John Finn

by Vincent McCaffrey

  She said, “And his father had meant the same by it when he called himself that. It was just another one of his self-deprecating remarks. He would never brag on himself. You know that much.”

  I told her, “I know that.” I should have known that.

  She said, “To him it meant someone who was quiet in the face of troubles. To lay by and not speak up or bring notice to yourself. Not facing the truth. Not confronting it. Your granddad left Ireland ashamed that he had never spoken against authority when the opportunity came, and then later against those who were willing to kill their neighbors for their beliefs. He could not live beside those who would do such things, and he did not belong in the company of those who had the courage to stand against it. It was your grandfather’s shame. As good a man as he was, your father felt some of that too. He was proud of our little house in Hingham, away from the rest in Quincy. He wanted it for you and your brother, and for me. So, he did not stand up against the unions when they spoiled the work, because he had no college and was afraid he would lose our house.”

  I had never understood. I had misunderstood for all of my life.

  And now, all of that is so far away. As they say of the past, another country.

  And I don’t want to be a Sligo man. ​

  13. Stupid man

  ​I see here that I have written very little of Desiree. Almost nothing. The catalog of small habits and qualities that I’ve taken note of in my thoughts are not here at all.

  ​What was I thinking? Haven’t I proved this over and again in my life? If it’s not written, it’ll be forgotten. Did I think that my love for her was enough? That the small detail of what I knew would be preserved just because it mattered to me?

  Stupid man.

  What was the first thing, then?

  After we met, I had given her my phone number. I wrote it on a beer coaster at the bar when she had abruptly gotten up to leave. I had no reason to expect that she might call me after that first encounter. What did she need with a lout?

  ​Still, I thought about her countless times during the weeks after. Her face came easily to mind then, during those days. Unbidden. Unexpectedly.

  ​When Desiree first called, I think the shock must have shown on my face. I was with Becky that day, in the office at Harvard, waiting for her to finish up something. Becky was just back from Maine and she had asked me to take her to lunch. That was another odd moment, with Becky looking over at me as I spoke to Desiree on the phone.

  I’d been sitting there, browsing some magazine and watching Becky write an e-mail, when my cell phone rang. The voice did not say hello. She did not even say who she was. What she said was, “Alright then. Would you like to take me to dinner tonight?”

  I said, “Yes.” Just like that. Then my mind froze under the attention of Becky’s eyes.

  Desiree said, “Where?”

  I said, “I have no idea. I don’t eat dinner out very much unless it comes on paper plates.”

  She said, “I know a place. In the South End. I’ll call them to see if they’re open. We can meet there. Is seven o’clock okay?”

  I told her it was fine.

  She said, “Take my number. Call me at six. I’ll be out of work by six.”

  I grabbed a pencil from Becky’s desk and took the note pad there to write the number down. I still have that square of paper. Beck’s name ‘Rebecca Sawyer’ printed at the top, but Desiree’s number written below.

  I don’t think that is a proper representation of irony, but it feels like irony should, especially when I look at it now. They are incongruous together. A conflict of information. But not opposites. Not really a contradiction. An irony, I think.

  Part of the irony is actually present in how similar Becky and Desiree are in more than one way. They both have that sense about them that the world is theirs. That they know their place in it. Even to the way they call on the phone. It’s something I’ve never understood or felt, I think. The ground beneath my feet is always suspect. And it’s hard to imagine what either of them sees in me.

  I have known Desiree for three months. Less. If I take off the first two weeks after we met because she did not call, and then take away the last two weeks since she has disappeared.

  I have known Rebecca now for most of my adult life. Less, perhaps, if you take away all the years of my marriage to Mary Ellen. Yet, when I’m with Rebecca, it feels like we’ve known each other all along. Desiree is still new to me. Unexpected. Unpredictable.

  Another odd thing.

  I said something about that to Des that first night.

  A Canadian wind had brought a September cold spell. We’d walked from the restaurant, both of us pretty quiet. For a moment we stopped in the Public Garden, where the low branches of the trees shadowed the lamplights. The night sky was not the usual city gray but a hard black punctuated with stars, and I had noted this out loud. “Extraordinary. There are stars there you almost never see in the city.”

  She was standing close to me, for warmth I think, holding my arm. I looked down from the sky and her face was just there, turned up at me, and I kissed her. Just like that. I did it, without a thought.

  It made her laugh. More than a giggle. But she had kissed me back, so I was not about to apologize. When she quieted she took my hand again.

  She said, “I was hoping you would. I was thinking you should do it right then. And then you did it. It’s very funny. That’s like predicting something.”

  I said, “You are very unpredictable, yourself. I’m surprised I caught you in passing. More like grabbing a shooting star out of the sky with my hand.”

  She stood close again, looking right up at me. She said, “That’s very ‘writerly.’ You should write women’s romance novels with stuff like that.”

  I said, “I’m not sure that’s a compliment, given my aspirations. But I suppose I should try it. Nothing else seems to sell.”

  She said, “No. I’m just joking. You should finish writing about the girl in the well. I want to know about her. I want you to tell me all about her.”

  I said, “I will.” Her smile had left then. It was a very seriously made request. I repeated the promise. “I will.”

  She pulled me by the hand. “Is it a long way to where you live?”

  ​I said, “I think your place is closer.”

  ​She said, “I’d rather not. Let’s go to yours.”

  ​Just like that.

  ​What had we talked about in the restaurant?

  She was enthusiastic about the food. She said it was authentic. She had been to Portugal. That’s a bit of personal history, isn’t it? She had lived in Portugal for a time. In Evora. She had taught English as a second language, but she seemed to have no need of a steady income. She’d even traveled a bit to Spain and Italy. Languages came easily to her.

  She had traveled alone. This fact had surprised me, and I said something.

  “No friends who like to travel? No boyfriend to keep you company?”

  “No. I suppose you ought to know that I’m not good with friends. Especially boyfriends.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I think it’s because I want everything, . . . or nothing at all. I think that’s the reason.”

  She said nothing more about that.

  What else.

  ​She did not like being a lawyer. She liked research. As someone else said, she liked details. She was good at gathering information together that completed a case. That was another thing she had in common with Rebecca. Rebecca loves research.

  ​I told her, “Maybe it’s you who should write. You have the best instincts for it. I’ll bet you could write great heaping novels loaded with things people would love to know. I never seem to find enough information to satisfy myself.”

  ​She did not hesitate over the thought.

  ​“I’ll bet I could. Maybe I will. Tell me how you do it. Tell me how you write. Tell me what you’re writing now.”

  ​And I did.

 
I loved her right then. A totally selfish impulse I suppose. She was interested in me. She wanted to know what I did. She wanted to know why. She wanted to know how.

  Stupid man.

  I did ask her more about herself. But she dismissed most questions with answers far too brief.

  “I was an only child.” And nothing more. “My father died.” With no detail. “It was something that came easily.” I pushed for more. She said, “I like the law. I like the works of it. Like a clock. Sometimes it breaks, but mostly it tells the right time.”

  I tried to provoke her. “I’m with Mr. Bumble on that. ‘The law is an ass.’ There’s too much of it in any case.”

  She said, “I detest Justice Holmes, but I thought that was his. I thought that was the one good thing he said.”

  I said, “No. It was Dickens. It was Mr. Bumble in Oliver Twist.”

  She smiled at the knowledge without argument. “Well, I can agree with Mr. Bumble then, and forever relegate Holmes to the trash heap of know-it-alls. There is too much law. And too little justice. But I’ll say this for the law. It makes new puzzles every day. It keeps me busy. And I could never stand for not being busy.”

  I had asked her, “What do you do to relax?”

  She appeared to be surprised at the thought. “Relax? I’m not sure what that is, I think. It’s hard to imagine.”

  “Movies?”

  “They’re mostly stupid.”

  “Books.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s your thing. I’ve never really been able to just sit and read unless it was someone’s attempt at establishing the facts. I think I lack that muscle for what I think they call, ‘suspension of disbelief.’ Whatever it is, when I read something, I’m always asking too many questions.”

  I pressed at that in obvious self-interest. “That’s all a good piece of fiction does. It asks questions. What if? What next? You should give it another try. Maybe you haven’t read the right things. Tell me what you do to relax?”

  She waved both hands in the air. “To relax? Escape. To lose it all? To get out of my own skull? I suppose I don’t do that very well. That must make me sound very shallow. And I suppose I am. Really. People tell me about good books, but then they always remind me of things I’d rather not have to deal with. I read too much of that in depositions. Case histories are full of all that—lying, cheating, infidelity. People doing nasty things to one another. Theft and Murder. No, I suppose then I like movies better. The ones that get on with it faster and don’t give you the chance to add up the facts and discover the dates don’t match or the money was never there. And then it’s over. It’s at an end. You can go home and be done with it. Books hang around. They sit there and remind you of that fellow you couldn’t stand, or that woman who did those terrible things. They are right there in the room with you.”

  I gave her a book to read that first night. I gave her a copy of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s memoir A Time Of Gifts, because it might connect with her own wanderlust. I did not want to challenge her muscle for suspending disbelief just yet.

  Now I see why I was afraid to write this down—as if the very act would put a jinx on it. Just like some kind of foolish sports fan.

  Stupid man.

  But at least I told her. At least I told her I loved her.

  Could that have been a cause for her to leave?

  That last Sunday, when she told me she had someplace to go, I asked her to stay with me. I told her I loved her then.

  Had I told her before, as well?

  Yes. At least once before that. That same weekend. At the beach. Maybe more than once. What do you say in passion that you remember? But had she said it to me?

  No. I would remember that.

  And she had left me unexpectedly more than once before that night.

  The week before, I think.

  She had brushed the back of her hand gently against the pigeon feathers that decorate the frame of the van Gogh print there by my bed, and just suddenly said it.

  “I have to go.”

  I held her body closer.

  “Why? Can’t you stay a little longer?”

  She answered instantly. “No.”

  I asked, “Can I go with you?”

  She laughed at that. That’s something else I like. She laughs so easily. So few people do.

  “No. I have to go. I’ll call.”

  “Let me walk you to the subway then.”

  “Alright. If you want.”

  She gave no excuses. No explanation. She said almost nothing more to me as she dressed. I just stared at her and then she almost left without me before I could get my own pants on.

  I walked her over to that deep stairway at the Porter Square station and watched her drift downward on the escalator. She was looking up at me then, and suddenly her face appeared to be stricken with a thought of something she had forgotten to say.

  I yelled after her. “What?”

  She shook her head and turned away. But she had waved from the bottom before she disappeared that time.

  What else should I put down here?

  She said more about her father once. That was important.

  She said he had carried her into the ocean and showed her how to fly. He used to hold her out across his arms so that she could float at the very surface of the water and rise on each wave that came. She had dreamt of it one night when we were together, and she told me about the dream in the morning, because she had dreamt it before. It left her quiet and unhappy.

  And another time, she said, “He taught me to ride. He owned land out beyond Fallbrook. An old ranch of fat black oaks and high grass and pebbled gullies. I fell in a gully there and he plucked me up from atop his horse, like a rodeo cowboy snatching a hat from the ground, and sat me down right on the saddle with him. I had skinned my knees and the blood was streaked on my legs but he didn’t wipe it off or fuss over it at all.” Her head tilted with the thought as if seeking some sound of that moment in her mind. “I guess he must have gotten off the horse then because I remember him walking ahead. He just left me up there on the saddle and said, ‘I think you can ride now.’ And I did. I held the reins and he walked out in front of me. I can see him there in the sun. Just a blackened shadow in a blinding sun.”

  I have never learned to ride a horse and that must have been when she promised to teach me. I was looking forward to that.

  I told her, “I had an opportunity once, when I was in the Army, at Fort Benning. But I was stupid. I missed the chance.”

  She shook her head at me. “I don’t like that word. ‘Stupid.’ Don’t say that.”

  And another time I had used the word again. I think I had left something behind at my apartment and I had said it. She scolded me.

  “It’s a word my mother uses. I remember she called my father stupid. I don’t know why. But I don’t like it.”

  We went out to Concord together one Saturday when I had an appointment with a volunteer at the Historical Society there. Afterward, we drove down to Walden Pond and walked out to the site of Thoreau’s cabin and then back to the replica of that little house they’ve built by the parking lot.

  She was visibly excited by it. “It’s all you need. It really is! I could live here. I wouldn’t need anything more except the woods.”

  She seemed very pleased with the idea. But I might have sounded critical with my reply. “Unless you have children.”

  She wasn’t about to give in to such a negative thought. “But you said Thoreau took the lumber from the house of an Irishman, and that man had children. It couldn’t have been much larger than this. Imagine!”

  The word caught me by surprise. ‘Imagine.’ I said, “You’re right. It probably wasn’t. But Thoreau disparaged the poor man. Maybe that was why.” And then I had tacked on an impulsive question. “Do you want children?”

  She answered abruptly. As if shocked. “No!”

  Stupidly, I pursued the idea “Why?”

  She never answered that. She hardly spoke for the re
st of that afternoon. I had hurt her in some way.

  That wasn’t the only time I said something that clearly bothered her.

  One Sunday we drove up to Ipswich for lobster. I know a place that’s back down the harbor from the tourist traffic. One of the guys there served in the Army with Burley. They sell mostly to restaurants in the city.

  It was raining, and the wind pushed the tall salt grass back and forth like a sweep of the hand, but we drank lemonade like it was summer time.

  She said, “I’ve been missing a lot, holed up in Boston. I wish I had known this was here before.”

  I said, “If you need to go somewhere, you can rent a car, of course, but all you need to do is ask me and I’d loan you mine. I don’t use it that much.”

  She said, “I don’t have a license.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to play chauffeur then. Just call me.” But I wasn’t smart enough to leave it there. I said, “And you can borrow my car if you’d like to pass the test. I’d even give you driving lessons for certain considerations.”

  That shut her right up. On the way back, I had to ask her, “What did I say?”

  She brushed the words away, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just me.”

  There was no arguing with the tone of her voice.

  On another day, when it had warmed again in October, we had taken a Boston Harbor ferry out to the Islands. These had been favorite places for me as a boy, before they were part of the National Parks system. We used to take my Dad’s boat then. I probably went on about all those times too much. But she listened. They were good times. And she had mentioned her own father again as well.

  We were high on a granite wall on George’s Island, and I was pointing out spots where we used to fish in dad’s boat. I told her about our boat nearly overturning one day by Peddock’s in the wake of some big stink-pot. I thought the story was humorous, but her face was stricken with the idea of it.

  I asked her, what was the matter, and she had said it was because of her father.

  She said, “He drowned.”

  I asked, “How?”

  Her face went slack with the thought, “I’m not sure.”

  “When?”