The Passions of Emma (41 page)
“Myself,” Donagh said as he pushed a water siphon between Shay’s battered lips, “I do not like the fellow. Myself, I think the fellow needs teaching a lesson.”
Shay smiled, and then winced as he pulled open the cut on his mouth. “And what of Saint Mary’s poor box, then?”
Donagh grinned back at him. “God, being such the fellow himself for giving a man his just deserts, would understand.”
“And the clan’s guns?”
“The clan, being made up of proud Irish fighting men, would understand as well.”
The bell rang and Shay bounced to his feet. But he didn’t leave his corner just yet. He looked at his wife and thought that what he was about to do, he’d probably been intending to do all along, in his heart. Because of her . . . She always made him better than he was, did his Bria.
A man fought with his heart as much as with his head and his hands. Fought with the hate and fire that he carried in his heart. To
beat another man to the ground with your bare fists you needed to fight utterly without mercy or pity. And to do that, you had to hate.
beat another man to the ground with your bare fists you needed to fight utterly without mercy or pity. And to do that, you had to hate.
Shay landed a tremendous right jab that smashed what was left of Parker’s nose, but he wasn’t seeing the face of the man he was hitting. He saw his mother’s wave-battered body lying broken on a rocky beach. He saw his wife’s thin white body lying beneath a rutting bastard, who wore a coat that was as red as the blood between her thighs.
Shay sliced at the man’s face with short, sharp jabs and landed crunching blows to his chest and belly, forcing him across the ring into the ropes. Parker held his arms up in front of him in a futile attempt to ward off Shay’s punches. He quit even trying to hit back, except for one dazed poke at Shay’s face with an unsteady left.
Shay sent several left shots of his own to the other man’s face, then feinted with a right for the jaw. Parker flinched, raising his arms again, and Shay shifted the whole of his considerable weight, bringing his right foot forward, slamming his right fist into Parker’s heart, and his left into the man’s stomach.
Shay heard and felt his own thumb pop loose from the joint in the same second that he saw the light fade out of Parker’s eyes, and the Harvard champ fell to the canvas, sprawling senseless.
Parker’s second took a sponge from the water pail and threw it into the middle of the ring, while the crowd screamed, “Knocked out! Knocked out!” and rushed the ropes.
Shay looked for his wife and found her. She was pushing her way toward him through the mob of people, and she was smiling. He thought she looked so young and pretty, with her cheeks blooming pink and the torchlights setting ablaze her glorious hair.
But then she coughed hard, and pressed her fist to her breast, and he thought he could almost see her heart bucking like a wild thing in her chest.
She opened her mouth, and he thought he heard her call his
name. And then the blood gushed out of her mouth, bright red and so much blood, so much, spilling all down the front of her, as if her throat had been cut.
name. And then the blood gushed out of her mouth, bright red and so much blood, so much, spilling all down the front of her, as if her throat had been cut.
“Bria!” he screamed, shoving, pushing, leaping over the ropes to get to her, while rockets suddenly shot into the air, and the sky rained stars.
B
ria turned her head on the pillow and looked at her own hair lying on the sheet, dull and faded to rust like old blood. And her hand, curled next to her cheek, bleached the color of long-dried bone.
ria turned her head on the pillow and looked at her own hair lying on the sheet, dull and faded to rust like old blood. And her hand, curled next to her cheek, bleached the color of long-dried bone.
A spill of the most beautiful lace she could imagine fell over her wrist. She felt the luscious softness of the night rail she wore caressing what was left of her flesh. Emma, she thought, dear Emma must have dressed her in one of her own fine things.
She wished she could see how she looked in it, but it was probably just as well. She was nothing but a bundle of bones now, seemingly tied together with string.
She was alone for once. The other times when she’d awakened, someone had been in the room with her. Emma usually during the day, and Shay at night, and sometimes the two of them together. The girls, from time to time, with their frightened, knowing eyes that always broke her heart. Her brother, Donagh, wearing his green sacramental stole, for the giving of the last rites. Which she would be needing soon.
And once Mrs. Hale had brought little Jacko in for her to see, although she no longer had the strength to nurse or even hold him.
Even to breathe took more strength than she had anymore. With each breath it felt as though a stone was being put on her chest, one stone for each breath, one by heavy, crushing one. One day soon
there would be one stone too many, and that breath would be her last.
there would be one stone too many, and that breath would be her last.
Poor Shay and Emma, always with smiles on their faces and soothing words, gentle touches. Pretending to her that they couldn’t see the stones stacking up on her chest one by one. But sometimes . . . oh, sometimes she would awaken before they had realized it and catch them unawares, and she would see on their faces how their hearts were breaking.
She heard a step in the kitchen now, and the whistle of the teakettle. She heard voices, Shay and Emma talking together. Already, she thought, they are seeing each other through this, taking comfort from each other, even if they don’t know it yet.
And as she let her heavy eyelids fall closed and struggled to pull in just one more swampy breath, Bria McKenna planned how she would say her goodbyes.
She began with her brother.
Each time he came he would ask her if she was sorry for her sins, and she would answer in her voice that had grown so thin and slow and strange to her own ears: “All but the one, and that one I’ll not ever be confessing to any man or priest, Donagh, so don’t you be asking me.”
But in the end she couldn’t bear to think of her brother being left in torment after she was gone, worrying about the state of her immortal soul and feeling as though he had failed her, and failed God, as her priest.
So the next time he came she told him about that day at Castle Garden, and she made him believe she was confessing the sin of her shame, although in her heart she would never be contrite.
And yet, as she saw her brother’s gentle hand make the sign of the cross over her face, as she heard him say the words,
Ego te absolvo
. . . deep in Bria’s soul she felt forgiven.
Ego te absolvo
. . . deep in Bria’s soul she felt forgiven.
Donagh wept when he put the sacred host, dry and sweet, on her tongue, restoring her soul to a state of grace. But as he was leaving he leaned over and whispered in her ear, “And doesn’t God understand easier the sins that are born of love?”
It was a terrible thing to say goodbye to her girls.
If she’d been more like Shay—him forever reading his books and pondering the meaning of things—perhaps she would have acquired enough wisdom to pass it on to them to see them through their motherless years. But she knew that in the end, little of her own wisdom would matter. They would have to grow up wise from life, or not at all.
She wanted to say something that would make it so they would never forget her. But she was afraid that if she dwelled on it too long and hard, what they would remember most about her was her dying, and that she couldn’t bear.
Then there was her poor little Jacko, who would have no memories of her at all.
So in the end, each time she saw them, she simply asked them to lie down beside her so that she could put her arms around them and hold them and tell them that she loved them.
At least they would get this from her—a knowing in their hearts that they were loved.
To Emma, her dear friend, her mirrored heart, she said, “You gave me one of your beautiful night rails when I wasn’t looking.”
She saw Emma’s throat work as she swallowed, saw how the smile came hard. “I always wanted to give you so much,” Emma said, “and you would never let me.”
“You gave me more than you can ever imagine. And you can give
me something now. A promise that after I am gone you will still come a-calling on the girls, on Shay.”
me something now. A promise that after I am gone you will still come a-calling on the girls, on Shay.”
She saw Emma’s eyes widen with something, surprise perhaps, and fear. She wasn’t sure how close either of them had come to admitting to their own hearts that they were falling in love. But she was certain they had never once gone so far as to admit it to each other. For they both loved her far too much, and they would never want to hurt her.
But after she was gone, she would be beyond hurt. They could never tarnish the love they bore for her by loving each other.
Yet, she couldn’t speak of this too plainly, not with Emma as she would with Shay. Words frightened Emma. The girl who lived in the silver house and danced in gilded ballrooms with diamonds in her hair had always grown uneasy when looking too closely at her heart.
So Bria said, “Promise me you’ll come for the sake of the girls. They’ve grown to love you so. To lose you, too, would be more than heart and soul should have to bear.”
And Emma said, with the tears held back, choking her voice, “Of course I will come. I will come for as long as they want me.”
Then, once she had Emma’s promise, Bria spent the hours when she was awake, and had the strength, talking of her man, and no Irish warrior hero ever had such songs sung of him as had Seamus McKenna.
Once, she said, “I do believe he actually likes living with his heart in his mouth, does my Shay. But maybe men are just easier at that, at living and loving in the moment. We women . . . we tend to dwell more on yesterdays and tomorrows.”
And Emma asked, “But when you dwell on your yesterdays, Bria—do you ever wonder what your life would’ve been like if you hadn’t gone to the beach to wait for him that day after the crossroads dance? Have you ever once thought you could have made a different choice?”
And she answered, “Aye, maybe I could’ve chosen differently.
Chosen not to love him at all. Or chosen to look deeper inside of me for that kind of brave love that would’ve let him go. But then, when I dwell on my tomorrows, I see that loving him will’ve been worth it all, no matter how it ends.”
Chosen not to love him at all. Or chosen to look deeper inside of me for that kind of brave love that would’ve let him go. But then, when I dwell on my tomorrows, I see that loving him will’ve been worth it all, no matter how it ends.”
That day ended with Bria coughing up such a gush of blood it splattered everywhere—on the walls and the floor, even on the postcard of the Virgin Mary. And Emma, with her lady’s hands and lady’s clothes, cleaned it up.
When it was over, Bria laid back against the pillows, straining, grasping desperately for the breath to tell Emma all that was in her heart.
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