On the mattress I rise to my knees and clasp David about the torso. “Good luck, my darling,” I say, looking up into his dark eyes, and my tears return. His eyes, too, are moist. Neither of us is very happy right now, but I know I said what I had to say, did what I had to do.
Didn’t I?
Day 6 A.D.—or maybe it’s Day 1 A.D. redux
(August 12)
Campaign promises. Empty, hollow, shallow things that the “honest” politicians might actually believe at the time they utter them, but the result is the same either way. David didn’t just make campaign promises to the voters; he made them to me, too. And this morning I finally realized—or maybe accepted—that to believe them was the emotional equivalent of moving into a sand castle during a hurricane. With campaign promises, there’s always the offer of hope without the guarantee of fulfillment. And even if fulfillment of those campaign promises actually does materialize in some form, it’s always the constituent who bears the brunt of them. No such thing as a free lunch. Sure you can have your playgrounds, your libraries, even your “free” lunches for impoverished school kids. I’m just going to have to raise your taxes so we can pay for them.
But I made a choice last night. I was operating on lust and hope. Although the alcohol anesthetized me against the possibility of further emotional pain, no one forced me to make love with David. I wanted to. I missed him, I wanted him back, I needed to hold him, to feel him inside me again. And what ever else David may be from time to time, he is a man of integrity. I do believe that at least for a few hours yesterday, softened by the rosy glow of nostalgia, emboldened by a tot or three of whiskey, and the sexy headiness of sharing a foreign adventure, he, too, supposed it was possible to change his mind and rekindle our relationship.
It makes it very hard for me to be angry at him. I’m sad…disappointed certainly…but not infuriated. I’m more emotionally numb than anything else right now.
I have spent the morning hiking the cliffs of Howth, having picked up my guidebook in search of someplace not too far from Dublin where I can see the sea. Water always has a way of calming me, of enabling me to turn my thoughts inward as I gaze out at its infinite blue. I have been sitting on a little rock. Way down to my right I can glimpse a lighthouse, the prize in the cosmic Cracker Jack box for walking this far along the cliffs; and far below me, the waves crash against the rocks, the white spray a dozen Naiads’ salty tears. Even the sea nymphs weep for my broken heart.
How could I, by most accounts an intelligent, outwardly confident, “together” woman, have come to lose track of me so badly? I’m forty years old. Why did it take so long for me to realize this? Why did I need to be hit with a metaphorical two-by-four for it to register?
As I sit here, embraced by a breeze with the occasional passing tourist (they all seem to be German) and a few wildflowers my only companions on this side of the sea, I begin to recognize that I had become deeply enamored of the image I was partially responsible for creating, the magical semi-fiction of Congressman David Weyburn that magnified his assets and obscured his flaws. And I begrudgingly begin to acknowledge that the “faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound” superimage had the same effect on me, one of its chief architects, as it did on his constituents and on the rest of America. The image overshadowed the reality. No one got to see the real man, just the hyped-up version of him. The real David Weyburn is not an evil person, of course; he’s just (it almost pains me to write this) a highly self-absorbed and—perhaps even this word applies—a narcissistic one. Perhaps those qualities contributed to his success as a public figure, but it sure makes it hard to be such a man’s lover.
However…when all is said and done, like Pygmalion I fell in love with my own creation. There’s been an odd transference occurring ever since our personal and professional lives began to blur. In order to effectively write David’s (or anyone’s) speeches, I had to get inside his head and become him, in effect; and I began to lose myself along the way. As a ghostwriter my own personality became a shadow in the ser vice of others.
Funny, how I had to travel from one little, sometimes unreal, island all the way across the Atlantic to another isle where creating tales of make-believe and fantasy is a part of their culture, in order to realize how much I needed to become reacquainted with myself after such a prolonged absence.
I take my time walking back down to the village. Howth is postcard-picturesque, tourist-friendly, fisherman-friendly, cyclist-friendly, with a long mole jutting into the bay on which I stop to enjoy the view from sea level and turn back to marvel at the climb I’d undertaken. I had made another stop along my winding and rocky descent, pausing in front of a large cottage once home to William Butler Yeats. A discreet sign tells me I have come upon Balscadder House and underneath it a quote from the great poet and playwright…perhaps a gentle plea to literary critics and other potential detractors, both professional and personal: I HAVE SPREAD MY DREAMS UNDER YOUR FEET. TREAD SOFTLY BECAUSE YOU TREAD ON MY DREAMS. And my own “pilgrim soul” cries out in sympathy.
In New York City, people rarely strike up conversations with strangers. We’re too much on our guard, too preoccupied with our own thoughts, too busy snagging a precious moment or two to ourselves to engage in banter just for the sake of common conviviality. But here, it’s different. At the light rail station, a woman of a certain age asks me if I’m enjoying my ice cream cone. My affirmative reply sparks a conversation where I discover that her son lives across the street from where I grew up in the Bronx. He’s a lay teacher at the parochial school I used to look out on from my parents’ bedroom window. I don’t tell her about the Hawaiian-shirted priest we used to watch climbing into a powder-blue Buick every Saturday evening, driven by an attractive brunette. “Father Luau,” as we called him, would slide over so that he was in the center of the front seat and then drape his left arm over the woman’s shoulder. I don’t think she was a sister, in any sense of the word.
Back in Dublin, it’s a short walk from the station to my hotel, but I decide to take a detour: there was a sweater that caught my eye a couple of days ago in a shop window on Grafton Street. Lucky for my wallet, all the popcorn stitching makes me look like a fat cow. And for the price of the handmade one-off (or so the shopgirl swears), I have a feeling I’d be better off just buying the wool at a local yarn shop and adapting an Aran pattern myself.
Focused on the exciting prospect of a new knitting project, designing sweaters in my head, I head into St. Stephen’s Green and using my purse for a pillow, stretch out on the pristine lawn, gazing at the Georgian row houses peeking through the trees on the opposite side of the Green and pretend it’s really 1807. The warm sun feels good on my face.
A passing cloud, briefly altering the temperature, awakens me from my nap, so I figure it’s a sign I should go indoors. It does look like rain, come to think of it. After crossing the street to walk back to Boynton’s, I sense a hansom cab accelerating its usual lazy pace, then stopping suddenly alongside me.
“Want a lift?”
I look up at the driver. “Jamie?”
“I swapped jobs with Liam today. I woke up and decided I couldn’t stand another morning of wallowin’ with the fishes without taking meself a bit of a break. Hop in, if you’ve a mind to.”
I hesitate before stepping into the carriage. “That…was David you saw last night. And I’m sorry you saw quite a bit more of me than I’d bargained for. David flew all the way from New York to…try to talk me into staying on as his speechwriter…as it turned out. I hadn’t expected any of what happened last night…to…happen…but it did…and now…”
“It’s none of me business, gorl.”
His words are curt; clipped, but I find them comforting in a way, refreshing and reassuring. “Thanks for not being pissed off at me. I don’t think I was very fair to you. So…for what it’s worth, I’m really, really sorry, and I can hop out of this thing at Boynton’s and you ca
n tell all your mates about this fickle and confused American career woman you met.”
“Get up here, woman.” Jamie pats the box beside him. I descend from the carriage and clamber up to join him. “Forst of all, yiz owe me nothin’. If all we had was a flortation, I can live with that and be happy knowing that yiz had as good a time of it as I did. We’re both adults here. And there’s one philosophy says that what a bloke does on holiday don’t count. Getting drunk as a dormouse, modeling lampshades, talking shite, kissing strangers…I’d lay money that more people than you know act goofy on their vacations, as you call ’em, specially when they began ’em with messed-up heads like you did.”
“How’d you get so wise, Jamie?”
“Philosophizing’s a time-honored Irish pastime, my girl.”
“He’s gone, you know. Might as well tell you that. This time I’m certain it’s over; last night…and this morning,” I say, recalling the painful reality of the situation and the pragmatism I applied as a plaster. “They were the unexpected coda. The David Weyburn chapter in the Book of Tess has been closed. D.C. al fin, exeunt ex-inamorata for good.”
“How’re you doin’, then?”
“As well as can be expected,” I sigh. “This much I know: I don’t want a drink. I had enough last night to float a barge, and besides, I’d rather not medicate myself over it. In an odd way I think I feel kind of relieved. Before…when he first told me he wanted to end our relationship, I was hoping his feelings were only temporary—even though he said they weren’t. But then he showed up, and I found myself dwelling in hope again, residing in a kind of romantic purgatory. But now that it’s pretty clear that I should stop hoping, I feel relieved to no longer live in limbo. I know I should feel sad…and I do…but I keep thinking perhaps I should feel sadder. After all, I was sure he was the love of my life.”
The chestnut horse snorts. An editorial comment if I ever heard one.
Fourteen
August 13. 1:00 A.M., having determined that the “A.D.” thing really isn’t terribly emotionally healthy…
I refused Jamie’s offer last night to have a late supper with him after he finished what was technically Liam’s tour of duty. I stayed out of the pubs, too. After soaking in the tub for a half hour and summoning room ser vice, I spent the evening in my Herself robe curled up with Yeats. Stumbling upon Balscadder House had spurred me to renew my acquaintance with some of my old friends like “Leda and the Swan,” “Sailing to Byzantium,” “For Anne Gregory,” and perhaps dearest of all, “When You Are Old.”
I read them aloud, and wept over the last, as I always do, mourning the fact that the man I thought was the one who would still be there to love me when I grow old and gray and full of sleep and who loved the pilgrim soul in me and the sorrows in my changing face was not that man after all.
Although I came to Ireland to reflect on a few major decisions, David’s surprise appearance helped me to make them now, or at least illuminated the obvious, necessitating no further rumination—at least on where he and I stood professionally and what I was prepared to do about it. Having given him my answer, I no longer need to be alone so I can think things over.
I no longer have a lover. I am a free spirit. Tomorrow is another day. The first day of the rest of my life. Yadda yadda yadda.
Full of sleep in any case, I nod off with the volume of Yeats still in my hand.
August 13, continued: 11:30 A.M.
Back from a late breakfast and a bit of souvenir shopping. I decided to eat in Boynton’s Buttery, though the prices for simple breakfast food are astronomical—but according to my guidebook they’re known for their homemade breads, the basket of which more than lives up to its billing, as does their steel-cut oatmeal. Today feels like a new beginning, so the carb-hearty—and expensive—breakfast seems like the appropriately self-indulgent way to start it. In the same vein, since I figure in a couple of days I’ll never see Jamie Doyle again anyway, I’ve decided to surrender to the sense of fun he instills in me and hang out with him until I leave for home. The balance of my holiday sightseeing plans is in his hands. Wallowing in self pity: bad. Spending time with irrepressible Irish new friend: good. Whoops—there’s the phone. Concierge ringing to tell me Jamie’s downstairs. Gotta dash…
“I think what you need is spiritual renewal,” Jamie says, opening the car door for me.
“Since when are you Father Doyle?”
“I didn’t mean to proselytize,” he replies, pulling away from the curb. “I could fancy meself a father, though. I think I’d be rather grand at it. Teach ’em to play football—ours, I mean—not that silly American game with all the armor.” He chuckles. “Teach ’em to fish. Oh aye, I could do that. Yiz ever want to be a mother, Tess Goldsmith Craig?”
The guy’s got a chutzpah gene, I’ll give him that. “Yes,” I quietly admit, “but that was another lifetime ago. It’s too late now.”
“Oh, don’t say that, gorl. Why is it too late? You’ve got nothing wrong with yer plumbing, have you?”
I’m shaking my head and trying not to laugh. “Are you always so blunt with strangers?”
He honks the horn at the particularly elderly motorist ahead of him, and gunning the engine, darts around three other cars. “Yer calling yerself a stranger to me? After we kissed and all—which was very enjoyable, by the way. If that’s a stranger, what’re you like when you’re familiar?”
“I was vulnerable,” I say, knowing he’s right.
“And you’re full of shite,” he replies warmly. “Ahh, you’re an enigma, Tess Goldsmith Craig. An enigma code I’m hoping you’ll let me crack. C’mon, I’ll give yiz a chance to get even. Ask me a deeply porsonal question.”
“Why have you never married?”
“Oh aye, that’s a good one. How do you know I’ve never married?”
“Lucky guess?”
“You’d be right, though.” He tilts his head as if it will better enable him to sift through his memories. “Never found a woman willing to put up with me,” he lilts. “Haven’t met one who’ll take me in with all my Star Trek memorabilia. Don’t know one who wants to marry a poor pub owner…”
“I thought you’re a fisherman.”
“By trade. And for the time being. But if I won the lottery and had me druthers I’d spend my life behind a bar. When I wasn’t being a da. One of each I want, in case you’re wondering. A boy and a gorl, maybe even twins, as they run in me family. I’ve even got the names picked out. For me kids and me bar. That’s what I want from this life. My very own place. Decorated the way I like, with a menu of my choosing, shootin’ the breeze with the regulars all day, talking poetry and politics and sports and any old rubbish that strikes our fancy. Have you any friends who want to be married to a man who gets his jollies pulling pints for a bunch o’drunks every night, and comes home to her, dog-tired from bein’ on his feet all day, stinkin’ of whiskey and beer whether or not he’s had a few of his own during the night? Do yiz? Because if ya do, I’d like to meet them. Every woman I meet, she’s got her own thing going, which is all very well and good for her, financially in de pen dent and all, but they’ve all got an attitude. Every one of them. ’Tisn’t who y’are they’re carin’ about, but what you do. You can be a complete shite and a Lothario, yet if yer a brain surgeon they’re falling over themselves to get to you. But tell ’em your dream is to open yer own pub and they’re gone before they’ve barely taken the time to laugh in yer face. Because the minute a woman meets yiz, she projects herself into your collective future, and I can see just as well as she can in the crystal ball behind her eyes that for all her in dependence, deep down this financially successful woman who’s worked hard to orn every euro she’s got, doesn’t want to be the primary breadwinner, working her arse off while she does the primary parenting as well, thinkin’ all the time that being married to Jamie Doyle is like havin’ another kid around the house. I’m not exactly the catch of the day.”
“I take your point,” I sigh. “And no, I
don’t know anyone who fits the bill for you. Sorry. So what’s this spiritual renewal you’re prescribing for my soul?”
“I’m bringing yiz to Glendalough.”
“What’s Glenda-lock? Sounds like a witch’s wrestling hold.”
“That’s Glinda. And you’ll see when we get there. Description ruins the magic.”
“Spoilsport!”
“That’s what you think!”
At first the road is the same one we took to get to Powerscourt, but then we pass the turnoff. The terrain begins to change from pastoral to dramatic, the rolling hills and conifer forests gradually disappearing in favor of a harsher, more primitive landscape as we motor through the evocative Wicklow mountains. In what would seem to be the middle of nowhere, Jamie pulls to the side of the road and insists we get out of the car to look around. As far as the eye can see, enormous boulders give the impression of having been tossed to earth by angry giants dwelling on the mountaintops above us.
Jamie comes up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Pretty wonderful, isn’t it? This is called the Sally Gap. Highest crossroads in Ireland.”
“Why is it called the—”
“Shhh, mo cushla. Can’t you hear the footsteps?”
“You’re giving me the creeps. What footsteps?”
“Don’t ya hear them? The tromping of heavy boots. The ghosts of redcoated soldiers passing through, along the Military Road on the way to their barracks.” I shiver involuntarily. “Oh, this place is full of lore. It’s even passed for Scotland, something we Irish have a good laugh over. They filmed a lot of Braveheart out there in the high heather desert and bog land.”
Herself Page 12