As Cilla talked, the downpour outside began pick-pocking against the window. A little later, with her wine glass in one hand, she held aloft on her fork a single asparagus spear and peered over it at him.
‘Now that I filled you in on all the scandal, what’ll we talk about?’
He sipped his wine. ‘You.’
‘Me? I’m only a nice-looking culchie,’ she said, her face play-acting. ‘Well, I think I’m nice looking. Least, last night that’s what you said. But I’m definitely a culchie; I’m sure about that.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘Stop staring at me, will you, you’re making me nervous. Bet you don’t even know what a culchie is?’
‘‘Course I do; didn’t I grow up here. It means a country person. It’s not a compliment though, right?’
‘What’s the harm. I’m a culchie, I’m from the bog. You’re a jackeen, you’re from the big smoke. So what? Except I’m better looking than you. And a better driver. And I can climb better. But you’re not too bad. Really, you’re kind of an okay climber. I’ve seen better, though.’ She stopped prattling, as though suddenly concerned. ‘Listen, I hope you know I’m only messing, I’m pulling your leg, I swear, I’m not serious, about nothing.’
From behind his wine glass he had sunk into her enjoyment of herself, her no-off-switch humour, the delight she took in poking fun at him, her being just who she was and what she was. How free. Now his thoughts returned to her looks, to her lamp-lit features and unedited joys. She had taken of late to drifting off for brief interludes into a smiling quiet. And right now she was gazing into her glass like it were a crystal ball, as though fascinated by what she was finding.
His mind jumped around, in wonder at where she might take him next. She had an unburdened style, tricks, things that held his interest, kept him excited. But moods too, implied more than shown; he could sense that in her. Being with her was like speeding on a river of blind bends, adventures at every turn, new depths, new dangers. Her possibilities stripped him of thoughts he needed to shed, made him feel vulnerable, young, alive, that he was really learning about living. His hand reached distractedly for the newly uncorked bottle of Wolf Blass and almost tipped it over, which drew from her a shriek that turned into uproarious laughter, and he filled both glasses.
‘What are you thinking right this second?’ she asked with sharp inquisition.
‘What? . . . I don’t, I mean I wasn’t.’
‘Yes, you were. I know what you’re thinking. You can tell me; I’m brilliant at keeping secrets.’
‘Secrets? Wasn’t thinking anything like that. You were telling me about you, remember? What life is like living in County Mayo; last back yard before Boston, you said.’
‘Me and Mayo? Nothing else to tell. Yours truly is twenty-three going on twenty-three and a half. Think I told you that at least five times. Maybe I told you three times, I don’t remember now. Must be the water in this place, probably spiked with poteen. You can’t trust poteen.
‘Anyway, I’ll try to be soberious and tell you a bit more. My step-mam and step-dad run a tiny little farm outside Killadoon; they’re getting on now, really old, God bless them. They adopted me really late. Both of them’ll be eighty-eight this year, both in the same month, November.’
‘Eighty-eight? That’s fantastic. And they’re well and still run the farm and – ’
The first signs of upset entered her face.
‘Is everything alright, Cilla. You feeling okay?’
Seconds after covering her face with her hands she lost herself in another outburst of laughter.
‘I’m really, really, really sorry. I’m not adopted. I’ll stop, I promise, I will. No more. I can’t stop. No, I will stop. Holy God’ll never forgive me.
‘Seriously, Killadoon is where I grew up. I’m being serious now. On the farm, milking cows, feeding sheep, all sorts of sexy things like that. Especially when the bull came to kiss the heifers; will I tell you about that? Will I?’
She was on a roll again. He leaned back, absorbing. A while passed before it burst into his mind, his years in hells they called correctional facilities, all the decent living he’d been deprived of, his own inner hell and the baggage he was carrying. He castigated his brain, refused to go along; wasn’t this wet night in Ireland what he had hungered for for all those years, fourteen in all, since he’d first lost the plot in Newark. Hadn’t he earned the right to this dream, this wit and conversation, this laughter.
‘No, no, it really was,’ she said, misreading his face. ‘It was great, the farm. When I look back I remember I couldn’t wait to get out, go off someplace. That’s how I went to work in Galway; I was eighteen. Only forty miles away but me mam and dad wouldn’t talk to me. I was away ten months, then I came home. That’s when Leo Reffo gave me a job as a waitress. It’s him that runs the Abbey, not Chastity Van Superwoman. And now look at me: here I am, merry, not drunk, just merry, on me way to being locked thanks to you topping up my glass when I wasn’t looking.’
‘Me? I wouldn’t – ’
She waved away his protest. ‘Do you not know me by now?’ she said. ‘And I forgot to tell you. I have four brothers, no sisters, and I’m the baby. That’s it. Told you everything. Now you’re laughing at me.’
‘No, no, I’m not laughing, not at you. It’s just the way you tell it, your life. Some people would die, many would, to have had your life.’
‘Never thought of it that way. So, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Not that I’m a goose. Tell me everything about you, and no lies.’ She placed a hand on his arm, spoke with the affectation of a counsellor. ‘Just relax, let everything out, you can trust me. You’re in good hands, so to speak.’
‘Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘Your life, you’ve done a lot more than me. I was born on a cold stormy night in February 1966. Went missing in 1980. That’s all I remember. Until eighteen months ago.’
‘You were in a coma for fourteen years? Stop messing! I want to know. I’m trying to be serious; it’s very hard for me. Go on, I’m waiting.’
‘The headlines, that’s it: Born in Dublin, loved Dublin. Left Ireland the day after I turned fourteen. Never to be heard from again.’ He looked directly into her scrutiny, tried to smile, but couldn’t. ‘Sorry. I mean the whole family emigrated to America. Newark, New Jersey, big strange city beside New York City. I hated it, and it never got better. Felt like my whole life had been ripped away. Then recently I moved out west, to Arizona, then came home to Ireland to visit, last summer, as you already know, first time back since I was fourteen. Wanted to climb a mountain or two. And here I am.’
‘What about your mam and dad, brothers, sisters, cat, dog, goldfish, pet crocodile? Where are they all?’
‘My mother lives in Florida. My father died when I was a teenager. Kate, my eldest sister, lives in Dublin; she’s a shrink, a psychotherapist. Two other sisters live in Atlantic City, in New Jersey. Look at that rain! I wonder if it means it’s too late in the season to climb Mweelrea.’
‘Means you’re trying to get out of telling me things. You’re full of secrets; I can tell. Bet you have a steady girlfriend in America. You could even be married or divorced for all I know.’
‘No girlfriend, no wife, no divorce.’
‘Asking too many questions, am I?’
‘We probably should get moving. It’s eleven-forty-five.’
‘No, it’s not; it’s a quarter to twelve. Afraid you’ll turn into a frog?’
‘You’re right, a quarter to twelve. I’m in Ireland. Have to remember that.’
‘We’re parked all the way up in the village. We’ll get soaked for our sins; I mean skins, shins, soaked to our – ah, feck it, you know what I mean; we’ll get drowned, and it’s all your fault.’
‘If you’re willing, I am,’ he said, then blushed. ‘To get wet, I mean.’
‘If I show you mine, you’ll show me yours.’ Eyes glassy and warm, she tried to smother her giggling. ‘Don’t mind me, I don’t know what I’m saying. Let�
��s walk it, why not. Be a bit of fun getting wet together. I can barely move in these stupid shoes; I’ll end up on me arse. Rear-end, I mean. Sorry, sometimes I forget to speak respectable.’
Arms entwined, they huddled first in Nalty’s doorway, peering out beyond their security, into a stormy world. Cilla unbuckled her shoes and hooked them over her arm. ‘I’ll walk barefeeted. I mean footless. Feck it, I mean no shoes on me.’ She reached for his hand and found it. ‘Now’s good a time, want to go for it?’
They sailed along the gleaming pavements in the pouring rain, neither speaking nor hurrying. And the feeling came to him again: home! Out of nowhere, this was home, an epiphany of a different kind than he’d felt before. Here he had no past but an innocent one, no record but that which he chose to reveal; here the brand new him and the original him could combine, minus the terrors he had lived with for too long. So much less to conquer now. Was it Cilla deBurca? What she permitted him to be?
Soon they fell into the car, saturated, lost to the gaiety of it all. Cilla pushed back her dripping black mane, tucked curlicue strands behind her ears, then glanced blissfully at him. ‘Nice cup of hot tea?’
‘Want me to drive?’ he asked.
She was never incapable, she told him, and it was only half-way up the hill they were going. Minutes later they were safely inside Number 9, Connemara Court. ‘The bathroom’s behind you,’ she said. ‘There’s a big white robe behind the door; you can use that. I’ll dump all the wet stuff in the dryer.’ Her look questioned him. ‘Go on, I won’t come in. You don’t have to be shy, you’re only a wet man! I’ll change in the loft; that’s where I sleep.’
He didn’t move.
‘What’s wrong? Go on, I’m not messing. Then I’ll put the kettle on. We can have scones, if you’re hungry. I baked them myself this afternoon; took me hours. I even put cherries from Italy in them, make them taste even better.’
He shuffled backwards, smiling at her cheekiness and lies, knowing she was reading his thoughts. He bolted the bathroom door behind him. She was right, the robe was large. When he had dried off, he wrapped it tightly around his nakedness, triple knotted the belt, and resigned himself to her inevitable teasing.
They arrived in the kitchen simultaneously in matching robes, he in white, she in pink. More than once she bit back a snicker as they sat at opposite sides of the café-style table. And with her humour even more loose and animated, their conversational ease resumed and remained fluid.
A while later she struggled to her feet. ‘If I don’t get to sleep now I’ll be serving breakfast like a zombie. Follow me; I’ll show you where I’m putting you.’
He faked nonchalance, tried to conceal his puzzlement. Especially after last night, when she had all but insisted on being kissed. Now though, he could not deny what had been simmering under his enjoyment of her, the excitement that had been pressing him to decide how far he could let things go. In silent observance he followed the shapeful bathrobe through hall and lounge to a sofa made up into a bed.
‘You’ll be alright here? Isn’t Claire Abbey but it’s comfy.’
‘Perfect. I’ll be fine. Great.’
‘See,’ she said, pointing toward the window. ‘The silver moon. I often sit here at night. Looking out at all the eyes in the sky looking back at me.’
Neither said anything, just gazed at the heavens.
‘Does that sound kinda too – ’
‘Poetic?’
‘Mushy?’
‘No way! No way is it mushy. It’s artistic, sensitive; it’s nice.’
‘If you’re true to your word, Tony MacNeill, you must be the only man in Ireland who thinks like that. You aren’t having me on, are you?’
‘I mean what I said. How many men have you asked?’
‘Enough,’ she said, still fixed on the stars. ‘Enough to know better.’
‘Wrong kind of men.’
‘I was sure there was only one kind. Up to not that long ago.’ She turned abruptly and swept past him, ‘Night,’ she said, sounding wounded.
‘Goodnight, Cilla. And thanks.’ His call chased after her through the moonlit room. He cringed, wished he had chosen different words. Then he gave his attention back to the silver moon, the eyes in the sky that looked back in. What might they reveal of her, he wondered, this richer, deeper, different Cilla deBurca?
Behind him he sensed a presence.
‘Sorry,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll be away in the morning, before seven. Sundays are early starts, but I’ll finish at two. Weather’s to be fine. Want to take a stab at Mweelrea, part way?’
He said nothing, just stared at her.
‘And I forgot to give you your goodnight kiss,’ she said without humour, as though a more resolute woman had taken over. She stretched up, and near his mouth placed a slow kiss.
He held her gently, her heavy black hair cool to his skin, still infused with rain. A rarely nurtured part of him urged his arms to clasp her, his mouth to kiss her, his hands to tease her damp curls. No one, save Lenny, ever stoked him so intensely, or made him feel so desired for himself, the youthful uncorrupted him.
They each conspired to hold, as though cautious of what the moment offered. Then his hands tightened around her, while the fight inside his head raged against surrender to the feel of her body against his, her touchable nearness. Then Lenny spoke. And everything in him obeyed. His eyes met Cilla’s. Words were not needed. She turned away.
‘See you,’ she said in a barely audible voice.
11
By early afternoon the next day, Sunday, waiting for Lenny was becoming impossible. At Greyfriars B&B Hotel he paced the small room, more on edge than at any time since the day he tasted freedom. The hours passed into night.
On Monday the shaking in his hands returned. He swore at the affliction, which had not struck since his early days in Rahway State Prison, when he was twenty-one. It had begun suddenly then, one week after he had ended the savage reign of Shift Commander King Kong Yablonski, and didn’t give up for 213 days, each scratched into a cell wall.
Right now the greatest good that could come to him was to know Lenny’s whereabouts and that she was safe. An hour, she’d first said, maybe two, until she’d be back. Then not till Sunday. Then Tuesday. He wasn’t accepting it, not this time, after a day and night that replayed constantly in his mind. Chill out, the voice in him warned, go out, walk, read, just twenty-four hours to go. But how many minutes? How many scratches in a cell wall? Hold off, just wait. No, he wouldn’t. There were no rules here, nothing forcing him to wait, no screws, no wolf dogs, no electric fences, no leg chains; he could do anything he wanted; and fuck it, he would! He swiped his jacket from the bed.
As he neared the top of the hill the Atlantic breeze whipped at him. Just then, the green Escort slowed, swung around, drew up alongside him, twenty yards from the entrance to Claire Abbey.
‘Let me guess,’ Cilla shouted from the car. ‘You were coming to meet me getting off work?’
‘Can I talk to you? Something serious.’
She nodded, as though with an intuition that what she was agreeing to would cause her strife.
He squatted down by the car window. ‘Something’s not right with Lenny; I can feel it. She said she’d be back yesterday; then a message said Tuesday. Something crazy is going on. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if you knew?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know where she is. What’re you doing here?’
‘Going inside, talk to her father. What else can I do?’
‘He’s away, someplace foreign. Charity’s there. But you wouldn’t – ’
‘Will you help? As a friend?’
She turned her face away.
‘I know it’s not fair, Cilla. I know all about that. But you’re the only one.’
‘We have a key, inside, for her apartment. Not saying that’d be a right thing to do.’
‘I swear, Cilla, I won’t involve you. You’ve got my word.’
‘And yo
u and me,’ she said. ‘What d’you think? Anything in that?’
‘Cilla – ’
‘Forget it. Dreaming, that’s all. You want the key?’
‘Listen, Cilla – ’
‘Forget it; it’s okay. It’s your life.’
‘I won’t forget it.’
‘Men are just brilliant at saying things like that.’
‘I mean it.’
‘You’d have to look like a golfer. That Charity one has eyes in her big fat Maggie Thatcher hairdo.’ She pulled repeatedly at a dangling curl.
He watched but didn’t intrude.
‘Gets into a fit if she sees a tiny little mouse. Even afraid of bumble bees.’
‘Cilla . . .’
‘Imagine. Bumble bees. Afraid.’
‘Cilla . . .’
‘Wait here. I’ll get you a golf trolley. Colin owes me a favour, the greens-keeper. Pull it after you, in around the back, act like you’re a golfer. Her apartment has a birdhouse in front of it. I’ll be back, few minutes.’
Staring out, he rode the giant breakers ripping the coast and tried to look inconspicuous to passing traffic. Invariably, he found himself returning waves. Ten minutes passed. It was getting harder to stay calm; his mind flitted with calamities of all kinds. After a while he turned his back on Claire Abbey, gazed south to Mweelrea, purple and brown and bare. Twenty minutes. Something’s gone wrong, he suspected. The day was duller now, just a watery sun. Storm brewing, maybe; noisy wind, no gulls crying. He pulled his watch out of his pocket. Twenty-five minutes.
Then it ended. Spitting stones on the shoulder, the Escort pulled up inches from him.
On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland Page 12