Herself

by Leslie Carroll

  The other night, when I was still back in New York entertaining Venus and Imogen (or was it the other way around?) I heard myself laugh and it sounded foreign to my ears. It wasn’t my laugh. It was David’s. A snicker not my own. I’d even allowed my lover’s laugh to inhabit my body and displace mine. Did I laugh to night with Jamie? I think I did. Whose was it? I don’t remember. My God…I don’t even recall the original sound of my own laughter. Oh, shit…I just spilled orange juice all over the place. [A brief interval while I mop up the damage.] I hope the stickiness doesn’t encourage literary cockroaches (Don Marquis’s Archie comes to mind) to read my journal. Yuck! My reflexes are a bit fuzzed from the beer.

  Damnit! Why didn’t I tell Jamie Doyle no? Why didn’t I just say, “You’ve been very kind, and it’s a generous offer, but I need some time alone. That’s why I came to Ireland. To get away from all the everyday everythings except myself.” Yes, that’s it. “I came here to find myself, Jamie. So…and I mean this in the nicest way…hello and good-bye.”

  “I…I want to be alone, Jamie.” It’s 12:05 P.M. and we’re sitting on the striped silk divan in Boynton’s cozy parlor. A shaft of sunlight bounces off the window sash, illuminating the fireplace like the metaphorical presence of God in seventeenth-century religious paintings.

  “All right then, Greta Garbo.” I can see that he’s disappointed and trying to make light of the situation. “Niver let it be said that Jamie Doyle twisted a woman’s arm. Even if she’s a fascinating American who’s always secretly wished she had a dog. An Irish setter would be an excellent choice. Or an Irish wolfhound—though it might be the size of yer entire flat. I hear real estate is tight in Manhattan.”

  I have always wanted a dog. But couldn’t think of keeping one in my apartment. He’s right on both counts. This is weird. Did I tell him last night, in the course of spilling my guts about my career and busted love life, that I’m a fire-place mutt-owner manqué? I couldn’t have: I haven’t thought about getting a pet in years. “I think you’re a witch, Jamie Doyle. Or war lock, I guess.”

  “I thought you were seeking the supernatural. Fairies camped out under toadstools to shelter from a sudden downpour. Leprechauns clutching pots at the ends of rainbows. The mysteries of the sí. Giants—it’s too bad you’re only here for a few days; I’d show you the Giants Causeway. Too many American visitors to Ireland check their imaginations with their luggage and then the airlines lose it. All they see is a bunch o’boulders. But Tessa Goldsmith Craig would embrace the legend. At least I thought she would. I guess I was wrong. It was lovely to meet you, Miss Garbo.” Jamie extends his hand. When I don’t shake it, he shoves it into the back pocket of his cords. “Hello and good-bye, then.”

  He turns and walks into the vestibule. The wind chimes herald the opening of the hotel’s front door, and I hear it close as I stare into a fire that doesn’t exist. Then I glance out the window in time to spy Jamie walking toward Grafton Street.

  Well…if the decision is my own. A wiry man in a spattered white cap and coveralls is painting the wrought-iron railing in front of the hotel, and I inhale a whiff of the oil-based fumes as I trot past his bucket. “Wait, Jamie!” I dodge a gauntlet of bemused pedestrians as I rush to catch up with him. Managing to grab a handful of his denim workshirt, I bring us both to a halt. One of the carriage horses lined up opposite St. Stephen’s Green, a dapple-gray, whinnies at my success. “You win, Jamie.” He turns to face me. “You’ve…bewitched me. I don’t know how you did it, but…I surrender. You want to show me Dublin, you can, okay? My travel agenda is at your disposal.”

  The corners of his mouth curl upwards in an impish smile. “I’m so glad Aer Lingus didn’t lose your imagination.” He links my arm through his own. “Thank you, Miss Garbo.”

  “Now that I’ve given up—kicking and screaming, I’ll have you know—on being alone all week, you’re not entitled to call me that anymore.”

  Jamie smiles, and, off my guard, I am struck by its warmth as well as its wattage. Then I remind myself of Venus’s description of Irish men “charming the pants off” me and I gird myself in an extra layer of emotional armor.

  Can Jamie sense my sudden defensiveness through my arm when he suddenly says, “Now, Tessa Goldsmith Craig, you can put on all that New York toughness you’ve a mind to, but I’ll be a good host and tell yiz before it’s too late to truly enjoy yourself that it’s in effective in Ireland.” I burst out laughing. “Aha! There’s the spirit!”

  “That’s not why I’m laughing. Your little psychic victory…”

  “Why then? Oh, don’t tell me you won’t let me in on the joke.”

  “You pronounce the name of your country ‘Oyre-land.’ Are you sure you’re not Jewish?” This—my turning of his countrymen’s joke on me on him—is something Jamie finds hysterically amusing. He flings his arms about me, and in a split second I am lifted off my feet and his lips—soft, sweet—are making contact with my own, giving my brain no time to edit the action of my lonely hormones. I give back as good as I get. After all, he’s being such a good host; I wouldn’t want to appear an ungrateful guest.

  “I…barely know you,” I murmur as he relinquishes my lips and my feet are returned to the pavement.

  “What better beginning?” He smiles winsomely, and I make a quick mental note to e-mail Venus and tell her I’m a drowning woman and it’s only my second day of vacation. “Now, I know you’ve seen the Book of Kells and Ireland’s oldest harp, so we don’t need to go back to Trinity unless you want to amuse me by blending in with the students.”

  “Flatterer.”

  Having determined that there were a number of highlights I didn’t see yesterday, Jamie is determined to hit the ground running, cramming in as many sights as humanly possible. Actually, he has so much stamina, I begin to wonder if he is, in fact, 100 percent mortal. We spend the afternoon traversing Dublin until my feet are begging for mercy: the Dáil (Parliament), the National Museum, the Abbey and the Gate Theatres, Dublin Castle and City Hall, a variety of pubs so that we can catch some refreshment along with our breath—and with all of it, the history of the city in a nutshell, from the Vikings and Brian Ború to the IRA’s cessation of hostilities. I try to process it all, but I beg Jamie to slow down, pleading extreme sightseeing overload. By dinnertime all I can remember is that “dubh linn” means “black pool.” I can’t recall fatigue figuring in Leopold Bloom’s progress throughout the city, but not being a fictional character, I need to rest.

  “Boy, you should see Central Park. This is so…manicured,” I say, as we lie flat on our backs on one of St. Stephen’s Green’s pristine lawns. Dublin parks are meticulously landscaped, in contrast with New York green spaces, perhaps a metaphor for our respective national characters. I think of all the acres of untamed undergrowth in Central Park, or in Prospect Park out in Brooklyn. “Your parks are very European, Jamie. Very…well behaved. Our parks wouldn’t stay looking like this for more than two seconds.”

  “Ach, this is nothing.” His hand meanders across the inches of lawn that separate our bodies and finds mine. As our fingers entwine, I feel a sense of warmth spread through my arm as though my hand had been kissed by a sun god, and I am consciously aware that my body is relaxing, sinking into the cushion of cool grass while the left side of my brain warns the right side to stop editing and just enjoy each moment, for they won’t come again. A breeze brushes my forehead. “You like gardens, then?”

  “Always wanted to have one of my own, actually. But I have a black thumb.” Eyes closed, my words drift upon the air into Jamie’s ears.

  “I’ll show you Powerscourt. Some of the most beautiful gardens in Ireland.”

  “Is it far away?”

  “About as far from here as Scarsdale is from Manhattan,” Jamie replies, displaying a surprising knowledge of New York geography. “Maybe a bit farther. I never clocked it, exactly. It never occurred to me to do so. But why do you care?” he adds, evidently amused. “Are yiz in a hurry to be somewhe
re anytime this week?”

  “N-no…but…Actually, Jamie…I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because you’ve been wonderful today, but…I’d wanted time alone this week. I need it.”

  “So you’ve told me,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to impose.”

  And yet I can’t bring myself to disengage our fingers. How much can I really want to be alone when I won’t let go of his hand?

  A late dinner (“I hope you fancy sausages”) is at a pub in Temple Bar called The Missing Link, where Patrick and Michael Doyle and their band, Devil’s Kiss (“the name is shite, don’t you think?”) are scheduled to perform. Having sampled a few of the other Temple Bar cafés and pubs, I begin to feel that nearly everyone in Dublin, especially in this vibrant neighborhood, is roughly half my age. I’ve never seen so many twenty-somethings in one place. Acknowledging that their technology has passed me by, for the most part, and that I may never “get” their music, I am myself a relic of another era, well-preserved thanks to the good graces of God and Estee Lauder.

  “Ahh, you’re a good soldier, Tess,” Jamie tells me. As I am unable to hear his words through the music, he writes them on a paper napkin.

  “You’re a good brother,” I try to reply above the din. The musicians are accomplished enough, so far as I can tell, but Devil’s Kiss could wake the dead, and this wasn’t what I had in mind when it comes to enjoying “traditional Irish music” in a local pub. The young performers are enjoying themselves though, and most of their audience, contemporaries, appear to know many of the lyrics and sing along. “I wish them well…but…it’s been a long day for me, and I think I’ve still got a bit of jet lag.”

  At a break in the second set, Jamie pays the tab and we make for the tiny raised stage to congratulate his twin brothers, who are presently sky-high on life from their peers’ reception of their performance. “Patrick told me that Jamie had met someone,” Michael says. He’s wearing more jewelry than I am: numerous leather and metal bracelets on each wrist, and both of his ears sport small gold hoops. “Has he told you yet that he loves you?” Blanching, I glance at Jamie, who colors quickly. “Ah, well, then, it’s only been a day, hasn’t it?” Michael adds. He clasps my forearm for balance and leans forward to whisper in my ear. “Jamie has the most open heart in Ireland. But it’s not as strong as it should be. And I’m not discussing his health, in case you don’t take my meaning. You’re leaving within the week, yes? Going home to your fancy life in America?”

  I nod my head. “Though it’s not as fancy as you imagine.”

  “Don’t you go horting my big brother.” Michael’s words are as much a plea as a warning.

  Jamie walks me back to Boynton’s and we end up having a late-night cappuccino in the buttery. As the only two guests in the graciously appointed room, it’s easy to imagine that it’s two hundred years ago and we own the place.

  “Refreshingly quiet,” I whisper.

  Jamie’s smile relaxes into a huge grin. “I’ve got me a headache to beat the band, I do.”

  “I’ll bet it’s the band that gave it to you.” I reach into my purse and take out a pillbox, offering him a range of over-the-counter pharmaceutical remedies.

  His hand encloses mine, which encloses the pillbox. “If there’s anyone who can cure it, it’s you.” In the gentle light from the votive on our table, his Irish eyes are indeed smiling. “I’m so…drawn to you, Tess.”

  “But you barely know me.”

  “That doesn’t change things. It just makes me want to know more. Your energy, your beauty…it’s a good beginning right there.” His smile sags a bit. “I’ll take those aspirins, now.”

  I parse out the pills. “Your brother Michael seems to be really looking out for you.”

  “Mickey fancies himself a mobster, he does. Too many episodes of your American telly over here,” he chuckles. “Tony Soprano and all. Your American tough guys give a young’un with a large imagination and the secret of a pint-sized ego a chance to dream. But I’m not in a mood to talk about Mickey. I want to kiss you, Tessa. Just as soon as the gremlins in me head stop doing the Tarantella.”

  “Not a jig?”

  “Never!” Jamie rises from his chair and sidles beside me onto the upholstered banquette. Our lips meet, and tongues, tasting of coffee and foam, explore the new and wonderful terrain of each other. He snuggles me into his arms, and my soul feels happy. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of the late-night concierge, the Swede who had served us the cappuccino, slipping discreetly back into the shadows. The frissons of passion zing like crazed electrons along the length of my spine.

  “I…really should go upstairs and get some sleep,” says the voice coming out of my mouth, the voice my brain evidently sent, the voice my brain decided did not want to make love with Jamie to night. Another voice inside me begs to differ, but not loudly enough, and Jamie, for all his uncanny sense of intuition, doesn’t hear it. He only hears the one that expressed the wish to retire for the night alone.

  He slowly disentangles his limbs from mine; displaces his left hand from the center of my back, then his right hand, the one that had been exploring the contours of my neck and shoulder, and sits back against the banquette. Not daunted or deterred or disappointed, he runs the hand that had been so lately an intimate of my breasts, through his light brown hair to return it to its customary appearance of slight tousledness, for my own curious hands have sent it every which way. “I’ll be looking forward to tomorrow, then,” he says affably.

  “Why tomorrow?” The still, small voice inside me is loud enough to berate parts of my brain for breaking the embrace, and perhaps the mood as well.

  “Did you say you enjoyed gardens?”

  “Did I?”

  He nods. “Splendid ones. I’ll be here at noon to take you out to Powerscourt. Now don’t go upstairs and be peeking in your guidebook ahead of time. It’ll be high noon, as you Americans say, before ya know it.”

  He makes me laugh. “New Yorkers don’t say ‘high noon’; in fact I’ll bet no Americans at all have used that phrase in several decades.”

  “Ahh, but Tessa Goldsmith Craig, dontcha jist long for the past?” His cadences make his words sound like music played on a golden pennywhistle. If he’s the Pied Piper of Dublin, I’m beginning to suspect I’d follow him over hill and dale into a magical dell, safe from the grasping and dishonest, the corrupt and the ignorant, that make up the worst of the world.

  Eleven

  Day 5 A.D. (August 11, sometime after midnight)

  I seem unable to resist Jamie Doyle, at least in the short run. I am having such fun in his company that I’m neglecting the reasons I flew across the Atlantic in the first place. The third day of my weeklong vacation is about to begin and I still crave the chance to be alone with my thoughts for more than an hour or so at a time. And the idea of a man I barely know wanting to do things for me without expecting a quid pro quo, asking for nothing but my presence, and then wanting to do more for me, is alien, and occasionally irksome. This holiday is not proceeding as planned. While I delight in the adventuresome aspect of my new acquaintance, I despair that my time here is slipping out of my grasp, out of my own control. Why can’t I simply say “go away!” to Jamie? “Thanks, but no thanks.” “I don’t need this right now.” “It’s not a good time for me.” Babble from a vintage 1970s feminist movie pops and sputters inside my memory, begging to be given valid consideration, only to be replaced by the voice of Venus inside my head laughing at me and cajoling me to follow the path of the more fascinating rainbow. “For God’s sake, girl, go with Alan Bates!”

  David. I’m not over him yet. Not by a longshot. How can I even consider getting involved with anyone else now, even if—or maybe especially since—I’ll be leaving the country in a few days?

  “It’s too soon for this,” says the voice of reason. “You’re not emotionally ready, Tess.”

  I don’t feel like warring with my inner thoughts to night. Out of habit, I turn on the televi
sion, looking for something that will serve as “white noise” while I get undressed and prepare for bed. Jamie wasn’t kidding about the invasion of American programming. Nearly every channel has one of our exports in syndication. A flash of spandex catches my eye and the banner below the image tells me I have landed on an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Might as well, with one eye and half an ear, find out why Jamie is a Trekkie. Brushing my teeth I catch sight of a pretty brunette in blue, a character they call Deanna Troi, and until I rinse and spit I wonder why the producers didn’t name her Helena instead.

  Then I recall that Jamie had mentioned that name, insisting that he was more like Deanna Troi than the oh-so-logical Vulcan Spock. Aah…now I will pay closer attention to this television show that continues to elude both my imagination and my heart. But by the time I crawl under the covers, and slide the cool smooth sheet past my hips, reaching for the remote to send this program to a galaxy far far away, I learn that Deanna Troi is an “empath,” with the capability of intuiting, understanding, and deeply feeling the emotions of others—their rapture as well as their pain. And if I don’t “get” the allure of Star Trek any better than I did half an hour ago, I do understand a lot more about the man called Jamie Doyle.

  Once outside the city, toodling along the roads in Jamie’s little yellow Mini Cooper, I begin to see the Ireland of my imagination’s fantasies, the emerald hillsides studded with sheep and dotted with wildflowers which morph into the huge granite outcroppings that I can easily envision as the celestial destination of Jack’s magical beanstalk: surely there are giants within these hills. I admit that I find the little villages charmingly rustic in a fairy-tale way, and realize I probably sound like an idiot in search of the improbable. “Just don’t go referrin’ to the residents as ‘quaint,’” Jamie cautions.