘You’re looking down the wrong end of the telescope,’ he’d said. ‘And it’s not like you.’ He’d paused.

  Lynda had looked at him. She’d wondered if she could guess what was coming next.

  ‘You’re very stressed,’ he’d said, trying to be gentle. ‘I’m just wondering if there are . . . other things going on. Physical things.’

  ‘Like what?’ She had felt rage igniting. She’d pulled her hand away from his.

  He’d shrugged. At least he’d had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Well,’ he’d begun, ‘you’ve been complaining of hot flushes and forgetting things and I’m just worried that—’

  ‘I’m mad and menopausal,’ she’d said flatly.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You don’t need to. Don’t insult me, Robert. Whatever you do, don’t insult my intelligence. Your brother is the dangerous, paranoid, delusional monster. Not me.’ And she’d stood up from the table. ‘If I stay, I’ll say things that I’ll regret. I’m going home.’

  ‘Lynda, please, wait – all I’m saying is that you may be getting things out of proportion.’ He’d started to rummage in his wallet for a credit card. Robert hated scenes.

  Lynda had had every intention of causing one. Nothing else made him listen. ‘Stop right there,’ she’d said, raising her voice. ‘And think for a moment about three years ago. And the time before that, when he forged your name as guarantor. And before that again, when your father was still alive – paying Danny’s debts so as not to damage the family name.’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ He’d glared at her.

  ‘No,’ she’d refused. ‘I’ve been quiet for far too long. And you’ve been blind; you just won’t accept that Danny can do it, will do it – all over again.’ And she’d left the restaurant, letting the door swing closed behind her.

  Ever since, they’d had an uneasy alliance. When he arrived home, he’d apologized for upsetting her; she’d apologized for walking out on him. But really, nothing around Danny had been resolved.

  And then, less than forty-eight hours later, her garden had been defiled. There was no other word for it. Danny was getting close, much too close.

  The attack on her garden had felt like a physical assault. How had Danny got to know her so well? How had he figured out the kind of ambush that would leave her feeling defeated, helpless? She’d wept for what seemed like hours when she and Robert had come in from the garden. Everything that she’d believed to be secure and solid had been violated. But she couldn’t explain that to Robert.

  ‘Sshhh,’ he’d said and held her close. ‘We’ll clean it all up. We’ll get everything back to the way it was, I promise.’

  That was yesterday. She’d wondered if he’d ever be able to keep that promise.

  And now, this morning, she waited edgily until he came in from the garden. All her senses were primed for disaster.

  ‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’ Robert pulled out a chair and sat at the table beside her. ‘Look, I know how upset you are. But this could just be some lazy bastard who can’t be bothered going to the dump. I’ll take a walk around the back later, see if I can find anything.’ His voice lacked conviction. But he was trying hard, she’d give him that.

  She didn’t answer. ‘I want to make sure the back gate is secure,’ she said. ‘I want more locks. And maybe even put in an extra light. The outside light always wakes me when it clicks on. I don’t know why it didn’t last night.’

  ‘Lynda . . .’ Robert said.

  She knew by his tone that he was going to try again.

  He looked at her. ‘There’s the laneway to the left of us, remember?’ His tone was gentle. ‘Anybody could have chucked that stuff all over the garden. I don’t want you obsessing over something that just might not be true.’

  She went to speak and Robert held up his hand. She’d been about to say: Over the garden is one thing. Such methodical distribution of filth is altogether something different. But he wouldn’t be stopped. She decided it was easier not to interrupt.

  ‘And I’m sorry that you’re upset about the letters. But there was nothing new in them. They were just . . . Danny as he always was. Poor me, and all that crap. It still makes me mad as hell.’

  Lynda shook her head. ‘The difference is he’s here. We know that now. And he’s always created chaos when he’s here.’

  Robert sighed. ‘This could well be one of Danny’s mind games. Giving somebody else letters to deliver on his behalf – you know how he can manipulate people. The point is he’s not under our roof this time. He can’t steal from us again, or fool us again.’

  Lynda didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Robert hadn’t the imagination to see how Danny might steal from them again, fool them again. While not coming anywhere near them.

  ‘We fell for the sob story three years ago. I admit that. We believed in his illness shit. And his remorse.’ Robert stood up angrily. He began to search in the dresser drawer for one of his occasional cigarettes.

  Lynda waited until he’d found them. ‘We can’t blame ourselves for that,’ she said, quietly. ‘He looked ill enough, down-and-out enough. It’s hard to abandon someone who needs that kind of care.’

  Just then, the kitchen door opened. Jon hovered, uncertainly, at the threshold. ‘I just wanted to see if everything was all right. This morning.’

  Robert gestured towards the garden. He sighed. ‘Everything out there is fine. I’m not so sure about in here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jon. ‘I’m intruding. I just wanted to see if any help was needed.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Robert. ‘You’re not intruding.’ He ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray. ‘You’re part of the family. I think we’re beginning to feel a bit under siege. But it’s important not to get things out of proportion.’ He paused. ‘By the way, thanks for yesterday. You and Ciarán certainly got stuck in. You did a great clean-up job, both of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jon. He waited, as if getting ready to say something.

  ‘What is it, Jon?’ Lynda had been watching him.

  ‘Oh, nothing really,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ said Robert.

  ‘Well, it seems to me that the dumping of all that stuff yesterday was deliberate. I mean, there were dozens and dozens of Styrofoam containers, and huge amounts of vegetable stuff. It really stank. It didn’t look like anybody’s normal household rubbish. It was kinda half domes
tic, half industrial, if you know what I mean.’

  Lynda glanced at Robert. He looked away from her. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, agitated.

  ‘So, I was wondering,’ Jon went on.

  They both looked at him.

  ‘Is there anybody who has a grudge against you? Some neighbour, maybe? Nobody could have dragged sackfuls of that stuff very far. It has to be someone local.’

  Robert nodded, considering. ‘You may well be right,’ he said. ‘But let’s hope we don’t have to test the theory again. At least there’s no harm done this time. We all got a bit dirty, a bit smelly, but that’s the end of it.’

  Lynda sipped at her coffee. She wouldn’t look at Robert.

  ‘Right,’ he said, abruptly. ‘I’ve got to run. I’ve a meeting in half an hour and the traffic is going to be the pits. I’ll see you later.’ He came over to where Lynda sat at the table and squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’ll try and get home early, okay?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Take care,’ and he kissed the top of her head. ‘Look after her for me, Jon,’ he said, as he hurried from the kitchen. ‘Make her a nice breakfast.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Jon, and smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he called after Robert. ‘I’ll take good care of her.’ He turned back to Lynda. ‘How do you like your eggs?’

  After Lynda had finished breakfast, Ciarán shuffled into the kitchen in his pyjamas. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Lynda. ‘All quiet this morning. Jon has just made me breakfast.’

  Ciarán snorted. Then he grinned and jerked his head in his friend’s direction. ‘I wouldn’t trust him if I were you. He’s just butterin’ you up for his birthday present.’

  ‘Well, I dunno how,’ Jon interjected quickly. ‘As you’re the only one who knows about it.’

  Lynda looked at Jon. ‘Happy birthday, Jon,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jon, grinning. ‘I can’t believe I’m twenty-one.’

  Lynda smiled. But she felt a stab of dismay. Who would celebrate his birthday with him? Jon had already admitted to her that he didn’t call his parents: didn’t want to call them. And certainly nobody had come looking for him. It worried Lynda, this silence between himself and home.

  ‘What if something happens?’ she’d said to Robert. ‘What if he has an accident, or something, and we need to contact them? We have no address, no phone number, nothing. It’s not right.’

  ‘Leave it,’ Robert had advised. ‘He’s probably still feeling raw. Maybe a bit of time and distance will help to heal the breach. He’ll get back in touch with them when he’s ready.’

  Lynda looked over at Jon now. He was smiling. He seemed happy. The banter between himself and Ciarán was constant. ‘You guys in College today?’ she asked.

  Jon nodded. ‘Yeah. We’ll be leaving in about half an hour.’ He turned to Ciarán. ‘Smoke before we go?’ He stood up from the table and took the ashtray off the counter beside him.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ciarán. ‘Just a sec.’ He left his cereal bowl on the draining-board and made to follow Jon out to the garden.

  ‘Ciarán,’ said Lynda.

  He looked at her. ‘What?’

  She tried not to let her exasperation show. ‘Into the dishwasher. If you can carry your bowl as far as the sink, then you can bend down and place it inside the dishwasher.’

  He was about to protest, then Lynda caught the look that passed between Jon and him, and he thought the better of it. Sighing, Ciarán opened the dishwasher door and placed the bowl on the rack inside. He made as much noise as he could.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lynda, when he had finished.

  ‘No problem,’ he grunted, and followed Jon through the patio doors. Lynda got up from the table and looked out, hoping that, one of these days, her garden might show signs of spring. The light today was good: clear and bright, with an unusual amount of blue sky. Ciarán and Jon stepped off the deck and onto the gravel, Ciarán scuffing the pebbles with the toe of his slippers. Lynda watched the two of them as they stood, deep in conversation, wisps of smoke trailing above their heads. One dark head; one fair. Each of them at the beginning of their lives. She was struck by how different they were from one another.

  On impulse, she walked quickly into her studio and took her digital camera off the top shelf. She moved back through the kitchen, and nudged the patio door open, just a crack. She took a photograph of their heads and shoulders, each young man leaning towards the other, intent on conversation. She was satisfied with the result: it was a good portrait, their profiles natural and unposed. She’d give each of them a copy just as soon as she got around to printing them.

  Meanwhile, she’d better go and do some shopping. It seemed they had a birthday to celebrate tonight.

  Lynda waited until she heard the key in the lock. Then she set the musical candles going. Ciarán burst into the kitchen first, as he usually did, and stopped short. His mouth fell open. Lynda heard Jon stumble into him at the doorway and mutter ‘Jesus, Ciarán, whattya at?’ Then he looked around him, too, and became suddenly very still.

  ‘Happy birthday, Jon,’ called Lynda, ‘and many happy returns.’ The candles sang their tinny tune, the plastic ‘21s’ glittered all over the tablecloth, the garish birthday banners fluttered in the draught from the open door.

  Jon’s eyes darkened. His face filled with emotion. For an awful moment, Lynda felt embarrassed. Had she done the wrong thing? Then his expression softened and his face relaxed into the smile she knew so well.

  ‘Lynda,’ he said. ‘This is really great of you. I never . . .’ and his voice trailed off. He came over and gave her a wordless hug. She understood. His gratitude came mixed with resentment. This was something his own parents should be doing for him and she felt almost angry on his behalf.

  ‘C’mon, mate,’ said Ciarán. He was oblivious to the moment. And for once, Lynda was grateful. ‘Blow ’em out!’

  Laughing, Jon did as he was told. Lynda gestured towards the table. ‘Everything’s ready,’ she said. ‘Just help yourselves.’

  ‘Aren’t you joining us?’ Jon looked dismayed.

  ‘I have a lot of work to do,’ Lynda said. ‘I’ve had an online order for a dozen matching rings and bracelets, and an invitation to exhibit my paintings in Belfast and there’s something I must finish tonight.’ She couldn’t stop smiling.

  ‘Wow!’ said Jon. His eyes widened. ‘Congratulations! That’s a really big deal, isn’t it? Which ones? Which paintings do they want?’

  ‘They want a selection of the silk ones, the Japanese scrolls I’ve been working on. And some of the gouaches, as well. And yes, it is a big deal and I’m pleased.’ Lynda smiled at him. ‘Now go and enjoy your birthday.’

  ‘Way to go, Mum!’ said Ciarán. ‘And thanks for this.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ As she left the kitchen, Lynda reflected that this was not the first time that Jon had shown an interest in her work. It was flattering, she supposed. And it took some of the sting out of the fact that Ciarán didn’t seem to care much, one way or the other, what she did for a living or what her successes and failures were.

  Later, Jon came into her studio to thank her again. Ciarán was watching television. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked. It was always his first question.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Lynda said. ‘I’m finishing off a garden design. It’s due tomorrow. No pressure, you understand.’

  He laughed. He leaned over her shoulder, his face close to hers. She became intensely conscious of his presence. His aftershave, the rhythm of his breathing.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing to a detail in the drawing.

  Lynda took the opportunity to move away from him, just a fraction. Immediately, he drew back.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to get in your space. It’s just that I find this Japanese stuff really fascinating.’

  From down the hall, Ciarán’s guffaws at the TV
could be heard. Jon smiled at her, shrugging a little, as if to say, young people these days.

  Lynda felt her annoyance flare. Sometimes, just sometimes, his overt maturity grated on her. Jon was insistent now, pointing at her drawing again. ‘This here,’ he said, ‘what is it?’

  ‘It’s a ceremonial bell,’ she said, more abruptly than she had intended. ‘They’re associated with hunting and harvesting in Japan. The client wanted something that—’

  ‘It’s a dotaku, isn’t it?’ he interrupted, impatient.

  Lynda was shocked. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s a bell-shaped bronze called a dotaku. It’s a design I came across in the museum. Jon, how on earth did you know that?’

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘About 200 AD?’ he asked. He seemed not to have heard her. He focussed on the drawing, following the flow of its elements with his index finger.

  ‘Yayoi period,’ she said. ‘The bell dates from about 200 BC to 250 AD.’ She stopped. Somehow, this knowledge of his unnerved her. ‘How did you know that?’

  He looked at her. The dark lashes were spiky, she noticed. His eyebrows were fine, like a woman’s. He straightened and smoothed the sheet of paper in front of him, his fingers long and tapering. ‘I told you I found the Japanese stuff fascinating.’

  Lynda was at a loss. She watched as his hands moved across the sheet of paper. His fingernails were clean, shaped. In the studio light, they looked almost polished.

  ‘Can you explain the design on the bell?’ Jon demanded. ‘Is this drawing here a copy of the original or is it an interpretation of your own?’

  ‘Well, yes, it’s my own,’ she said. She felt flustered, and annoyed at herself for feeling flustered. What was wrong with her? ‘But the designs are all based on the original. The Japanese engraved horizontal bands to decorate ceremonial pieces like this, with blocked patterns.’ She pulled out a larger-scale drawing that she had done some weeks back. ‘Like this one here, can you see?’ she pointed to an example. ‘They often used to use criss-cross designs like these, as well as scenes from rural life. All very delicate, very intricate. I’ve stuck to patterns here, though, rather than figurative scenes. I prefer their simplicity.’