Nothing turns me off quicker than the mawkish sight of a middle-aged woman besotted with a younger man. Daniel Jerome was 42, so he wasn’t that much younger than I. But 42 does not look up the scale towards 50; he roguishly turns his eyes down to the 30s or the 20s or if he’s a damned fool, the late teens.
Besides the age factor, I was inextricably linked with what was probably one of the most unpleasant periods of his life. I couldn’t imagine him wanting a permanent reminder. What had we in common, besides a son apiece, a wacky sense of humor, twenty laps of a pool before puffing, and, I sighed fretfully, a rather unusual sexual rapport.
That happy sympathy had been compounded by the romantic situation of snow-boundery, appetite and opportunity. At that point, not only was I handy and agreeable, I probably struck him (an image I generally present) as a sensible woman, quite unlikely to cause scenes and raise hell if disappointed/dismissed/disillusioned. I had also been, at the moment of our bedding, completely divorced from his situation — which he had taken pains not to discuss with me — and therefore impartial and impersonal.
Everyone has moments they wish to savor again and again. And the pleasure, the sense of superb well-being that I’d savored that Thursday, that fateful Thursday night watching TV . . .
I sat upright. TV. I got out of bed and turned on the set provided by the management. At least, in the States, you had night long TV to distract the insomniac. Firmly I concentrated on some ancient, now creaking but occasionally enjoyable Melvyn Douglas situation comedy. I even managed to fall asleep with the thing winking and shifting light patterns all night long.
The early news advised me that the Midwest was still storm-bound. Pennsylvania was demonstrably bright and sunny with seasonably mild temperatures. I shut the TV off and dozed for another hour and a half. I still had time to kill before Tim’s call so I breakfasted downstairs in the hotel dining room. Then I wandered about scenic restored colonial Bethlehem. I could wish that other cities had executed their urban renewals with as much thought and care. Before I’d visited Tim’s university, I’d had a mental picture of the great steel foundries burping noxious gases into the air and a vista of a dank, horrible industrial town. Bethlehem, with a Christmas star hidden on its dominating slope, was refreshing.
I ran up the mileage on the rented car while Tim and I toured Allentown for a place to lunch. We discussed at length his courses for the coming year. He intended to return to Ireland as soon as his last final exam was over. Would I ask Mr. Hengarty, our landlord, if Tim could have his usual summer job, but starting July 1st.
‘I thought I’d take June off as a holiday this year. You know, kinda hack around with the others.’
‘You do that anyway, if I can get you out of bed.’
‘You know, I was thinking, what with people asking me questions I couldn’t answer, that I don’t know that much about Ireland, except Wicklow and Dublin. And that’s the other thing, would you have the Raleigh people check my bike over? And my bike pack needs a new strap.’
I dutifully took out my diary and made the appropriate notations.
‘Hey, is that the one you got in place of your evidence?’
I let him look, pointing smugly to the gilt initials. I didn’t realize it then but Tim had adroitly changed the subject on me.
‘Say, how long would that sort of thing take?’
‘If you mean until your last exam in May, I sincerely hope not. Peter Taggert said he was going to file for an early trial date . . .’
‘Early next year?’
I hardly thought so but the possibility was a nagging worry. If they were willing to pay my expenses and air fare to and from Denver, they could bloody extend the benefit to Ireland and let me work where I was comfortable. I felt shrewish and berated myself for such unworthy thoughts. Fortunately it was now time to collect Trish from Cedar Crest as her duties with the college choir were over.
Trish and Tim were both more relaxed with me as gooseberry that day. It was bright sunny weather so we went for a drive, to the Pennsylvania Dutch area. Corny, but it gets me to drive through small towns called Intercourse, Bird of Paradise and King of Prussia. We noticed the signs of storm damage, trees down, barns with roofs half torn off and Tim and Trish regaled me about the hurricane force winds in early April. We tried to persuade Trish that Ireland is a windy place, too, with winds regularly at gale force 6 and 8.
This afternoon it was obvious to me, the two being unable to hide their affection, that Tim and Trish were very much attached to each other. Tim sat between us in the front seat of the car, with an arm impartially about both ‘girls,’ but I notice that his hand curled around her shoulder. Which is as it should be. We found a restaurant which boasted seven sweets and seven sours, and made pigs of ourselves. I should never eat dumplings. I had indigestion all the way back and couldn’t wait to drop the two of them off so I could get on the outside of an alkalizer.
By Monday morning, I was feeling rested, restless and resentful of the circumstances which prevented my returning home. There was not much to do in Bethlehem with Tim, and Trish, in classes. I could spend only so much time browsing in shops in the city center or admiring the historical exhibits. I could go over to New York and pester my sister but it meant sleeping in the same room with Veronica. I’d already spent three days with her at the start of my tour when I was doing my publishers and agent.
I considered, at breakfast, phoning my friend, Mairead, in Ireland. She was staying in the cottage, feeding the dog, and house-sitting. She’d be at the boutique at this hour but a call would be full rate. Natural instincts of economy intervened. Similar instincts kept me from doing more than window-shopping but I managed to waste most of the morning.
When I got back to the hotel from my aimless time-killing, there was a message for me to call a Denver number, collect.
It was Peter. At his jovial greeting, my midsection went into a state of spasm from anticipation.
‘The news is A-okay, all systems go. We did it. We got Jerry off without a trial. Charges are completely dropped. Guess why?’
‘Well, the news said you had another blizzard. Did you have an epidemic of house burglars in ski-masks?’
‘How the hell did you guess?’
‘How do you think I write children’s books? What actually happened?’
‘Two clowns were apprehended in the act. They were wearing ski masks and one was tall enough to be Mrs. Gresham’s snowman. But,’ and Peter paused to emphasize the point, ‘when his apartment was searched, items were found which had been stolen the night of the first blizzard from houses not far from Noreen Sue’s.’
‘Huh! Isn’t that circumstantial evidence, too?’
‘Whose side are you on?’ Peter sounded surprised at my remark. ‘It’s enough for me to blow Mathews’ set of circumstances. That and you.’
‘I thought you thought he wouldn’t buy my alibi?’
Peter chuckled, a smug, self-satisfied legal laugh. ‘I have it on good authority he was already unhappy.’
‘Oh?’ Peter had a goodie to tell me and wanted to take his own time.
‘You see, his daughter goes to the same school my girls attend. When Laura found out that “Timmy’s” author was vouching for Mr. Lowell, she told Pierrot that she was going to tell Daddy a thing or two.’
While the scene so conjured had tremendous dramatic possibilities, I didn’t quite see a ten year old daughter dissuading a father from pressing a manslaughter charge. Admittedly American youngsters have a great deal more freedom than Irish kids but . . .
‘You don’t mean that the nasty D.A. was persuaded by his daughter?’
‘No,’ the reply was firm, ‘but you’ll remember I said that he would try to weaken your testimony by a smear campaign? I think he realized that your integrity is well-nigh unassailable, Dr. Lovell. And the circumstantial evidence of the ski-masked burglars gives us all an out.’
‘Us all? What do you mean? I was telling the truth. That should have counted for
more than my title or the fortuitous greed of thieves.’
‘No,’ said Peter slowly, thoughtfully, ‘we don’t like to say such things in books for our children, do we? But it exists and is a viable force in modern, polite, sophisticated society.’ He gave a rueful laugh. ‘I wish you did have to come back to Denver, Jenny. It was a real pleasure to meet you and not just because you were ready and willing to lay your reputation on the line to help Jerry . . .’
I was glad he hadn’t read my mind of the previous evening or this morning.
‘. . . and Petra and the girls will be mighty disappointed too.’
I wanted to ask if Dan would be. Instead, I said ‘Please tell Dan how tremendously relieved I am that he’s been cleared of the charge. And . . . and tell DJ, and the girls, that I asked my publisher to send them . . .’
‘You don’t have to do that, Jenny.’
‘I’ve done it. I never disappoint my fans, Peter.’
‘I don’t think you could.’
The ring in his voice embarrassed me and I stammered something, remembering to mention the diary, and how elegant it was and how kind of him.
‘I’ll send yours back to you. Are you returning to Ireland right away?’
I really didn’t know and said so. ‘Remember me to Dan,’ I said, which was as inane as it was inadequate.
‘He’s not likely to forget you, Jenny,’ Peter said and then, with a formal phrase of thanks and goodbye, rang off.
How anti-climactic! How bloody depressing! Not that I wasn’t overwhelmingly pleased that Dan, and I, were vindicated: that he was spared the stigma of a trial and DJ more crushing uncertainty. The truth had out! We had told it but the irony was it wasn’t the truth that had made Dan free! It was lucking out with the ski-masked burglars: pure chance.
And I was expected to go back and write children’s books? Full of high moral integrity and ideals like Truth, Honesty, Kindness? Were my ‘Timmy’ tales really what I should be telling youngsters? Or the unvarnished truth of adult life that was facing them? And yet, the Good Guys had won this round because my reputation was good: and the principles I stood for in my books had tipped the creaky scales of Justice for a nice guy in clutch of circumstance.
My mood was composed of many elements, few of them complimentary to the shining public image that had helped reprieve Dan. I think I felt cheated that my ‘sacrifice’ was not needed. I knew I was damned sorry I wasn’t going to see Dan, under whatever circumstances, again. And I wanted to see his son, too, to see the boy no longer haunted but happy the way boys should be . . . before they have to grow up. I worried that I had raised Tim right, if my sojourn in Denver were an example of what he might face. I was disoriented, too, because I’d just geared myself to working elsewhere other than my home when I must suddenly switch again. Mostly I couldn’t wait to get myself on a plane and back to Ireland, to what was familiar, unexceptional, anonymous and dull. I yearned to be ‘missus’ and talk of the weather and hear complaints about the desperate prices of food, the high rates and the ‘turrible inconveniences of the latest strike.’ To get away from the sleek look of hotel rooms and effusive p.r. men and babbling do-gooders and idiotic ideals.
I got on the phone to Aer Lingus and booked myself on a flight that evening. If I pushed myself, I could make it and still have a few more hours with Tim. Once I make up my mind . . .
I could leave packing till after my lunch with Tim. He was genuinely relieved that the charges against Dan had been dropped. He might have been proud of my sense of obligation but he hadn’t liked his mother involved in a ‘hairy’ situation. I think, under other circumstances, Tim would have liked Dan.
We went to the Maples for lunch because I was a bit bored with the hotel food. We’d finished the shrimp cocktails when Tim got round to what I had sensed must have been on his mind for some time.
‘Mom,’ he began in the casual tone of someone who has spent hours rehearsing, ‘if Trish wangled a plane ticket out of her old man, do you think she could visit us in Ireland a while this summer? She’s saved enough to keep her while she’s there . . .’
‘I can’t see why not,’ I said, keeping my face straight with an effort and matching his diffidence.
‘Then you liked her?’ There was a little leaping of gladness in his eyes.
‘Of course, I liked her.’ I damned the Denver affair again for my preoccupation with it. I ought to have seen how important Trish was to Tim. ‘She’s got a lovely voice, plays beautifully, and she’s got her head on right. If you’d like, I’ll make a formal invitation to her parents . . .’
‘Ah, Mom, no one does that anymore.’
‘I do. If I had a daughter . . .’
His eyebrows went up and he regarded me with all the amused tolerance of the young generation for the vagaries of the older. I plowed on.
‘Her parents are much more likely to cough up for that all important ticket if the invitation comes from me. You know your generation but I sure as hell know mine. And it’s very obvious to me that Trish comes from a “good” family and is very well brought up.’
We thrashed that topic about a while and it ended that I would write the invitation for him to give Trish for her parents . . . as a clincher.
There was more to her proposed trip to Ireland than vacationing. She wanted to research the Irish musical form called lilting, or lumming, in which the singer mouths syllables instead of words to the music of drum, accordion or fiddle. I’d heard it with Tim when we went to Kerry one Easter. I suppose the form had academic merit. I couldn’t, however, imagine Trish wasting her lovely voice on lilting. Would that have occurred to her as a research subject before she met Tim? Ah, the resourcefulness of the young is awesome. I was touched, amused and delighted with the pair of them.
And suddenly very envious.
We finished lunch in a welter of enthusiastic plans and I used three pages of my new diary to make preparation notes. I was to check the tent and see if we needed new pegs or lines: Trish had her own sleeping bag. (Did I dare ask Tim how he knew?) Would I ask Eamonn Dunne if we could have the loan of his sister’s bike? Tim was going to lay in a supply from that great store in Philadelphia which specialized in dehydrated and flash frozen camper foods. The questions and queries were still coming thick and fast when I dropped him back to the campus for his afternoon lab.
He stroked my hair as he often does in farewell, boyishly awkward, more as if he were caressing a dog than his mother. (There are certain things a mother can’t instruct her son in but I rather hoped he was more adroit with Trish.) Then he gave me a quick, absentminded kiss and, wishing me a safe journey home, went off to class. Already he was thinking ahead: I could tell that in his jaunty step, the tilt of his head. He reminded me so of his six year old self, saying a nonchalant goodbye to mommie on his first day of school.
I got back to my hotel room, called the cashier to ready my bill and shoved my clothes back in the case. When I came to my knitting bag, I spread the finished arran sweater in my lap. I carefully refolded it and then sat, thinking, thinking of snow, and love-making, and Daniel Jerome Lowell, and the good things which had occurred in Denver. I hadn’t knitted the sweater with him in mind nor had I finished it as a gift for him but unquestionably he’d look good in it with his broad shoulders. It would cover that incipient midriff roll . . . unless he’d swum it off. Or worried it away. If he intended to live in Denver for DJ’s sake, he’d need the thick warm oiled wool . . . in snow-stormy Colorado.
The desk clerk was surprised at my request but before I could fret, he sent the bellgirl up with a used, but good, length of wrapping paper and a ball of twine. So I packaged the sweater and addressed it to D.J. Lowell, c/o Peter Taggert. I chuckled and put my initials and Tim’s college box number as return address. Then I slipped the unused portion of the Denver ticket into an envelope to mail back to Peter. He oughtn’t to have any trouble getting the refund since his office had paid for it.
I was keyed up now and got on the road to N
ew York, and Ireland, by mid-afternoon. I’d mail the sweater from the airport. Cost me less and give me something to do while I waited for the nine o’clock flight. I didn’t miss all the commuter traffic out of New York City but then I did have time to kill. When I had paid the rental car fee, I wondered if it wouldn’t have been cheaper to have flown from Philadelphia. But the activity of driving had been therapeutic . . . if expensive.
I phoned my agent to tell him the news, asked him to check to make sure the books had been sent. I dutifully called Suzie and said that, unfortunately, I wouldn’t get a chance to see her because my excursion time had run out. She kept chattering on about her husband and the price of meat and this and that until my coins dropped into the box and released me from the sound of her carping. I promised I’d write her and we were cut off. I mailed Dan the sweater.
I needed a drink. I had three, and two dishes of salted peanuts. I organized my documents, including sales slips as I was not going to go through last year’s fracas with your friendly, alert, penny-pinching, peel-paring, petty-pawed excise officials.
Two guys tried to pick me up: the light in the bar was bad or they’d’ve seen I was old enough to be their mother. I must have presented them a challenge because I didn’t encourage them in spite of the fact that the sun was shining, the forecast clear, and there was no likelihood that I’d be grounded in New York. Once bit, twice shy. They did buy me another drink.
I recall boarding the damned plane, but that’s all. Midweek, off-season, the passengers were almost outnumbered by staff and the entire mid-section of the Jumbo was unused. I got a blanket and a pillow or two from the stewardess, fixed the armrests and curled up for sleep. I missed my in-flight dinner, but I really slept. I only woke when the stewardess roused me with juice, coffee and roll.
Stitch In Snow Page 13