by Webb, Peggy
He was selfish, he decided, selfish right down to the cockles of his broken heart. It had broken his heart to leave her ten years ago, and it was breaking his heart to know he had to leave her again. But in spite of all that, in spite of knowing he would walk away when all this business with Casey was over, he still wanted her. Damn his selfish hide, he wanted to touch her skin, to feel her in his arms. And yes, he wanted to make love to her. Now. He wanted to pull the car off the road and take her into one of the secluded groves along the Trace and strip her bare and worship her body just as he had done last night.
His early morning burst of nobility was wearing thin. Now that he’d had a taste of her, he couldn’t even get through one day without aching at the mere sight of her. How he was going to get through the next few days without going to her bed again was a mystery to him.
His hands tightened on the wheel. He had to. He had to leave Tess Jones alone.
“Casey,” he said softly, so as not to awaken Tess. There was no answer. “Casey,” he said again, glancing into the rearview mirror. Casey was fast asleep, his head thrown back and his mouth working in silent snores, like a fish.
Mick was accustomed to traveling alone, with only the noise of the airplane engine to keep him company. In the early days of his gadding about, he had enjoyed his solitude. Lately it had been a lonely way to travel. Now, with no one to talk to, he waited for the lonely feeling to come.
But it didn’t. Mile after mile of the Natchez Trace passed by. Mick played the radio with the volume turned down low, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel when the rhythm was especially lively. Occasionally he glanced in the mirror to check on Casey. But more often he looked at the sleeping beauty by his side.
How could a man feel lonely when he was transporting precious cargo? He clicked off the radio and began to sing, softly, in a deep, rich baritone.
“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety- nine bottles of beer. Take one down and pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.... ninety-eight bottles...”
“...of beer on the wall,” Tess chimed in.
“You’re awake,” he said, turning to smile at her.
“You were singing my song.”
“Our traveling song.”
“I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“I could never forget.”
His eyes held hers a fraction longer; then he faced the road. They were silent for a while as memories washed over them. And then Tess began to sing once more.
“Ninety-eight bottles of beer.”
He joined in. “Take one down and pass it around, ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall.”
By the time they got to fifty bottles of beer on the wall, Casey was awake. He added his lilting Irish tenor to the song. When they finally got to one bottle and the end of the song, Tess declared the three of them could go onstage as a trio.
“You could join my act,” she said.
“You’re a performer, my dear?” Casey asked.
“She’s the best blues singer in the world,” Mick said.
“Pay no attention. He exaggerates.” But Tess was secretly pleased. If Mick kept pinning medals on her, she was going to think he really did like her, just the way she was. That was foolish, of course. If he had thought she was all that great, he never would have left her in the first place.
“Is anybody getting hungry?” Mick asked.
Tess and Casey agreed that all that singing had made them ravenous. Mick stopped in Kosciusko to buy food, and the three of them had a picnic beside the Trace in a shaded glen with a clear stream meandering through the trees. OToole gave up his regal posture long enough to try his paw at fishing.
“ Tis the best meal I’ve ever had,” Casey declared, casting the remnants of his bologna sandwich to the birds. Two mockingbirds and a cardinal ate the crumbs, then flew into the branches of an oak tree and began to sing.
“Excuse me,” Casey said as he trailed along behind the birds. When he was standing under their tree, he picked up a stick and began to conduct nature’s orchestra.
Tess watched for a while, then turned to Mick.
“He’s a professional.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s had training. See how he wields that stick, like a baton.”
“Tess...”He started to tell about Casey, and then he paused, studying her face. It was alight with dreams. What was the use of telling her the truth about Casey now and spoiling her fun? He’d let her have one more day. He’d let all of them have one more day of make-believe.
“What, Mick?”
“Nothing.” He stood up and began to clear away the picnic trash. “I suppose we should be moving on.”
Tess stood for a moment, watching Casey. He was having the time of his life, humming and waving his imaginary baton, his legs white and skinny in his brand-new madras-plaid Bermuda shorts.
“I’m going to miss that old man when we find his son,” she said.
“So will I.”
They loaded the car and set off down the Natchez Trace once more. By the time they arrived in Vicksburg, it was after dark.
Casey rolled down his car window. “Smell that river. I always did want to walk up and down the banks of the Mississippi, watching the riverboats and listening to the sound of their whistles.”
“We’ll do that,” Tess said, “but our main priority will be the search for your son.”
“Of course.”
The passing glare of headlights allowed Casey to catch Mick’s eye in the rearview mirror. Neither of them felt too noble at the moment.
They checked into a motel by the river. And afterward, the three of them strolled beside the Mississippi, arms linked, listening to the rush of water and the far off cry of boat whistles as barges plowed their way south toward the Gulf.
Eventually Casey pleaded old age, and sat on a bench while Mick and Tess walked on down the river. They were holding hands. Casey considered that a good sign.
He leaned on his gold-tipped cane and looked out across the singing waters.
“A selfish, lying old man I’m being, but God, just give me this one little miracle. One miracle, and then I’ll not be askin’ you for more.”
o0o
When the moon was tracking across the skies and Casey was snoring in his very own room, Tess arose from her bed and went to the window. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass pane and looked out into the darkness.
Mick would not come for her tonight. She knew that. He wouldn’t pick her lock, and she wouldn’t awaken with him in her arms. She stared out the window a while, seeing nothing except endless blackness. That’s how she felt inside right now. Darkness that went on forever and ever. Night without end.
She turned from the window and hugged her arms around herself.
“What am I going to do, OToole?”
OToole burrowed his head deeper into his fur, ignoring her.
Tess left the window and walked toward the bathroom light. The lonesome blues fell so heavily on her that her shoulders stooped under the weight. Light from the bathroom spilled onto the vanity, and she dug into her traveling case until she found what she wanted: a single black rose, pressed between the pages of a slim volume of poetry by Yeats. Irish poetry.
She held the fragile rose against her cheek and began to read aloud, softly.
Her eyes skimmed down the rest of the poem, and she read of the poet’s longing to be where “peace comes dropping slow.” She closed the little book, pressing the rose back between the pages.
“Is this what your brooding Irish soul wants, Mick Flannigan? Is this why you left me? So you can find peace in solitude?”
She replaced the book, remembering how Mick had held her hand as they walked beside the river, with his fingers twined in hers and his warm palm sending out a steady heat.
Suddenly she saw a vision of the future, with Mick spinning out his lonely years in a cabin in a glen, and her standing in the spotlights on an empt
y stage. She slid her robe from her shoulders, letting the feathers trail along the carpet. Then she left her gown in a pile on a chair.
She put on black jogging shorts and a black tank top, and let herself out the door, not even bothering with shoes. Outside, the night was warm and damp with mists rising from the river. Her footsteps fell softly on the grass.
There were no lights inside Flannigan’s room. She picked the lock and eased open the door.
CHAPTER NINE
“Your red hair gives you away.”
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Tess saw Mick, sitting in a chair across the room.
“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to come inside a man’s room in the middle of night?”
She didn’t say anything, but stood with her hands crossed in front of her chest, watching him. He was shirtless and shoeless. A bottle of scotch sat on the table, and he held a half-empty glass in his hand.
“Drinking alone, Mick?”
“I’m not alone: I have my thoughts to keep me company.”
“Are they good company?”
She glided into the room, going as far as the end of the bed.
“They are the devil, straight from the pits of hell.”
He was tense. She could tell by the way he held himself and the way his muscles bunched across the top of his shoulders.
With her eyes grown accustomed to the dark, they watched each other, wary. He was the first to break the silence.
“What brings you here, Tess?”
Not Tess, my girl, she noticed. Merely Tess. Mick Flannigan was in a black mood to match her own. She advanced toward him, slowly.
“Do you want the truth,” she asked, “or do you want me to make up a pretty lie?”
“The truth will do.”
“I’m lonesome, Mick.”
She was standing so close now, her legs were practically touching his knees. His blue eyes looked almost black as he gazed up at her. Then, suddenly, he set his glass aside and held out his arms. She went to him.
He drew her onto his lap and cuddled her close.
“Tess... Tess, my girl,” he whispered into her hair.
She wound one arm around his neck and pressed her face against his chest. Her lips grazed his skin, and he shivered. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel the steady thrum of his heart under her cheek.
“I was standing at my window,” she whispered, “and I thought of the empty years ahead, Mick.” A tear trembled on her lash, then fell softly onto his chest.
“It’s all right. I’m here.”
“But you won’t be. Not always.” He didn’t deny her words, and another tear wet his skin. “Suddenly, Mick, I was lonesome beyond enduring.”
They clung to each other, mute with longing. He smoothed her silky hair, over and over. Then he began to sing, “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.”
His rich baritone voice filled the silence. “Hush now, don’t you cry.”
She hugged him tightly, comforted by his arms and the words of The Irish Lullaby. When he finished the first verse, she lifted her face to his.
“That’s beautiful, Mick. Don’t stop.”
He continued singing, swaying a little, rocking her in his embrace. And as they had in years gone by when Mick had held her in his arms, her blues crept back into the shadows, and a gentle sense of peace stole over her.
Her eyelids drooped, and her head nodded. He looked down at her, humming softly as she drifted into sleep.
“Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered. “Sweet dreams.”
Balancing her tenderly, he reached for his harmonica, being careful not to waken her.
Lifting the blues harp to his mouth, he played softly, ever so softly. The haunting notes filled the darkness. “Hush now, don’t you cry,” the harmonica sang into the darkness.
Mick finished that tune and played another. Once he thought of carrying Tess to his bed and tucking her in, but he was too selfish to let her go. She had come to him and climbed into his lap with complete trust. He would hold her and protect her and comfort her until morning came, and then she would awaken slowly, as she always did, and know that he had been there for her all night long.
It was the very least he could do; for tomorrow he would say good-bye.
o0o
Tess felt stiff. She yawned and stretched, and encountered a very solid chest. Her eyes flew open.
“Good morning, Tess, my girl. Did you sleep well?”
Mick was still in his chair and she was still in his lap, exactly as she had been last night. He smiled down at her, but he looked drawn and weary, exactly as a man who had missed a night’s sleep should.
“Is it morning?”
“Almost. I can see a slice of dawn through the curtains.”
“Have I been here all night? Like this?”
“Yes.”
“You held me all night long?”
“Yes.”
She drew a ragged breath. Then she put her hands tenderly on his face, tracing the lines of fatigue she saw there.
“Mick Flannigan, you always were my best friend in the whole wide world.”
“Past tense?”
Her fingers played lightly over his face, lingering longest on his lips.
“Sometimes I think you still are.” She reached up and kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, given with a heart full of gratitude.
He smiled. “Do you feel better this morning, Tess, my girl?”
“Enormously. Tremendously.” Her face was radiant with a smile as she rose from his lap. Her legs were a little stiff, and he caught her arm when she wobbled.
“You’re like a newborn colt.”
She leaned down and nuzzled her cheek against his.
“And you’re like a great warm blanket. Only better.”
He put his arms around her, holding her close for a moment, and then he let her go. She stepped back.
“Mick...” His eyes, bluer than the lakes of Ireland, lifted to meet hers. She held her breath, drowning, drowning and not wanting to come to the surface. Then she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and gathered her courage to leave. “Thank you for last night.”
“You’re more than welcome. It was my gift to you.”
Your going away gift? she wanted to ask. But she didn’t, for her heart already knew the answer.
“It’s a gift I will treasure. Always.” Long after you’re gone. She lifted her hand in a sassy salute, then turned and started toward the door.
He watched her all the way across the room, then he said, “See you at breakfast.”
With her hand on the doorknob, she turned back to him.
“You must be very tired. Why don’t you sleep and let me handle Casey this morning.”
“No, thank you. There will be plenty of time to sleep.”
After you’re gone, she thought. The blues threatened to swamp her once more, but she pushed them away. She had to be invincible, just a little while longer.
“Then I’ll see you at breakfast.”
She gave a jaunty wave and went out the door.
Mick rubbed his hand over his eyes. His head felt blurred, inside and out. He sat in his chair a while longer with his eyes closed and his head bowed.
“I must be a fool,” he said. Then he lifted his head and rose from his chair. “But a noble one.”
o0o
The three of them spent all morning in Vicksburg, following Casey’s whims. He visited two old men, living down by the riverfront, who, according to Casey, used to know the whereabouts of his son.
Tess and Mick waited for him in the car, and when he came back, he reported that their memories had grown dim with age.
“Perhaps we should hire a private investigator,” Tess said. “Or contact some of the orphanages and welfare agencies in this area.”
Mick turned to the backseat and scrutinized Casey with intense blue eyes.
“Casey, what do you think we should do?”
“A different city we should be going
to, I’m thinkin’.” Casey watched Mick closely for resistance, and when he didn’t see any, he continued. “Maybe we should head south... we love traveling together so.”
“Mick,” Tess said, her eyes sparkling, “let’s go to the Gulf Coast.”
Mick couldn’t resist the temptation. He had planned to say goodbye today, but seeing Tess with happiness shining on her face, he decided to stay one more day, only one. And then he’d say goodbye.
And so they headed south, singing their traveling song and laughing.
Tess, sitting on the front seat harmonizing with Mick, didn’t know why she had suggested the Gulf Coast. It held too many memories for them. Was she trying to recapture the past? She knew the past could neither be recaptured nor changed. Perhaps she was only trying to postpone the parting. It was coming—soon. She could feel Mick slipping away from her, already putting distance between them.
o0o
They reached the coast by eight o’clock. The first thing they saw as they drove along Highway 90 between Gulfport and Biloxi was the colorful big top of a carnival. Mick slowed the car, peering into the evening darkness.
“Can you see the name, Tess?”
“Not yet. I can see the lights just up ahead. Wait, Mick! It’s Brinkley Brothers’ Carnival!”
“So it is,” he said, driving on by the big top. All his life he had tried to move forward. Sometimes he had gone sideways and sometimes he hadn’t moved at all, but he didn’t want to move backward. He’d already done enough traveling backward this past weekend to shred his heart to pieces. He didn’t want any more trips into the past.
Tess swiveled her head to study him, but she didn’t say anything. She knew what the carnival had meant to him. It had been more than a shelter, more than a way of life: it had been his home. She reached across the seat and squeezed his hand. He didn’t turn but she could see the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile.
“I’m thinkin’ a carnival would be fun,” Casey said from the backseat. The carnival was also romantic. At least, that’s what Casey thought. And he was about to run out of ideas for romance. Time was running short, and he was getting desperate.
When Mick didn’t stop the car and turn around, Casey tried again.