Gillyflower Read online

  Nora felt like a cat, all nerves and bones and hesitancy, until she relaxed. Then I felt her whole body loosen, as if she’d become pure silk. When I pulled her inside my coat she seemed to melt into me, and the desire I felt for her at that moment shook me awake from a lifetime of sleepier yearnings. Far from wanting to kill her, I now wanted to rend my body apart at the breastbone and pull her deeper and deeper into my very blood and core. I suppose it was a female impulse, drawn from some primitive place one seldom likes to go. My other impulses were entirely male, however; I thought my body would burst apart with its compulsion to possess her. I had to stop kissing her, holding her, drinking her in. It was either that or take her instantly, standing up against the tree or lying on the sodden path. Ridiculous.

  When we stopped kissing, I guided her to a bench and placed her a little away from me. We were both giddy—like teenagers whose experimentation had gotten quite away from them. I lit a cigarette. Nora asked me for one. I was surprised to see her begin to smoke like a veteran, but the Galoises proved too strong for her, and she soon let the cigarette drop to the wet ground, unnecessarily stamping it down with her foot.

  It was then I noticed her yellow stockings. Her skirt was on the long side, and Leon’s coat had hidden much of the rest of her legs. I reached over and moved the layers of cloth just up to her knee, running my hand along her calf as I did so. Yes, her hose were the palest yellow.

  She shivered perceptibly when I touched her. She smiled. “You’re not helping me calm down,” she said.

  “I just noticed your stockings,” I said, moronically. “They’re yellow.”

  “Yes,” she said. “To match the dress I bought for the play.”

  “I did think it was the same one.”

  “Yes.”

  I looked up at her, keeping my palm on her leg. “You’re the color of a beam of light.”

  She flushed a little. After all that had happened that day, that one statement made her blush. She was a funny witch; I was enchanted.

  “Nora,” I continued, feeding on her bashfulness, “you’re like a gillyflower.”

  “What’s that?” she asked me, smiling. She was radiant—an opal, a vamp, a duckling. I could not put a description to her, but I was helpless to do anything but touch her. I held her hand and looked out over what was left of the world in the fog and deepening light.

  “When I was a child in Ireland,” I told her, “every now and then my brothers and I would find a kind of small carnation on the cliffs, growing close to the ground. We knew our mother loved them. She called them gillyflowers. And whenever we’d bring her one she’d take it lovingly in her hands and say, ‘You really oughtn’t pluck them up, you know—there are so few—but I do love having them about the house for as long as they last.’ And she’d put the flower in a blue glass vase and set it on the windowsill over her desk in the sunlight. ‘I always say,’ she’d tell us, all smiling, ‘the good Lord always sends me a gillyflower when I need one.’ And she’d give us a kiss and a pat on the arse and send us back out to play.” To cover my sudden emotion, I added, “The silly things were usually dead by morning.”

  “What a beautiful story,” she said, looking pensive and more flowerlike than ever.

  “And they were the palest yellow, just like you.”

  “Mr. Sheenan, you’re turning my head,” she teased.

  “My silly little gillyflower,” I said, looking far into her eyes (as usual, I found no end to them). “We can go now.”

  As we walked arm in arm back to the hotel, we did not speak. I was thinking of a number of practical matters. I knew she had to make her telephone call, and I was trying to remember where the booth was in the lobby—I knew I had seen one. I didn’t want her making a call from my room; I didn’t want to hear her. Also, while putting on my hat, I had noticed that wretched Leon skulking in the park, just beyond us. I wondered what he had seen and heard. Well, bugger him, I thought. Walking with Nora I felt, for the first time in years, a feeling I’d forgotten: the feeling of being just one of a million-million human beings. I had no fear of being recognized, or any desire to be, which was always the other side of the coin. She had thrown a shawl of protection about me and I would not let Leon’s presence wrench it away. Besides, he did have his discretion; he was no Peeping Tom. I knew once he realized where we were headed he would soon leave us alone.

  Nora made her call. She came out of the little telephone-room looking serious but composed, and I thought, good, no hysterics. I had to admit to myself I was afraid she’d leave right then—that she’d phoned from our world to the one from whence she’d come, and been summoned back by a heartless black magic. You are truly a blasted old fool, I thought, you are dotty. We went upstairs.

  In the lift the operator smiled at us and said, “Nasty weather,” giving our wrinkled, saturated coats the once-over.

  “To the contrary, my good man,” I said, “this New England mist reminds me fondly of home.”

  The man smiled again, too well trained to take it further. It made me feel quite possessive; I felt I belonged there with Nora, that we were just an ordinary couple who’d been out enjoying the town.

  I unlocked the suite and ushered Nora in. I turned on some small lamps and lifted Leon’s coat from her shoulders. She trembled.

  “You’ve caught a chill,” I said. “Some brandy?”

  She did not answer me, but I poured some for each of us from the bottle I’d smuggled in past poor old Leon. She went and curled up on the sofa with her glass, looking down into it and not at me. I wanted to go to her, to hold her against me again, but I kept away, remembering Horatio.

  Finally, she said, “I am cold, I guess.”

  It was warm in the room—I had just been considering letting in some air—so I knew her condition was not a physical one. She was all nerved up, she needed uncoiling. I wondered when she would ever let me touch her, though I did not doubt that she would, eventually. I sat down opposite her in a chair, thinking how to gentle her out of her mood. “It must have been the fog,” I said. “Perhaps a warm bath?”

  There was a short pause, and I thought I’d said the wrong thing—then, “Bawth?” she repeated, in my accent. She smiled hugely, suddenly all aglow. I could not believe my luck: she wanted to have a bath with me!

  I smiled back, restraining my desire to lift her up and carry her off like a bandit. “Shall I run the water?”

  She nodded, and I bolted for the bathroom door. I found some scented bath salts in the cabinet that Leon must have intended for my pacification (amazing what that man will pack for a one-night stay) and dumped them into the tub. I turned on the taps and let steaming water rush over them; it smelled wonderful, like a forest of pines. I checked the towels, which were in good supply and fluffy. Then I went out and fetched Nora, who’d already shed her sandals, and led her, shoes and brandy glass in hand, to the edge of the magical waters.

  She breathed in deeply and said, “Heaven. Thank you, Hugh.”

  And then, before I realized what she was doing, she gently pushed me out and closed the door.

  24. Nora

  I knew of no precedent for any of this; I had nothing to take my cue from, nothing in my experience, nothing I’d seen in print. I don’t know who the woman was who closed Hugh out of the bathroom—she did it so smoothly, so unexpectedly, I was filled with surprise and admiration for her. I saw him as she closed the door; he looked both surprised and reverent. Then she closed the lid of the john and sat down. Eventually she reached over and turned off the taps, just before the water would have sloshed over the edge and soaked the cream-colored rug. She set down the glass of brandy, and then she began, very quietly, to cry.

  She cried for me, I think, but not entirely in sorrow, and not for long. She opened the john and peed, then washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and looked around. Some of Hugh’s things were set out on the counter: a brush and comb, some lavender-scented shaving cream, Mylanta, aspirin, a straightedge razor. She tested
the edge of the razor’s blade on the back of her hand and quickly put it down. She ran her fingers through the brush and drew out some short black hairs, some grey and brown ones too.

  Holding these up to the light, she examined them closely, looking for God knows what. I thought she’d probably put them somewhere, as a keepsake, but she scattered them over the rug, like ashes or crumbs.

  This is a fortunate woman, I thought. I longed to see her enter her bath, her luxurious preparation for a night of passion. She was so single-minded, so self-confident. I pictured her slipping her soft, loose dress over her head, revealing her fortunate body. She’d remove the pale yellow stockings slowly, seductively, as if Hugh were still there. This was a woman capable of patience and subtle allure: she had postponed her fondest desire, only to make it fonder still.

  I don’t know how long she stood there, watching Hugh’s hairs drift from her fingers endlessly through time and shadow—it seemed to take an age. She appeared to know I was there, but she did not care that I watched her. The room was swollen with steam and the scent of fir trees. I suddenly knew that something dreadful was happening, that a choice was being made for me as irrevocably as choices are made for us before birth by our parents’ bodies. This would be something I’d have to “live with, make the best of, learn to cope with.” I could not move for grief. Languidly, with a look of resignation, the woman finally reached out her hand to me, and I stepped inside her.

  I found her body uncomfortable at first: it seemed a little drunk, a little cruel. I tried to take her dress off, to defy her and step into the bath, but her fingers would not work. Her hands were unsteady, and had somehow become cold and stiff in the steamy room. I sat in this second-hand body, on the soft, damp rug, until gradually I took it over completely.

  I knew the woman had done me a favor, had given me the gift of her very life, but I could not forgive her. I thought of all the pleasure, the sweet pain, she would have found in Hugh’s arms, and how I would have watched them happily, jealously, recording each movement and stillness, each murmur and silence, in the scrupulous record I’d been keeping of her life. What good had her sacrifice been to either of us? She was, for all purposes, dead now, and I lacked all her resources with which to carry on.

  As swiftly, as surprisingly, as Hugh had been brought into my life, he had been suddenly torn away. Like his arrival, his departure was out of my control, but this time there was no dream, and no hope of one. By consenting to touch his real face, I had given up claim to the face that had possessed me for so long. I wanted to blame him; I knew I would blame him. But I also called him innocent in the caverns of my best heart.

  I thought of what was lost, but not of what would happen. I did not think about Rick, about right or wrong, or even about the way that woman’s body, now completely mine, ached inconceivably for the touch of a long-boned hand, the kiss of a too-wide, tender mouth, and the final, self-annihilating fulfillment.

  I put on my shoes quite suddenly, as if someone had commanded me to do so, and stood by the door.

  25. Hugh

  Nora stayed in the bathroom a very long time, and the water ran so long and hard that I expected at any moment to see it gush from beneath the door. Finally, the water noises stopped, and there was silence for quite a while. I’d taken off my clothes and put on a poufy, hooded (Why were these bloody things always hooded? What dodo would wear a hood in the house?) hotel robe, deep red, with a white rope around the waist. Too short for me, of course. Checking myself in the mirror, I saw a tall, skinny, monkish-looking person with knobbly knees and an absurd grin on his face. I went and lay across the bed.

  “Women are most hilarious,” I prattled to myself, “experts in postponing satisfaction. They would rather primp and fuss for hours than get right to the heart of the matter.” I laughed. I had another brandy. My stomach was fine. My heart was pumping like a locomotive. I was eighteen years old.

  But as time dragged on, I began to feel uneasy. I went and knocked on the bathroom door. “Nora,” I called out, “is everything fine in there?”

  She did not answer but opened the door immediately, as if she’d been standing right behind. She was fully dressed; she’d even put her shoes back on. The tub was full to the brim with untouched water, not a bubble disturbed. The towels were still neatly folded. She walked briskly past me.

  “What is it, my dear?” I asked, going to her and folding her in my arms. They were trembling.

  She let me hold her, but she was limp and far away. I let her go.

  I had a flash: perhaps she knew of my heart condition and had been worrying herself about endangering my life by making love. I rushed to reassure her. “Nora,” I said, “if you’re concerned about my health, please don’t be. The doctors tell me there’s absolutely no danger. . .”

  That was not it at all; I could tell by her expression. “Hugh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m sorry. . .” She looked at me with terrible eyes; she was crying. “I can’t believe this, I can’t help it, I can’t tell you, I don’t know what to say.” She crumpled onto a chair and hid her face from me.

  I knelt beside her and lifted her face up. I knew then all the meaning of the phrase “sick at heart.” I was old again, I was grieving, I was alone. But I could not feel angry with her, I knew I’d try to help her. I smoothed her face with my shaky fingers and dried her eyes and said to her, “Tell me.”

  She got up then and began to walk about, touching anything in the room that was obviously mine. From an open valise she lifted a pair of blue gloves. She smiled inside her tears, gave me a sheepish look, folded them, and put them in her pocket. Then she came to me—I was still kneeling by the chair—and drew my head to her breast, stroking my hair. I put my arms around her hips, but loosely. There was no passion in either of us at that moment; it was as if something—someone—had broken in and stolen it away.

  “Hugh,” she spoke softly into my hair, “I wanted you today more than I wanted to breathe. It was a feeling more pressing than anything—and more. . . part of me. . . than I can explain. It made me forget who I was, what my life was, who I lived with. I really didn’t care. With all my heart I consented to come back here with you and make love all night and forever and blot out the world for as long as I could.” She paused. “But I can’t now. There’s nothing I can do. Maybe I’m sick; I feel like someone else. The spell was broken somehow.” She looked at me with a sickening, killing candor. “We should have done it in the park.”

  I was accustomed to hearing frank talk from women, but that statement really shocked me; my little hillside flower had dealt me a direct blow to the balls.

  “Nora,” was all I could muster.

  She started pacing the room again, this time looking for her bag. “I have to go now. I have to. I cannot stand this.” Her voice had risen to an alarming pitch; I thought she might be about to faint.

  I started toward her. “Nora, what have I done to you? What have I done?” I asked her. I put my arms around her and she held me very close.

  She said, still weeping, “You haven’t done anything wrong. I’d give my life for another day like this, even though it hurts like hell.” She drew back a little and looked up at me. “But Hugh,” she said, “now I’m the one who’s angry.”

  “Angry, dearheart?”

  She stroked my face. We kissed then, one last time—the effect, at least on me, as devastating as the first time. But Nora broke away and stood by the door.

  “Angry,” she said, as she opened it and walked through. “You had,” she said, “no right to become more than a dream for me.” She gave me her first-row stare, which lopped off my head from my neck as neatly as a hatchet would. She closed the door.

  After she left, I got into the bath, which was still lukewarm, and full to the top of the tub. Since I had not bothered to open the drain, my body displaced a great deal of water, which spilled out onto the carpet and floor. I just looked at it, feeling nothing, watching it slop over the doorsill.

  I floa
ted there for some time, possibly hours, until the skin on my elbows, fingertips, and heels could be rubbed off like so much dust—I was way beyond the puckering stage. My mind remained utterly blank throughout. Eventually, realizing I would certainly soon dissolve completely, I stepped out and donned the big red robe. I put the hood up. I sloshed through the bathroom swamp and went out to lie on the bed, taking with me a large glass of brandy, the bottle it came from, and my cigarettes.

  I’d had nothing to eat since that absurd breakfast with Leon, and I was glad: I intended to get quite horribly drunk. I intended to get sick and old and die all at once that night, and have Leon find me, whenever he returned, not suffering from an evening of passion and play but stone-cold dead, and naked. Poor Leon. . . but I’d left him a mint in my will.

  I took off the robe and got under the covers. I closed my eyes. The brandy was already doing its dastardly work, for with the greatest clarity I could see Nora, as she’d stood against that tree by the pond, and with agony I realized that a mere alcohol-induced vision of her could ruin me. I opened my eyes, sat up, and waited. I was feeling sick and did not like it, so I decided to eat something after all; I was still willing to die, but not before figuring a few things out.

  I got up, unsteadily. Leon always kept a little stash of goodies in his kit bag, and there I found some bland English biscuits, a bag of unsalted peanuts, and some yellow apples. I threw the apples into the fireplace; I’m not sure why. Then I got back into bed with my booty and ate every last crumb and nut, washing it down with brandy and water. It was a beastly dinner, but it brought me a little to life.

  One thing I knew was that I dared not close my eyes, so I sat up and smoked and thought about Nora. Was this all-consuming desire really the making of a few hours in a strange city with a strange woman who’d somehow bewitched me? It made no sense. Why had she touched me so? Did “God” do it? Was life at last revealing itself to me as a series of meaningless accidents? Was it just sex at the bottom of this deep and murky barrel, all the more insidious for its unexplainable presence? I thought not. For one thing, physically, Nora was not my type. When I first held her, I knew that, though it didn’t mean a thing at the time. I have always been attracted to larger, darker, more luxuriously favored women; Nora’s body was as firm as a boy’s, and her breasts were small. Her face was mad-making—one moment soft and feminine, the next all muddled like a child’s, and the next as firmly set as Leon’s when he was scolding. She did have fantastic eyes, the irises a mixture of colors with gold toward the center and blues and greens along the outside, and all her considerable powers were vested there, in spades. But had I simply seen her on the street, I would not, I know, have looked twice.