Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  His description was so vivid, Olivia could see that bin, smell that smell, as if she were there with him.

  "We took a bit of the stuff and fed it to one of the pigs," he went on. "The pig died, and we knew it was the blight. We went out and tried to dig the potatoes that were still in the ground, but it was too late. Overnight, all the plants had withered and the potatoes had turned black right in the ground. Everywhere, it was the same, and that putrid sulfur smell hovered over the land like a thick fog. To this day, I can smell it."

  She felt a queer shiver dance along her spine at the way he told the story, his voice so flat, so completely devoid of emotion.

  "Within a month, there wasn't a potato left in all of Ireland. Within six months, our people were dying of starvation and disease, dying by the thousands. People in our village were dying so fast, there weren't enough coffins. They had to be buried in mass graves, just piled in with a bit of dirt thrown over to protect their bodies from the rats."

  Olivia felt sick. She pressed her hand over her mouth, listening in anguished silence, her heart break­ing for him.

  Conor swallowed hard. His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. "My father was the first in our family to die. The blight broke him, and the fiabhras dubh killed him. That's the black fever—typhus you call it. My mother keened for three days, so great was her grief. The typhus killed her as well, a week later. She died in a ditch because the landlord evicted us from our home and burned it down."

  Conor looked at her and his gaze was glittering hard. "I will never be a farmer," he said, his voice filled with such passionate intensity, it startled her. He rose from the table and walked to the doorway that led into the dining room. He paused there, looking back at her over one shoulder. "I will never be tied to a piece of land. Nor to a woman, nor to a home, nor to a family, nor to a church. Nor to a way of life. Not ever again."

  Olivia watched him through a blur of tears, despis­ing the futility of it. For there was nothing she could say to comfort a man whose family was long dead; there was no balm to heal wounds that scored a man's soul; and there was no way to make a man believe in the ties that bind.

  * * *

  Conor couldn't escape the demons. He tried to run from them, but he couldn't run fast enough. Never fast enough. They kept pace with him, speaking in low, coaxing murmurs. He couldn't outrun them, because they spoke to him from inside his own head. He stopped running and sank to his knees. He clamped his hands over his ears, but he could still hear them.

  If he were stronger, he could blot them out; he could crush his skull like a walnut shell and that would be the end of it. He pressed his hands hard against his head, but he wasn't strong enough. Never strong enough.

  Orange. The hated color was everywhere, all around him. Flames of hell, orange sashes, hot pokers. The demons pulled his hands away and strapped him down. He felt the pain as they yanked his arm and twisted it, dislocating his shoulder again. He smelled his skin burning. He screamed.

  Tell us, they murmured. Tell, tell, tell. . .

  He did.

  Conor awoke from the dream like a drowning man breaking the water—wet, disoriented, and gasping for air. He sat up, cradling his head in his shaking hands, feeling the sweat of panic on his face.

  "Sweet Jaysus," he moaned. "Oh, shit, oh, shit."

  He lifted his head and stared at the wall opposite his bed, trying to find reality in the pattern of morning sun­light through lace curtains. The dreams again.

  When he'd first gotten out of prison, the nightmares had haunted him for months, but they had become less frequent with each passing year. He hardly ever had them anymore—until he came here. When he'd first woken up in this house, he knew he'd been having the dreams. But once he'd gotten better, they had gone away. Now they were back. Not again, he pleaded. Not here.

  The door of his bedroom swung inward, hitting the wall with a bang and disturbing the lacy pattern of sun and shadow. Olivia took one look at his face and started toward him, her eyes wide with alarm. "Conor?"

  Olivia. He focused on her, on the sunlight that fell over her in swirls and rosettes. She reminded him of the stained-glass Madonna in St. Brendan's, as one-dimensional and unreal as all the rest.

  "No." His voice was only a fierce whisper, but it stopped her. "Leave me alone."

  She didn't move.

  Behind her, he could hear more footsteps. "Mama? Is he all right? Is he dreaming again?"

  The girls. He couldn't let them see him this way. "Get out of here!" he ordered, gratified that this time he was able to shout. "Keep them away from me!"

  He saw her bite her lip and hesitate. "Are you all right?" she asked.

  He laughed, a harsh, choked sound. "Fine. Bloody well fine, thank you for asking."

  She backed out of the room, still watching him with those soft doe eyes, as if she were the wounded one. The door closed between them, shutting her out, and he drew a long, deep breath of relief.

  Conor disentangled the sheet and rose from the bed. He walked to the washstand and lifted his gaze to his reflection in the oval glass. His face was deathly pale, his eyes were bloodshot, his jaw was blue with beard shadow. He looked like hell, but that's what happened to a man who slept with the demons.

  * * *

  Olivia sent the girls out to pick blackberries. She didn't want them around Conor just now. She put on the ket­tle, knowing that he'd want hot water to shave and bathe. She also put on a pot of strong coffee. Worried and bewildered, she wondered what more she could do for him. He had made it plain that he didn't want her there, that he didn't want her help.

  She'd been in the garden, but she had heard him through the open window of his room, and she'd real­ized he was having those dreams again, the violent memories of a man who had lived through horrors she could not even imagine.

  The kettle began to whistle, and she poured steam­ing water from it into a pitcher and took it to him, set­ting it beside the closed door. She heard no sound from inside, and she knocked. "I've brought you some hot water, if you want it," she said, and retreated back down the hall before he opened the door.

  Back in the kitchen, she started his breakfast, trying to keep busy, but the sounds she'd heard through the win­dow still echoed in her mind, and her heart twisted with compassion. She lowered her face into her hands. Lord in heaven, she'd heard him sob like a child. That sound had frightened her far more than all the curses and shouts.

  She lifted her head at the sound of footsteps and turned quickly toward the counter so that Conor wouldn't see her face when he came in. He wouldn't want her sympathy or her concern, and just now she doubted she could hide them. She began cracking eggs into a bowl as he entered the kitchen.

  "Good morning." His voice sounded hoarse and a bit wobbly.

  "Morning," she answered and grabbed a fork. She glanced at him over one shoulder as she began whipping eggs. He'd shaved, she noticed, and he looked a bit bet­ter, though still drawn and incredibly weary. She wanted to tell him that they were only dreams, that someday they would go away, but she knew he wouldn't believe her. "I've got breakfast for you," she said instead.

  He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. "Where are the girls?"

  "I sent them out to pick blackberries," she answered, pouring the beaten eggs into the cast-iron skillet heat­ing on the stove. She glanced at him again. "They'll be gone all morning."

  "Thank you. I didn't want them to see—" He broke off, and a fleeting expression crossed his face that she thought might be shame.

  Understanding swamped her. He was a man who hated any sort of weakness. She took a step toward him, but stopped, reminding herself that he would not welcome compassion or sympathy. She watched as he leaned one elbow on the table and cradled his head in the palm of his hand. "Headache?" she asked.

  "No." He straightened. "Tis just a bit tired I am this mornin'."

  An understatement if she'd ever heard one. She poured a cup of coffee for him and brought it to the table. "That ough
t to help."

  "Thanks."

  She returned to the stove and spooned eggs, fried potatoes, and biscuits onto a plate for him. "Eat," she ordered, setting the food in front of him. She walked away and began cutting vegetables for gumbo. Though she pretended to be occupied with her task, she watched him from the corner of her eye.

  He stared down at the plate for a long moment, then picked up his fork. He began to eat his breakfast, but he didn't finish it. With the plate still half full, he pushed it away.

  "Not hungry?" she asked.

  "No." He shoved back his chair and rose. Without another word, he walked out the back door, wanting only to get away.

  The barn door was open. He took refuge there, in the cool shadows that smelled of hay and dust. The summer breeze whistled through the open doors, stirring the straw at his feet, whispering to him like the prison guards in the Mountjoy, like the ghosts of his family, like the wind through the ruins on rocky Irish cliffs.

  Peace, damn it all; he wanted peace. But he knew there was no peace for him, not in the touch of a gentle woman or the green hills of Louisiana she talked about. It was too late for that. He'd sold his soul to the demons; he'd betrayed everything worth believing in, only to make the pain stop.

  That was the joke, of course. It never stopped.

  He knew a bad spell was coming. The dreams were only going to get worse. When he was on the road, moving from town to town, he could stay ahead of them. With enough women and enough whiskey, he could drown them out. When he could go into the ring, when he could fight, he could keep them at bay with his fists. If all of that failed, he could find a room some­where, a place where no one knew him and no one cared to, where he could bolt the door and fight his demons alone.

  Here, he could do none of those things. He had to leave.

  "All right, Vernon, tell me what is going on with the railroad deal."

  Alicia hovered unseen outside her father's study, lis­tening intently. She had been excluded from their meet­ing, of course, but that hadn't stopped her. The door of the study was slightly ajar, and she leaned closer to the opening as her husband began to explain the situation to her father.

  Alicia Jamison Tyler knew her papa was a clever businessman. He had tripled his already substantial for­tune turning out cannons and guns for the Union Army during the war. He seldom invested unwisely, and he would not hesitate to abandon a venture if it failed to produce results. Vernon knew it, too, and promptly launched into explanations.

  Alicia heard a sound behind her and turned her head sharply, but the maid who crossed the hall at the oppo­site end didn't even see her, and Alicia resumed her eavesdropping. She knew next to nothing about this railroad deal, since Vernon never told her anything, and she had a vital reason for wanting to know the true facts of the situation.

  "Let me get this straight," her father said. "We've got all the land we need, except one small piece. We can't go around it, and we can't get the owner to sell. So, this one woman could ruin everything we've planned?"

  "Yes, but I guarantee—"

  "Spare me your guarantees, Vernon," the other man said coldly. "I've been hearing them for a long time now. Several of my closest business associates have invested money in this venture, and it's getting harder and harder to explain the delays to them, which is why I've sent for you. While you are here, you will be meeting with my associates to reassure them that this railroad is not simply a figment of my imagination; and you will spend the next few weeks making a favorable impression on them. They want results, and you are going to be the one to look them in the eye and tell them their money has been wisely invested."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I want to start building that railroad by autumn. Put on some pressure and get the Maitland woman to sell."

  "I'll telegraph Joshua immediately and have him go out to her place with a higher offer. Joshua can be very persuasive."

  "Good. I don't have to remind you, Vernon, that a great deal of money is at stake here."

  "No, sir. I want this deal to go through, not just for the money, but because I want to prove to you that I can do it. I am Alicia's husband, and I want to be the one to provide for her future."

  Alicia rolled her eyes. She knew such statements pleased her father, but she had her own vision of her future, and that vision did not include living in a one- horse town in Louisiana. She hated everything about the place—she hated the heat, and the snakes, and the dread­ful people who were so hostile just because she'd been born north of the Mason-Dixon line; but mostly, she hated being so far from her father and her friends. She was so lonely there. She'd been patient with Vernon because she loved him, but her patience was wearing thin.

  She pasted a bright smile on her face and pushed the study door wide. "Really, Papa," she chided as she crossed the room to her father's side, "I think you're awful to make Vernon sit here in this stuffy little office and talk business when we've just barely arrived."

  "I'm sorry, sweetheart," Hiram said, "but Vernon and I have a great deal to do while he is here."

  "Business?" she said with a pout. "But I was hoping to spend some time with you myself. I see you so rarely."

  Hiram wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "I promise, we'll have time together. I want to take you to the symphony. I know how much you've missed it."

  "Oh, I would love that! Can we go to Newport as well?"

  The two men exchanged glances, but neither of them spoke, and Alicia pressed her advantage. "Just for a few weeks. Please, Papa."

  He gave in, of course. "All right, then. We'll go to Newport. We can invite my associates there for a week­end meeting."

  "Thank you, Papa."

  He smiled at her. "You know I can't say no to you."

  She laughed and bent to kiss his cheek. She knew. In fact, she was gambling her future on it.

  The girls returned with enough blackberries for a dozen pies, but Olivia made only two. She spent the afternoon turning the remaining berries into jam, and she kept the girls busy helping her.

  She deliberately kept herself busy so that her thoughts would not dwell on Conor, but his tormented face haunted her just the same.

  She had no idea where Conor was or what he was doing, but by late afternoon he still hadn't returned, and her relief at his absence began changing to worry. She decided she'd better go in search of him.

  She'd seen him go out to the barn, and that was where she began looking. But she did not find him there. She checked all the other outbuildings, she searched the gardens, and she walked through her orchard again, calling his name until she was hoarse, but after an hour, she still hadn't found him.

  Worried now, she paused at the edge of her orchard, trying to think where to look next, but she knew she had looked everywhere. Maybe he had walked to the road and some farmer on the way to town had given him a ride.

  No, he couldn't have left just like that, without even saying good-bye. But even as she thought it, she knew he could. He probably had.

  Olivia sighed and leaned back against a tree. He was a loner, a man who didn't want the company of anyone, at least not very often and not for very long. A man who had built a wall around himself to keep people at a dis­tance. A man filled with pain who could snarl like a wounded animal, but who could soothe away a little girl's fear of thunderstorms.

  What horrible memories did he relive in his dreams? But she knew. Starvation and death, prison and torture, treason and amnesty, guns and someone named Sean Gallagher. He said that he'd betrayed everything he believed in, he said that his scars were exactly what he had deserved; Olivia didn't care what he had done. Whatever it was, she would not believe it bad enough to deserve what had happened to him in prison.

  She began walking back toward the house. She walked slowly, her thoughts spinning in futile circles.

  "You can catch the stage in Callersville." The farmer looked over at Conor, who sat beside him on the seat of a wagon filled with turnips. "Stage'll get
you as far as Monroe, and from there you can take the train any­where you want to go."

  But Conor knew he could not. Six dollars would not get him to Boston. Perhaps, if he could get a ride as far as Monroe, he could find a pub that might take him on for a round of boxing and pay him enough to get train fare.

  But even as he thought it, he saw Olivia's face in his mind, and her eyes held him with that look. That look that pleaded for help even as her pride refused to let her ask for it again. His promise came back to him, mock­ing him.

  I'll stay long enough to help you bring your crop in.

  It was a broken promise now. That was why he never made promises, because he knew how lousy he was at keeping them.

  He drew a deep breath, and the dust churned up by the wagon wheels razed his suddenly dry throat, chok­ing him. His own promise suffocated him.

  What if he went back? He closed his eyes. It was only a month. He could handle that, couldn't he? One month.

  He thought of his first few months in Boston, three years ago, and his dirty room at Polly Keane's. He thought about the day Hugh O'Donnell, the head of Clan na Gael, had asked him to help get American money for the Irish cause. Hugh had claimed Conor would be the perfect man to get Irish-American hearts breaking and wallets opening, because he was such a heroic figure. That night the dreams had come again, and he'd almost laid Polly out when she tried to wake him, because he'd thought she was a prison guard.

  He could remember the way Polly's whores had looked at him afterward, how they had stepped back warily as he passed them in the hall, and how they had whispered about him behind their hands. But his reputa­tion had caught up with him, and after they learned he was a Fenian who had survived torture in the Mountjoy, their fear had changed to an awe-tinged respect. That's when he'd left Boston, unable to bear how they had made his shame into something glorious, how rumor made a man a hero when he was nothing but a fraud.