“Do ye intend to commit to the woman yer seein’, then?” Casey asked, black eyes holding a challenge in them.
Brian felt a jolt go through him. “Pardon me, boy? What woman would that be?”
“The one ye sneak off to see when ye think we’re asleep on Saturday nights.”
He raised his eyebrows. “An’ what makes ye so certain it’s a woman I’m off to see those nights?”
“Because ye always dress nice an’ put aftershave on. An’ ye sing as yer gettin’ ready. Seems like it must be a woman.”
He hadn’t realized he was quite so obvious. Mind you, it was hard to have three males live in such close proximity and not have all aware of the nuances of each others’ lives. Patrick wore a look of lively interest, his pencil stilled in one grubby hand.
“Aye, it’s a woman, but that’s the point, isn’t it? A woman, not a girl.”
“Well, ye told me to keep away from women, so a girl is all the choice I have right now.”
Were the boy so clearly not fit for the celibate life, Brian would have been certain his true vocation was in the Jesuit brotherhood, he could certainly twist arguments about like a Jesuit.
“Do ye intend to commit to her?”
Brian suddenly realized the question was much larger than it appeared on the surface. Casey was asking if this woman was going to become a part of all their lives.
“I don’t know, son—besides what makes ye think any woman would see me as a bargain?”
Casey rolled his eyes. “Da, we’re not half-wits, women like ye. They like ye a great deal. Ye could have yer pick any time.”
He supposed that was true enough. Women did like him, always had, maybe not quite so much as they were going to like this laddie when he was finally grown into those big hands and feet, but no, he had not lacked for female attention in his life. Only, how to explain to this son of his that it didn’t much matter one way or the other, if it wasn’t the right woman.
“I’m not sure I see yer point,” he said, stalling a bit for time.
“Well, when ye can take yer pick, I figure if ye’ve picked one, she must be special, no?”
Then again, maybe the boy didn’t need him to explain, maybe he understood all too well.
“I am not goin’ to discuss my love life or lack thereof with my fourteen-year-old son.”
Casey’s eyes narrowed. “So what’s she like, this woman?”
Brian took a deep breath. He expected honesty from his boys, and he had always given it in return as much as he felt was necessary.
“She’s lovely, an’ her name is Aibhlinn.”
“Where’d ye meet her?” This, from Patrick, who had given up all pretense of doing sums.
“On the side of the road. She had a flat tire an’ I stopped to change it for her.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Aye, she’s very pretty.” The two boys exchanged a look and Brian began to feel like a penitent in the confession box, with two somewhat dubious priests grilling him.
“Does she have children of her own?”
“No, she doesn’t. She didn’t have a particularly happy time of it with her husband—he’s deceased now, ye understand,” Brian said, just so they were aware he wasn’t having an adulterous affair.
“Do ye stay over with her, then? Ye know on the odd night we’re with Nan.” This, from Casey. Brian decided that there was only so much honesty a father owed his boys.
“That will be my business, boyo, an’ ye well know that’s an impertinent question.”
“It was worth a try,” Casey grinned, unrepentant.
“Yer still in trouble, Casey,” Brian said sternly.
Casey sighed. “Aye, Daddy, I know it. If it’s all the same to ye, I’d as soon ye gave me a beatin’ as confine me to the house an’ school.”
Brian had to bite down on a laugh. “An’ what the hell makes ye think yer opinion is goin’ to be taken into account in this matter?”
“Well,” Casey said, somewhat indignant, “it ought to, it’s me bein’ punished after all.”
“There’s a few things wrong with that argument, boy, an’ the first is that I’ve never beat ye in yer life, though ye make the proposition mighty temptin’ at times—an’ the second is, if ye get to pick an’ choose, then it’s not much in the way of punishment, is it?”
“Well, it would be, were ye to really put yerself behind the beatin’,” Casey said somewhat hopefully.
“Jaysus, Casey Riordan, I am not goin’ to beat ye, just so ye can scamper off after supper to be with yer girlfriend. In fact, I think a wee break from Miss Theresa is in order right about now. I’m goin’ to have to ground ye for a time.”
Casey looked up, dark eyes a smoke-grey, which meant he was on the verge of an explosion, or felt that his father had gone beyond the pale with his discipline.
“Da, I’ll stay away from Theresa for a bit, if ye insist, but ye have to let me get out an’ about. I can’t stand bein’ stuck in the house, it’ll drive me mad.”
Brian was quite certain that it was more likely to drive him mad. Considering how restless the boy was, having him underfoot wasn’t going to be a treat for anyone. It wasn’t an easy thing, some days, being a father. He wondered with some amusement, at the foolishness of adolescence, what with the boy telling him directly just what the most dreaded punishment would be.
“Go wash up,” he said, “an’ then get on yer chores, I want them done before dinner. Then we’re goin’ to go find that book bag of yers. Patrick, get back to those sums, an’ then ye can ride yer bike for a wee bit before yer dinner.”
“Aye, Daddy,” Patrick said, and turned his head back down to his math.
Casey dragged himself up from the table, his expression that of one convicted without fair trial, but at least he didn’t look as though he was set to argue any further, which was a minor miracle in itself. Brian didn’t think he’d the energy left for a real donnybrook, and Lord knew the boy was capable of it.
“Da.”
“Yes, son?” Casey was standing behind him, and he braced himself for the protest he felt certain was coming.
“I love ye, Da.” He bent and gave Brian a quick hug, and Brian felt a wash of sadness go over him. They were growing up so fast, his boys, and one day, sooner than he liked, they would both be gone. And then what would be the design of his life, how would his days look when the center of them was away, off living their own lives?
He felt a big hand touch his shoulder tentatively. Lord, the boy had hands on him the size of a bread-and-butter plate. He had the power of his size too; he would have to learn to manage that one day soon, because there would be men who would feel the need to challenge him simply for his stature. He put his own hand over the one that rested on his shoulder.
“I love ye too, boyo. Now could ye slow down just a wee bit with the growin’ up business?”
“Aye, Daddy, I’ll give it a go.” Casey moved off then to attend to his chores, though Brian knew he would end up out in the back yard, tending to his prized seedlings, for the boy often quenched his upset in the earth and green growing things.
He moved his gaze to his youngest, who was hastily scribbling out the last of his answers on the sum page, which looked decidedly crumpled and grubby.
“I love you too, little man,” he said gruffly and Pat looked up and smiled. The boy had one of those smiles that was purely infectious and Brian smiled back at him.
“Love ye too, Da,” he said and then rose from the table, stuffed his finished sum sheet in his book bag, grabbed his jacket and shoes and was off and away out the door, with a hasty ‘See ya!’ flung over his shoulder, for he could hear his mates out in the street already.
Brian took a breath and then another, easing the tightness in his chest. A man couldn’t tell his sons all that was in his heart, for it was too much to lay upon them. A child could not understand until they were a parent too, just what it was to love the way a parent did. How you wanted to hold time in your
hands, stop it from running, but there it was like sand pouring down, day by day, grain by grain, ceaselessly slipping away. He could not tell them how he carried them everywhere with him, how they were in his veins, as much as his own blood, just as he was in theirs.
For now though, they were his to keep, his to watch over and guide through the minefield of adolescence. He only wished that, for a bit, he could slow this run of sand through his fingers.
Athalia’s Shoes
The Gypsies made their temporary home where they always did during their yearly visit to Kirkpatrick’s Folly—tucked in a ring of trees, near the bottom of James Kirkpatrick’s land. There was only a very narrow, private road that led to this spot and it was beautifully isolated, except on a November night just past All Hallow’s Eve when it was just plain spooky. Around Pamela Riordan the woods whispered through dead leaves, both those drifting on the ground dancing here and there, catching fast beneath the hedgerows in the grasp of blackthorn branches and those still clinging to the trees, the last survivors, brown and withered of summer’s fleeting bounty. She had come to see the Queen of this particular group of Gypsies, whose name was Yevgena Vasiliovna Aljenicato, and who had been a mother in practice, if not in biology, to the man who lived in the big house on the hill. She looked back at the house, above her now, its lights sifting in glimmers and glances through the bare and twisted oaks, lending a gleam here and there to the glossy leaves of the holly bushes that permeated this part of the land.
The first time she had ever set eyes upon the house had been from the vantage point of this encampment. It had been spring then, and she had been electrified with both nerves and excitement at the prospect of encountering, once again, His Lordship, James Stuart Kirkpatrick after a six year gap. The house had seemed something straight out of a fairy tale to her nineteen-year-old eyes, lit up on its hill, surrounded by old trees and velvet lawns. Its strange architecture—Georgian on the front half and Victorian on the back, with a delightfully Edwardian study to the side—only added to its charm. And now, these eight years later, it had become a second home to her, and the man who was its master, her dearest friend in the world.
She stepped down into the bowl of land where the circle of caravans sat. While all were brightly painted, well-kept and clearly well-loved abodes, there was one that sat apart with more than the normal measure of dignity and beauty. It was, indeed, a vardo fit for a queen. Brightly red painted penny boards were offset by blue doors and beautiful scrollwork, including two fierce dragon gargoyles that reared up, set high above the carriage lamps. Smoke puffed gently from the stovepipe, coiling out into the still night like a nimbus of fog, and the windows glowed soft with the flickering light of candles.
The scent of Yevgena’s tea floated over to her, sharpened by the cold air. It smelled like smoke, rich and deep and dark, and Pamela knew it tasted just as it smelled. With a dollop of palenka in it and a bit of cream, it was sublime. She wrapped her heavy wool sweater more tightly around her body and rapped on the leaf-gilded door of Yevgena’s vardo.
The door opened immediately, for Yevgena always seemed to know when a visitor was coming long before she arrived. She looked the same as she always did, like a Russian Empress who had taken some freak notion to travel about incognito in a gypsy caravan. Her hair fell in dark wings down either side of her face, the perfect foil for the high Slavic cheekbones and night-dark eyes. Her scent mingled with that of the smoky Russian tea on the brew—a scent that Jamie had long described as gardenias and black cinnamon, as utterly unique and exotic as the woman who wore it.
“Hello, darlink girl,” she said drawing Pamela into the caravan, and into her arms for a long hug. Pamela sank into the warmth of it gratefully, Yevgena’s hugs shored up a person’s spine, while imparting comfort at the same time.
Yevgena held her out at arm’s length, surveying her, as if assessing Pamela’s well being. Once she was done, she merely tilted her head toward the table and kept any thoughts she might have to herself.
“Sit darlink, and we will have a talk. I thought, perhaps, Jemmy might walk down with you tonight?”
“He had a minor emergency to deal with at the distillery. He said if he’s not back too late, he will come join us.”
Yevgena closed the door of the vardo, shutting out the chilly, haunted night. The inside was a perfect melding of her Russian homeland and her Romany marriage. Flat-eyed ikons adorned the shelving, while the rich, red curtains were embroidered with tiny gold firebirds, the epitome of Russian-ness, with their ability to rise again and again from the ashes. A samovar sat heating upon the hostess stove, glinting silver in the low light. Only two candles lit the interior, but crystals, scattered throughout the small abode, caught the light, held it shimmering and reflected it back over polished wood, old china, rich velvets and the fine gold stitching that edged the heaps of quilts and pillows on the lofted bed. There was a crystal ball tucked into a specially built shelf, but it was covered in muffling velvet, embroidered with stars. Like most fortune-tellers, Yevgena kept the ball hidden from strangers’ eyes, and cleaned it only under a full moon with plain water and a bit of salt.
“Sit down, darlink, I was just shuffling the cards when I heard you coming down the path.”
Despite the fact there wasn’t any physical way Yevgena could have heard her footsteps on the dark, leaf-laden path, Pamela had no doubt she meant exactly what she said. She sat as bid, on the thickly-padded bench by the table. Yevgena sat opposite her, clad in a red wool shawl over a white sweater and a black skirt that reached the top of her boot clad feet. The vardo was snug, but even as well built as it was, it could not keep out the chill vapors of a November night.
The tarot cards were laid in formation. It was a Russian deck and set out in the Russian fashion, a perfect square. The colors shimmered in the candlelight—vivid scarlets, emeralds, cobalts and violets. Each card was trimmed in silver, worn through many readings to a soft pewter color. Yevgena’s hands floated over the cards, the opal ring she never took off glowing deep and rich. She must have dealt the cards for her own reading because it was traditional for a person to shuffle and lay out their own cards, and for the reader to take over from there.
Pamela suddenly wanted to make small talk out of sheer nerves, something that was ridiculous to even countenance with Yevgena. But Yevgena did not wait for such niceties as talk of the weather, or commentary on how long it had been since their last visit.
“It is why you have come, no, darlink? You want me to read your cards.”
“Yes,” she said, the shiver that had rooted in her spine outside in the night, suddenly branching out along her nerve endings, as though the darkness moved in her blood, cold and hissing with portents. Yevgena was watching her, the black eyes intent, reading her expressions, Pamela knew, as easily as she told fortunes. Many years ago, during her brief travels with this woman, Yevgena had taught her a thing or two about fortune-telling. She knew though that Yevgena could read things others could not, and that included the future. Yevgena would know the question she had come to ask.
“You must be certain of what you are willing to hear, Pamela, because tonight I tell you the cards feel very dark, and the story they will tell will not be one of happiness. There is a feel to them that I am not liking. Some nights it is best not to read the cards. Sometimes it is best not to know the future. And some nights, my darlink girl, I simply cannot read them. Tonight is, I feel, such a night.”
Pamela sensed it suddenly, an emanation rising from the cards, invisible but dark, like the fog that clung to the edges of stagnant water, roiling slowly, a thing of the creatures of the night, slick-skinned and hissing. If Yevgena didn’t want to read them, it was because they contained bad news, news she did not want to give to her.
“I have something I would show you. May I?” Yevgena asked, a look on her face that Pamela might have called vulnerability were it anyone else.
“Of course,” she said, aware on one level that Yevgena was distracting
her, that under no circumstances did she want to read the cards tonight.
Yevgena retrieved something that was lying open on her bed. She placed it on the table reverently, despite its size and general girth. It stood roughly two feet high and nearly as wide, and looked like a mad conjurer’s book, with various ingredients for spells hanging out: bits of copper and silver, feathers, leather, twists of wire, small, intricately linked chains, semi-precious stones, worn velvet and silk, pieces of canvas and tiny carvings in wood, glass blown fine and infused with rich colors—crimson and ochre, emerald and cobalt. There was the edge of sharp things too—wire and scissors, blades and rusted grates, small coiled lengths of barbed wire and shards of crystal in grubby corked bottles. The whole thing was bound with leather boards and straps with copper fittings long ago turned a deep green.
“What is it?”
“It is a sort of reliquary, a repository of memory. It is all my stories, the small ones and the big, the things that make a life. Each page is a person, and their story told in the things that symbolize them to me. I did not have words for a very long time after the camps, I only had symbols; the camps were too big for words, and all I wanted was to gather the scraps of my loved ones and hold them tight. Everything in here is symbolic, because I left the camps with nothing but a ragged and louse-ridden uniform on my back. This is a book that begins at the end, and ends at the beginning. Go ahead and open it.”
Spindrift (Exit Unicorns Series) Page 11