Herself

by Leslie Carroll

  We toast each other and sit knee to knee, as the band plays its trad tunes, toe-tappers all. In the low light, David’s eyes become deep, beautiful pools in which I can see my own image reflected back at me, and I wonder if the distortion I notice is his vision of me, or my own view of myself through his eyes. Then I begin to think it’s just the rather potent Irish Coffee softening and blurring the edges. By the time I’ve nearly finished my drink, licking the whipped cream moustache from my upper lip, I find myself placing my hand on David’s leg and leaning closer, murmuring under the music, “I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t at first…but I am now.”

  “I’m having a wonderful time,” he avers, with a winning smile. “Care for another?”

  “No more caffeine for me. But as I haven’t had a whiskey since I’ve been in Ireland, except in the coffee, get me a Jameson’s with a water back.”

  David gives me a surprised look. “You don’t drink whiskey!”

  “When in Rome,” I shrug. “If I don’t care for it I won’t finish it.”

  But that old John Jameson knows his stuff: it is good going down, and the music is terrific and the spirit is within me and I want to get up and dance and not give a hoot who’s watching. “Dance with me, David,” I say, tossing back the rest of the whiskey, leaving the glass on the bar. And the David who was often game for anything, gets up and joins me. No one knows who he is, which is another reason not to care. So we’re up on our feet, and then I spy Gogo and Joe, my other new pals from that evening in Davy Byrne’s, and they rise to their feet and stamp and clap, and Gogo grabs the elbow of the woman who had been sitting on the bench beside him and they burst into a traditional jig, filled with joy and release. I try to emulate them and kick up my heels like a wannabe at the Riverdance auditions. David’s head is thrown back in a laugh, and I grin until my eyes fill with tears because I am so happy.

  Catching David’s eye, the bartender pours another pair of whiskeys and we try to down them as we dance, then give up and clasp each other about the waist instead, standing by our stools. I tilt my chin to his face and our lips meet in a soft, familiar kiss. Can the Irish magic be giving me back my man? Is a renewal of our relationship the pot of gold at the end of today’s rainbow?

  “Remember where we were before our first kiss?” I ask David. “Earlier in the day, I mean. You were campaigning on the Upper West Side and there was an Irish pub on Seventy-ninth Street?”

  “The Dublin House!” David laughs. “Boy, was that an old timers’ place! The walls were brown from all the tobacco smoke that had built up over the years.”

  “And the locals complained because of the no-smoking law. They said they’d only vote for you if you promised them you’d do something about it. The Republican was a guy named Callaghan, as I recall.”

  “And that day you’d tipped me off that Callaghan was under investigation by the D.A.’s office, but you wouldn’t tell me how you found out.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t.”

  “No matter how much I tried to wheedle it out of you.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “But you looked so beautiful as you denied me your source, and I was so thrilled to get the information that I could have kissed you on the spot.”

  “You almost did, remember? Everyone had gone home by then, and you locked the door and pulled down the shades on all the windows of your re-election headquarters and led me by the hand into the kitchenette. And you backed me up against the refrigerator…”

  “And once I kissed you I couldn’t stop. I remember that part. Very well.”

  “It was like all the pent up emotional what ever that had been going on throughout the campaign, and all the undercurrents between us…those began soon after I came to work for you, I seem to recall…all of that exploded.”

  David laughs and downs the rest of his second glass of Jameson’s, signaling the bartender for another round. “That wasn’t all that exploded. Remember looking around the kitchen for some soap?”

  I, too, burst out laughing. “And having to use dishwashing liquid and wet paper towels to clean your Armani slacks. It made so many bubbles! And your little predicament made you even more endearing.”

  “You, too. On your knees scrubbing my whatdoyacallit.”

  “Your placket.”

  “My placket. That’s a funny word: placket. Placket placket placket.”

  “Congressman Weyburn,” I whisper, “you’re drunk.”

  “So are you, Ms. Tessa Craig. Placket placket placket. It sounds like a duck. Quack quack quack. I never used to like Jameson’s.”

  “We made love that night. At my place, actually. We took a taxi there like real people, instead of calling Freddy for the black car.”

  “And you had knitting stuff all over your bed. Yarn everywhere.”

  “I’d been inventorying…to see what I had enough of. I wanted to make a granny square afghan.”

  “Which I still have on my bed, you know.” David takes my hand. I don’t tell him that the ship he made for me has been shoved into a closet.

  I’m feeling extraordinarily mellow right now. Well, of course I am: I’ve had half a bottle of wine with dinner, and since we’ve been at O’Donoghue’s I’ve imbibed an Irish Coffee and am presently on my third whiskey. “I like knowing that,” I murmur. “I like it a lot.”

  “I need you, kiddo,” David tells me. We are nearly nose to nose, so close I can feel the energy coming off his body and bouncing off against my own. “You know this; I’m facing the toughest re-election campaign of my career. The gay flap thing won’t go away, and to ensure that any frank discussion of the issues is continually evaded, if not tanked entirely, the RNC has loaned Dobson Len Avariss.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I sigh, “Len Avariss makes Karl Rove look like Mother Teresa.”

  David takes me in his arms. “I want you by my side for this, Tess.”

  “I’d like to be there,” I hear myself say.

  “Another whiskey?”

  “No…I’m good, thanks.”

  “You are good, Tess. You’re verygood. We’re good together.”

  I rest my head, which suddenly feels like a lead balloon, on his shoulder. “Yes we are, aren’t we?”

  “Yes we are. Whatdoyousay we get someair?”

  “Thassa goodidea. I could use someair.”

  The road alongside St. Stephen’s Green is dark. “Are there anymuggers in Dublin?” David wonders aloud. He pulls me closer to him.

  “Muggers? I haven’t met any.” Arms about each other’s waists, we weave tipsily toward our hotels.

  “Carefor a nightcap?” David asks, pointing to the windows of the Shelbourne’s bar.

  “Ummm. Tempting. But I think a glassofwater would be more the…thing.”

  “Water. Okay, water is good. Your minibar or mine?”

  “I think you should see me home.” I’m not even sure exactly what I mean by that, apart from the literal desire for David to ensure that I arrive at Boynton’s safely. Do I want him to come upstairs to my room? My body must have asked him—perhaps the fact that I didn’t take my arm away from his waist was the giveaway—because my mouth didn’t form any specific request.

  There’s no concierge at the desk, so like giddy children playing hide and seek in a strange house, we start to tiptoe around corners, “exploring.”

  “Hey, where do you think this leads?” My stage whisper summons David around a narrow dog leg in the ground floor hallway. “Oh, lookit’s an elevator! Who knew they had one? I’ve been walking up to the third floor this whole time.”

  There’s barely room for both of us; the elevator being an obvious afterthought or else the compromise the hoteliers reached in combining modern sense with Georgian sensibility. It’s one of those little cages where you have to close the gate like a brass accordion once you’re inside the car or the lift won’t lift you. “I’ve always harbored a secret desire to be an elevator operator,” I whisper to David as I close the gate.


  “No, wait, I want to work the lever.” David edges me aside. It moves in a half-moon arc like the ones I remember seeing in the old Saks Fifth Avenue and Radio City Music Hall elevators during my childhood.

  “You don’t lookvery authentic,” I tease. “Where are your white gloves? And do you call that a uniform?”

  “On the floor of the House of Representatives, this suit, my dear, might as well be a uniform.” David emits a slight hiccup, which sends me into a giggle fit. “Third floor: ladies’ lingerie.” He moves the lever as, snuggled together, we watch the arrow on the brass dial above our heads. After affecting a surprisingly smooth landing on the right floor, he opens the gate. “After you, Ms. Craig.”

  “Wait, we need to close the gate behind us or no one else will be able to sue—I mean use—the elevator. It’ll be stuck on three. Wait—my turn.” I close the gate and then start for my room.

  “C’mere,” David whispers playfully. I oblige, tottering a bit. I think my feet hurt from walking so much in high heels this evening, but I’m so tipsy that I can’t really discern whether I am feeling any pain. My tootsies are just a bit numb at present. “Take off your dress.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious. Take off your dress, Tess. Don’t worry. There’s no one up here to see us.” He puts his finger to his lips. “They’re all asleep, see? Shhhh.” He pulls me toward him into a kiss and while our lips dance he unzips my sheath, sliding the dress down over my shoulders. “Your bra, too,” he insists, taking my purse out of my hand.

  “What racy little devil got into you to night?” I suppress a slightly nervous giggle.

  “I am possessed by the spirit of John Jameson,” David replies, affecting a spooky hollow voice. “Oooah-ha-ha-ha!”

  “Shh! You’re nuts!”

  “C’mon, Tess. I dare you. Remember that time at the house I rented in Montauk?”

  “Too well. You dared me to walk naked into the surf in a full moon. Knowing I’m scared shitless of sharks,” I hissed.

  “Well, there’re no sharks here…so what are you waiting for. Just your thong and your pearls—and your heels, of course. From here to your room. You’re the sexiest woman in Ireland, Tess, trust me. And the only person who’s going to see you is me. The only thing you have to fear is fear itself.” He unlocks the door to my room, and, standing in the doorway, holds out his arms as if I’m a toddler just learning to swim to papa.

  Equally possessed by Mr. Jameson’s spirit(s) I take the dare and saunter toward him with my best Belle du Jour attitude. And halfway to the door I hear the whirr of cables and gears and a thumpf and a bit of a clatter behind me, and instead of flight (toward David and the privacy of my room) I freeze like the proverbial frightened deer and turn my head toward the noise.

  “Tess! You didn’t stop by the pub to night so I wanted to make sure everything was all right,” blurts Jamie Doyle. Suddenly we all assess the situation, as, looking from man to man, I can see that David wonders who this Irishman is, I wonder what David is thinking of Jamie’s familiarity in assuming he can pop up to my room, and Jamie’s cheerful countenance dissolves as he processes the fact that he has just been speaking to a mostly naked woman, who is clearly entertaining another man in the vicinity of her hotel room.

  “But…I see that…you’re already…well taken care of.” Stunned and wounded, he steps back into the elevator and shuts the gate with a resounding crunch of brass.

  Do I hear the word “shite!” as the car descends toward the lobby?

  Thirteen

  “Who was that?” David asks my red, crestfallen face.

  “Just…a new friend. With a penchant for spontaneity.” My mortification is complete. I close myself into the bathroom, down a pair of aspirin and a couple of glasses of water in quick succession, and run the shower. I’m all sticky and sweaty from dancing. As I lather up, I hear a knock at the door.

  “Mind if I come in? I need to…you know.”

  Well, we’d been a couple for three years, comfortably sharing the bathroom many times in the past, particularly when nature placed a personal call to the other one of us. I mean, you can’t exactly be selfish under those conditions. And I confess that I’d always found our comfort level with that kind of bathroom stuff to be romantic in a way: a sort of emblem of domestic bliss at its most basic everyday level that reminded me how good it felt to be half a couple. And if David isn’t squeamish to night about using the toilet while I’m in the shower—and I know that exes can feel awkward about that kind of intimacy, although they never did while they were lovers—then I am hopeful that a reconciliation may be on the menu.

  “Do you want company?”

  The last time we’d showered together was the morning of David’s heart attack. I can see his silhouette through the plastic curtain. He’s already stripped to his boxers. “Only if you promise not to almost drop dead in a few hours.”

  “It’s a campaign promise I promise to keep.” He parts the curtain and steps into the tub beside me, immediately adjusting the shower head to suit his convenience.

  “Hey! I’m not getting wet!”

  “I’ll take care of that. Stand over here and I’ll wash your back.”

  My mind is a muddle. I had hoped to clear my head in the shower, but David’s visit had thrown a monkey wrench into everything. It’s a cardinal rule never to operate heavy machinery when you’ve had a great deal to drink, and I think one’s brain can sometimes fall into that category. My judgment is certainly impaired at present and David’s presence exacerbates the condition, especially when he caresses my back with his soapy hands. And I wonder to myself about Jamie…I am so embarrassed that he saw me to night that I can’t imagine facing him again. And I’ve kissed him…and what was that all about if what I really wanted was David back? But I never thought that would happen—I mean, who could have predicted that David would have shown up here? So…this kissing-Jamie-thing…was that like the romantic equivalent of the old “hair of the dog” adage regarding alcohol consumption? If you kiss another guy soon after you break up (or, in my case, are broken up with), is that supposed to ease the emotional pain?

  And…oh, hell, there’s no way to focus on my thoughts with David’s hand sliding in and out of some very sensitive southern areas.

  “I think your back is pretty clean now,” he murmurs. “Turn around and let me wash your front.”

  Reason and common sense now fly the coop entirely to make room for pure sensation and sensuality. I love it when David bathes me. And standing under the shower head I close my eyes and let the water massage my cheeks in rivers of freshwater tears.

  I’m about to don my fluffy new robe when I step out of the tub, but David stops me. “I’ve missed your skin,” he says. “Don’t cover it up just yet.”

  And with the moonlight streaming through the window and the streetlamps along the edge of St. Stephen’s Green contributing a glow of their own, we make love for the first time since David’s surgery, and I trace the planes of his torso with gentle kisses, happy that the heart beneath it is healthy and beats for me once more. “Welcome home,” I say huskily as I feel him enter me and my body rises to receive his in a dance that, while magnificently familiar, is filled with the joy of renewal.

  “Thanks for still being alive,” I tell him, resting my head against his chest in the satiated lull that follows our mutual expressions of ecstasy. There was never a doubt as to how much we wanted, desired, each other.

  “I can feel you smiling,” he whispers, stroking my hair.

  I suppose this means things aren’t really over between us, I muse silently. After all, people break up and get back together all the time.

  I am awakened by the clip-clop of horse shoes. The hack drivers below my window are chauffeuring their first crop of tourists for the day, competing with the rush hour auto traffic for pavement. I reach for David but come up with a handful of bed linens instead. The man who is not a morning person is already dressed in his suit and is standing before
the mirror adjusting his tie.

  “Oh…I had hoped we’d go into the countryside today. Rent a car, or take a tour bus…I discovered the most magical gardens and I wanted to bring you back there.”

  “I’m sorry, Tess. I need to go check out of the hotel I never stayed in, and my flight leaves at noon. I’ve got to get back. You know the kind of schedule I have; I need to spend as much time in the district as possible while Congress is in recess for the summer. Somehow I didn’t get the chance to tell you that I’d only be in town—here, I mean—for twenty-four hours. I…I came to woo you back.”

  “As your speechwriter, or as…?”

  David sits on the edge of the bed and gently places his hands on my shoulders. “Well, you’re the best damn speechwriter anyone could have. There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever about that.” He catches one of my silent tears on the tip of his index finger and drinks it. “About us…well…I really thought it might be possible to make a go of it again…please believe that I wouldn’t have done what we did last night if I didn’t think otherwise…I think you know me well enough to know I’m not an asshole…and I never had any intentions of hurting you, Tess…but in the light of day…” His voice trails off as he searches for the words and I sense the metallic chill of the executioner’s blade, colder and crueler for my believing I had been granted a reprieve. “I have to be honest with you…things feel the same to my brain as they did a week ago. I love you, Tess…I do, but…you know I hate to make campaign promises.”

  “But you have done,” I reply, trying not to sob. “Like the story about the scorpion and the frog. It’s in your nature.” I hang my head and blink back the tears. Inhaling deeply, I steel myself. Funny—though hardly amusing—that he tells me he loves me in exactly so many words when the axe is falling for good. “I love you, David. I do, and, especially after last night I would love for us to be lovers again. But…I’m tired of being the frog. As far as working for you goes…” I take another deep breath. “I think it’s probably best for both of us if I look for another job when I get back to New York. Hell, I’ve got a great résumé,” I add with forced cheer. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone else to write for.”