“Well, make yourselves cozy,” Eamon invites us. “Can I get yiz a whiskey?”
“Absolutely,” says Jamie, patting the gold velveteen, and I ensconce myself beside him on the sofa.
I nod my head. Make mine a double, I think.
Eamon hands us our drinks, and after pouring himself a generous glass of Diet Coke, nestles into a cushy armchair upholstered in a riotous floral of brown and gold.
Finally, Maureen Doyle, a thickset woman with freshly coiffed auburn hair, enters the room, wearing a gravy-stained “Kiss the Cook” apron and a pair of oven mitts. “Forgive my appearance,” she says, wiping her brow with the back of her gloved hand. “I got the apron at a charity do.”
Jamie rises and I do the same. “Ma, this is Tessa Goldsmith Craig. The American gorl I mentioned.”
“Welcome to my home,” says Maureen, extending an oven-mitted hand. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s not hot,” she says when I tentatively reach to shake it. “I was takin’ the bread out of the oven. It’s Jamie’s favorite. Comfort food, he cawls it. Jamie could nevuh marry a woman whose soda bread isn’t as good as his ma’s. I suppose that’s why he’s still a bachelor at forty. Isn’t that right, Jamie?” She gives her mortified second son a wet kiss on the cheek. “I thought yaw…lady friend—it’s yaw first time in Ireland, isn’t it, Tessa—would like to have a traditional dinner, since all those fancy restaurants in Dublin see no value in our solid, classic fare, as they like to call it.” I recall now that Jamie had told me his mother was American-born and raised. I notice now that her accent is more distinctly Irish, having been here for decades, I suppose, though sometimes a New Yawkism creeps in, like dropping some of her r’s.
“Did you meet my babies?” She gestures toward a crib tucked into a corner of the living room, and I wonder why Jamie hadn’t bothered to introduce me to the littlest Doyles. Grandchildren, perhaps? They’re awfully quiet for infants.
Steering me by the elbow Maureen proudly shows me what she’s talking about. At first I think the three figures are slumbering babies—two girls and a boy—and then I realize that they’re dolls. “Oh, my God, they look so real,” I breathe.
Maureen beams. “Thank you. I’m a good artist, aren’t I, Jamie?”
As though she’s handling a real newborn she lifts one of the girl dolls out of the crib and places it in my arms. “God, it even feels like a real baby!” The head and body are weighted just right, the skin texture and tone, the eyes, hair, even the finger-nails, look utterly naturalistic.
“This is Lorna,” Maureen tells me, placing a kiss on the doll’s forehead. “Isn’t she sweet? Makes you want one of yawr own, doesn’t it?”
“Well…”
“Ma!” Jamie’s admonishment has little effect on his mother.
“Do ya have children, Tessa?”
“No. No, I don’t, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Aw, cawl me Maureen. How old are ya, Tess, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“She does mind, Ma.”
“Well, if you’re the same age as our Jamie, or thereabouts, yawr gettin’ a bit lawng in the tooth for it. So I wouldn’t wait too much lawnger. Maybe you should take Lorna with you. My gift. Oh, don’t look so concerned; she’s one of dozens of reborn babies I’ve got all over the house. I’ll give ya a tour after dinner and show you my little factory. It’s in Brigid and Mary Margaret’s old room. Jamie, don’t look at me as though I violated a sacred space. The U2 posters are still where the girls left them when they moved out.”
Eamon refills his Diet Coke glass. “Mo’s got herself a thriving eBay business sellin’ these reborn dolls. Hers are very sought-after, ya know. Gets more than two hundred euro for some of them. Plus shipping. Her business is even incorporated. ‘Mo Cushla Babies.’”
“You have to admit it’s cute,” Jamie says out of the side of his mouth.
“You have to admit it’s creepy,” I reply in equal fashion.
“Speaking of sacred spaces, Ma, is Brigid joining us this evening?”
Maureen nods. “I sprung her from the community house. But Sister Genesius wants her back there by eleven. I told Sister it was an important family dinner and promised her I’d send Brigid back with one of my cawffee rings. That sealed the deal.” Turning to me, Maureen says, “Jamie tells me ya come from my old hometown, Tessa. So what church do ya go to?”
“None—I’m Jewish.”
Maureen fails at turning her wince into a smile. “Then, do you attend a synagogue reguluh?”
“I’m…pretty much a secular Jew,” I say, feeling the spiritual welts rising on my back from the grilling.
A key jangles in the front door, and a few moments later a pretty young woman looking a bit like a refugee from the Eisenhower era in a knee-length brown skirt, pale blue sweater, and white blouse enters the living room, dropping an enormous canvas backpack just inside the doorway. She has the most sparkling eyes I’ve ever seen. Catching her mother’s glare, she says, “All right, I’ll put it in the closet. Just don’t let me forget it when I leave.” She disappears long enough to deposit what passes for her purse, then joins us with a cheery “So I hear Jamie’s got himself a lady friend! Cool!”
Maureen kisses her daughter, and in a move that American football fans would characterize as an “audible,” mutters, “You won’t think it’s so cool in a second.” Raising her voice to a conversational level, she gestures toward me and says to Brigid, “Meet Tessa Craig. She has no faith.”
Sixteen
I am stunned by this spiritual body blow, and after a terribly long and awkward silence, am rescued by Jamie, who proposes that we all head into the kitchen to help his mother put the finishing touches on the meal. Both warm (literally) and cozy, the kitchen is covered almost wall-to-wall with maple veneers, from the cabinets and drawers to the refrigerator and the traditional dinette set with its lathe-turned legs. Above the little breakfast nook is a print of The Last Supper, and a crucifix hangs on the wall by the fridge, the first cross I’ve noticed on display in the Doyle home, though I did see a couple of plaster saints standing beside the Hummels and Lladros in the living room.
“It’s just us this evening,” Maureen tells Jamie. “Niall’s behind the bar, we needed the twins to stay and wait tables, Liam is working until ten—and besides I don’t like him coming to the table smellin’ like a hawse, Mary Margaret’s got her own family to feed, and Seamus is doin’ something with his mates from school. At least it means there’ll be less washing up!”
Eamon opens a bottle of wine to drink with the meal, but a lifetime teetotaler, he doesn’t have a glass himself. “Besides,” he says, “I’m a man of sport and my body is a temple.” Maureen eyes me intently while her husband says grace. At least her cooking is outstanding—and I eat far too much. I’m relieved from being dragged any more deeply into discussing my personal life by Brigid, who peppers me with questions about life in New York.
“Is it really like Sex and the City?” she wants to know. “I was a big fan until my discernment began. I haven’t seen the show since, I’m afraid. Sister Genesius isn’t big on any telly that comes from your HBO. Since discernment is all about listening to what God is saying through prayer and in the events of our daily lives, it stands to reason, I suppose, that the Almighty wants us to think about more important things than shoe sales.”
Making a mental note to pass along this observation to my cousin Imogen, I explain that much of the show is fantasy; free-lance journalists in New York, unless they’re moonlighting in a more lucrative field, could rarely afford a $600 pair of shoes.
“But ya have to admit the shoes are wonderful! It’s my secret guilty pleasure. Ya know, I admit it’s a wee bit shallow of me, but I do wish nuns could wear nicer shoes. If God doesn’t care what you wear on your feet so long as you walk in His way, then what’s so bad about Jimmy Choo?”
“It probably has something to do with the eschewing of worldly goods and all that,” Jamie tells her with a wink. “Vow of poverty, remember?
”
“It sucks,” she whispers to me under her breath.
“Then why are you becoming a nun?” I whisper back.
“I’m looking for direction. And the path to Heaven seemed more clearly marked than most of the others. And for what it’s worth—I disagree with Ma, and probably the Pope. I don’t think you ‘don’t have any faith’ just because you’re Jewish and you’re not religious. We’re all God’s creatures. If you want to know the truth, for the longest time I wasn’t sure what I believed in either and how much I believed in it. I’m taking the veil because I think it’ll give me the answers. I’ve still got a lot of years of study and training, though, before I take my final vows. Another year of candidacy and then two more years as a novitiate before I make my First Commitment. That’s when I take the vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience for a period of three to six years, a time of further confirmation of my calling. Then, assuming we—the Vocational Director, the Spiritual Counselor, and I—still feel I’m a good fit for the Church and all, I’ll make my Final Commitment.”
“Sounds like it takes even longer than med school!”
“So, when do you go back to New Yawk?” Maureen asks me solicitously.
“Tomorrow evening.”
She beams beatifically. “I bet you’ll be happy to get back home.”
“Can I invite yiz back to my place for a nightcap?” Jamie asks me, once we’ve made our farewells. “Ya look like ya need it.”
“Your father’s very pleasant,” I sigh. “Your ma…well, she’s…something else. And I don’t know about her born-again dolls; I’ve never been much of a doll person. I like Brigid a lot. She was helping me understand the nun thing. I kind of envy her in a way for knowing what she believes in. Spiritually, I mean. Or at least thinking she does.”
“She’s young.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What I said.”
“I’ll take that nightcap now. What’re you pouring?”
Jamie lives in a brick-faced freehold house not far from the center of Dublin; its façade, including the fire-engine red door, is one I can imagine Joyce’s Leopold Bloom strolling by during his 1904 progress through the city. Perhaps it’s an inside joke that Jamie uses a bronzed copy of Ulysses as a doorstop. “I moved here from Clontarf back in 1988,” he tells me. “Before the Celtic Tiger bared its claws and prices shot through the roof. It’s worth a feckin’ fortune today if I had a mind to sell it. I’m doing all right, though. Each of us Doyles gets a piece of Blackpools’s profit. And the place is hoppin’ like a Mexican jumping bean most nights, so none of us is hortin’ for money—providing we keep an eye on our own expenses.”
His apartment is nicer than I expected it to be. Better maintained. Although the living room’s mandarin orange walls make an already cozy space seem smaller, it’s kind of an interesting (unexpected, certainly) contrast against the white marble fire-place.
“It has a homely feel, doesn’t it?” Jamie says, grabbing a pile of dirty clothes and dashing up his cast-iron spiral staircase with the laundry stashed under his arm. I have to smile. What are the odds that both of us would reside in picturesque duplexes?
“You know that word doesn’t mean the same thing in America,” I call after him.
A few moments later, he bounds back down the stairs. “Sorry about that. Why, what’s wrong with homely? You don’t find my flat pretty?”
“Where I come from, the word means ‘ugly.’ We say homey to mean your ‘homely.’”
Amused, he shakes his head. “You’re confusing me, gorl. I thought in America ‘homey’ was a black guy.” Jamie cops a hip-hop attitude, splaying his fingers; on him it looks laughable. “You know, a home boy.” He arranges the scattered newspapers on his coffee table into a presentable pile, revealing an empty beer bottle. “Whoops. I should have hired me a house keeper before inviting a lady over.” He grins at me.
I think about how immaculate his mother keeps her home and consider that the apple fell so far from her tree that it landed in another county. I chuckle. “Unable to clean house yourself?”
“Ach. I hate it. They’ve been makin’ self-cleaning ovens for years now. When’re they going to make self-cleaning flats? So, do yiz like the color down here? Me decorator did it. A man named Benjamin Moore. It’s me favorite color.”
“Did I know that when I met you?” I tease.
“Aw, don’t wince, Tess. Seriously, I love orange. Used to get me beat up every St. Paddy’s Day.” He shoves up his sleeve to show me a slightly wonky elbow. “Got the battle scars to prove it, too.”
“You brawled over a color.”
“I brawled over an aesthetic ideology. Let me give yiz the grand tour.”
The living room and the bachelor-sized kitchen (though the amenities are all very modern) comprise the lower floor. Up the spiral staircase are the bedroom and bathroom—which I find not to be as clean as I’d hoped, though it’s not as bad as it could be—and why is it that when guys use up the paper, they leave the new roll on the edge of the sink instead of replacing it?
Curiously, the bedroom walls are a dull shade of taupe, almost the same depressing hue as his parents’ front hallway. But there’s an even more striking feature: “Why does a fisherman who hates fishing sleep on a waterbed?” I ask Jamie.
“I used to get seasick until I bought it. Just kidding yiz. Ever try one?” He plops onto the mattress and smoothes out the Indian cotton bedspread. “Care to join me?”
As soon as I perch on it, I’m sort of sucked into it. Frankly, it takes a bit of getting used to. “So, where’s your lava lamp?”
Jamie opens his bedstead cabinet and reaches into it. My God, he really owns one! He plugs the lamp into the wall and the goop inside it begins to migrate. “Wait here.” He heads downstairs, returning a couple of minutes later with a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and an ice bucket. “Didn’t give yiz enough time to go snooping in me drawers, did I?” he winks. “Here, hold these.” He encourages me to lean back against the headboard and hands me the glasses while he pops the cork.
“Before ya go back to the land of stress and skyscrapers—which isn’t entirely a bad thing—the skyscrapers, I mean, not yer retorning home—I want to make a toast…and to tell yiz something…something important. Something I can’t keep carrying in my heart and not sharing with yiz. Forst,” he continues, raising his glass, “I want to make a toast to the wonderful lady who has made the past week one of the best of my life.”
I’m very touched. “That’s so sweet of you.”
“Don’t sip yet; I’m not finished.” He regards his glass. “All right, I’ll make it quick before the bubbles fizz out. Tessa Goldsmith Craig, I’m in love with you. I know that a week ago we hadn’t even met, but that doesn’t change anything. It didn’t even take me this long to figure it out. Oh, now yiz can drink.”
Sure, we flirted. We kissed, made out a bit, laughed together, and I cried on his shoulder. I’m aware that there’s a mutual attraction, and a certain affection as well. But love? I don’t know what to say to this totally unexpected declaration.
Jamie tries to mask his anxiety. “Say something, Tess.”
I take a sip of champagne, look into my glass, look away, take another sip…I’m not sure how to express what I’m thinking and feeling…how to be empathetic, yet candid. “I’ve had a wonderful week, too. Meeting you…getting to know you…the occasional odd…incident…notwithstanding.”
“You looked great in the almost-buff. In this humble man’s opinion. You’re quite a fine-looking woman, y’know.”
“Thanks,” I blush, averting my gaze again by focusing on my champagne. “You know…I think you’re quite a guy, Jamie. You make me feel good, and a woman couldn’t ask for much more. But…I don’t see where this can go in the long term. I’m getting on a plane tomorrow, planning to hit the ground running as soon as I arrive home. Since my nest egg is about the size of a Jordan almond, I’ve got to start looking for a new job r
ight away. Whether you enjoy it or not, you’re going to go back to your fishing. And we’ll e-mail each other, I’m sure…but beyond deepening our friendship—which I’m not saying is a bad thing—where will it lead? It wouldn’t be fair to either of us, Jamie. Romantically, without time to get past my three years with David, no matter who I become involved with, the next guy will be Rebound Man. I can’t do that to you, even long distance. It wouldn’t be just unfair of me; it would be shitty. It wasn’t lost on me that your family kept referring to me as your lady friend. So either you said something to them to make them think we’re…you know…or else they jumped to their own collective conclusions.
“I want to be able to say ‘I love you too, Jamie,’ but I’m not there yet. Something like ‘you know I’ve become terribly fond of you this past week’ is so tepid it’s insulting. You become fond of a dog, not a man.”
Poor Jamie. He looks so glum. “I suppose that about says it all. Thank you for being honest.” He grows very quiet. Withdrawn. As if all his natural gregariousness had been sucked out of his lungs. By me, really. I feel dreadful. And now his mother’s cooking is beginning to sit in my stomach like a crock pot filled with lead.
“Maybe I should leave now. I’ll try to catch a cab back to the hotel.”
Jamie downs the rest of his champagne without looking at me. “No, please don’t. Not yet. I was a fool to tell you everything I was feeling. I’ve only got myself to blame.” He won’t let me get a word in edgewise to counter this argument. “Stay for another little while longer. Keep me company. I don’t want this conversation to be our last before we say good-bye.”
I reach out for his hand. “What can I do that would make you feel better right now?”
He chuckles. Wanting me to say the words that in three years of dating, David lacked the courage to say to me. “In the cabinet below the telly there are a bunch of videotapes. Hand me the second one from the left in the front row.”
Herself Page 14