Reckless Years

by Heather Chaplin

  Later

  I’m sitting here in a little tea shop covered in floral prints and lace doilies, drinking tea from a teacup covered in red roses and preparing myself for Kieran not to show up tonight. I imagine the call to my hotel, the apologies. I imagine him not bothering to call and me waiting as eight becomes nine and nine ten and how I’ll be pretending I don’t care.

  When I saw Kieran at the Palace yesterday, before Seth’s show, he’d told me a minor miracle had happened. At lunch, he’d told me he was going to see the Flaming Lips on Saturday, which is now tonight, and how he wished he had a ticket for me but there were none to be had in the whole city.

  When I got to the Palace last night, Kieran had kissed me full on the mouth as if we’d been meeting each other in pubs for years. He’d steered me to a table in the back and then went off to buy me a Guinness. When he got back, he said a woman at his office had walked up to his desk with an extra ticket. He said he’d almost fallen out of his chair. Then he took my hands in his. “That ticket is for you, Heather. Will you come with me? Will you go out with me Saturday night?”

  I said, “Kieran, do you ever feel that maybe there is a God?”

  And Kieran said, “All the time.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that, so I didn’t say anything.

  At the Palace, with its stained-glass windows and men in windbreakers drinking beer, Kieran and I held hands. He told me about going to raves in Galway, where he grew up, and about the cliffs and wild ocean of his childhood summers in Connemara. He told me about going hiking by himself for five days in the mountains there after his wife said she didn’t love him anymore. He said the rugged countryside, wild ponies, and sharp-edged wildflowers had saved him. He told me that Liverpool was his favorite soccer team. He told me he was hoping to go to West Africa in January to produce a documentary about indigenous music.

  “Dublin is my favorite place on the planet,” I said.

  Then we talked about how evil George Bush was and how Dick Cheney was even eviler.

  “Kieran,” I said. “If I can get a ticket, do you want to come see my brother’s show on Sunday?”

  Kieran looked solemn. “I’d be honored.”

  But suddenly, I got nervous. I thought, what are you doing?

  “Kieran,” I said. “What if we don’t like each other anymore by Sunday?”

  Kieran continued looking solemn.

  “I don’t think there’s much chance of that, do you?” he said.

  I wondered, will I have such faith from now on?

  Kieran’s eyes were glowing in that way men’s eyes can glow, but suddenly I was aware not just of a conquest but of actual pleasure in his physical presence. The sight of his wrists and forearms protruding from his rolled-up shirtsleeves was giving me that liquefying sensation, like I could have melted right out of my seat onto the floor. He was wearing a dark blue button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone, and I realized I was staring at the triangle of exposed skin at the top of his chest. Then, I couldn’t help myself. I lifted my hand and actually placed it there. Kieran closed his eyes. We both breathed out.

  “Jesus Christ, girl,” Kieran said.

  This morning around eleven, Seth and Cecilia and I went to the farmer’s market that Kieran had shown me. It wasn’t raining. In fact, the sun was hot on our faces. Seth had just rolled out of bed. His hair was still tousled.

  “Did you have a good time? Did you enjoy the show? You like it?” Seth asked as we walked over from the Westin. Or sauntered. I should say we sauntered, because really we did. Like Dublin was ours—but not in a mean way.

  “It was amazing,” I said. I’d already answered these questions on the bus back from the Royal Academy last night, but I was happy to answer again. Seth might not seem like he’d care what other people think, but he’s always very solicitous after a show.

  At the farmer’s market, we admired the abundance of vegetables, fruits, and grains piled almost as high as our heads. We watched a man shucking oysters beside a table covered with a red-and-white-checked oilcloth. All the Irish people had rope bags or straw baskets with them. Seth and Cecilia had their arms around each other.

  I told Cecilia I’d had lunch with her brother before I left. I dread to think what he’s said about me over these last few years. I don’t know if Cecilia and Seth realize I’ve never met Ben’s sons. God, I hope not. If you’re ever tempted to think my brother is hard, all you have to do is hear him talk about Eli. He dotes on that child. Dotes. My brother saves his chilliness for adults. He’s all warmth when it comes to children.

  “We should all get together when we’re back,” I said.

  I thought, being in a bad marriage turns life into such a lie that you hide from everyone. You don’t want anyone to see what your life is actually like. But then, when you’re out, you stick your head up and realize there are all these people you’ve been avoiding who are probably willing to love you and let you love them if given the chance.

  After the farmer’s market, we wandered over to Dublin Castle, where the British presided over the Irish for all those hundreds of years. I had no idea that Ireland only became independent this century. I laid my back against the stone walls of the castle and let the sun warm my face, and thought, you and me, Dublin, you and me.

  Then Seth had to go off for a sound check, Cecilia went back to the hotel for a nap, and I went off to meet up with Leah. Now I’m sitting here in this tea shop with the floral prints and lace doilies and soon it’ll be time to go back to the hotel and get ready for tonight—if tonight is actually going to happen. At my feet I have a bag of stuff I borrowed from Leah, somewhat against my better judgment—a razor, body scrubs, two kinds of moisturizers, a face mask, eye cream, and several serums for combating fine wrinkles and dark spots. I’m thinking when I get back to the hotel I’m going to do it—I’m going to stare the Fates in the eyes, tempt the Universe, risk the wrath of God. I’m going to shave every inch of myself and then exfoliate until I’m just this side of raw. I’m going to slather on moisturizer until my body is soft and dewy and scented like the wind blowing over a distant rose garden. I’m going to powder my nose and make my eyelashes long and black, and primp until there’s no hair left to pluck and no blackhead daring to show itself. I will be primped down to the pair of pink mesh panties I just happen to have brought along. I’m putting my new belief system to the test. If he doesn’t show up, the joke will be on me.

  Thursday, November 23, 2006

  Last night

  The phone in my room rings at 7:51 p.m. The operator says Kieran O’Shea is in the lobby. I nearly drop to my knees in gratitude.

  The look in his eyes when I come into the lobby makes me feel as if little men are doing somersaults in my stomach. Again I think of Josh, gray-faced in our living room, refusing to answer the phone or go outside. I watch Kieran with his sparkling eyes and un-self-conscious movement stride across the lobby to kiss me on the lips. Then he takes my hand. The sensation of my hand slipping into his makes me feel as if I might suddenly weep. I’m overcome with a sense of being cared for, like a little girl with her father—well, not my father but some kind of platonic ideal father. Kieran leads me down Westmorland, past Trinity College on the left and the Bank of Ireland on the right, and I’m so happy not to be leading for once and to feel I can actually trust the man I’m following that I find myself entirely mute.

  After about a block, Kieran pulls out a perfect joint—half tobacco, half pot, rolled with a little cardboard filter—and I think, what, have I met my soul mate here?

  At Vicar Street, where the show is, people are gathered outside in little clusters, smoking and talking. Kieran seems to know everyone. It’s all, “Hiya, girl,” and “How’s it going?” and kisses on the cheek. He doesn’t introduce me around, and I have a horrible second where I think, he is separated, isn’t he? But it passes because then we’re inside and he’s ordering me a Guinness and when I try to give him some money, he shoos me away.


  “Let me spoil you a little bit,” he whispers in my ear. “What do you say, girl?”

  I say, God bless you and all of your descendants and all of their descendants, but only in my mind.

  Kieran takes me by the hand and leads us out of the bar, back through the crowded lobby, and into the music hall, which is already packed from the front of the stage all the way to the back where the soundman stands.

  We dump all of our coats and scarves and sweaters and bags in one of the plush red seats that ring the outside of the floor. Holding my hand, Kieran leads me through the crowd toward the stage. I keep my eyes on the dark curls falling to the nape of his neck. I think, Heather, pay attention, because this is one of the best times of your life.

  And then just as we’re saying, okay, this is a good spot, isn’t it? Should we stay here?—the room goes dark. There’s about a second of silence as if everyone were holding their breath—then, bam, the room explodes in a phantasm of whirling red lights and soaring music and everyone crying out all at once and lifting their hands in the air. There’s a beautiful man onstage with an amazing head of just-going-gray hair and a sharp white suit with blood splattered on it. He’s got what looks like a papier-mâché grenade launcher on his shoulder, and when he aims it at the ceiling and pulls the trigger, long streams of confetti come pouring down on the audience. People dressed like glittering Martians are flocking out of the wings onto the sides of the stage. They’re dancing as if the party’s already at its peak and singing through bullhorns. They’re tossing plastic balls into the air that are translucently pale and nearly weightless like bubbles blown through a kid’s bubble ring. They fly high into the air in slow-motion arcs of shimmering pale color from one pair of outstretched hands to another. My beer glass fills with brightly colored shards of confetti.

  Behind me I can hear Kieran laugh this fantastic loose laugh, and I turn to see him moving in this fantastic liquid way. Exquisite, writes itself in my mind. I feel I am living in a series of crystallized moments, as if each one contains all life has to offer. I am not a body; I am moving energy. I am as open and wide and free as the galaxy. I feel like the past has disappeared and why would I even worry about the future? I’m in this moment, and it is the most beautiful moment, and I don’t care what anyone says.

  I put my hands on Kieran’s shoulders and stand up on tiptoe so my mouth is against his ear.

  “I’m happy, Kieran. I’m happy. Do you feel it too?”

  Kieran stops dancing and brings his face level to mine. He’s peering at me, and I’m running out of adjectives to describe his eyes. They’re bright, they’re glowing, they’re sparkling, they’re intelligent, they’re familiar, they’re sensitive, they’re emotive, they have light pouring out of them. You choose. You pick. Imagine it however you want. I don’t care. “It’s strange like I can’t even explain,” he says. “It feels so right that you’re here.” And he pulls me to him in such a tight embrace that I almost can’t breathe. We stand together like that while the crowd dances around us.

  Then we’re dancing again too. And the confetti is pouring down. Kieran’s got his hands around my waist. On a screen at the back of the show, enormous robots are battling enormous Japanese schoolgirls in tiny skirts. I’ve got my hands around Kieran’s waist. A woman dressed like Wonder Woman comes out and shakes her glittery bottom at the audience. Kieran lights another joint, passes it to a group of guys standing near us. They offer us gum, and do we want a pint, they’re just off to get one, no, but thanks, ta-ta.

  Then the show is almost over. The room gets quiet and the man in the white suit is talking. This is what he says: He says, look, I want to be serious for a minute. I want everyone in the audience to do something. I want you to turn to the person you came with tonight. I don’t care if this person is a friend, someone you just met, or your wife. And it might feel awkward or strange or whatever, but do it anyway. Turn to the person you came with and say I love you. Because it’s true. Right now, at this moment, you love this person.

  This is not happening, I think. Then, this is the Universe making a point.

  Unfortunately, this is not a novel or a movie, and I don’t have even the beginning of the nerve to throw myself at Kieran and cry, “I love you!” The truth is I turn around and bury my face in his armpit.

  “What do you think, girl?” Kieran whispers in my ear. “Is two days too soon?”

  I lift my head out of his armpit. “Kieran,” I say. “Do you get the feeling that we’re being set up here—I mean by, like, some sort of God-like being?”

  Kieran doesn’t say anything but he picks me up so that my feet are dangling above the ground. The most beautiful song I’ve ever heard in my life starts to play. “Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face,” the man in the white suit sings. “Do you realize that happiness makes you cry. Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die . . .” I’m not good with lyrics but I catch these lines. And I know that henceforth this will be my favorite song of all time. Kieran and I hold each other and kiss. And you know how it is—all the people around us fade into a distant blur.

  The VIP party, which Kieran has passes for, isn’t much of a much. When it becomes clear no actual Lips are going to show I say, “Let’s blow this pop stand.”

  In an after-hours club we huddle together over pints and bread with tapenade. I reach up and touch an angry red scratch Kieran’s got on his forehead. It’s from his younger daughter, the autistic one.

  “I tried to get the little thing from behind when she wasn’t expecting me,” Kieran says.

  We talk about autism. About separation. About the fact that Kieran’s ex-wife is a writer too. We talk about the destruction of the planet (he’s the director of an ocean conservation nonprofit in his spare time) and then back to the evilness of Dick Cheney. I tell Kieran about taking ballet when I was a kid and how I wanted to be a ballerina. He tells me that he wanted to study literature in college but there were only scholarships for business, so he did that instead. We talk about my being Jewish, which Kieran finds hilarious, because he’s never known any Jews before, which I in turn find hilarious, because how could you go through life without knowing any Jews?

  Finally we head back to the Westin. Up in my room, I pull open the French doors to show Kieran the view. We look out together over Westmoreland Street and the roofs of Temple Bar. It’s dark except for the streetlights and a pale glimmer of moon, its beams muted by clouds. Kieran has his arms wrapped around my waist and his head buried in my neck.

  “Let me show you the duplex,” I say, and take his hand as we start up the stairs. But we don’t make it to the top. It must be the sight of my new-and-improved ass in those skinny jeans, because Kieran grabs me from behind and the next thing I know our lips are pressed together, and he’s on top of me on the second-floor landing while our legs dangle down the stairs. My top comes off. His top comes off. The feel of his skin on mine is like a revelation.

  I kick off my shoes. He tears open my belt and pulls off the skinny jeans. He’s kissing me all over my chest and belly, his shoulder blades rising up above me, his long hair falling over his face and against my skin. Then, “Come on,” and he takes my hand and leads me back downstairs to bed.

  Thirteen years and two weeks ago, I ran off from a Halloween party with Josh Reed. What happened that night was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. In high school and college, everyone had been all sex, sex, sex. I’d been fine with kissing, but as soon as hands started getting up in each other’s business I always found it pretty disgusting. I was always doing it because he wanted to—whoever the he of the moment was. But then I’d run off with Josh from that party and, what can I say, there was nothing gross about it. I remember it was as if a golden light had been shining down on us. Wherever he touched me felt beautiful. I’m sure you’ve had a night like this at least once in your life, so you know what I’m talking about. The hands on the clock cease ticking, boundaries blur.

  This is how it feels
with Kieran on my big bed at the Westin. It’s all golden light. I’m so turned on I feel faintly nauseated. We’re kneeling together by the headboard and Kieran puts a finger inside me. “You’re so wet,” he breathes. “Jesus, girl.” And I am wet—soaking, running-down-my-legs wet. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry because, God damn it, the machinery is working!

  “I can’t let you leave Dublin without making love to you,” Kieran says. “It’s too beautiful what’s happening here, don’t you see.”

  Every time he says something like this, I feel as if I were a little plant, an African violet maybe, being showered with rainwater.

  And then I have the most extraordinary feeling, as if my body actually wants him. It’s like I can feel myself expanding to include him. You have to understand, for as long as I can ever remember, except those very early days with Josh, I’ve always associated sex with a terrible chafing feeling, as if my body were rejecting the other person without me having any say in the matter. But with Kieran it feels so natural I start to lose track of there being two of us.

  Kieran pulls back the covers. “I need a whole night just to look at you,” he says. “Beautiful girl. Beautiful, beautiful girl.”

  I am an African violet showered with rainwater.

  We hold each other tightly and rock back and forth.

  We whisper together. Little questions, little bits about our lives. Kieran tells me about his mother, a beautiful woman with jet-black hair like his own. She’d called him her “black-haired beauty,” because of all her six children, he was the only one to come out Black Irish like her. She was depressive, he says. There’d been heavy drinking and chain-smoking, endless days of silence, followed by weeks then months in bed. Then lung cancer. Kieran tells me how he’d been with her while she lay dying, holding her hand, no one else in the room with them. He says he’d never felt so alone and sad again in his whole life until his daughter got sick and there was nothing he could do to make her better.