The Death of an Irish Tinker (22 page)

AS THE DAYS of Ward’s recovery passed and he grew stronger, he became accustomed not merely to the rhythm of living in the comfortable digs at the back of Leah Sigal’s antiques and jewelry shop. He found himself enjoying and needing the daily contact with his son. And, disturbingly, Leah herself.

First, there was the ritual of dinner that the mother of his only child, who was an excellent cook, served in the solarium, a glass-enclosed mini-greenhouse that looked out upon the narrow valley of the River Poddle with a fine view of central Dublin. But more, it was how much Lugh, their son, seemed to appreciate these events in his life, having been deprived of their mutual company for his first fourteen years.

Lugh was always on time for dinner, no matter how distant he’d gone for sports or some other activity after school. Often he’d even have his lessons done so that the three of them could watch the telly together or play a board game (at his suggestion) or just sit in the big fan chairs by the windows and look out over the city and talk.

Lugh always turned the conversation to his father, wanting to hear stories from Ward’s youth or about his family
or his experiences in sport or with the squad. All the things he had not heard as a child, Ward quickly realized with no little guilt and sympathy for the boy.

Added to that was the way Leah mediated between her “two men,” as Ward overheard her confiding to a friend on the telephone, making sure all was well between them and their every need was met. With that same slight smile Ward had noticed weeks earlier and the sparkle in her blue eyes. There always seemed to be a fire in the hearth and something baking in the oven.

When Ward finally became mobile and decided that he should at least dress in street clothes for part of the day, he called Bresnahan to ask her to bring some of his togs over. But before she could even answer the telephone message he left, Leah had gone out and bought him “a few things,” including a lounging jacket that was about the most expensive and tasteful thing Ward had ever donned.

In all, he felt as comfortable as he ever had in his life, and he found himself falling into long, deep, delicious, and dreamless recuperative sleeps that he woke from as though reborn.

And none so satisfying as when lying on the couch in the sitting room watching the television late at night after Lugh had gone to bed. He’d only close his eyes for a moment during some advert, and—presto—it was morning.

On one such night he awoke somewhat earlier to discover that he was not alone. For Leah was sleeping beside him and tucked so perfectly into his body that she felt like the warmest, softest pillow. She was wearing some pretty silk kimono that Ward had never seen before.

And either she had raised his left arm and placed it over her, or he had reached for her in his sleep. Because the arm was wrapped over her waist and in the palm of that hand was nested her right breast.

Yet she was sleeping deeply, and Ward dared not move lest he wake her. Because then what? In that position? And because it all felt so…right: how their bodies melded to
gether, who she was, how she felt, and the aroma of some fragrant shampoo in her glossy hair that was touching his nose and lips. And also because he was not sure he wanted to leave her, though he knew he should.

It was as if they were glowing or radiant or—Ward didn’t understand it—producing palpable energy there in the darkness, the only light coming through the transom to the hall. It was as if they were on fire, some slow but steady and substantial burn.

Of course, he thought of Bresnahan, as he often still did. But his thoughts of her, when he felt Leah easing in beside him and he did not stop her, were not positive. Seldom had Bresnahan and he watched television like that, on a couch, since she was rather larger than he, and it was difficult to see past her, if he was on the inside. On the outside Ward didn’t feel completely masculine—with her hugging him—and in all fairness to Ruth, they only infrequently snuggled because after all, they slept together every night. Or had, before he’d been shot.

Because for the near month that Ward had been recuperating at Leah’s (or, rather, his son’s house), his “colleague” had only phoned him, albeit daily, having quipped the first day that she was no “home wrecker” and that “the best scenario undoubtedly is for you to fulfill your familial obligations. But if you love me, you’ll get out of there soon.” Recently, however, her calls had become brusque and dispassionate.

And lacking for a week, when—always an early riser—Ward awoke just before dawn to find a cover drawn over them and Leah—could it be?—naked under his hand. And the feel of her! At once full and womanly and ripe, there was no other word for her. She was at once turgid yet soft, warm yet cool, and—when his hand descended—hot. Turning to him, she kissed him so passionately that Ward felt actually dizzy, and without his realizing how it happened, they were suddenly…engaged. Totally. But for a moment only.

Because out in the hall, their son, having to leave early for school and a sports outing that would take him away for several days, was calling for her.

Pulling away from him and leaving the couch in the darkened room, she stared down at him for a moment, before reaching for the kimono. To let him look at her. Knowing that in spite of her thirty-nine years she was still more than simply desirable. She was voluptuous. Some long seconds passed before she fitted the kimono over her shoulders, all the while her eyes locked into his. Knowing, feeling, silently rejoicing, that she now had him in her emotional thrall.

And yet more triumphant when over breakfast, Lugh asked her for a lift into school, “since you’re going that way.” Out to UCD to teach a course in decorative art, as she always did on Wednesday.

“I’m canceling.”

“Are you ill?”

“No, I just think I’ll stay home.” And her china blue eyes met Ward’s with a force and a purpose that were undeniable.

“Hughie,” she went on, “why don’t you go into the sitting room and switch on the telly? There’s that show I told you about.”

Instead Ward went directly to Leah’s shade-darkened bedroom, which was scented with the aroma of her expensive perfume that—could it be?—he loved.

When she found him, she again disrobed slowly where he could see her. “Do you want me?” she asked.

Ward did so much he could barely say yes.

“How much?”

Ward debated only a moment, since what was about to happen was inevitable and beyond his ability to choose otherwise. Why else had he come to her bed, which felt so right, like…home? Finally, he knew from his perhaps too extensive tawdry history, things like this were best done
when one was at least committed to the experience, he tried to tell himself. “A lot.”

“Enough to fill me up?”

Ward did not answer. He reached for her hip and drew her toward him.