The Last Storyteller (26 page)

She laughed. “That’s better. And the answer is ‘Not at all.’ Does that surprise you?”

“So you were expecting me?”

“Oh, stop fencing and come in,” she said.

Jimmy had said that she lived alone. And I had seen her forthrightness. She could afford to be direct; Jimmy had said that she had been left comfortably off by her parents. She had stayed so well in my mind that it made emotional sense to meet her again.

“You haven’t asked me,” she said, as she led me to her kitchen, “whether I’m pleased to see you.”

“I haven’t.”

“Tea or a drink?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Is that what your problem is?” she said. “That you can’t ask for what you want?”

I didn’t answer, just stood there, large as a lump in her kitchen. She filled a kettle, plugged it into a hefty black outlet, and threw a switch big enough to inaugurate a dam. And then I said, “Everything in me is blocked. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Give me your coat.”
Does nothing faze her?
“My God! The weight of this thing,” she exclaimed, and she hung it on the newel post of the staircase. The coat’s folds sank to the floor like a tired widow.

“Now.” She stood with her back to the stove, waiting for the kettle. “Let’s clear this up. Do you understand the difference between not expecting you and not being surprised?”

“Of course.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. What puzzles me is that you aren’t pressing me on the point.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Try something,” she said. “Anything. We’re neither of us fools.”

“All right. So why aren’t you surprised?”

“That’s better,” she said. “I thought you had some guts in you.”

“Why did you think that?”

“It’s what people say about you.”

“Now I’m the one who’s surprised.”

“The only one,” she said. “Remember I said I wasn’t surprised.”

We both laughed; I could hear the ice breaking and the floes drifting away. She held her arms out wide, as a sign of peace. “Relax, Ben MacCarthy.”

“Is that an order or a project?” I said.

“Dora Fay is an old family friend,” she said. “Now will you relax?”

I gaped at her. “What?!”

The kettle began to sing its little song; she let it grow shrill. With her back to me she prepared everything, then sat at the table.

“By the way, where did you pick up that worm Bermingham?”

“Dora Fay baked this cake,” I said.

Marian Killeen nodded. “I can’t bake. Simply unable to. I can cook, though.”

“I met him in a pub in Urlingford. He had been following me, looking for me. And we got dragged into a strange kind of fiasco.” I told her the story, including the legend of Malachi MacCool.

“Dora says that you’re a man to whom things happen,” Marian Killeen said. “And not all of them good.”

“A long time ago, Miss Fay kind of saved me,” I said.

“I know. And she wants me to do it now.”

“Dear God!”

“All right,” she said. “Full confession. I was intrigued by you when I met you with Bermingham. I had already seen you.”

“Where?”

“Beside Dora. At James’s funeral. And at the party that night.”

“How come,” I said, edging toward being irked, “I didn’t see you?”

“You don’t notice women,” she said. “That’s what Dora says.” To stop my protest she put a hand on the back of mine, an electric touch. “It’s all right. I know why. I know a great deal about you. In fact, Dora admits that she kept you and me from meeting all these years.”

“I didn’t know a word of this.”

“Of course you don’t. Women have so little influence in the world that they have to invent secret powers. And you’re a man around whom that kind of thing happens.”

“Am I?”

“I believe in things getting paid back,” said Marian Killeen. “I believe that if you trust it, that life will give you what you want, provided it’s healthy and good and does the opposite of harm.”

“Whew! That’s some faith.”

“Now.” She leaned forward, her eyes flowing into mine. “Can you do this? Can you figure out why you’re here? And can you also determine what it is you’ll take from me? What it is I can give you and what you can give me?” She had the clear punctuation and emphasis of the very assured. “While you’re thinking about it, let me tell you about the belief that life will give you what you want.”

I said, “Hold on, hold on. Go back to Miss Fay. Not wanting us to meet and now wanting us to meet.”

“Don’t interfere with my stride when I hit it.”

I leaned back to listen. “Fine. Go ahead.”

I should feel bewildered, but I have no right to be. After all, I’m the one who came here. Just listen now, see what she has to say. For once in your life, flow with the stream
.

“You have to know what you want. The Chinese have a proverb: ‘There are two things in life that are difficult—knowing what you want and getting it. And of these, the former is the more difficult.’ Ever hear that? No? Well, you have now.” She had a good, strong grin that puckered her nose.

I have heard it, but I don’t want to complicate things. Is this going too fast for me?

She held her hands out flat on the table and drew a deep breath.

“For reasons that will become plain to you”—she glanced up at the clock—“in half an hour or so, you’ll know that I’m going to keep no secrets from you. I’ll answer any question you ask me. If I can.”

“I don’t know what to ask,” I said.

“Very well. I’m in charge.” She settled into her command. “My beliefs first. Payback and how it happens. And how to get what you want. I have a good life, as you can tell. I’m more or less my own boss, I love
my work, and I have this house and enough money for the rest of my life. My first twenty-eight years, though, were rotten. My father and my mother fought all the time and they used me as a go-between and a punching bag. How I survived I don’t know. You’re looking at a miracle.”

I said, indicating the house and its comforts, “So this is your payback?”

“They died,” she said. “In a car crash. Both drinking. My guess is that they had a fight and that she wrenched the wheel. I saw her do it many times. Terrifying.”

“Did they die at the same time?”

“Instantly,” she said. “Ask me what I felt.”

“What did you feel?”

“Relief.”

She wore no rings but had perfect fingernails, painted a strong pink. Her eye contact never wavered: straight into mine, almost defying me to look away. Now and again her gaze flickered down toward my mouth.

“Did that make you feel guilty?”

“Not many men would ask that question,” she said. “Dora Fay said you were smart.” I raised a querying eyebrow, and she continued: “Dora says that she kept you from me for years because she thought I would get hurt.”

I sat up. “Why did she think that?”

“Calm down, Ben MacCarthy, no need to get het up. She meant that I might want to get involved with you, but that you never had any intention of looking at any woman other than the wife you lost.”

“She told you that?”

Marian Killeen nodded. “Loud and clear.”

“But if that’s the case—”

She finished the question for me, as she often would. “If that’s the case, why does she want us to be in contact now?” And she paused, her gray eyes searching me.

“Exactly. Why now?”

“I can only repeat her words. She wants me to ‘take you in hand’—that’s the phrase she used.”

“Take me in hand?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

“Did you ask her what she meant by that?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did she say?”

Marian Killeen sat back and measured me with her eyes. For a moment or two she said nothing, and then she nodded her head slowly.

“She said that was up to me. And she said that I’d know what to do. And she was right.”

When I awoke, I knew at once where I was. The day had long ended. In the window I could see a streetlamp’s yellow glow. Light danced on the ceiling from a fire, lit while I was asleep. She saw me raise my head.

“What time is it?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“I mean, how long did I sleep?”

She said, “Five hours. Give or take a few minutes.”

“Jesus.”

“You slept like the dead. I watched you.”

“Have you been here all the time?”

“Apart,” she said, “from tending the fire.”

She added, “We have to have rules.” I said,

“Fine by me.”

“There’s only one rule,” she said. “Nothing but kindness.”

“I can do that.”

“Oh, I know,” she said.

We rose and went downstairs, each proclaiming ravenous hunger. She cooked omelettes with bacon and cheese and made mugs of strong tea. I found my courage and told her the Macao story.

“Am I that sad and dreary man? That’s what I ask myself.”

A silence fell; Marian broke it.

“Ask it.”

“What?”

“Ask the question you’re wanting to ask. Which is, why did you come here?”

Conceding with my palms turned up, I said, “Very well. Why?”

“You should be able to answer your own question.”

I took my time. Then I said, “I think I know.”

She looked at me, her gaze level and intelligent, and still with the blush of the bedroom on her cheeks.

“Go on.”

I said, “But it’s corny.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Is there something in there about making—” I paused. “Don’t know how to put this.”

“Try. I won’t laugh.”

So I said, “Is it—was it—is it—” I stopped, half-laughing.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said, reaching across and taking my hand.

“Is it about making me a man?”

“No. You have two children. It’s about reminding you.”

“Of what?”

Now she took her time. “I know your story,” she said. “I know it in detail from Dora. She has talked to me about you so often. She says you’re impossible to care for. That you won’t allow it. And that you’ve forgotten what care feels like on the receiving end.”

I said, “I certainly recognize the word as she uses it.”

Marian continued, “If you’ve been unable to care for the people you love most, you need to be reminded what care feels like. And you have probably never been cared for like this in all those years.”

I said, “There’s some truth in that.”

“But I know,” she went on, “that you devoted several years of your life, back there during the war, to somebody.”

“Her name was Kate Begley. She was a matchmaker.”

“And from what I hear, you didn’t get much out of that.”

“I learned a lot.”

Marian said, “That’s generous of you.”

I said, “It’s true.” Then I asked, “Is there more?”

“That I want to say to you? Oh God, yes. But it will wait till the morning.”

We went back to bed, leaving the kitchen immaculate again. I damped down the fire, did some small domestic chores. She watched me all the time.

At breakfast she asked, “Now do you know why you came here?”

“Instinct.”

“Good.”

“But this has been all about me.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“What have you got out of it?”

She said, “A lot. But I’ll be specific. I’ve just had the experience of losing my virginity to a wonderful man. Who will now do me a great favor.”

“If I can.” Not for a second did I feel wary.

“Keep Jimmy Bermingham away from me.”

I said, “I can do that.”

“And,” she said, and to my astonishment she became upset. It happened at the speed of light. She sat back, her face crumpled, and she covered her eyes with one hand.

“And what?” I asked, as carefully as I could.

Pulling herself back together, she said, “And I get to tell somebody a secret he will never tell. Because he’s that kind of man.”

“I know many secrets,” I said.

“James said you were the most trustworthy man he ever knew.” She stopped, reconsidered. “Ben, look at us, look at the two of us in this country that pretends hour by hour, day by day, not to be corrupt and it’s a cesspool of violence and hypocrisy. Somebody has to find a way forward,” she said, “and it has to be people like us.”

I nodded. “I see it every day.” And I waited.

“Here’s my secret,” she said. “I discovered when my parents died that they were not husband and wife but brother and sister. That’s probably why they fought so bitterly and took so much out on me. I can never
marry, because I could breed idiots. In fact, I had my womb removed. I went to England, got it done there.”

I rose from my chair, walked around to her side of the table, and held her head in my arms.

To this day, I have difficulty reaching for the appropriate image to describe that extraordinary moment in my life. Years later she said to me, “You called me your tanker that lovely night. Do you remember?”

“Tanker?”

“You said that I refueled you.”

“Well, you did.”

It was the first time we had ever talked about that night. I asked her, “Did you think about it much?”

“Every day. Still do.”

“And what do you think?”

“Not enough words in the dictionary,” she said. She smiled. “So it comes down to a single phrase: ‘My one and only.’ ”

At that meeting, Marian Killeen also told me that she had known what would happen next.

“I saw it in your face.”

“I did it because of you,” I said.

“No, Ben. You just needed someone who would know that you were doing the right thing.”

Sooner rather than later (as you’ll well recall), Gentleman Jack took over every bill on which he appeared. That was the kind of force he had. Pick-pocketing before the intermission, hypnotism in the second half, and he sold out every night. The next day I waited for hours to be the first in line.

In an aisle seat, I sat through the disappearing neckties, wallets, shoelaces, belts, scarves, jackets. This time, with more presence of mind, I looked closer.

He was not as tall as me; I already knew that. Much thinner, too; he had no flesh on him. He prowled like a cat, light on his feet in his shiny patent leather shoes. The black line of mustache curled when his lip did. He had a forced, insincere laugh. Unbiased of me, eh?