by Edna O'Brien
“Was she dark-haired?” Miss Lawless asked, unthinkingly.
“No. Fair, with freckles,” he said, summoning up a picture of a girl bright as a sunflower. He added that she liked the outdoors and was really a desert girl.
“And what do you feel about her now?” Miss Lawless asked.
“She was a good friend and a good lover,” he said quietly. It sent a chill through Miss Lawless, and yet his features were so fine, his manner so courteous, and his eyes so sensitive that she found a way within herself to excuse him. Leaning very close to her, he said that he liked talking to her and that perhaps if she was staying on in Dublin they might have a drink or a bite. That thrilled her. She believed his resemblance to the other Abelard to be significant and that, whatever happened between them, she would not be detached from it, she would not blot it out, she would hold it dear. She imagined going home with him and sitting in one of his rooms, which she deemed to be enormous, with grey, billowing curtains, like a gauze sea, and their talking quietly but ceaselessly. She wanted him to be human, to be seared by the tragic event. She wanted to peel off his mask—that is, if it was a mask. Now her imaginings were taking a liberty, and she thought that if they kissed, which they might, it would not be a treachery against his dead wife but somehow a remembrance of her, a consecration. She wanted to lie close to him and be aware of him dreaming. Foolish, really. It was the night—hectic, amorous, intoxicating night. She felt the better for it, felt better towards him, towards herself and all those people in the room. She was making her peace with the first Abelard now, because it was true that for these many years she had borne a grudge—angry with him for ignoring the significance of their affair, and with herself for allowing him to. What she thought now was not of the aftermath with that first Abelard but of the excitement and freshness when it was beginning—the shy, breathless feeling they each imparted when they met, realizing secretly that they were bewitched. She suddenly remembered little moments, such as having her hand in his overcoat pocket as they walked down a street, and looking up at the sky that was like navy nap, so soft and deep and dense was it.
* * *
BETTY’S WAS the first speech, and it was very witty and plucky. Betty said that being “of a certain age” was not the worst time in a woman’s life, and then she made some light references to previous parties when she was not nearly so spoiled. Taking the cue from Betty, Dr. Fitz walked slowly to the dais and deliberated a bit before speaking. He said that while wanting to wish her well—indeed, wishing her well—he could not forget “the terrible day” when he had been lucky enough to be by her side. Several voices tried to hush him, but he went on, insisting that it was all part of the tapestry of Betty’s life, it proved Betty had guts, and that she could stand there tonight and knock the spots off all the other women in the room. People cheered, and Betty herself put two fingers between her teeth and let out a raunchy whistle. Another family friend recited a poem that he had written, which made several guests squirm. Miss Lawless felt uneasy too. The speaker, however, seemed very proud of it and grew more and more emotional as he declaimed:
When I look down at the soil in
our troubled land,
I see its forty shades of green
And say to myself, Why isn’t our
fourth green field
As green as the other three?
A few began to heckle and say it was songs they had come for and not drip stuff. Abelard left the table, but by a signal—indeed, a colluding wink—he indicated to Miss Lawless that he would be back. She assumed that he was going to phone someone and thought that possibly he was cancelling an arrangement. Even his absence from the table made her feel lonesome. He had that lit-up quality that gave off a glow even though his manner was cold. Mr. Conroy, seeing her unattended, rushed across the room and asked her if she had had any advances from the playboy. Shaking her head, she asked in turn what the man’s wife had been like. Mr. Conroy described a thinnish woman who drank a bit, and who always seemed to be shivering at parties and having to borrow a jacket from one of the men. Meanwhile, the last verse of the poem was being heard and people were listening with some modicum of courtesy because they knew it was near the end.
But when I look up into the vast
azure sky
Irish politics and history recede from
my mind,
And in their place the glory of the
Creator comes flooding through,
And the sky and the stars give a
promise of eternity.
Though the people were still cheering and letting out catcalls, they were also surging onto the floor to make sure that dancing would now continue, and to satisfy them the music was hotting up—in fact, it was deafening. This did not deter Mr. Conroy from telling his rival, who had returned, that he had known Miss Lawless for many years, that he had driven her to beauty spots all over Ireland, and had copied out for her the words of the ballads that were so dear to her heart. Then he embarked on a story about how, a few years before, he had taken her for tea to a renowned hotel in the west. He had gone in search of the proprietress, Tildy, whom he found in the basement, ironing pillow slips. He told her how he had a lady friend upstairs in the lounge and wondered if Tildy could spare a moment to come up and welcome her.
“Oh, Mr. Conroy, I’d love to but I haven’t a minute,” he reported the proprietress as saying, and added that he went away a bit crushed, but hadn’t mentioned it to Miss Lawless; and that later Tildy came up, in a sparkling blue gown, her glasses on a gold cord, and that she looked at Miss Lawless and said in a sort of sarcastic voice, “Who do we have here, who is it?” Miss Lawless could see that Abelard had no interest in the story but was polite enough to suffer it. She felt that each of them intended to take her home, and she wished that it would be Abelard. Yet she could not refuse Mr. Conroy; she had been invited by him. She hoped for some confusion, so that the threesome would be interrupted and Abelard might at least whisper something to her alone.
* * *
AT THAT MOMENT, the lights were quenched and the guests treated to a fresh surprise. Miniature trees with tiny lights as thin as buds dropped from the ceiling, so that the room took on the wonder of a forest. The tiny evergreens suggested sleigh rides, the air fresh and piercing with the fall of snow. Then four waiters ceremoniously carried in a gigantic cake. It was iced in pink and decorated with angels, and crenulations surrounding Betty’s name. They placed it in the center of the room, and Betty was led across to cut it, while two eager photographers rushed to capture the moment. The great clock in the hall outside struck midnight, but the pauses between the chimes seemed unnaturally long. Then the dog barked outside—a whole series of yelps, growing fiercer and fiercer, reaching a frothing crescendo, and then suddenly stopping as if overwhelmed. This dog, Tara, had never been known to be silenced by any but its master. Were a stranger now entering, the dog, even on its fetters, would be ungovernable. It must be its master. Who else could it be? Such were the words that people spoke, whether by a look or by expressing them directly.
“It would be awfully inconvenient now if it was John,” Betty said very loudly, the knife still poised in the big cake, the icing beginning to shed from the impact of the blade. And yet everyone hoped that it was John, the wandering Odysseus returned home in search of his Penelope. You could feel the longing in the room, you could touch it—a hundred lantern slides ran through their minds; their longing united them, each rendered innocent by this moment of supreme suspense. It seemed that if the wishes of one were granted, then the wishes of others would be fulfilled in rapid succession.
It was like a spell. Miss Lawless felt it, too—felt prey to a surge of happiness, with Abelard watching her with his lowered eyes, his long fawn eyelashes soft and sleek as a camel’s. It was as if life were just beginning—tender, spectacular, all-embracing life—and she, like everyone, were jumping up to catch it. Catch it.
Also by Edna O’Brien
Fiction
&
nbsp; AUGUST IS A WICKED MONTH
CASUALTIES OF PEACE
A PAGAN PLACE
ZEE & CO.
NIGHT
A SCANDALOUS WOMAN
JOHNNY I HARDLY KNEW YOU
A ROSE IN THE HEART
MRS. REINHARDT
SOME IRISH LOVING
RETURNING
A FANATIC HEART
THE HIGH ROAD
ON THE BONE
TIME AND TIDE
HOUSE OF SPLENDID ISOLATION
DOWN BY THE RIVER
WILD DECEMBERS
IN THE FOREST
THE LIGHT OF EVENING
SAINTS AND SINNERS
THE LOVE OBJECT
THE LITTLE RED CHAIRS
THE COUNTRY GIRLS: THREE NOVELS AND AN EPILOGUE
GIRL
Nonfiction
MOTHER IRELAND
JAMES JOYCE
BYRON IN LOVE
COUNTRY GIRL
About the Author
EDNA O’BRIEN has written more than twenty works of fiction, most recently Girl. She is the recipient of numerous awards, including the PEN/Nabokov Award for Achievement in International Literature, the Irish PEN Lifetime Achievement Award, the National Arts Club Medal of Honor, and the Ulysses Medal. Born and raised in the west of Ireland, she has lived in London for many years. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
“Oft in the Stilly Night”
Brother
The Widow
Epitaph
What a Sky
Storm
Another Time
A Demon
Dramas
Long Distance
A Little Holiday
Lantern Slides
Also by Edna O’Brien
About the Author
Copyright
Picador
120 Broadway, New York 10271
Copyright © 1990 by Edna O’Brien
All rights reserved Simultaneously published in Canada by HarperCollins Publishers, Toronto Published in 1990 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York First Picador edition, September 2019
Some of these stories were first published in somewhat different form, in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and Antaeus.
Picador Paperback ISBN 978-0-374-53884-2
Designed by Jane Tingey
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This is a collection of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
eISBN 9780374721527
First eBook edition: September 2019
