I lay down again next to her and I could feel the heat of her body and the sound of her breathing. She seemed to be floating all over me. The space and distance between us instantly vanished. In the directionless and timeless space that was between our bodies Mrs. Axe’s hand firmly but gently guided me into her. I pushed and pulled about in every direction that my erotic pleasure was taking me. At the same time a litany of deformed dreams and cravings were let loose in my non-sober brain. As Mrs. Axe lay prostrate under me I could feel myself detached from everything and anything material. Some part of my being still tried to escape and deny the reality that was overpowering me but whatever it was it dissolved or was smothered by the hunger of my body. In the shadowed bedroom I had for the briefest period of time thought that if I closed my eyes I’d vanish, but with each touch of Mrs. Axe’s mouth I drowned in a reality that I didn’t want to end. In an unwanted and uninvited invasion of my past I sensed every urge of desire since I sensed my singular identity. Mixed with the eruption of touch and emotion I could even hear my mother and the priest screaming at me as if I had sped through a red traffic light on a crowded street corner. The imposition of that thought brought forth a surge of guilt that had me believe for the briefest moment that I had deserted my own sense of self. Panic and a weird kind of ethereal abstraction, brought on by the feeling and sight of Mrs. Axe under my body and entwined around it, unleashed a massive passionate hunger. I crashed into everything that I had ever seen, heard and known about myself and there wasn’t anything about me that I could make sense out of or even wanted to. Still and as if in opposition, Rosaries, Benedictions and a host of religious rituals and sacraments peppered me with fear and warnings of sin as though I was caught in an unexpected rainstorm of falling souls screaming from Hell or Purgatory. In the reality of what I was accepting I was able to push them away and felt I was saving my own life. In the exhilarating tumble I forgot who I was and where I came from or how I managed to be experiencing feelings that actively obliterated my identity. My youthful energy was bursting out of every pore in my body and I felt I had been turned inside out. With little ability to understand the erotic feelings that were obsessing and smothering me I could sense my past and childhood departing from me.
* * *
When I returned to the castle three days later I sat in the dining room with Mr. and Mrs. Axe. Mrs. Axe had apparently informed Mr. Axe of my stage debut and he congratulated me profusely. This night Pat was off and Mrs. Axe had prepared a light meal. By the time I had finished eating the dessert of crêpes and ice cream, Mrs. Axe informed me that she and Mr. Axe would be going away the following Thursday on a vacation that was predicated more on business than on pleasure.They were to attend a convention of executives from different parts of the county in Montego Bay Jamaica. Mr. Axe said he wasn’t in the least looking forward to it but it had to be done for business reasons. He also emphasised that he hated travel as much as Mrs. Axe liked it.
Half in jest I asked if I could come along and Mrs. Axe, in a similar tone but with less humour, said I could but in reality it would not be a good idea. Mr. Axe said I was better off staying home. Mrs. Axe added that my presence at such a gathering would simply be distracting.When I mentioned that I didn’t have any acting assignments on my calendar Mr. Axe told me to read and study Oscar Wilde’sThe Importance of Being Earnest. He said it was one of his favourite plays and I should keep an eye out for it in the event that I might act in it someday.
Mrs. Axe encouraged me to be in attendance every morning at the office while she was gone and to continue to listen and learn from the executives she had assigned me to observe. I wanted to confess and tell her that my ability to concentrate and learn the business was seriously compromised by my lack of interest as well as my limited education in the field. The world of statistics, charts, assumptions and board meetings was foreign to me and contrapuntal to the utterances that percolated in the depths of my mind that were unreachable to everybody but my silent inner self. My brief but professional venture into the world of the theatre had taken hold of a big part of me and it was becoming more and more difficult, if not impossible, for me not to nourish it. I was at last feeling inextricably and involuntarily attached to seeing and solving my personal social problems by indulging in wanting and wishful thinking. This was underlined and reinforced whenever I thought back to my days of deprivation in Dublin and my wanderings into the dark room of the cinema where I consistently witnessed the fantasy of good conquering evil and the triumph of beauty and righteousness over outrage and deception. In my childhood the world of the cinema had inadvertently become a moral compass. The celluloid altar was its own kind of religion. Its pantheon of stars were consistently battling with morals and values that I not only understood and identified with, but looked forward to on a daily basis. The reality of living up to the sacraments and sacrifices of the religion I was born into and was enveloped in got diluted when the ceiling and wall lights in the cinema went down and the flickering images appeared on the big screen in front of me. The lessons and curriculum of film fiction suited me more easily than the imposed and enforced doctrines of the clergy who lived all around me in Dublin. To me the priests and Christian Brothers, with their propensity to administer corporal punishment, were like prison wardens of the mind. Added to that, the absence of love and affection between my parents and in my immediate family promoted a hunger for the simple unattainable pleasure of just being noticed and wanted.
* * *
After dinner I went to my room and fell down on the bed. I wanted to talk more to Mr. Axe and in the private regions of my mind I wanted to tell him about my ever-changing relationship with Mrs. Axe. I felt I was in a situation very similar to the one I was in with Father Leo. A confession to Father Leo would have done serious harm to his relationship with Mrs. Axe. A confession to Mr. Axe would have severely impacted on all three of us. We were essentially and definitely an odd and awkward threesome. For the majority of our time together the Axes and I seemed to be sliding down different rainbows and only occasionally making contact with each other. Within each relationship was satisfaction that supported an inner hunger. Private person as he was, Mr. Axe loved to talk and I loved to listen. From me he rarely demanded or insisted on anything. Our unplanned walks and conversations filled some void in him that he kept secret. Once, in humour, he told me that “One must make the effort to have serious conversation with oneself if one really wants to learn.” Consciously or not I often found myself testing this social and personal theory. Mrs. Axe, a business executive up to her teeth on weekdays, was on weekends an angel with loose clothes and flowing hair. A part of her personality had a hunger for things spontaneous. She liked broken lines and unformed images. When she was of this state of mind and when I was in her companyI felt imprisoned in her loose tresses and holding on for life.
The few weeks at the theatre in New Hope, Pennsylvania, and away from the castle was more than just an affirmation for my sense of self and, delusional or not, I felt I could unequivocally do something and be independent of exterior influences. It had been a long time since I first lay on my bed in the castle and hung my second-hand shirt out the window to dry. Since that day my unfolding world with the Axes and the castle had become an overpowering reality that I seemed to be forever wrestling with. Externally my life was in many ways a shining one. I had my own car and I could drive about whenever and wherever I wanted. I had more meals available to me everyday than I could eat. I could come and go at the castle with ease and freedom. My clothes were mostly always new, courtesy of Mrs. Axe. When I asked for a glass of wine Mr. Axe had the best that money could buy. I had an allowance that provided me with enough money to buy items that got my attention, such as records and record players. I had come to know opera, history and world culture in a general way via the tutelage of Mr. Axe.
I tried to imagine how content or happy I would be sitting behind a desk for years to come dressed in a shirt and tie and talking about monetary matters from one
end of the day to the other. My brain didn’t respond favourably to the images I was conjuring up. At the same time I felt I had an obligation to follow the advice and instructions Mr. and Mrs. Axe imparted to me on a daily basis. Both of them had more often than not been kind and supportive. Mr. Axe opened up my mind and imbued me with the seed of intellectual curiosity. Every moment I spent in his company I learned something about the world – both past and present – that I was oblivious to before. When I first arrived the confusion of not knowing my place with the Axes grew by the day and I literally roamed about the castle like an orphaned ghost looking for someone or something real and stable. The consequence of being adrift obliged me to spend more time in town with some of my friends at the pub. I wasn’t really sure how I arrived on the podium of self-awareness but I was convinced that experiencing a different routine had a lot to do with it. I was sure that I had arrived at an awareness that felt satisfying and fulfilling. Whether it was the experience of appearing on stage or seeing my name appear in a newspaper coupled with the night of intoxicated passion with Mrs. Axe I couldn’t fully determine. Whatever the combination of time and events, I was convinced and secure in believing that my recent past was for me a new and definite baptism. The obligation of what I would do with my new perception of myself remained another matter.
I still lived and worked and earned money in the castle and Mrs. Axe was omnipresent in my mind and often in my body.
* * *
The Axes had returned from their Jamaican sojourn and I hadn’t heard from or received a phone call from the casting director in New York. Living so far away from Manhattan also kept me out of the loop when it came to hearing about auditions.
I had learned some of the basic tools for maintaining a profile when seeking work in the world of show business. I was encouraged by Ruth Conforti at Talent Associates to get myself a proper and professional photograph of myself. This I accomplished the first week after I returned from the theatre in New Hope. New York City was a Mecca for photographers because of the large population of aspiring actors. Also via the good graces of Hurd Hatfield I had made contact with an acting agent in New York who advised me that I would be far better off if I pursued work as an actor in Los Angeles. During the rehearsal period of the play Robert Redford offered the same advice. He had already appeared on Broadway as well as in many television productions. Hurd Hatfield was in demand on both coasts. His classical training as an actor afforded him the luxury of working on the stage and the screen. Robert Redford had the same ability.
Still, even armed with new photos and an agent, I remained somewhat incapable of being able to make a decision with regard to pursuing an independent life. Leaving the castle was not an option I could fully commit to.
* * *
The excursions I took away from the castle on weekends were likely spiritually and creatively restorative for Mrs. Axe but for me they underlined her continued vacillation as far as my relationship with her was concerned. Weekdays, at least during some of them, I felt as if I was simply a file in a large file cabinet that was taken down, perused and quickly returned to my alphabetical position. By appointment I’d meet her in the kitchen after she concluded her domestic appraisal and personal chores with Pat. Her first priority had to do with making sure Mr. Axe had everything he wanted when he wanted it. When the chores of overseeing the domestic life of the castle was in order Mrs. Axe would greet me with a smile and apologise for taking me away from my schedule. I assured her when she did that I was anxious and even happy to accompany her. For the most part my schedule consisted of traipsing around the grounds or wandering about the interior of the castle.
* * *
Finishing work one evening I dropped by the kitchen to have dinner. This was as habitual with me as was going to bed at night. I had been a regular visitor to the kitchen since the day I arrived and I knew every square inch of the big room better than the odd mouse that came to hibernate behind the massive industrial stove during the winter. When I opened the door I encountered Pat. She wasn’t wearing her usual white apron and she was sitting at the table writing on a notepad. Her mind appeared to be in another place until I bid her good evening.
She immediately got up and poured coffee for me and placed it on the opposite side of the table from her. Her mind still seemed to be elsewhere and shedidn’t say a word to me. Not wanting to interrupt her thoughts I quietly retreated to the coffee.
While I sat pensively drinking Pat stopped writing in her notepad and asked me: “You know Jim and I are leaving?”
The shock of what she said almost made me spill the coffee on the floor. The pain in my mind at the news immediately shuttled me back to the first minutes of the first day when I stepped out of the car and saw Pat and the castle for the first time. Back then, when I was in a daze from the ocean voyage, Pat took hold of me and the old suitcase I brought with me from Ireland. I remembered her smile when she first looked at me. It was warm, welcoming and very reassuring. Broader than any I had ever seen on a face in a long time. That day she humorously commented on my old and essentially empty suitcase. She often reminded me of that moment more than four years ago and that she wished she had a camera to record how lost I looked back then. Also she found the old tattered suitcase particularly touching and wondered if I grew shamrock in it. The news that she and Jim would be leaving the castle and retiring to the town they had originally come from in the State of Maine softly paralysed me.
Mrs. Axe had forewarned me the weekend I was at the beach house but maybe because I had imbibed too much wine that particular night I didn’t dwell on it or even contemplate what it would mean to me. Mrs. Axe hadn’t brought up the subject since and I hadn’t thought about it either. At first I didn’t know what to say or how to respond. Mrs. Axe’s words from the night at the beach house echoed in my ears. But like then I simply didn’t grasp the implications or even accept Pat and Jim’s impending departure as a reality. Finally when my nerves stopped dancing all over my brain I replied, “When, Pat? Are you sure? When?”
I was hoping she’d say next month, or even in three months, but she didn’t.
She calmly responded, “This coming Saturday – Monday at the latest. Jim’s out readying the trailer to hitch onto the car. He wants to retire more than I do but I still think it’s time for us. Five days is all that’s left.”
This day being Tuesday made Pat’s departure the following Saturday or even the following Monday much too soon for me to accept with any rationality.
“Mrs. Axe told me she told you and for the last week I wondered why you didn’t ask me or Jim,” Pat said and put a sheet of paper into a stamped envelope.
In five days she and Jim would be packed and gone from the castle. This news was akin to throwing me out of my bedroom window.
I rushed to declare my innocence with regard to being aware of their departure. “Mrs. Axe mentioned it, Pat, but I didn’t think it was definite or for sure. I heard nothing since and I thought you had changed your mind or something.” My plea reminded me of times I protested my innocence to my mother in Dublin when she often and wrongfully accused me of stealing food that wasn’t allotted to me from the kitchen. The sensation that flooded through my body was also akin to some of my early schooldays with the Christian Brother in Dublin who accused me and whipped me for not reading schoolbooks I didn’t have because I couldn’t afford them. The gusts of early injustices stormed through my veins once again and I was not able to escape the grey damp shadow of victimhood.
Pat smiled and was on the verge of laughing. “I did change my mind. I changed it twice since I told Mrs. Axe but I’ve a new granddaughter up there in Maine and I figure there’s no time like the present.”
They had been such a support to me. If I hadn’t spent a lot of time in Pat and Jim’s company after my break-up with my high-school sweetheart I might easily have become a regular in the pub with Frank Dillon. The couple commiserated with me the day I returned from Williams College and convinced me that
I was only suffering from ‘growing pains’. They shared memories of their daughter, who they said went off with a new boyfriend after she graduated from high school.
“My grandchildren are the main reason I’m giving up my work here,” Pat repeated. After a painful moment of silence she continued. “Mrs. Axe is comfortable with our decision. She understands. She’s been good to us. We appreciate it.”
In those early days, only on weekends when I was out for a drive with Mrs. Axe or walking about the estate with Mr. Axe did I absent myself from Pat’s domestic world. When she asked me to help her in the kitchen or even tidying up after a party I didn’t hesitate. I was used to cooking, serving and cleaning. Pat was always happy, even appreciative that I served Mrs. Axe her breakfast every morning before I went to school. Preparing and serving breakfast was as automatic with me as tying my shoe laces. Such chores didn’t require much planning or comparisons from my point of view and participating in physical labour was for the most part bereft of judgment and ambition.
It was left to her to accustom me to my new surroundings. She was my guide and at times my salvation when I wandered about the huge mansion half lost for days on end. Early in my residency Jim took it upon himself to drive me to every corner of the estate and show me where he kept the salt that kept the driveway free of ice and snow in the winter as well as the garage where he helped repair and ready the cars that the Axes used. And that included my roadster. Had Jim and Pat not been concerned about my welfare for my first couple of months at the castle I might not have adjusted as easily as I had. While Maggie Sheridan lived at the castle Pat filled me in on the custom and idiosyncrasies of getting along with the Axes.
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