Arc of the Comet

by Greg Fields

  Finnegan glanced briefly at the puzzle man, then let his gaze ride the passing streets. Air conditioning blew up his left arm as it leaned against the window. Outside no one felt chilled. Men came out of government buildings—the Justice Department and, after the bus turned a corner, the Treasury—with their coats draped over their shoulders and their ties loosened, wilted well before they had hit the street. Finnegan saw the usually bright, confident, buoyant, beautiful career women sagging in the heat. He remembered a piece of doggerel learned in high school:

  Here’s a handy little ditty

  You surely ought to know:

  Horses sweat and men perspire

  But ladies only glow.

  Not true. Today, tonight, horses, men and ladies all opened to the brutal heat. They all sweated, gushingly. It was summer in Washington.

  Finnegan did not absorb the scenery of the streets. Rather, he sat back and let it wash his eyes. Glimpses held in his memory: the cover of a tennis magazine seen in a newsstand, the starchy red blouse of an older lady leaving a drugstore, the amazing breasts of a woman in a tee walking her dog on Pennsylvania Avenue, the oily scent of the bus itself. Conor Finnegan felt especially tired tonight, and he was surprised by his fatigue. It had not hit him suddenly, but had crept up his spine all day and settled behind his eyes. His legs and arms relaxed limply, his left arm sliding off the narrow window ledge to his lap where it lay like some foreign, dead animal. Finnegan’s legs stretched under the puzzle man’s seat. He felt drained of all substance.

  The bus bumped along Pennsylvania, past the rear of the White House and then near George Washington University. Finnegan saw in the distance the Gothic spires of Georgetown University silently overlooking the Potomac, a sight which inexplicably triggered a spasm of melancholy. The ancient spires, Oxfordian, looming on a headland, while always, always the river runs.

  ’Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins. I am lustful, Father. I have lusted after girls I see every day. Sometimes I don’t even know them. It is a sin of the flesh, I know. Father, I am also proud. I place too much value on myself and what I do. I have boasted to friends of what I have done well, and have not trusted enough to let my accomplishments speak for themselves. I have not let them glorify Our Lord.

  ’I am profane, Father. I take the Lord’s name in vain, many times. It’s almost a habit. Around my friends, when it’s just men, I feel guilty if I don’t swear, as if I’m trying to be better than them. But in my heart I know it’s just the reverse. I need to let my serenity guide me. I need to rely more on my faith. To have faith in my faith, if that makes sense. I need to have confidence in the type of person I am, in the type of person I aspire to be. Forgive me, Father, for these and all my sins, both known and unknown.’

  Finnegan rose from his seat and moved to the front of the bus as he saw the traffic circle ahead. The driver pulled to a stop, and Finnegan hopped out with two other people. He hit the steamy air like a wall. He dragged the two blocks up New Hampshire. At the head of the street, where it joined the circle, he looked down to the serpentine Watergate at its foot several blocks away. Beyond it rose the cool green of Virginia. An airplane came out from behind the east end of the Watergate on a landing approach to National. Finnegan did not take note. He had stopped for a second to draw his breath, and to imagine Virginia’s lovely wooded exurban hills. The hills, cool, and so far beyond it all.

  As he opened the front door, Jade strutted out from the area behind the staircase. It was probably cooler back there. She stretched and mewed her resonant mew. She and Conor were not on good terms—mostly Jade kept her distance—but the presence of a human, even this one, no doubt comforted her, if arrogance did in fact require comfort.

  Finnegan peered at her food dish as he went to the kitchen: that morning’s chicken livers were only partially eaten. He could smell them. Finnegan took a bowl of leftover fruit salad from the refrigerator, devoured it in four or five spoonfuls, then made himself a ham sandwich. He stood in front of the open refrigerator and wafted the cool air down his shirt, grabbed a beer from the door rack, and went back to the table to finish what passed for his dinner.

  Afterward Finnegan pulled himself upstairs, hung up his coat and slacks, then tugged off his shirt, wet and clammy from the day’s heat. He took a shower to cool off and came out wearing only a pair of gym shorts. He then went into his bedroom, flopped across the old bed, grabbed the phone, and dialed his justification for all this.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Glyn. How’re you doing?”

  “Well, good evening, Senator. Home from a hard day of legislating?”

  “A hard day of paperwork. And a bit boring. No, let me amend that. It was terribly boring.”

  “Is it hot there? Of course it is. It’s brutal here. I wanted to jump in the fountain at Logan Circle.”

  “There aren’t any fountains down here. At least none that are swimmable. God, what I’d give to be able to go to the beach.”

  “Me, too. You know, my family used to vacation in Maine every year. Right on the coast. I’d love to be able to go there now. It was so beautiful there, Conor. So cool, with the ocean spray and the rocks.”

  “You’re in the mood for a vacation, then?”

  “God, yes. There’s nothing here during the summer.”

  “Did you work today?”

  “Of course. I’m a diligent girl, whatever else you may say about me. But I feel like such a damn prisoner. There’s no place to go and no one to go there with. When are you going to come and rescue me?”

  “I’m not.”

  Glynnis paused. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not going to come and rescue you. At least I’d prefer not to. That’s really why I’m calling, aside from hearing the lilting rhapsody of your lovely voice. Would you be willing to take the train down here this Friday? We could spend the weekend together. I could show you the city, or as much of it as I’ve managed to learn. It might actually be fairly exciting.”

  “Is that an invitation, Sailor?”

  “Absolutely. Glynnis, I’d love to spend the weekend with you here.”

  “This sounds rather sinful. I think I like it.”

  “Then you’ll come down?”

  “What would Fr. Francis say?”

  “Who?”

  “Our parish priest. He’s been in our family for years, like an old heirloom. My mother always consults him on knotty spiritual problems, such as when to inform her daughters about menstruation. He knows about such things because he’s only slightly younger than God Himself.”

  “Sounds like a versatile fellow. But perhaps some matters are best left hidden.”

  “I agree. I accept your sinful invitation, Mr. Finnegan.”

  “Great. There’s a train that leaves Philadelphia at 5:30 and gets to D.C. around 7:40. Just in time for a late dinner and a drive around the city to see the lights. The monuments are glorious after dark.”

  “You make it sound quite dashing, Senator. But then again, that’s how you Irish Romantics do it, isn’t it? You can make a soft boiled egg sound like lobster and white wine.”

  “My intentions are quite honorable, Miss Mear.”

  “We’ll see. Are you sure you can put up with me for more than a few hours at a time?”

  “I’d be delighted to try.”

  “I’ll see you Friday, Conor.”

  Sweet Lorelei, singing on the Rocks of Time.

  ***

  Conor Finnegan had not yet felt a full part of Washington. While he had been swept up in the glamor of its currents of power and solemnized by its marble, he had never believed he truly belonged in the capital. To be sure, his stay had been short, and a bit incredible. He still had trouble getting from one end of the city to the other. A grid of bus and Metro routes and a city map were his best friends at the moment.

  Yet when Glynnis Mear stepped off her train, Washington opened itself up
like a blossoming lily and sucked them both inside. To Finnegan, the city instantly became a home, as secure and endemic as any place he had ever set foot. What came before, the people and the places, seemed as strange as a dream. His most reliable reality lay at hand as it always would have, had he the wisdom to recognize it.

  They whirled through the city’s darkening streets, starting around the Capitol then passing the congressional office buildings. From there to the Ellipse, stopping before the Washington Monument and walking around that giant protruding stalk, leaning over the Reflecting Pool to see if they could really make out their reflections. They drove the short mile to the Lincoln Memorial and climbed the fifty-nine steps to stand at the foot of a countenance eternally grave. They stood there and saw the city spread behind them, pocked with the spires and hubs of the Capitol, Mr. Washington’s monument, the Library of Congress, the Smithsonian, and the museums. To their right sat the whitewashed bump of the Jefferson Memorial, and through the distance they could see the old Virginian standing in the shadows. The lights of the city blinked on, gold and white dots stunting against a black backdrop, and to the side, in the far distance, stood the proudly ancient cool hills of Virginia.

  ’It is all so familiar now, this city and these lights, which have shone like this for generations. The timeless river. And the green hills. Lee walked in those hills as a boy, and, farther out, in the Shenandoah, men died. They’re dust now, lying silently below the ragged, hole-worn places, pieces of lead clattering through their bones. Mortality is absolute, and it is also relative. And now, this clear evening in this old city, it is as if I’ve been no place else.’

  “This is beautiful, Conor.”

  “Isn’t it? I love the lights. And I like to look at the hills, out there. I try to imagine what’s in them. Especially at night.”

  “I like the lights, too. You can see the whole city from here.”

  “I wish I could show you the whole city. Everything. I wish I could show you everything I’ve learned about it. It’s really very old, you know. I mean in a personal sense. People have been doing the same types of things here forever, in the same places. There are ghosts everywhere.”

  “That’s history, my Irish bard.”

  “Yes, that’s what we call history. But it all seems so fresh—power, government, issues. The entire country is captured right here in this city. This is America, these few square miles. All parts of it, and all it’s ever been. All the wars, and depressions, and riots, and demonstrations, and sorrows. They’ve all come through here. This city is loaded with ghosts, and we can see them, every day. We feel them because we’re no different than they were. We fight the same battles and tilt at the same windmills. We’re linked to everything that’s ever been, just by virtue of being here, of standing on these stones. Do you understand any of that?”

  “No. But it sounds lovely. Just think how you’d feel if you were standing in Athens, on the Acropolis.”

  “I couldn’t comprehend. I take my metaphysics in small doses only.”

  “It’s not metaphysics, Conor, it’s Romanticism. And I like it immensely.”

  “I wish I could show you everything, Glynnis. I wish we could explore everything together.”

  “Just show me a place to eat. I’m hungry.”

  They ate at a Salvadoran restaurant Conor had noticed on Connecticut Avenue near the zoo. Latin food reminded him of Southern California. The Boston girl had rarely had it. Glynnis, hungry enough to experiment on almost anything, found she liked its earthy textures and devoured her dinner completely, scraping the ceramic plate clean with her fork. After dinner they drove to the townhouse. Finnegan had to circle the block several times before finding a place to park.

  And now, all pretexts aside, Conor found himself upon new ground. He knew it as soon as Glynnis crossed through the doorway. There were no formulas for this, no prescribed movements or words. Before, he could always be secure that the image he had cultivated in her would be preserved through distance, but tonight there would be no separation. What he would do with Glynnis’s proximity he did not know. Nor was he precisely sure how he would like to proceed. This was untrodden ground, and Conor did not know what to expect either from Glynnis or from himself. All that became apparent as soon as Glynnis tucked her bag behind the stairway and sat down on the couch. There she was, and there she would remain. His throat tightened, his pulse quickened. He could feel his body wind itself up, in his chest, in his legs, in the gentle pounding at his temples. He had not been this way in a long while.

  Jade walked halfway down the stairs to see who had come in. She stopped, frozen, when she saw Glynnis. Someone new. Glynnis noticed her peering in mid-step between the banister railings.

  “Oh Conor, you didn’t tell me about a cat. She’s not yours, is she? No, she couldn’t be. Come here, sweetheart. Come on, don’t be afraid,” Glynnis purred.

  “She comes with the house. Kind of a watch-cat.”

  “What’s her name?” Glynnis made gentle beckoning movements with her long fingers.

  “Jade. We’re not exactly the best of friends. She’s a temperamental thing, but she’ll keep out of the way.”

  But Jade, acting out an unspoken defiance of Finnegan’s curt dismissal, responded quite well to Glynnis’s coaxing. She walked slowly down the remainder of the stairs and haltingly, with great suspicious care, crept across the room to the couch. There she hopped up next to Glynnis, who picked up the beast and placed her on her lap. Glynnis scratched behind Jade’s ears, and the cat seemed to melt in surrender to this gentle new creature. Finnegan was amazed.

  “Jesus, Glyn, what’s your secret? I bribe her with chicken livers and she won’t even let me touch her.”

  “I guess I just have a way with small animals. I like cats. This one likes to be petted,” and Jade purred, arching her back at Glynnis’s touch.

  “A witch with her familiar.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Witches consorted with demons who often took the form of cats. The familiar would follow the witch around and share her secrets. Some sorcerers could control even the wildest beasts.”

  Glynnis smiled slyly. “Do you think I’m a witch? “ She stroked the cat’s head.

  “I think you’re enchanting, whether it’s black magic or human charm.”

  “I won’t tell you which. Why do you think you followed me that morning at the art museum?”

  “You attracted me. And you left your notebook.”

  “Maybe that’s what I wanted you to think. Could it be that I drew you on? And now, perhaps I have your mind so fogged that I can do with you as I wish, and all the while you’ll be convinced that you’re acting of your own will. Like my friend Jade.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Glyn.”

  “You think you do. But that’s a huge part of it. To make you believe you’re in control when you’re really not. You’re docile that way. You won’t fight me because you still believe you’re your own master.”

  “If so, then I place myself in your trust and care.”

  “And I will use you and grind you up.”

  Finnegan laughed. “I don’t think you have it in you. Plus, I’m not a soft touch.”

  “That wouldn’t matter. I’m accustomed to having my own way. And you, my Irish dear, are a childlike Romantic with a tongue of silver. If I wanted, I’m certain I could render you helpless—a quivering emotional wreck. But don’t fret. I’m far too attracted to you to do anything of the sort. At least now.”

  “But I shouldn’t cross you.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m heartless when aroused.”

  “There’s some wine in the kitchen. Shall I get it?”

  “Of course. And Conor . . . don’t take me too seriously.”

  Finnegan smiled, shook his head slightly, and went to pour the wine. When he returned, Glynnis had put Jade down. She stood near the entryway looking at one of Leona Krall’s prints. Conor handed her a glass.

  “Your lady likes cats, I see
.”

  “She lives and breathes them. It broke her heart to have to leave this one behind. Would you like to see the rest of the place?”

  “I’m sure I will in time. I’d rather just stay down here with you for now.”

  Finnegan put his wine glass down on an end table. He opened the windows for some air. “I opened the kitchen, too. I have to close the downstairs whenever I go out. Unfortunately it gets really stuffy in here, and sometimes unbearably hot.”

  “Is it hot upstairs?”

  “Always. It’s difficult to sleep.”

  Glynnis walked around the living room, ostensibly looking at the Krall artworks but, Finnegan sensed, taking her measure of the place, learning the feel of it, the smell of it. She walked in slow, long steps, relaxed but not casual. Perhaps she, too, felt a touch of nerves.

  Finnegan put on some music and turned off all the lights save one. The music, a Gordon Lightfoot collection, complemented the hushed atmosphere. Finnegan sat on the couch and, as Glynnis walked near him, he grabbed her hand. He pulled her down beside him.

  “Conor, careful. I’ll spill my wine.”

  “I don’t care.” He shifted quickly so that he faced her as best he could, slid one hand behind the soft waterfall of her hair to the nape of her neck, and kissed her deeply. They kissed that way for several minutes, unhurried, broken only to relive the sensation of first touch.

  When at last they paused, Glynnis looked into Conor’s eyes and smiled, but in such a way as Conor had never seen. She did not recall her wry smile of hidden knowledge, nor her subtle grin of amusement, nor her unbridled smile of genuine happiness. Conor saw in Glynnis’s expression a depth until then unplumbed, an abandon to his strength, a trusting accession to a now-welcome vulnerability. Glynnis’s features spoke with eloquence in a whisper that betrayed no mystery, no suspicion, and nothing coy. And in that flickering moment, bathed in the golden-orange light of a single lamp burning in the cooling blackness, they were as open to each other as they would ever be. Conor would remember Glynnis’s face at that moment throughout his life.

  “You’ve helped me through my nervousness,” whispered Finnegan.