Peter gave this some thought, then put the last of the leek into his mouth and began to chew. Slowly. After a respectful silence, Declan said, “We’ve still the bran cake. And then we’re done.”
10
The drive to Killarney was uneventful except for Aaron’s guilt at having lied to his wife. Being Irish, his guilt went beyond simple accusation into unrelenting harassment. It gave him no peace. Three times he had been tempted to turn around, go back, and confess to Lolly that he was not going to Killarney to tour the restored Ross Castle, but to see Lucille. It was his plan to attend the afternoon performance of Messiah—the last before the singers returned to America, laden with praise. It was Aaron’s expectation that Lucille would see him again as she had in Caherciveen and search him out during the intermission. His purpose, aside from tanking up on the spiritual fuel the oratorio unfailingly dispensed, would be, as conscience dictated, to perform the manly act of forgiving his errant wife for her transgression of their conjugal vows and for seeking connubial comforts in the arms—and wherever else—of another.
He could have told all this to Lolly. It was, after all, to his credit that he could find it in his wounded ego to forgo all the ill feelings justified by his first wife’s defection. His magnanimity touched him deeply—just as it would Lucille. But had he mentioned the name Lucille to Lolly, it might have occasioned snide mockery he would rather avoid. Accusations would not have been made outright, but, in their place, there would have been not-so-subtle suggestions that more than forgiveness was on his mind.
Although his wife’s insinuations would hardly prove fatal, he would just as soon do without them, as much for Lolly’s sake as for his own. Why distress the good woman so? Why cause her unnecessary concern? With this thinking, Aaron was able, by the time he passed through Killorglin, to convince himself that, as regards his wife, his act was not one of hypocrisy but of loving-kindness. He would, he realized, enjoy the music very much. His conscience was clear. And his self-approval would soon increase with the absolution he would bestow on the undeserving Lucille.
The church in Killarney was not as imposing as the one in Caherciveen, although it rose from more impressive grounds, green lawns that could feed a fair-sized number of sheep for at least a week. The pews seemed a bit more severe, but nothing could stanch Aaron’s growing euphoria.
Again, two tiers were ready to receive the chorus. Also, there were chairs for the soloists, the members of the orchestra, and a podium for the conductor. And there was the crowd, come in from the Sunday weather—a mist rather than a less ambiguous rain—willing to be uplifted, to be given sufficient respite from bearing fardels and grunting under their weary lives.
And there, soon enough, came Lucille, this time fourth in her tier, which suggested that some choir member had returned to America early or (if such were imaginable) had been given a better offer. Lucille was as aptly clothed as before, her scarlet robe lacking only a large letter A to make it even more appropriate. Still, she was pretty, in a clichéd sort of way: blond hair angelically curled and waved, down past her shoulders, eyes whose blue reached easily to where Aaron was seated in the fifth row, not much in the way of cheekbones, but the well-formed and generous lips more than compensating for the deprivation. The skin, however, was her real claim to beauty, a freshness that hinted of perfect health and well-being, of easy good cheer and amiable companionship. Perhaps it was Aaron’s current life of rusticity that made him feel that the sum of all these parts added up to nothing more than a bovine placidity, an appraisal that ignored a temperament adventurous enough to send her off with a baritone. Aaron decided on the spot to forgive her not only for her adulterous behavior but for her more general inadequacies as well. The cup of his magnanimity threatened to overflow.
The oratorio began. Lucille seemed to be working harder than the others, but, then, that could be because she had to, given her limited equipment. Aaron made an effort to detect her inimitable voice from among all the rest, but the chorus was too well trained to allow for one singer—even with Lucille’s distinctive pitch—to distinguish herself.
Part One ended to appreciative applause. Aaron, certain that Lucille had spotted him (she seemed a bit rattled in “For Unto Us a Child,” but had managed to recover by “All We Like Sheep”), hurried though the main portal out onto the walkway that divided the green acreage. This would provide him with an appropriate stage on which to perform the inspired scene he had so touchingly scripted.
He waited. No Lucille presented herself. Perhaps she had not seen him after all. Perhaps the peculiar behavior he had observed—a nervous tugging of her right earlobe, a repeated sniffing he was sure he’d heard—was just Lucille being Lucille. Maybe she’d wet herself again at the sight of him. He considered going around to the back of the church and asking whomever he found there to inform the soprano, second tier, fourth from the left, that an acquaintance from America wished to see her. (Even in anticipation, he was unable to say “Lucille Glyzinski,” which would have simplified his request.) But before he could make his move, he heard the all-too-familiar voice. “This time I held it, so I had to go pee just now,” it said. “And what are you doing here? It’s raining. I looked for you in the narthex and then saw you—”
“In the what?”
“What do you mean, in the what?”
“That word you used. You looked in the what?”
“The narthex. What’s wrong with that?”
“I never heard it before.”
“It’s the vestibule. You should go to church more often. And what are you doing here anyway? You already heard all this. And the rain can’t be good for my voice.”
“It’s mist. And it’s very good for the voice. Softens it.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Lots of places.”
“Name one.”
“You sang very well.”
“Thanks. How could you tell?”
“I know you. I could tell.”
“You don’t know me.”
“We were married. Remember?”
“That’s how I know you don’t know me.”
“Well, be that as it may—”
“I don’t have all day. This is only an intermission. What are you doing here?”
“I came to hear Handel.”
“Yeah. Sure. You—the great enthusiast of the baroque. Uh-huh.”
“All right, then. I came to tell you … I mean, I want you to know that I … I … I …”
“Oh, spit it out for shit’s sake.”
“I forgive you.”
“What?!”
“I forgive you.”
“Oh? Really? Why? What’d I do this time?”
“I forgive you for leaving me.”
“You what?”
“I forgive you for leaving me. There. I’ve said it. And I mean it. You’re forgiven.”
“I’m forgiven?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I heard you.”
“So now you know. You’re forgiven.”
“Well, if that isn’t the bee’s knees.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As well you might.”
“Lucille, we don’t have time. I came to forgive you and I’ve done it. Now, if you have to go back—”
“Sure I have to go back, but all that can wait or they can go ahead without me. I’m the one should do the forgiving, not you. And I’m here to tell you I don’t forgive you and I never will. You little twit.”
“Lucille—”
“I know my name. You want to know what I don’t forgive you for?”
Now, Lucille—”
“To you the name’s Glyzinski. Mrs. Glyzinski. And I don’t forgive you for making me believe you loved me.”
“I did love you.”
“Stop using words you don’t know what they mean.”
“I loved you.”
“Stop or I’m going to pee again—from laughing.”
“Believ
e me or don’t believe me, but—”
“I don’t believe you. I believed you then. I don’t believe you now. What you thought was … that four-letter word again … was just you wanting someone who would make other men jealous, make them wonder how a jerk like you could get himself a gorgeous piece like me.”
“That’s not—”
“Shut up. I’m not finished. And what you wanted was someone you could lay any time you wanted—which, by the way, wasn’t often enough as far as I’m concerned.”
“There’s more to being in love—”
“And someone to adore you and worship you like you were a god instead of a twit. To say nothing about you having a free char and a maid and a cook and … Oh, wait. All right. There is something you can forgive me for. I can’t cook. I never could, and now I don’t even try. You forgive me for that and I’ll forgive you not just for being a lousy husband but for being a lousy writer.”
“I am not a lousy writer.”
“Oh for God’s sake! Just for once, believe what you read in the papers. You’re a lousy writer. And I forgive you for it. It’s not any more your fault than it’s mine I can’t cook. So is it a deal? You want to talk forgiveness? I’ll talk forgiveness. Come on. Talk.”
“Lucille, I … I …”
“I … I … I … All the time I. Forget it. Now I’ve got to pee again. Thanks for coming. Enjoy the rest. And try to remember, it’s not about you. It’s about the Messiah. The real lover. Got it?”
“I never said … I never thought …”
“Sorry. Now I’ve really got to pee.”
Aaron considered not returning for Part Two, perhaps going to Ross Castle after all, just to make an honest husband of himself. But before he knew it, he was seated and waiting. The chorus came into the sanctuary. Lucille was not in her appointed place. After the singers, except for the soloists, were completely assembled, on came Lucille, who, to get to the far side, had to walk past the entire chorus. Apparently, she did have to pee. Some of the audience took her for the first of the soloists and began to applaud. Lucille turned, bowed a little, then continued on to the second tier, forcing the singers assigned to her right and left to make room for their tardy colleague. The applause that had diminished once Lucille had moved beyond the chairs awaiting the true soloists began again when the soloists did appear. The clapping became even more enthusiastic when the conductor took his place.
Aaron looked and listened. There was Lucille, heeding him not at all. The music started. She sang and sang and sang, giving it all she had, negligible though that might be. She cared nothing for her inadequacy. To give her whole heart seemed enough. Passion was there in plenty. And a depth of feeling he had never noticed in her before. She was magnificent.
Not until now had he seen it. Not until now did he have the slightest idea of who and what she was, how gallant and unafraid, possessed of a sweetness of spirit of which he had been totally unaware. Now, too late, he adored her. He wanted to make her happiness his first and only purpose for living. He loved her.
The “Alleluia” was unbearable. “Worthy Is the Lamb” brought tears of both joy and despair. He made no effort to hold them back or to wipe them from his cheeks, his lips, his chin. Freely they dripped onto his only good tie.
After the last echo of the great “Amen” had faded to silence and the applause had exhausted itself, Aaron dashed from the church. By the time he had elbowed his way through the crowd massed ahead of him, since no one was particularly eager to step out into what had become a torrent of rain, she had apparently already boarded one of the buses lined up near the sacristy door, waiting to whisk them all to Shannon Airport in time for the evening flight to America. Unmindful of the rain, he moved alongside the buses, hoping for some last sight of her, but it was a hope never to be fulfilled. The buses pulled out, one after the other. She was gone. Gone with the husband who, during “The Trumpet Shall Sound,” had gone flat, then flatter with each of the unending series of repeats Handel had demanded.
The last bus made its way down the street, disappearing at the first turn. Aaron, accustomed by this time to being bedraggled, went to his car, got in, and sat for a moment, wondering which direction he should take—to Shannon or to the pig farm? Actually, he had no choice. He started the motor, eased into traffic, and went home, where the pigs awaited. And his wife.
When he saw Lolly slopping swill down into the troughs, with the pigs screaming in anticipation of satiety—his wife, indifferent to the elements, a slouch hat pulled over the indestructible beauty of her auburn hair—he realized that this woman, too, he loved. And, as he paused to watch the swill falling into the troughs, he knew that he loved her even more than he loved Lucille. Yet he felt the final sight of his former wife singing the great “Amen” would remain a vision he would never banish. It would be with him, she would be with him, forever. As befits a man entangled in the mysteries of the land to which he had come, he had found his proper haunting, his very own version of Brid and Taddy, or of Declan—and his acceptance, like that of all the others, was total and absolute.
He went to his wife’s side, a second bucket of swill in his hand, and took up his part of the evening task. Hearing the clamoring pigs, he had to reflect on the pig that, in its own way, had led him to this complexity, the one that had followed him to his aunt’s house and dug into the cabbage patch. Should he curse the pig or bless it? For the moment, he’d do neither. He must concentrate on the bucket of swill and the pigs screaming for his attention.
While Aaron was having thoughts about the now deceased pig, the animal was very much within Declan’s view as he, at the rain’s insistence, was gathering his tools in the shelter of one of the completed sheds. The phantom pig had been particularly attentive to him these past few days, keeping watch as if it were an overseer intent on making sure he was performing according to specifications.
Declan had enjoyed the scrutiny, a mild distraction from his obsession with the castle, with Brid and Taddy—and the pig, too—with his determination to bring the castle to ruin and release Brid and Taddy from the curse’s thrall.
He dropped his tools into his sack and drew the rawhide thong that closed the top. The pig, he noticed, unaffected as it was by the pelting rain, had been giving its attention to the debris that had yet to be removed from the castle courtyard. Then, as if it were a perfectly natural thing to do, the pig climbed the side of the unsightly mess and disappeared into the pile, snout first, as if, still alive, it was simply digging its way into available trash, intent on scattering its unsavory contents throughout the landscape. This, fortunately, was beyond its present competence. It would have to content itself with a ghostly exploration of the interior of the heap and emerge satisfied with the memory of times when it might have wreaked considerable havoc as in the days of old.
The pig did finally reappear, nothing having been disturbed by its intrusion. It found its way, without calamitous effect, down to the ground, then turned and stared at the point of entry, its snout lifted, its gaze intent.
Declan snorted his amusement and slung the sack over his shoulder. He took two steps toward his rattletrap truck. He stopped, waited, then turned. The pig remained transfixed, interested only in the site of its recent exploration. Inscrutable were the ways of a pig—and of this pig more than any other. Was Declan supposed to take up a similar interest? Was he expected to become engrossed—as if he, too, were a pig—in a pile of junk? He turned away, took a few more steps, then stopped again. He turned back. The pig hadn’t moved. Its concentration was impervious to distraction. Warily, Declan moved closer. As he neared the animal, he sensed that something was expected of him. And it had to do with the heap that had so completely claimed the pig’s attention.
He traced the trajectory between the pig’s snout and the place where the animal was staring, then went closer and stood next to it. The stare remained fixed. Declan reached out and tugged at a plaid skirt bunched in among the other spurned artifacts. More was removed: what a
ppeared to be part of a tent, a battered teakettle, a broken ping-pong paddle, and a moth-eaten brown sweater. So far, the junk above was still in place, but it would soon sink down, filling the tunnel he was making into the center of the mound.
He was considering starting at the top and dismantling the entire structure when he managed to pull out a small metal box with wires attached, probably a device of Kieran’s invention, a timer perhaps, for use in his cooking and baking in the castle scullery. The pig continued to stare at the hole Declan had made. The thatcher reached in again, this time retrieving a soiled and well-thumbed book. Not a book, really; more of a catalog, the kind sent to clog the mails at Christmastime. He let it fall to his feet and put his hand—indeed almost his entire arm—back into the heap where he’d found the book. At this, the pig lowered its head, turned, and, trotted away on its silent phantom hooves. When it reached the third shed, it vanished altogether.
Declan withdrew his arm, then looked to see whether this might affect the pig’s return. It didn’t. The pig was no longer interested in what might still be done. Declan had been foolish to think that what the pig did or didn’t do had a particular meaning, that it had anything at all to do with him. He allowed himself a short quick laugh. He had played the pig’s game and must pay a loser’s penalty: the acceptance of the humiliation imposed for having been duped by a pig—and the ghost of a pig at that.
He began to collect the retrieved junk, his strict upbringing requiring that he replace what he had disturbed. The pile must be made whole again. The kettle, the skirt, the paddle were returned. The book and the device, whatever it was, were next. He would stuff them deep into the hole where he’d found them, then jam in the sweater and whatever else lay at his feet. He picked up the thumbed pages to give them a glance before shoving them into place. It might tell him something about what had interested the squatters. Perhaps he would be given insights into their behavior, their motives, their plans for the future. As if he cared.
The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven Page 14
