Authors: Deborah Henry
“I thought I told you to stay on the pavement,” Marian said to Jo as she sat up.
“Da said I can play kickball in the street–”
“Before dark, Johanna!”
“I was just getting the ball, Ma.”
Marian marched over to Mrs. O’Rourke’s gate. “Just want to protect the kids, right?” she said. “Who gives you the right to decide my daughter can play outside after dark, in the street, no less?”
“I didn’t know she took the ball,” Mrs. O’Rourke said.
Marian hated the cublike gentleness in her voice. She returned to the street.
“Is she all right, then?” Mrs. Brady called out.
“She’s fine,” Marian said. She helped Jo limp into the house.
Marian looked to Mrs. O’Rourke for a better apology but received only a blank stare. She shook her head and left, dragging her body into the kitchen to put on the kettle. She was up to ninety, though, bursting with anger as she walked Jo up the stairs and saw the same group of women still on Mrs. O’Rourke’s stoop, smoking and whispering. “Why were they all there,” she muttered.
“I would not be surprised if Mrs. O’Rourke enjoys making waves. People have private issues, Jo,” she said and her tone sounded like a harsh reprimand. “Make sure other people leave our family alone.”
Marian opened Johanna’s door. “Up to your room without supper, you. You could have been killed. You’re not a baby anymore, Jo. I can’t watch you day and night, like an infant.”
Marian shook her head at her but also felt a surge of guilt.
“You’ll not have any cocoa later, either. Not a thing. And stay in your room,” Marian said and shut Johanna’s door.
~ 9 ~
A night with Johanna safe in her room was exactly what Marian needed. From the cabinet, she retrieved the Black and White Label and waited for Ben. Huge audible sighs were her forte, she thought as she turned off the kettle and breathed out her anxiety. She gave herself a good pour of the whiskey, took a long, warm swallow, and poured another shot.
Marian could make out Ben on the far corner of their street, his briefcase covering his head, slowing past Furlong’s Sandwich Shop, gazing in the window at a solo customer who might be eating his
favorite dish—sauce and meatballs—probably wondering what Marian was making for supper tonight. She had no time or inclination. How could she have his dinner on her mind today? This wasn’t your ordinary, busy, family shenanigans. Marian wasn’t sure about what to do or what to say. The two of them should get away, they both knew. And then there’s Jo on top of it. Always. He suggested trips abroad but he hadn’t followed through. Did he think that she was pregnant? He was so understanding about her odd, quiet, confused self. Or was it indifference? He truly is an eejit, Marian thought. She was not
tired or nauseated, the way she’d been stomach sick with Jo. She was demoralized. Maybe Ben’s aloofness was a sign that he had fallen out of love with her; was that the underlying problem?
She watched him pull up the sides of his collar and walk with his head down, tapping his newspaper against the iron railings that lined the front yards of their street. Passover just past and he was still feeling cold all the time. Another Passover without a real family celebration, without Tatte,
olev hasholem
—peace be on him. They would have to pay more attention to their marriage. She could feel herself drifting away. He quickened his pace, counting the steps to their home.
She turned off the telly. Ben would have already talked with
Mr. Darby about the troubles in the North and another fit of violence that occurred that afternoon. Three Protestant males were beaten to a pulp during a Catholic civil rights demonstration. Years ago, he tried to get his article approved on a history teacher and his young pupil running away together but was flatly refused. Recently he decided to take a different tack, hoping his elevated status at the paper would protect him, but printing a commentary about violence in the national schools, without Darby’s go-ahead, infuriated his boss. Darby told him he was thick as shite for this latest publishing stunt. He spent most of yesterday being yelled at by crusty Mr. Darby and arrived home deeply perturbed. He had been clandestinely researching for months. “Ridding the schools of abusive teachers,” was the caption. Five bishops called the paper. What in God’s name had he been thinking, Mr. Darby shouted, writing an article about physical abuse in schools taught by our holy Christian Brothers! Ben argued with him against censorship all afternoon. Columnists were paid for their opinion and read because of the controversy, he insisted, but it was a no-go. Mr. Darby said he’d rather gargle with rusty razor blades than listen to the reactions of the clergy to Ben’s scandalous prose. Ben was ordered to write a personal apology, including the statement that by causing insult to so many he’d alienated his audience. Mr. Darby wrote a public recantation as well. Both would appear on the front page in tomorrow’s
Irish Times.
Their conversation ended with Darby putting Ben on probation. No more elevated status.
After closing the front door behind him, Ben walked past their oddly silent foyer and switched on the living room lamp. The only sound heard was the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Not knowing how to react to the quiet, he called out as he walked into the kitchen. “No kisses tonight?”
There was Marian, a bottle of Black and White Label in one hand, two glasses on the counter.
“Did you wait for the bus in the sprinkle, sans umbrella, with the other shmeels?”
“
Schlemeils,
Marian. Hey, slow down on the whiskey,” he said, coming over to kiss her.
“I’m ashamed,” she said. “How can you stand me?”
“It’s not easy,” he said with a smile, then asked, “What’s happened? For God’s sake, I’m worried sick about you, Marian.”
“I’m making you miserable, aren’t I?”
“Ah, you are.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry altogether. That’s what I told Father Brennan, too.”
“This is the last of it, Marian. No more hiding from me.”
“How have you been able to work with me so–”
“I write better when I’m miserable,” he tried to joke.
Inside, she was bracing herself.
“What is it you’re trying to tell me, Marian?”
“I went somewhere, long ago.”
He stared hard at her.
“It won’t happen again. I went back for information,” she said, louder.
“Shh, it’s okay. Talk softly, but talk,” he said, though he looked
petrified.
“Have you given Johanna dinner?” he asked.
She shook her head no.
“Ben, I’m a bad mother,” she said. She noticed her words were
slurring.
He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, as if feeling her temperature.
“The Northern troubles percolating on the telly all day, you’ve had enough unrest tonight,” she said.
“No worries,” he said. “Let’s get through this.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said.
“Have your drink. We’re getting this out tonight.”
She shut her eyes, then opened them, smiled at him, then frowned.
He lit a cigarette.
“Rhododendron bushes in red, pink and white, I think,” Marian said, looking out the window, her eyes wet and burning. She took the fag, inhaled deeply, and then passed it back to him.
“I’m going to make us the poshest garden in all Donnybrook,” Marian said. “Loaded with color. Geraniums and mums. Daffodils and roses and lilacs. The lot.”
“Oh, you are, are you? You are such a person?” Ben teased, and took his drink. “Such a grand gardener.”
“No, I suppose, no.” That concerned look of his returned. “I have dreadful, shameful memories, Ben. Memories I shouldn’t share with anyone, and they keep drifting into my head. They make me feel less than a person.”
Ben moved close to her. “You'll plant bright red roses and yellow daffodils. And you'll wear a red fedora while you garden," he said. “And you’re no such thing. You’re far from dreadful. There’s nothing you could tell me that could make me love you any less.”
“I’ve seen pictures of red fedoras and convertibles on the newsstands, fashionable American women in Marilyn McKeever red
lipstick,” she whispered.
“Yeah?” he said, squinting at her playfully, their entwining bodies resting against the counter.
She began to tear up and he held her, sniffed as if he smelled something unfamiliar. Where had she been today? And yet he leaned closer, played with her hair. He loved her. She knew this. She always knew this. Long before he undressed her. Long before he said the words.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“Well, it just seems that God’s not really part of the plan and that some of those married to God must have henpecked Him to death,” she said.
He smiled to encourage her. She was about to make a point.
“Have I committed adultery? Have you committed adultery, Ben?” she asked and then chuckled.
“Of course not, Marian—Jesus!”
“Have I murdered anyone? Did I not ask God for forgiveness a zillion times, and didn’t God so love the world that he sent His only begotten Son to save humankind? Didn’t Mary Magdalene wash Jesus’ feet, and though she was a prostitute, didn’t He forgive her? Doesn’t God have the power to forgive all?”
“You need to talk. Talk,” he said. “I’m after an explanation of some sort.”
“You better sit down, Ben. Here, next to me.” She walked into the dining room and pulled two chairs together.
He brought the Black and White and the two tumblers with him.
“Ben, I’ve kept something from you for years.”
Ben refreshed their drinks.
“I’m ashamed. And I’m terrified, actually, that you’re going to go mad when you hear what I have to say.”
“Marian, enough! Shutting me out is worse. I’m ready to tear my hair out.”
“Okay, Ben. Do you remember the night we met your parents?” she said.
He sipped his drink, gave her a sarcastic look.
“Well, I told you I was going on
holiday with Father Brennan,”
she said. Blood heaved through her. The moment she hoped would never come was here. “I wasn’t on holiday. I went to a hellish place, Ben. Ben—I had a baby, and they took him. Sixteen days after he was born.”
She forced herself a brief look in his direction. Ben stared into his glass, tapping the side of his tumble
r.
I have blindsided him on an ordinary day. Will we ever be the same? Not likely, from the look on his face.
“I hoped to never hear that,” he said hoarsely, taking her hand.
“I thought we both buried it forever, but secrets have a curious way about them.”
“You thought
what
?”
“Okay. It’s clear as day still.” He paused. “Me, tapping the steering wheel driving to Westmeath. I’d been screaming bloody hell for over seven weeks, and been to hell and back trying to find you, yeah. Robert Thompson? He straightened me out. I told him everything about our marriage plans and about your sudden disappearance.