The Eden Tree (11 page)

“Be still,” the doctor said sharply, picking up his bag. “You’re a sick man.” He took a probe from his case. “This one defeats me,” he said to Linn, continuing his monologue. “I’ve been making a career out of stitching him up since he was fourteen. That time he jumped off the roof of Saint Michael’s, if you please, and broke the other leg. He’s been trying to kill himself creatively ever since.”

“Can you help him?” Linn asked anxiously.

McCarthy sent her a measuring glance. “Have you a strong stomach?” he asked.

Linn swallowed. “I think so.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Good.” He removed forceps, a pair of thin rubber gloves and a tin of antiseptic powder from his case. “I’m going to take out that scrap that’s causing all the trouble. It had to come out sooner or later. This really should be done under sterile conditions in hospital but I don’t want to move him. Now you keep him still, lass. This will smart a bit, and I can’t have him jouncing all over the place. Get up there with him and hold him fast.”

Linn climbed onto the bed and cradled Con in her lap. He was losing consciousness again, his head lolling, his breathing shallow. She looked away from the wound when she saw McCarthy packing it in gauze and sliding a wadded sheet under Con’s leg. That done, he uncapped a flask he’d brought with him and held it to Con’s lips.

“Have some of this, son; it will ease the pain.”

Con came around a little and sipped, choking on the strong spirits.

“That’s good Jameson’s, boy; don’t waste it,” the doctor said kindly, giving him some more and wiping away the spillage. He waited until Con swallowed and then put the flask aside.

“Let’s get to it,” he said to Linn, picking up the forceps.

Linn couldn’t look. She bent her head over Con’s, holding him close, pressing her lips to his hair. She felt his fingers close around her arms as the doctor went to work.

Con gasped and stiffened as the instrument probed his flesh. He writhed in silent agony, his hold on her like a vise. Linn murmured to him, hardly knowing what she was saying.

“It’s all right,” she said, her voice breaking. “Almost over now. Just about done.” His body relaxed and she knew that he had lost consciousness. She went on talking to him anyway, kissing his head, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach. She was unaware that she was crying.

“You’ll be fine, my darling, you’ll be fine. I know it hurts and you’re so brave, you haven’t made a sound. It’s wonderful to be so strong.”

She continued that way, holding his limp body and babbling nonsense, until McCarthy said triumphantly, “Got it. Now let me sew him up and there’s an end to it.”

Linn raised her head, blinking through her tears. “He’ll be okay?” she whispered. “He doesn’t need a transfusion?”

“Of course not. He’ll be fine. No doubt of it. This looks a sorry lot, worse than it actually is.” He saw Linn’s death grip on his patient and added gently, “You can let him go now. Help me clean him up.”

Linn settled Con carefully on the bed and wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse. She crawled around to the doctor’s position and assisted him silently while he cleaned and dressed the wound.

“There,” McCarthy said, taping the gauze in place. “Done, and done.” He glanced at Linn. “You look like you could use a drink yourself.”

Linn tried a smile. “I guess I could.”

McCarthy raised his flask. “Neat, from the jug?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He handed Linn the bottle. She bolted a large swig and gasped, more tears springing to her eyes.

“That’ll set you up,” the doctor stated, then took a substantial pull of his own. He eyed Linn worriedly. “Are you all right, girl?”

“Yes, I think so. I guess I didn’t realize that it would… hurt him…quite so much.”

The doctor nodded thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “Does he know how you feel about him?”

Linn stared at McCarthy in silence.

The doctor shrugged. “I’d tell him if I were you. Con’s a smart lad about most things, but he can be a bit thick when it comes to women.”

Linn couldn’t think of a suitable reply to that observation, but McCarthy didn’t seem to expect one. He set about washing his things in the sink at the other end of the cottage, humming cheerfully. Linn had composed herself by the time he returned. He loaded a syringe from a bottle and injected Con with the solution.

“This will hold him ‘til morning,” he said. He gave Linn a paper packet with a handful of pills inside it. “Give him one of these every four hours. The shot was a pain killer and these are antibiotics.” He looked at Linn. “You’ll stay with him?”

“I’ll stay.”

“He’s a tough character, you know. Terrible strong- minded. He has to stay quiet and he may take a notion to get out of bed when he wakes up.”

“I can handle him,” Linn answered with grim determination.

McCarthy turned away to hide his smile. “I believe you can,” he said evenly. “Now he may spike a fever, which is normal under the circumstances; just keep him warm and off that leg. Call me if he becomes agitated or if anything seems wrong. I’ll be back to check on him tomorrow.”

“All right. Thank you, doctor. I’m so grateful that you came to take care of him.”

“Oh, Con’s a favorite of mine. He’s trouble on horseback, to be sure, but he has a great heart.”

That’s just what Bridie said, Linn thought.

“By the way,” McCarthy said as he was packing to go, “do you know how he got back here without his car?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t even know how he was hurt, except that it happened while he was trying to spring some friend of his who was picked up for internment.”

The doctor nodded. “A familiar story. Those boyos stick together.” He picked up his bag and glanced around to see if he had left anything.

“I think that’s all,” he said with finality. “Goodbye then, Miss Pierce, and take good care of our patient.”

“I will. And thanks again for coming.”

He made a deprecating gesture. “Not at all.” He saluted Linn with two fingers and slipped through the door.

Linn glanced at her watch. It would be a long night. She settled down in the chair next to the bed and decided to take a rest.

Later, while Con slept, she would tidy up the cottage.

* * * *

Linn fell asleep in the chair and woke an hour later. The moon had risen and shone through the window above the bed, casting a shaft of light across Con’s face. He was sleeping peacefully and Linn pulled the cover up under his chin. She put the back of her hand to his forehead, and it felt cool. Satisfied, she got up and went to the kitchenette, putting the kettle on to boil. She thought with a mental sigh that she could kill for a cup of American coffee, but she’d found that it was scarce in this country. They were all passionately devoted to tea.

She had the opportunity to examine Con’s home for the first time since she’d arrived. He had converted the interior of the stone cottage into a sort of bachelor pad. There was a small modern kitchen in one corner next to the brick fireplace, which was obviously original. A combined leisure and work area consisted of twin couches in front of the hearth and a sturdy worktable, which contained the telephone and typewriter. Three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves, which were crammed with everything imaginable, including a small Japanese television set and a stack of clean shirts. He had a dresser and a chest of drawers in the alcove that housed the bed. Chintz curtains that matched the print on the sofas covered the windows. Linn looked around curiously for the bathroom and saw a door leading off from the rear of the kitchen. He had added that, as well as the many electric outlets which dotted the walls. He must have rewired the whole place to accommodate his appliances, a process that Linn was just beginning at the main house.

The kettle whistled and Linn went to turn it off, glancing at Con, who slept undisturbed. She turned on the small lamp on the bar portion of the kitchen and looked around for tea bags. In one of the cupboards she found something better: a jar of instant coffee. It was a British brand and didn’t compare favorably with her beloved ground roast, but it was better than nothing. Mug in hand, she wandered over to the bookshelves and investigated their contents.

He had an Irishman’s taste in books. He had many volumes of poetry, including a copy of Yeats’ original notes in the writer’s own hand, which must have cost a fortune. There were selections on Irish, American and British history and a wide range of contemporary fiction. Quite a few were in Gaelic, written with a runic alphabet and read from right to left. Linn flipped through a volume, thinking that the writing looked like Hebrew. Con seemed particularly interested in the Celtic folktales, which were Seamus Martin’s stock-in-trade; Linn examined a book on Deirdre of the Sorrows, which featured lovely pen-and-ink sketches of the principals in her tragic story.

There were some textbooks he’d saved from Fordham, and a Trinity yearbook in which she found his picture. Linn checked on the patient guiltily; he might not like her inspection of his library. You could learn a lot about people from the books they owned. Linn felt that this tour was the best insight she’d had into his character, providing information he would never volunteer himself.

There wasn’t a single copy of his own books. She thought this odd; if she ever had anything published she intended to wallpaper her rooms with the cover proofs.

Linn drained her cup and set about putting the large room in order. The cottage wasn’t dirty, just cluttered. She put Con’s papers into neat, organized stacks and resisted the strong temptation to read the manuscript pages she found on top of the typewriter. She washed the dishes in the sink and put away a bag of groceries he’d left to decompose on the countertop. Most of the stuff was salvageable; she poured the soured milk down the sink and tossed out the rock hard loaf of bread. He had evidently left in a hurry.

She was crouched before the mini refrigerator, putting things away, when she heard a sound from Con’s direction. She hurried to his side. He was whimpering, muttering under his breath, bunching the bedclothes in his fists. Alarmed, she felt his forehead, but he was still cool. He wasn’t delirious; he was having a bad dream.

She touched his arm lightly but he continued to talk, louder now. He spoke in Gaelic and she couldn’t understand a word. He was becoming more upset, and she was just about to shake him when he sat up with a loud cry, shocking himself awake.

“Con, you’re all right,” Linn said soothingly, putting her hands on his shoulders. “You had a bad dream.”

He looked at her and around at the room. Relieved, he sank back on the bed. “It seems I did,” he answered hoarsely.

“You were yelling in Gaelic,” Linn said.

He nodded. “We use it for a code. The tans can’t understand it.”

The tans. He used the old word, with the old bitterness. “Is that what you were dreaming about, the trouble?”

“Aye.” He swallowed. “I was trying to warn someone but he couldn’t hear me. I’ve dreamt the same before.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t bear repeating.” He took her hand. “Will you get me a drink? I’ve the mother and father of a thirst.” He glanced at his leg. “I see Neil patched me up.”

“I’ll get you a drink of water,” Linn replied. “You’re full of drugs; no booze for you. It’s time for your pill anyway.”

“Who died and left you boss?” he said grumpily.

“Dr. McCarthy put me in charge.”

“Neil has no mercy.” He sat up and tried to slide his injured leg off the bed.

Linn paused in her path to the sink. “And where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“I have to use the lavatory,” he said uncomfortably, flushing faintly.

“You can’t go by yourself. I’ll take you.”

“The devil you will!” he roared. “I’m not a cripple yet.”

“Dr. McCarthy said you were to stay off that leg. You can use me for a crutch.” Linn went to him and helped him stand, propping up his bad side by slipping her arm around his waist. “Don’t be afraid to lean on me,” she said to him. “I’m strong.”

Con looked down at her. “You are that,” he said softly.

Linn pulled him closer, trying to get a better grip on him. He was still holding back, reluctant to let her take his full weight. “Con, you must let me help you,” she said, glancing up at him.

His blue eyes held hers. “You have helped me,” he murmured. “I’d be in a bad way right now if it weren’t for you.”

Linn dropped her eyes, acutely conscious of his muscular body pressed against hers. He turned her chin up with his free hand, forcing her to look at him.

“I’m afraid I’ve given you a rough time,” he said quietly. “I’m a notoriously nasty patient.”

“Anyone in pain can be forgiven for being nasty,” Linn answered evasively.

“Am I forgiven then?” he asked.

“You know you are.”

“Show me.”

“Con, you shouldn’t be standing this long and…” Her words were cut off by the pressure of his mouth. His lips touched hers briefly, warmly, and then he raised his head, leaving her aching for more.

“Aislinn aroon,” he whispered. “You’re a treasure.”