Irish Tiger

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “I tell myself I should have done more to protect her. . . .”

  “She knew that you did all you could. . . . I wonder that you would never become involved with a woman ever again. We are such nasty, petty, miserable people. . . .”

  “Not all of you! . . . And I’m not sure that I’ll ever marry again.”

  She just grinned.

  “Walk me back to Sears Tower, Jackie. I’m so tuned that I’ll get lost. . . . Never should drink a half bottle of wine at lunch.”

  She took my arm and we walked slowly back to Wacker Drive and Sears Tower.

  “It was good to talk to you,” she said.

  “Likewise.”

  “Would you be interested in another adventure that we probably shouldn’t do?”

  “In for an inch, in for a mile.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

  “I don’t suppose that out there in the prairies, you ever did any sailing?”

  “We have lakes in the prairies.”

  “Lakes with a small l.”

  “What other kind are there?”

  “Here in Chicago we have the Lake with a capital L.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You never crewed on a lake with a small l?”

  “I certainly did and on a twenty-two-foot boat that our firm owns.”

  “I have a boat on Lake Michigan. I haven’t used it in a while.”

  “How big?”

  “Thirty-two feet.”

  “That’s a yacht.”

  “It has three staterooms and a head and will sleep twelve, though it never has. It can do the race to Mackinac though it also never has.”

  “You want me to crew on that monster thing?”

  “I’m inviting you to come for a ride tomorrow. I bet you never saw the skyline from the Lake.”

  “We really shouldn’t do it, Jackie. It’s a workday.”

  There are other and better reasons for not sailing the Mary Fran.

  “The winds are forecast to be light and we can have a nice leisurely sail, perhaps drop anchor and swim.”

  “No Barolo?”

  “I permit myself and my crew only one can of beer. . . . Your virtue will be under no assault.”

  “I make no promises about yours. . . . What time?”

  “I’ll get there early to make sure everything is in working order. I’ll meet you on the deck of the yacht club about eleven?”

  “I haven’t said that I’ll show up.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Well, I guess. I’ll be there. . . . I reserve the right to change my mind when I see the boat.”

  Maria Angelica

  SO THE next morning at a quarter to eleven, courtesy of a taxi, I stood on the deck of the yacht club, covered with suntan cream, and stared in amazement at the busy harbor and its panorama of yachts, most of them covered up though it was August. I was early because I’m always early, an obsession I did not learn from my parents. I was wearing cutoff jeans and an NIU sweatshirt over my brand-new and very modest two-piece black swimsuit. I had purchased both swimsuit and new boat shoes late Thursday afternoon when I had recovered from the Barolo. Grandmothers, no matter how well preserved, should not wear bikinis—at least not in ordinary circumstances. I was carrying a shopping bag with a cover-up, a change of clothes, and four sandwiches, four cans of Diet Coke, and a box of oatmeal raisin cookies. I felt very much like a hick from the prairies, especially compared to the well-dressed people that strolled around the harbor. The shopping bag is the best I can do, folks, I’m a hick from the prairies. I leaned against a wall and tried to pretend I wasn’t there.

  Jack Donlan showed up promptly at eleven o’clock, wearing khaki shirt and slacks and a matching baseball cap with gold braid and the words Mary Fran on it. My heart jumped at the sight of him. He was so cute. Careful Connors, real careful. You don’t want to be that way so soon.

  “Good morning, Captain,” I said with a salute. “Sea-person Connors reporting for duty.”

  “Good morning, Maria,” he said, brushing my cheek with his lips. “You look gorgeous, as always.”

  My heart did several more leaps. This was not good.

  He took the shopping bag from my hand.

  “Sorry about the matched luggage, I didn’t bring any of my sailing gear in from Oakdale. . . . I have some food in there. . . . I assume you have refrigeration on board. . . . This Lake is bigger than Oak Lake.”

  Mary Fran was a lovely boat: black hull; teak decks; polished bronze hardware; electronic winches; bulkhead dials reporting radar, wind, water temperature, and air pressure; and three comfortable cabins.

  Jack helped me into the boat.

  “She’s beautiful!” I said.

  “We had a lot of fun on it,” he said, a touch of sadness in his voice.

  “You haven’t used it the last two years.”

  “Kids were busy with other things, marriage, family, courtship.”

  “Father Matt, our pastor in Oakdale, says it’s all right to own an expensive boat, so long as you use it.”

  He laughed.

  “Father Matt is right, but Mary Fran earned me money the last two years by appreciation. Paid for her upkeep.”

  He gave me a thin khaki life jacket and a cap, both labeled with the boat’s name.

  “Rule on this boat is everyone always wears a jacket. Regardless. I note that you have already smeared suntan lotion on yourself. That’s another rule.”

  “And you’ve got chains to put me in if I disobey any rules?”

  “Bread and water.”

  He instructed me on my duties on the craft, easier than on the Maria Angelica because of the electronic winches.

  “Any questions?”

  “No sir, Captain, sir.”

  He pushed a button on the bulkhead and a fan cleared the hull of gas.

  Then he pushed another button and the auxiliary motor hummed confidently.

  “You buy the best, don’t you, Captain, sir?”

  “For my wife and kids, only the best,” he said, the touch of sadness back in his voice.

  If this turned into a memorial voyage, it would be a big mistake.

  “Cast off the mooring lines!”

  “Yes, sir! Right away, sir.”

  He laughed.

  I had him. You don’t dare be a sourpuss on a boat ride with me!

  “Sure does beat an outboard!”

  Mary Fran slipped out of her berth and eased her way into the channel, uncrowded on Friday morning. In a few minutes we were out of the harbor and on the gentle waters of the enormous, scary Lake. With a very scary captain.

  “Raise the foresail!”

  I pushed another button and the foresail flapped in the breeze. Jackie turned off the motor. Mary Fran hesitated, not quite sure what to do. He eased the wheel around and the jib caught the wind.

  “Raise the main!”

  Another button to push and the boat surged forward, knowing now what she should do.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “Totally cool!”

  “A good boat. She does what’s she told.”

  “Unlike most human women!”

  I kept him laughing all the way down the shore beyond Navy Pier. The breeze was offshore, consistent, and moderate. Ice cream cumulus clouds were moving slowly across the sky.

  “You want to take the con?”

  “You mean drive this boat? Course not!”

  I moved over to take his place.

  Mary Fran, not at all sure about this new pi lot, hesitated and I moved the wheel gently. She settled down like a trained horse. Good girl.

  “You have the touch, Maria Angelica.”

  “It’s a lot easier than doing the rudder thing.”

  I had been so bemused by the skyline, the boat, and captain, my captain, that I had not noticed I was hot and hungry. The thermometer said eighty-six.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment, Captain, sir?”

  “Certainly.”

 
“Permission to go below.”

  “Of course.”

  I removed the sandwiches, Cokes, and cookies from the fridge, took off the life jacket, shed the Huskies sweatshirt, slathered my self with suntan lotion, put on the life jacket, and climbed back into the cockpit.

  “Grandma in a bikini!” he gasped. I mean literally he gasped. This might not be a good idea either.

  “It is not a bikini,” I said primly. “It is merely a very modest two-piece swimsuit. Grandmothers,” I repeated my own principle, “no matter how well preserved, should never wear bikinis unless for a very special occasion. Here’s your sandwiches. They should distract you from staring.”

  “What would a special occasion be?”

  “A honeymoon or something like that.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Jack, however, guffawed.

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  It was my turn to feel a flaming face.

  “Very good sandwiches,” he said, saving both of us.

  I wasn’t trying to seduce him, not really. Only in the long run.

  Back at Navy Pier, I steered us into the calm water behind the breakwaters.

  We lowered the sails. He pressed another magic button and an anchor slipped into the water, gripping bottom after a long time.

  “Permission to swim, sir?”

  “You note the temperature of the water?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “That’s cold.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Do I have to wear the jacket?”

  “Stay within twenty yards of the boat!”

  I kicked off my jeans, tossed aside the life jacket, and dived in from the gunnel. It was a longer way down than a jump from the Maria Angelica. When I hit the water, I thought I would die, it was so cold. I surfaced, shivering and, I suspected, blue.

  “Piece of cake,” I shouted.

  “I can see that.”

  I swam maybe a hundred yards back and forth, just to prove I could do it. My poor body adjusted reluctantly to the water temperature. Finally, it was time and past time to stop. I swam to the side of the boat. Jack tossed a rope ladder.

  “I have to climb that?”

  “Only way.”

  I tried twice and failed, took a deep breath, and clambered up to the gunnel. I was too weak to force myself over it. He took me in his arms and lifted me on to the deck. Very strong arms.

  For a brief moment I was powerless in those arms. My face flamed. Then he let me go, reluctantly I thought.

  “You’re a tomboy, Grams,” he said, throwing a huge towel around my shoulders, one that announced it was from the Mary Fran.

  “And proud of it,” I gasped, still shivering.

  “The barometer is falling. We’d better get out of here.”

  I glanced at the western sky. A line of black clouds on the horizon was moving right toward us.

  “That wasn’t part of the prediction.”

  I pulled on my cover-up and my boat shoes.

  “Sometimes on humid days weather cells blow up without warning. NOA weather radio hasn’t picked it up yet.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” I announced.

  We lifted the anchor, raised the sails and gave Mary Fran free rein. The wind continued to be offshore but picked up to sixteen knots. The harbor was three miles north of us. We were flying along at six knots an hour and were almost at the harbor mouth when the rain hit us. The lines on the main sail jammed. I climbed up to the top of the cabin and lowered it by hand, without being told. The jib went down easily. Then we turned into the harbor and a gust of wind rocked us. I clung to the mast for dear life and shouted for the joy of the contest. Jack helped me down and returned to the wheel. I collapsed on the floor of the cockpit.

  “You okay?” he yelled.

  “Never better!”

  Then the lightning and thunder started.

  “You and your big ideas, Jack Donlan!”

  “Wanted to see what kind of a sailor you are.”

  The auxiliary motor brought us to our berth. We covered the sails in the driving rain, secured everything that needed to be secured, and walked as quickly as we could to the clubhouse.

  “Buy you a hamburger?”

  “Great idea.”

  I went to the women’s room, tidied up, put on my change of clothes, and joined him in the bar.

  “You okay?” I asked captain—my captain—who was nursing a beer.

  “I wouldn’t want to be hit by one of those in the middle of the Lake.”

  “You’d need a crew like me out there to survive.”

  “Maria Angelica, you’re too much.”

  “I’ve been told that.”

  “Instead of fear, you were shouting with the joy of the battle.”

  “I could turn out to be dangerous. We don’t quite have storms like that on Oak Lake. . . . By the way, you’re really good at that sort of thing.”

  We laughed together again, finished our beer and burgers, and he drove me back to Millennium Towers. I ached in every bone and muscle of my body. I had to get back in condition. It was now a serious issue.

  “Next Friday?” he asked at the door of my apartment.

  “Only if you promise more serious action.”

  He laughed again, kissed me with some vigor, and departed.

  This was courtship?

  Whatever it was, it went on till the middle of September when we sailed the Mary Fran to her winter storage on the river. I wanted to cry. We had great fun. I would miss her. As for her captain, I had no idea what was going on in his head.

  However, I had great stories to tell my children back in Oakdale on Saturday morning.

  “Has he made a move, Mom?” Clara demanded.

  “Nope.”

  “Will he?”

  “Honestly, hon, don’t know.”

  “Do you want him to.”

  I hesitated and then told the truth.

  “I haven’t made up my mind.”

  Just the same, after I had waved a sad good-bye to Mary Fran, I paid a visit to an elite lingerie store and bought a fresh supply, in case I needed it. We had been very careful that our late summer sailings were very cautious ventures—as far as our courtship was concerned. Both of us were concerned about stirring up strong emotions too early. Too cautious? I don’t know.

  The next week there was an opera. My invitation came in a phone call two nights before.

  “Would you like to attend Turandot this week?”

  “Why not?” I said.

  I loved to listen to opera music, but I’d never once in all my life been to a sure-enough opera.

  There wasn’t even enough time to find a script and read it. I had yet to learn about the supratitles they use at the Lyric.

  Supper at the Graham room was lifeless at first. Then he asked the question that was on both our minds.

  “What are we doing, Maria?”

  “Well,” I said, pretending to weigh my words carefully, “one might say that we are at the early stages of tentatively beginning something folks might call a courtship.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “Interested, obviously, and scared silly.”

  Time for honest talk.

  “Me too . . . It’s happened too quickly for me to grasp. . . . It’s a serious business.”

  “With serious risks,” I added.

  God knew how often I had pondered the risks in rides back and forth to Oakdale.

  “I have the feeling that if we go on like this much longer, there will be no escaping. . . . Only a fool would want to escape from you, Maria. . . .”

  “I understand the fear,” I assured him. “The other side of the coin is the fear I might lose the opportunity of my life. . . . I kind of enjoyed those boat rides.”

  We both laughed. I would have to lead him into laughter for the rest of our lives. Would that be bad?

  Not necessarily.

  “Might we need a hiat
us to be sure?”

  “I’m sure that’s a good idea. . . . How long, do you think?”

  “Two or three weeks maybe?”

  “Is that all?”

  “No more, certainly.”

  My mind was not completely made up, but it was more made up than his. I should say something wise.

  “Jackie, take as long as you want. I don’t want to cause any pressure.”

  Well, not any unfair pressure.

  “I knew that’s what you’d say. Thank you . . . That you’re that kind of woman increases the pressure.”

  “Naturally.”

  And we both laughed again.

  His good-night kiss was not quite violent, but it certainly was vehement. So was the touch of his fingers on my breast.

  “No pressure at all,” I gasped.

  As I was falling asleep, I said to myself, “Maria Angelica, there is no such thing as the perfect permanent lover, but you could do a lot worse.”

  Like the time you almost went to bed with Chip Mc-Connell, who was the running back on Peter’s high school team. Dear God, thank you for stopping me.

  I have to ask myself whether I might be slipping into a similar disaster.

  John Patrick

  I TORMENTED myself with worry for the next three weeks. I reminded myself that I was a speculator, a gambler, a risk taker. I firmly believed my father’s dictum that certainty is not possible either in love or the stock market. You play the odds, he used to say. And how do you figure the odds in love? I would ask in return. You just know, he’d sigh. Like I knew with your mother the first time I saw her.

  I was overwhelmed by Maria Angelica the first time I saw her. I continue to be. She is fun—fun to talk to, fun to banter with, fun to laugh at, and fun to yearn for. But so was Mandy Clifford, the national TV reporter. At the last minute she dumped me because I was a Catholic and wouldn’t divorce my wife who at the time had been six months at Betty Ford on her third session there. After Mandy walked out on me, I realized that it had been foolishness from the very beginning. I would have become her boy toy. Yet at the time it looked like a good risk. My daughter’s oxytocin, I guess. Yet I felt about Mandy the same way I feel about Maria. How can I figure out what to do? Mandy was a nasty person. She loved to obliterate people she was interviewing. That troubled me at the time, but I paid no attention to it till she turned on me and tore me to shreds. What troubles me about Maria? Her laughter? It suggests she’s never serious, but her life story shows just how serious she can be.