Cast a cold eye, p.18
Cast A Cold Eye, page 18
Jack stared at the man. He could do one of several things. He could throw him out, and to hell with the consequences. He could tell him what he thought of all this bullshit, this gameplaying. He could try to get the priest’s friendship and confidence. Jesus, he could ask the priest to hear his confession, make up something, and get to him that way. He could tell a carefully constructed version of the truth, another one of his many fictions, and goad the priest into commenting on it. They went on staring at each other, each man searching the other’s face for a clue to the thoughts behind it.
“Yes,” Jack said at last.
The silence hung between them. In the kitchen the women were talking. There were no distinct words but the rhythm of their voices reached Jack’s ears. He heard a teacup rattle faintly against a saucer.
“Do you want to tell me?”
“I don’t think so.”
They were almost whispering, neither of them moving, neither releasing the other’s gaze.
“If you don’t tell me, I can’t answer your question.”
Jack was silent.
“I’m trying to help. Please believe me.” Father Henning’s voice sounded more gentle, but Jack suddenly thought that the change came in spite of the priest’s effort to remain impassive. And that awareness instantly confirmed in his mind that the priest did indeed have a secret, something that worried him, worried him about Jack, worried him as if he were now merely getting confirmation of what he’d suspected all along: somehow he’d known that Jack had been seeing . . . visions.
“You know, don’t you?” Jack said.
“I only know what you tell me.”
Jack took one long slow breath. “What if I told you about . . . a woman and a child? An infant. What if I told you about that?”
“Go on.”
“No.”
“But there are others?”
“What if I told you about that?”
Father Henning was the first to drop his gaze. “You’d do better to leave here, you know,” he said.
“I will not. What’s going on?”
The priest shook his head slightly. “Nothing new,” he said.
“But you know,” Jack said. “You know about the woman and the child. You’ve heard that before.”
The priest raised his head to meet Jack’s gaze, and his eyes were wet with a terrible sadness.
“You’ve heard that before,” Jack said again, but this time there was a puzzled wonder in his voice. And suddenly, for the first time, he and the priest were on the same side, no longer—at least for the moment—opponents. “Father, what is going on here?”
“You’ve seen other things as well?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me?”
Jack thought a moment. “No. Not until you’ve told me something. You have heard that before, haven’t you, about the woman and child? Haven’t you?”
“I have.”
Jack sighed, longing to ease the tension a bit. “Well, if I’m not the only one, then maybe I’m not crazy after all. Or at least I have plenty of company.”
“Did your young lady see anything?” the priest asked suddenly.
“No,” Jack said. “Not that I know of.”
Jack’s heart pounded faster when he saw a look that he thought was relief on the priest’s lined face.
Father Henning straightened up and made an effort to sit back on the sofa as casually as he’d been sitting before.
“We’ll not talk further about it now,” he said, and his voice was stronger, resonant with his more normal firmness. He held up one hand as Jack began a protest. “We’ll not. This is neither the time nor the place. But we will talk again about it.”
“All right. When?”
“When the time is right,” said the priest. And before Jack could reply, Father Henning turned in the direction of the kitchen and called out, “Peggy! Deirdre! Is it cold tea you’d have us be drinking?”
Almost instantly, the two women appeared in the doorway, filled with apologies from Mrs. Mullen and mutterings from Deirdre Corcoran.
“And maybe just one or two more of your lovely scones,” the priest added, his smile beaming over both the women. “And, Jack,” he said, turning and winking at him, “it’s a lucky man you are to be treated so well as this. Paddy Mullen, Lord have mercy on him, went to his grave praising Peggy’s food.”
“God rest his soul,” Peggy Mullen murmured as she took away the tray and went to fetch more scones.
The rest of the visit, another hour or so, went more easily. In fact, Jack reflected when he was once again alone in the house, the rest of the afternoon was very pleasant indeed. The tense, heated exchange early in the conversation had at least—if it had done nothing else—broken down some barrier in the priest’s mind, had overcome whatever it was that had made him keep his distance from Jack before. They talked casually, the priest telling anecdotes, laced with considerable wit, of his visits to America, and Jack talking of the schools he’d attended and some of the books he’d written, although he said nothing of the book he was working on now. Father Henning showed great interest in Jack’s writing and turned out to be quite well read. “The nights are long here in the winter months,” he said by way of explanation. Jack was reminded that he’d promised to give the priest some of his books, and he went to get them from the office.
Then the conversation had come to a natural end and Father Henning had called to Deirdre and told her they were leaving. Mrs. Mullen quickly straightened up in the kitchen, telling Jack she’d left something for him for later.
And then they were gone, with no opportunity for Jack to quietly arrange another meeting with the priest.
As he stood outside the house and watched the red lights of Deirdre Corcoran’s car disappear through the darkness up the road, Jack felt both the satisfaction of a host whose guest has enjoyed his stay and the uneasiness that follows a confession that may have touched deaf ears.
It was the uneasiness that stayed with him for the rest of the evening, and instead of fading with the passing of the hours, it only grew worse.
He was restless, pacing around the house, making tea and forgetting to drink it, opening books and staring at them without reading, changing stations on the radio and growing quickly impatient with the music.
He never should have said a word about all this nonsense to the priest. Not a word. It was all his imagination—mysterious, unaccountable, like the stories that welled up from his unconscious and poured out through his fingertips into the keyboard, rich with color and detail and dialogue, coming from God alone knew where. He’d been through all this before and that was it, his imagination, he was sure that was it, the source of everything he’d seen. How could he tell such things to an Irish country priest over afternoon tea and have the priest not think him mad?
But Father Henning had not thought him mad.
He as good as admitted he’d heard it all before. And heard more besides. They’d talk again, he’d said, although they’d obviously do it only when the priest was good and ready.
“Christ,” Jack said softly, and tossed the book he’d been holding open onto the couch beside him.
He stalked into the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Mrs. Mullen had left cold chicken and potato salad but, as soon as he looked at it, the thought of eating suddenly turned his stomach. He went back to the living room and sat on the couch, elbows on knees, kneading his hands together, tapping one foot on the carpet.
Then he was up again, going around the room and switching off the lights. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he stood at the windows, as he had so many times before, looking out at the pitch black night and straining for the sound of the sea. It came to him in dark, blurred waves of sound, distant but powerful, waves of sound crashing at the shore, audible only at the edge of his mind.
“Christ,” he muttered again.
It was after three o’clock before he slept that night.
He felt better in the morning. Not good, he admitted to himself frankly, but better. He started work very early, wrote two pages, felt better still, drank the cup of tea that Mrs. Mullen brought him as soon as she arrived, read over the two pages, and decided they were shit. Okay, so he’d take a couple of days off from the book, clear this nonsense out of his thoughts, and go back to it with a fresher mind. He turned the machine off and walked out to the kitchen.
Mrs. Mullen was sitting sideways at the kitchen table, peeling carrots, the long orange strips of skin falling into a pan on her lap.
“Mrs. Mullen,” Jack said, “who’s keeping up your own house while you’re here? You have two sons, don’t you?”
“They look after themselves, they do,” Peggy Mullen answered without looking up. “They’re well able.”
“And I’m not?”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly, her hands poised over the pan. She glanced up at him and instantly away.
“I hope they don’t resent me,” Jack said.
“Oh, no.” Her hands were unmoving in her lap.
“I mean, here I am, eating your good cooking and having my house cleaned and run so well for me, and the two of them doing without.” Jack remembered her son the day he’d come to the house, a fellow about his own age, he guessed, but silent and dour, his bulky farmer’s body ill at ease in a polite living room, resentful of all he didn’t know.
“Oh, no,” the woman said again, “not at all. They’re as glad as I am of the extra bit of money coming in. And with himself lying yonder in his grave, God rest his soul, it takes my mind off of troubles, you might say. The two of them can look after themselves well enough for this bit of time.”
“Three months is a long time,” Jack said. There was something in the woman’s voice—little more than nervousness, perhaps, but something, some secret or purpose she was keeping to herself, but she was unpracticed in lies and it showed through the fabric of her voice and words.
“Not such a long time in a life,” Mrs. Mullen said stolidly. Her hands started in again on the carrots. “Will you eat the potato salad again or would you like a couple baked for your supper?”
There was nothing to be had there and he wasn’t about to challenge an old woman. He dropped it. Now he was really imagining things. The poor woman was probably afraid he’d let her go and she’d lose out on the money. That explained her nervousness.
But an hour later, when he pulled on a parka to walk to the village for an early lunch, he thought her eyes followed him out the door. Even as he walked up the road, chin buried deep in his collar against the cold wind, he thought her eyes followed him still.
Well, he’d talk to Father Henning again. He’d let a couple of days go by, take it easy, clear some of the nonsense out of his mind, then talk to the priest.
And Grainne would be coming to visit again, maybe for longer than before. That was a pretty thought and, in spite of the chilling wind, he managed a smile.
It was mid-October now, with the days growing short and crabbed, reluctant to yield any grudging light at all, and the air cold and bitter with damp. Now the Atlantic winds came in every day, like savage raiders making a flying foray for treasure, hunting here, striking there, searching everywhere they touched, finding nothing of value and rushing away, angered, with a promise, a threat, to return and strike again.
The ground had grown hard, the dirt tight-packed, the gravel frozen, and when the dark and bitter rains came, the water pooled in black or slate-gray puddles on its surface, reflecting only the lowering weight of steely clouds above. There was no yellow sun, no blue of sky, only gray pressing down from above and stonegray rocks below.
The shore seemed the edge of the earth. Beyond it and far past the limits of sight, there was only the green and seething sea, rolling and heaving beneath the winds, flecked with white foam like the writhing lips of a monster. Controlled by nothing, it hurled itself at land, resenting the barrier of stone and soil, enraged at the check to its thrust, howling outrage at impediments of rock. Waves crashed, foamed, billowed, split apart in fury, and flung their crushing weight at the stones of the shore. Nothing moved, and the ocean, like a furious undersea beast, backed off, swelled once again, and hurled itself anew. The crashing grew louder as the month of October advanced.
CHAPTER 12
But he did not see Father Henning after all.
On the Friday morning of that week, he awoke with the idea fully formed in his mind of going to Galway for the weekend.
Yes, absolutely, that was just the thing he needed. He rejected the notion that needing a vacation from his vacation was silly and self-indulgent and extravagant. He could do it and he would. Why not? There was nothing to stop him. And hadn’t he come here to learn about Ireland and the Irish? And there was more to Ireland than Doolin. So what if he’d be going back to Galway another time to address the Literary Society? And that thought gave him another idea. He’d call the president of the society and see if he was free for dinner on Saturday night. God, he was tired of eating alone, walking alone, sleeping alone, being alone. He’d be talking to himself soon, let alone seeing things in the road and in the fog of the hills. Galway was just what he needed.
It took him less than half an hour to get ready.
He called Grainne at the shop in Dublin, told her he was going, and laughingly reassured her when she told him to be wary of those wily girls he’d no doubt be meeting in Galway. He called the president of the Galway Literary Society who was instantly delighted with the suggestion of dinner and offered to book a room for him at the Skeffington Arms Hotel in Eyre Square. Jack happily accepted. He told Mrs. Mullen to call Deirdre Corcoran to pick her up whenever she was ready. He packed a bag quickly, ate two eggs, three thickly buttered slabs of brown bread, and a bowl of lamb and barley soup that Mrs. Mullen quietly forced on him, and he was on his way.
His Geographia map indicated that it was only a little over fifty miles to Galway, but he knew from his one other long drive, from Dublin to Doolin, that no auto trip in the country was as easy as it looked on paper, with the roads twisting and turning in the paths made by cows and sheep that had wandered there a millennium ago, and many of the major routes, even those designated grandly as national highways, were little more than narrow two-lane country roads, a strip of concrete laid along the edge of a bog or a ribbon flung across a hill. Terrific. There was no rush and he was looking forward to it. He should have done this long before. The radio in the car played loud and strong and he sang along as he drove.
He headed north toward the village of Knockfin, skirting part of the limestone slopes of the Burren as they rushed downhill to the sea, then connected with a better road, heading east toward Lisdoonvarna. He turned north again, this time on the N67—the very fact that the road had a number was a joy, incontrovertible proof that he was heading once again for civilization—and drove the relatively easy eighteen miles, again crossing part of the inland Burren, through the towns of Toomaghera and Doonyvardan, and on to Ballyvaughan. East then again, along the southern shore of Galway Bay, to Kinvarra, then Kilcolgan, then north again to Oranmore and at last to the city of Galway. He took it easy, no need to rush, and the hills and the Burren and seashore and slate-gray sky drifted past pleasantly with the easy flow of time.
He loved the drive and when he got to Galway, he loved the small but pretty city even more.
His room was waiting for him at the hotel, along with a note from Brian Dunphy of the Literary Society, promising to meet him for dinner at six o’clock on Saturday. The shops were still open and he strolled around happily for a couple of hours. A big bookstore near Eyre Square had the British editions of two of his books. He found a cinema, decided to go, and still had time for a pleasant dinner. He bought a small pocket guide to the city, selected a promising restaurant from the “Upper Class” listing, enjoyed his meal and two drinks immensely, saw the movie, went back to his room at the hotel, read for twenty minutes, and fell asleep thinking of Grainne. He dreamt of making love to her and slept soundly through the night.
The whole weekend was a huge success. On Saturday, he drove out to Salthill and spent an hour strolling along the beach, enjoying the sand and the scent of the ocean. Here the salty air reminded him of the New Jersey shore in winter, something the damp winds and rocky coast of Doolin had not done.
He drove back to Galway in time to change out of jeans and into slacks and a jacket for dinner and his meeting with Brian Dunphy. When he was dressed, he just had time for a quick phone call to Grainne. He called from a telephone kiosk in the hotel lobby, but there was no answer.
Brian Dunphy turned out to be a teacher of high school level literature classes. He had, he quickly revealed, an unrequited passion for popular fiction and, so God was his witness, had actually read all of Jack’s books as they’d been published. He even had all the American editions, and, sure enough, he’d brought them all along for Jack to sign. They got along famously, and before the dinner, in the Skeffington Arms dining room, was half over, Jack was already looking forward to his return visit.
While they drank coffee after the meal, Jack said he’d read about a pub called the King’s Head in High Street that had music on the weekends. Dunphy asked if he was interested in the genuine article, traditional Irish music played on authentic instruments and songs sung in Irish. With yet another common interest strengthening the bond between them, they hurried off to Dunphy’s car and drove at breakneck speed through Claddagh and Salthill again, then out on the twisting coastal road as far as the village of Spiddal. There, Dunphy took him to a pub called An Cruiscin Lan, in the heart of the Connemara Gaeltacht, an Irish-speaking area, and the only English he heard spoken or sung for the rest of the evening was their own.
By the end of the evening, he’d learned two dozen words in Irish, plus a few lines of one song, and he and Brian Dunphy were fast friends for life. He’d been planning to try Grainne again when he reached the hotel, but by then he was too tired and the lager was buzzing too loud in his head. He slept until eleven o’clock Sunday morning, but a sympathetic waiter in the dining room saw to it that he got his breakfast anyway.
