“I love it. I knew you’d choose a place like this.” She took his arm and turned him toward her, hugged him tightly, “I do love it,” as she kissed him and he fell in with her, both smiling, laughing as they hugged and fell to the floor, rolling back and forth. “It’s ours,” he shouted. “It’s ours,” she shouted back. They kissed, their tongues in one another’s mouths against one another’s tongue, his hands reaching to her breasts and hers between his legs. They stopped. He looked into her eyes and she the same, “I love you,” he said softly, forcefully. She smiled, kissed him. “I love you just as much.” They lay side by side on the floor, gazing at the ceiling, then at one another. “It’s ours. The world is ours,” Gregory spoke as in chant, repeating the words several times, turning back to her, pulling her toward him so he could slip his arm beneath her and hold her tightly, she feeling her breasts pressed by his chest. “I can hold you better on the sofa,” he said, “and save my arm from gangrene.” They rose; she lay back between the arm and back of the sofa and pulled him toward her, the two pleased, satisfied they were again together – in their refuge.
~
So they lived as a married couple, happy about their work and almost always looking forward to coming home. Occasionally there were the arguments - why didn’t you go to the grocery store; why don’t you clean the bathroom better; just like a man; do you have to leave the sink wet and dirty?
Or there were those times when Gregory stayed much later at the lab. His work was becoming known. He had published several papers, twice as lead author. Yet no one knew where the work would lead, whether it would help in diagnosing liver disease. Then in the laboratory he became careless. A planchette with a blood sample, that for some reason a lab technician did not completely dry, spilled on to Gregory’s hand. Gregory did not tell Brigit or any of his colleagues. The following week, when he had his usual blood test, his white cell count had decreased. Still later he felt ill and had nausea and diarrhea. Brigit hurried from her day duty to be with him, taking his temperature, washing him, not allowing him to shower alone, because he was becoming somewhat weak.
“Greg, I’m worried. I’m going to call Simpson,” the internist who took care of their needs, except that she insisted that her ob/gyn exams be with a female specialist. Simpson was too good a friend, and she would not submit to exposing herself to him.
Simpson insisted that Greg be admitted to the hospital for further examinations. He was there for a week. Brigit never felt so lonely. When she came to the apartment, there was no laughter, no almost teen-age rambunctiousness. In the quiet, she prepared less elaborate meals. To amuse herself, she would pretend he was home and try on dresses and turn about or flirt with herself in the mirror, pretending Gregory was watching and becoming excited. Or she would perform a strip tease imagining his penis growing hard, seeing it as he approached her. Finally she would become disgusted with herself. But one late night, lonely and longing, she moved her hands sensuously about her body, her arms, breasts and nipples, vagina, started rubbing herself and increasing the pressure, rubbing more quickly, inserting her fingers, then tasting the wetness, pulling a pillow between her legs until she felt the orgasm approaching and then returning to her fingers, inserting, rubbing, until fulfilling her desire as she shuddered and moaned. She lay still, frustrated and sad thinking of Gregory in the hospital. She wanted to dress and go to be with him as she did every afternoon and night.
At the end of a week, Gregory came home, confined to bed for about a month. Brigit was a nurse in her own home and enjoyed taking care of him, pleased he did not need anyone else, except when Simpson came for professional visits that lasted longer because of their friendship. One night he looked closely at Brigit, watching her face that could not conceal her concern.
“Brigit.”
She looked at him. “You’re going to tell me that I’m not his doctor.”
“I’ve been watching you.”
“I know, Ed. I’m O.K.”
“No. Your face. You’re weary. You can’t make yourself sick. He’ll recover and be like always. I promise, or promise as much as I can. I really do believe he’ll recover and get back to work. Of course, he’ll need more blood work. I also think we ought to check his thyroid.”
“You’re dear to me, Ed. I trust you to do whatever you must. I hate that isotope research he’s in.” She forced a laugh. “But you will have nothing female to do with me.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t dare. You know, when you come in here, you feel the love.”
“That’s nice.” She thought of her own home, the love infused throughout it that they always felt when being brought up, how Maureen struggled and worried about the girls when they were ill, and the terrible tension and strength taken from her during Luke’s illness. They would never be so sure of themselves as they had been before his cancer that they all knew might or could recur.
Now she had the same worry about Gregory. Perhaps they should marry right away, stop putting off the inevitable. She was beginning to feel weary of not wearing a wedding ring, of the emotions that embroiled her, making love in sin, despite the mutual enjoyment of living together, making love when they desired. She was becoming jealous of the nurses who mentioned their husbands or children. She cared little for what she would inherit from Gregory as a married woman, but she did want publicly to state he was hers, worried that something terrible could happen to him because of his work. Despite her pride in his accomplishments, she did regret the field he had chosen and decided she would talk to him about it.
However, she did not have to have that conversation. Some time within the month that he was home, one of the research directors came to the apartment while Brigit was at work.
“Gregory. We have decided it’s time you became a director. You will have your own office suite for seeing patients and for overseeing others under you. We want to keep you out of the laboratory. This experience has frightened us, and your welfare and our success is dependent on people like you. Besides, your wife,” Gregory was going to interrupt then but did not want to expose Brigit or even himself. “will feel better.” He then revealed that she had called. When Gregory heard what Brigit had done, he became angry, feeling as though she were interfering in his work. She had no right. However, he did accept the new position and the honor.
That afternoon, Brigit came in, and in a loud voice called out to him. “I’m home. I’ve got news for you.”
He was in his office playing with some figures, his slide rule in his hand. He turned, his face grim and was about to speak when he saw her wondrous smile that always subdued him, seeing that she was in a happier mood than she had been for a long while since his illness.
“Greg.” She kissed him firmly. “I’ve been named a supervisor.” Shall I bring it up now. The head nurse said how pleased she thought my husband would be. The other nurses, including the head, I know have noticed, I never wear a ring. One even asked when I would have a child. They know, no doubt, we’re just living together, probably think, oh who cares what they think? But I do. I’ll tell him now.
Before she could speak, he rose and went to her, smiling, hugging her, congratulating her.
“I knew you’d be glad.”
“I want to talk to you about something, Brigit.”
She would wait.
“You called the laboratory at sometime and told them you were worried about me. Don’t you think that’s interfering in my life?”
“Your life? Your life is what’s important to me. To hell with you.” She rarely swore and surprised him. “Yes, I called. I’m worried sick, and you resent that I called someone for your good, for mine too?” She turned and started to walk out of the room.
“Wait. Calm down, will you? I haven’t finished.”
“What?”, with anger rarely exhibited.
“Come here. Dr. Thayer was here today. He’s the big cheese. Yes. I was angry with you.”
“Sure. And I told him I was your wife.” She paused. “Do you think I wa
s going to tell him I’m your mistress?”
“Stop that, NOW. Fuck. Let me finish. He offered me a director’s position, an office at the hospital. I’ll oversee others who will work in my labs. And I’ll be able to write papers, review what the others are writing or intend to, check their figures, etc.”
“Don’t you use that word around me. You know I hate it. Is that what you tell people you do to me?”
The argument was almost uncontrollable now. She left the room in tears. I’ve ruined everything. We’ve ruined everything. All that joy we should have had in one another ruined. She cried uncontrollably.
She didn’t hear him come in the room. He walked softly to her and put an arm about her, running his fingers through her hair. “Please.”
She pulled away from him. “Leave me alone.” She started to say she was leaving, unable to think logically.
He moved toward her again but did not touch her. “Listen to me, Brigit,” he spoke quietly. “We should be happy for one another. And another thing. This is important. I love you so dearly. You’re my life. I would never use that word about you. I never, ever talk about you and love making. I’ve never told you this. But when I was in the navy, I’d often overhear some of the men talking about their wives, what they were like in bed. It disgusted me. I swore I would never be like that, would never talk about my wife that way.”
She looked up, and in a trembling voice, her tears still falling, “But I’m not your wife.” She tried to stop herself. “Will I ever be? Am I going to go on being a kept woman?” She hesitated, almost smiled, “Well, not kept. I make my own living.”
“Don’t talk like that. Please. Let’s start over. I’m so pleased for you. You are too good to just be looking after patients, but the patients will be losing such a marvelous nurse. Well, not necessarily. You’ll look in on them.
“And I swear, Brigit. I would never talk about you and what we do, unless it’s something most married people talk about, like plays, concerts etc.”
“And what women talk about. That’s what I’m like, no different. I am happy for you. And even if you’re angry with me for having called, I couldn’t help it. I have been so worried.”
“I know. And I’m pleased. It’s truly an honor they bestowed on me. Wait until my dad and mom hear, and your folks too – about both of us.”
There were wet tissues scattered on the bed. She glanced at them, tears still in her eyes. “Give me your handkerchief.” She tried to dry her eyes better. “But I still am beginning to feel, not always,” she interrupted, “like I’m nothing but a sex object even if I know I’m not.”
Shall I say it now? Why not? It’s time. “I know we’re going to marry as we planned. Greg. Let’s get married. Please. Soon.” She held out her hand. “I want a ring on that finger.”
There was silence, she embarrassed because she asked him, and he because he felt miserable. He thought of the women in Sicily, the few he had bedded without feeling, for the satisfaction. He looked at Brigit. This beautiful, unbelievable woman on the edge of the bed who has given herself to me and those whores. “Brigit. We’ve achieved what we said we waited for. Marry me, dearest one. You set the date. Tell your folks. We’ll both tell mine. I guess my parents and Mary will have to come to the Southwest. We have to be married where you grew up. Marry me, Brigit.” Gently he pulled her to her feet. “I love you.” Looking in each other’s eyes, she answered, “I love you.”
_______________
Chapter VI
Deirdre and Shadows
In fall 1924, a baby girl was born to a chicken farmer and his wife, the Cunninghams of Warrington, Maine. The birth occurred in a typical Maine farm house of the time, a white building with wraparound porch, a barn for the chickens. The midwife had a difficult time with the delivery, Christine, the mother, screaming loudly, praying to God, screeching for her husband, breathing, pushing when the midwife told her. Finally, hours after the wretched pain, the tear that occurred, Christine held a cleaned child and placed it to her breast, smiling through her pain and weariness. Later, the doctor would tell her this was the only child she would be able to have because of what the birth had done to her body. Edward and Christine were happy to have had one child, after Christine reconciled herself to the doctor’s news. They baptized the girl Deirdre, a name associated with dominance and disharmony in Celtic mythology, something of which they were ignorant.
The farm was actually owned by Edward Cunningham’s brother, himself quite successful. Edward had tried to make a living as a salesman in the northern part of the state. His brother told him it was a poor location, the population spread, and towns difficult to access. Edward, however, being the older, thought he saw opportunity among the Aroostook people who would want the latest kitchen appliances at lower than catalog prices. After all, it was after Coolidge’s presidency, a period of calm and restored integrity, a man who believed in business. Though the country was in the 1930s depression, Edward believed he could not fail in that part of the state that many ignored for the south. After all, it was farming country, and he was from a farming family and could talk their language.
That language brought him back to Warrington where in embarrassment he accepted his brother’s offer of part ownership in the farm his brother had bought after the death of the farmer who had owned it and whose widow wanted to move back home to Kansas to be near family. So by default a chicken farm became partly Edward’s.
Edward accepted his failure in business and finally realized he was, after all, a farmer. So it was that Deirdre, a lovely looking but often annoyingly devilish child grew along with the chicks she adored and carefully held when old enough. They were in her power. One time she thought she might squeeze one to see if it would die. Quickly she dropped it, looking at her hands in terror, then smiling. Perhaps she could decide at any time what or who she might hurt or help. Her parents, however, were trying to teach her loving, loved her almost unstintingly to assure she believed she was special. After all, her parents adored her and gave her whatever they could afford. She had heard them say their daughter would have the best.
They would never punish her unless she did something too terrible for them to ignore. Every day when old enough, she went with her father to the chicken coops, helping him take eggs, throwing food to them, watching them change from chicks to hens or roosters.
One day, when in one of the coops without her father, she pushed at a rooster because it ignored her. Quickly, before she could take away her hand, the rooster pecked, and before she could withdraw her hand, it pecked again. Deirdre yelled, “Ouch, oh, you hurt me.” She had begun to bleed a little. “You rotten rooster. I’ll kill you.” She grabbed at it, but it pecked once more and fled with a flap of wing in its short flight away from her. She tried to reach inside the coop to get it but her arm was too short. “I know. I’ll get even. I’ll get one of your children. You will never do that to me again.”
Deirdre saw a yellow chick. “I let you go once, not this time,” she shouted. She grabbed at the chick, picked it up. “You’re his child. Not anymore.” She squeezed, squeezed harder. The chick peeped, went soft into her hand. Deirdre looked at the unmoving yellow fluff in her hand, gasped, and dropped it, running toward the house. “Mommy, daddy, look what the rooster did to me. Kill it daddy.” She didn’t mention what she had just done.
Her father saw her hand and the blood drying. “What happened?”
“It bit me. I didn’t do anything. I was only trying to play with it.”
“Well, roosters will do that. They aren’t playthings, deary. They’re to make other chickens, the kind we sell and eat.”
“What do you mean make other chickens.”
“Oh, forget it.”
They came to the dead chick. Edward looked down. “What . . . .”
Deirdre watched his face, smiling at his surprise. Should I tell him I did it? That it deserved it as punishment for what the rooster did to me. Next time I’ll kill the rooster. But then we’d have no m
ore chickens, daddy said. Should I tell him? No.
Just then Edward looked at his daughter. The mischievous smile on her face told him.
“You did this. Don’t you ever come near these chicks again.” He raised his hand, dropped it. He thought, grabbed her hand, sat on a stoop of cut-down tree, pulled her toward him, and threw her over his lap. Just then, Christine came into sight. Deirdre had looked up, screaming, “Don’t, daddy. I won’t do it again. Don’t,” she shouted more loudly, having seen her mother coming closer. Christine saw Edward’s hand come down on Deirdre’s bottom. “Ouch. Daddy, don’t do it again. I’ll be good.”
“Edward, what are you doing to her. Stop.”
Deirdre slightly smiled.
Edward pointed toward the dead chick. Christine was horrified.
“You did that, Deirdre? How could you be so mean? I should let your father punish you more, but I’ve got a better way.” For a week Deirdre went without candy, except when her parents weren’t looking. She knew where her mother kept everything sweet. She was now old enough to pull a chair and get into the cupboard and sneak. She would also get even. She’d do it again, but this time she’d bury the chick. No one would know what she did. They didn’t even know their punishment could be overcome if you knew how to sneak.
When old enough to attend school, Deirdre was wary of the strangeness, of having a teacher as her authority. She knew several of the girls in her class and some of the boys. They made her more comfortable.
There was kindergarten when they marched as Knights of the Red Cross on their crusade against the heathens. Deirdre was chosen to lead. The year went that way, playing, learning something about the alphabet and other things they would have to be prepared for to be in first grade.
But the first grade teacher was different. The woman, Miss Curtis, bothered her. She demanded strict behavior and looked, well, sort of funny, because she wore glasses, had a round face and dark eyes, and hair that was streaked with grey. She was also short and thin. Her body and face gave Deirdre the impression of a bat, if she could spread her arms and had flaps of skin stretching from her body to her arms. Deirdre decided that most teachers were just old bats anyhow.
Our Seas of Fear and Love Page 13