Danger Zone

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, smiling slightly. “Such larcenous escapades were celebrated in song and story. One of the most famous poems from that period is called ‘The Cattle Raid of Cooley.”’

  “Cooley was the chief thief?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, you have to admit it must have been easy. No fooling around with ballot boxes or electoral colleges, just count the cows.”

  “What’s amazing,” he said, warming to the subject, “is that all of this barbarism was going on at the same time that one of the most sophisticated cultures in Western Civilization was developing right beside it. And both completely separate from the Roman Empire, by the way. The Romans never conquered Ireland, though they did think about it. Tacitus says they hoped one legion would be enough to subdue the island, but they never got around to making the trip across the water from continental Europe.”

  “History intrigues you, doesn’t it?” Karen asked as she looked around for her purse.

  He glanced at her sharply. “Why do you ask?”

  Karen stared at him. “Steven, you’ve been reciting that book to me, chapter and verse, as if it were the Bible, and you’ve dragged me to see every mound and megalith and relic within a fifty mile radius of this house. If there’s a Viking shield or a Celtic ax head that we missed it isn’t your fault.”

  The tips of his ears were turning red and he put the book down. Karen realized that he was embarrassed.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked softly.

  “Nothing.” He shook his head.

  “I wasn’t making fun of you.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re sensitive about a perfectly natural intellectual curiosity. Why?”

  “It’s not natural,” he answered, “not for somebody like me. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Why is it ridiculous for you?” she persisted, moving closer to him. His thought processes intrigued her. Every day she discovered something new about him.

  He shrugged. “What’s it going to get me? It doesn’t help to lose yourself in other times, other places, and dream...” He stopped.

  “What do you mean?” Karen faced him, ready to pry it out of him if she had to do so. It was so rare that he volunteered information like this that she meant to capitalize on the opportunity.

  “I never got very far in school,” he said obliquely.

  “So? That means you can’t be a history buff?” What was he talking about?

  He gestured helplessly. “I get restless sometimes, when I read and see things. I know there’s a whole other world out there, just beyond my reach. I want to touch it but I feel I’m not suited, or ready, or something.” He snorted and made a face. “You probably think I’m nuts.”

  Karen put her arms around his waist and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He stiffened for a moment, then embraced her.

  “I don’t think you’re nuts,” she said softly. “My father was a Chaucerian scholar; he spent his whole life in the Middle Ages. I’m sure the pilgrims in The Canterbury Tales were more real to him than his own children. It’s not crazy to have an imagination and feel an inarticulate longing for something else, something better. That’s part of being human.”

  “That’s what you are,” he said, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear him.

  “What?” She raised her head and looked at him.

  “You’re the ‘something better,’ for me.”

  Karen held her breath. Was he going to say more, indicate that they would continue beyond this magical month? But he released her suddenly, as if afraid to give away too much. He said, “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  Karen was quiet during the drive to the city, thinking over what Colter had said. What might he have done with his life if he’d been afforded the opportunities she’d seen some of her contemporaries throw away? But then he would have been a different person, and it wasn’t possible for her to imagine him other than he was. She loved what he was and didn’t want him to change.

  Colter drove to a restaurant on the south channel of the River Lee, just across from the impressive limestone structure of “new” city hall, rebuilt after it was burned down by British auxiliary forces in 1920. The Ivernian Garden had been recommended to them for the atmosphere as well as the food, and as they were ushered inside Karen could see why.

  All the tables were white wrought iron with glass tops, laid with linen napery. The lighting was subdued and greenery abounded, giving the impression of a country garden on a “soft” evening. The walls were hung with shields depicting the coats of arms of the various clans famous in Irish history. The establishment itself was named for the Ivernii, the chief tribe in Ireland during the second century, and scrolls embellished with their runic writing adorned the oak panels of the entry hall.

  “I knew you’d enjoy this place,” Karen said to Colter as the maitre d’ seated them.

  “These people love their past,” Colter agreed, more interested in the decorative hangings than the menu. “Who else would even think of opening a restaurant with this theme?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if it’s that unusual,” Karen said. “Don’t Italian restaurants at home have place mats with the map of Italy on them, things like that?”

  “We’re not talking place mats here,” Colter replied. “The management of this outfit has gone all out, and with good reason. The Ivernii were something else. Did you know that they would paint their faces blue before a battle and then go into the fighting naked, to show that they weren’t afraid?”

  “Who were they fighting?”

  “Everyone, apparently. I wouldn’t want to encounter one of them in a dark alley. The Romans considered them such a formidable obstacle that they postponed their invasion plans indefinitely.”

  “Maybe you’re descended from them,” Karen observed impulsively, encouraged by his obvious admiration for the ancient Celts. Then she realized it was the wrong thing to say.

  He shrugged noncommittally.

  She was silent for a moment, then said, “Don’t you know anything about your parents?”

  He shook his head.

  “The nuns wouldn’t tell you?”

  “The nuns didn’t know. They were as much in the dark as I was.”

  “Do you still wonder about it?”

  “Not so much anymore. I did when I was a kid. I felt cut off, without a past. But now I guess I’ve accepted it.”

  The waiter came and they ordered, and Colter asked the steward for a bottle of wine. Music drifted in from another room where there was dancing. They listened for a while, then Karen began to hum along with the tune.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Aileen Aroon,” she said. “It’s very old, I think. My father used to sing it when I was little.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Beloved Eileen.”

  He reached over and took her hand. “Were your parents happy together?”

  “I think so. I remember things like the singing and laughing, and I know I felt secure and loved. My sister and I were devastated when they died.”

  “And then you went to live with your aunt?”

  “Yes, and she was very different. She was a good person but she’d had no children and didn’t have much patience with a couple of ‘silly girls.’ She had all these rules and timetables, and it was...”

  “What?” he coached.

  “Oppressive.”

  “So to escape you got married.”

  “I guess so,” Karen sighed. “I didn’t see it that way at the time but in retrospect I think that was true.”

  “And your husband was older?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kind of fatherly?”

  “I suppose so. Steven, why are you asking me about this now? You never showed any interest before. In fact you seemed to avoid the subject of my life before I met you.”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I guess I want it to be just us with no outside connections, bu
t that’s not realistic is it?”

  “No,” she murmured as the wine arrived and the steward filled their glasses.

  “May I ask you a question now?” she said, watching his pale eyes find hers when she spoke.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What did you do when you ran away from the orphanage? You were just a kid; how did you live?”

  “Odd jobs, stealing, anything that came my way. The army saved me, really, gave me a place to sleep and regular food, trained me, taught me to grow up. You learn fast that you fall into line or wind up in the brig.”

  “Where you landed a few times.”

  He lifted one shoulder negligently. “Only a few.”

  “Did you hate it, all that regimentation, I mean?”

  He smiled slightly, taking a sip of his drink. “No, actually I didn’t. It reminded me of the home, in a way, all the bunks in one room, the lights out, the communal meals, the regulations. Once you learned the system you were fine.”

  “Would you go back to it?”

  He eyed her levelly across the table. “I never left it, Karen,” he said.

  She realized he was right.

  Their appetizers came, and Karen played with her shellfish, distracted. She wondered how long they could possibly go on like this, acting as if the rest of the world didn’t exist and would never intrude upon them.

  Colter sensed her mood and didn’t press for conversation. When they’d finished the main course, he led her by the hand to the next room and they joined the dancers.

  The music was slow and mournful. The male singer, the requisite tenor, segued from one sad ballad to another until Colter said in Karen’s ear, “I can’t take much more of this. If that guy doesn’t liven it up soon I’m going to jump on the stage and start belting out ‘Oh, Susannah.’”

  Karen smiled. “You know what G.K. Chesterton said.”

  He sighed. “No, I don’t, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “‘The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad; For all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad.’”

  He chuckled. “Very true. But for tonight I’ve had enough of this musical funeral. What do you say we get out of here?”

  Karen tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. “I’m with you.”

  Colter paid the bill and they emerged into a thick, chilly mist that enshrouded Patrick Street and surrounded the street lamps with a pearlized, otherworldly glow.

  “It’s raining,” Karen said, pulling up the hood of her polo coat.

  “What a surprise,” Colter commented dryly.

  “Come on,” Karen said, hugging him as they walked, “Don’t be such a grump. You know how cozy it is inside the cottage in weather like this. We’ll build a fire and cuddle up and...”

  “And?” he prompted, smiling down at her.

  “Have a good time,” she finished lamely.

  He laughed. “Oh, I intend to have a very good time.” He stopped walking and turned her to look at him, pushing the hood back from her face and tilting her chin up with his hand.

  “Are you happy?” he asked.

  “Very,” Karen whispered.

  “I haven’t disappointed you?”

  “How could you disappoint me?”

  His hand fell away. “By turning out to be someone different from what you thought,” he answered flatly.

  “You are different. You’re more interesting and challenging and varied than I ever anticipated. Every day with you is an adventure. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” Karen answered.

  He put his hands into his pockets and stared down at the damp pavement, and she realized after a moment that he was too emotional to speak. She waited until he cleared his throat and said, “You make me hope for...”

  “What?” she asked breathlessly.

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Let’s get back before this turns into fog and we’re stuck here.”

  That was the second time in a few hours he’d done that, cut off the conversation when it seemed they might discuss their situation, get something resolved. It was difficult not to pursue the subject, but Karen had learned that pressing him got her nowhere. She fell into step beside him and they returned to the car.

  It was raining hard by the time they got back to the cottage, and Karen went into the bedroom to change while Colter built up the fire. When she emerged dressed in her robe, he was piling logs on the hearth and about to set a match to them.

  “I don’t know why Miss Mandeville’s cousin built this place without central heating,” Karen said, shivering.

  “Maybe her insanity is familial, and he’s just as crazy as she is,” Colter replied.

  Karen giggled. “That’s a terrible thing to say. That woman helped save your life and found us this place. Why haven’t you got a good word to say about her?”

  “Probably because she was jamming syringes into my butt every time I opened my eyes.” He rose from his knees, dusting his palms on his pants.

  “That was her job, Steven.”

  “She enjoys her work a little too much.”

  “Well, you do have a very nice butt,” Karen said coyly.

  “Huh. She’s a sadist.”

  Karen went to him and put her arms around his neck. “I don’t think you give her enough credit. She understood about us, you know.”

  He looked down at her. “What do you mean?”

  “When I first arrived at the hospital I told her that we’d really only met once, but that I felt I had to come when you called me. And she understood. No questions asked, she just accepted it. As if something like that had happened in her life and she knew how it was.”

  He was silent for a long moment, then said, “Maybe you’re right. She was young once too, I guess.”

  Karen nodded, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. “And maybe in her youth she met a tall dashing blond who’d made such an impression during one meeting that she would have followed him halfway around the world.”

  “Dashing?” he murmured, bending to kiss her.

  “Very dashing,” she replied softly as his lips met hers.

  He kissed her thoroughly, then set her aside for a moment while he pulled a blanket from the sofa bed and spread it on the rug before the fire. Karen sat on it, then opened her arms to receive him when he joined her. He rolled onto his side and pulled her with him, cushioning her body against his. She still avoided his injured side out of habit but it no longer bothered him.

  “Better now?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” she sighed.

  He stared over her head into the flames, his expression pensive.

  “What’s on your mind, Mr. Colter?” Karen finally said.

  He blinked. “I was just thinking that I never knew what a woman was like before.”

  “Before me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I never lived with one, never saw her every day. I used to wonder about that, how it was to get along, be close with somebody.” His embrace tightened. “And now I know.”

  “How do you feel about it?” she asked tentatively.

  “Like I was blind before and now I can see.”

  Karen bit her lip. He said the most touching things without even trying, like a child. At such times she forgot how maddening he could be and forgave him everything.

  She reached for the top button of his shirt.

  “I don’t think we need this, do we?” she said.

  He let her unfasten the shirt and then shrugged out of it. Karen ran her hand over the smooth surface of his shoulders, then dragged her nails through the thicket of brown hair on his chest. He sucked in his breath.

  Her fingers stopped at the angry ridge of tissue that covered his recent wound. The skin had knit unevenly and was still reddened, slightly swollen. One day it would be a thick pink/white scar.

  “Steven, you never told me how this happened,” she said. �
�Who shot you?”

  “One of the local cops.”

  “By mistake?”

  “Yeah. He was trying to help me break it up and in all the smoke and confusion he hit the wrong man.”

  “I hope that doesn’t happen often,” Karen said, shuddering. She traced the line of his ribs thoughtfully with a delicate forefinger.

  He made a disgusted sound. “More often than you think, a lot more often than it should. Those scenes are always chaotic, all kinds of noise, screaming and shouting and running feet, and everybody involved is so charged up, so scared.”

  “You, too?”

  “Me too.”

  “Do you know why that gang took over the post office?” she asked, circling a flat dark nipple with her thumb.

  He shrugged expressively. “I don’t think they know. Some British dignitary was visiting or something, but any excuse will do. These people have been at each other’s throats for a thousand years and it just goes on endlessly. I sometimes wonder if they could tell you what they’re fighting for, if they even remember why and how it started.”

  “You’re involved in these situations all the time, aren’t you? Civil wars, rebellions.”

  He nodded wordlessly.

  “Doesn’t it get to you?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know how to answer that. Human nature being what it is, somebody’s always fighting. It’s a contentious planet.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I’ll never be out of work.”

  Karen took her hand away from him and he caught it in his own.

  “Don’t stop,” he said huskily.

  “Oh, Steven,” Karen burst out, sitting up to face him. “What’s going to become of you?”

  “Hey,” he said gently, smiling, “take it easy. I’ll survive. I always do.”

  “No,” she said sadly. “One of these times all the near misses will catch up with you.”

  “Not me,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and lowering her to the floor. “I’m a cat with nine lives and I’ve only used up about three of them.”

  Karen began to protest but he silenced her with his mouth. He moved over her eagerly, and she slid her arms around his neck.

  He undid the belt of her robe and pulled the lapels apart roughly, so anxious to discard it that he almost ripped the cloth. Holding her up with one arm he pulled the robe off with the other and tossed it aside, and then they dropped back together, his body enveloping hers.