The kitchen in the castle was huge and contained freezers that were the size of small living rooms and sometimes it was an easy place to hide or get lost in when the three of us happened to be in it together. At times we’d unavoidably bump into each other and exchange niceties and talk about the past week.
Sometimes both Mr. and Mrs. Axe would ask me if I was coming or going and I’d invariably say I was going to town to meet friends or to participate in soccer practice for the high-school team. I purposely didn’t mention Muriel because I wasn’t sure they’d take to it in a friendly way. I also didn’t want to alert them to the fact that I had something of an independent life going for me outside of the castle. But, in any case, personal things were rarely talked about.
I didn’t spend any time talking about my social life in town. Time in the pub with Frank Dillon and others who were almost constantly drunk, more so on Friday nights, was not something I thought the Axes would appreciate. Most holidays, both religious and national, I’d meet up with Frank Dillon at the watering hole. At the back of the bar Frank would recount and recall his fantasies from his previous inebriated night, and continue his rantsabout how he was going to give up his life as a tile-setter and relocate to New York City or Los Angeles to pursue a career as an actor. Frank had a sidekick called Wayne. Whenever Frank worked on a construction site, Wayne was the one who got the chore of mixing the cement. He was also the person who kept cheering on Frank to show off his acting talents. For this support he was handsomely rewarded. Frank supplied him with a constant flow of booze every night they sat at the bar. Frank’s performances were always more real and believable when he was intoxicated. To witness this in its full dimension, however, required drinking with him. Frank on more than one occasion asked me to invite him to the castle but it was not a request I seriously entertained. A drunken tile-setter spewing Shakespearean sonnets would not have been welcomed by Mr. and Mrs. Axe. His ranting might easily have been a setback both for them and me.
* * *
Saturday mornings allowed Mr.and Mrs. Axe to vent some of their personal frustrations and annoyances towards each other. What they couldn’t express during the regular workday came out on Saturday mornings. Whatever disagreements they had with regard to business decisions during the course of the week they let fly toward each other in the kitchen on Saturdays. Most of their arguments had to do with who should be hired and who should be fired in the New York office and the Tarrytown office. Sometimes they argued about financial decisions that hadn’t worked out to their satisfaction. Occasionally it came down to personality differences. Each had favourites they argued for. Certain individuals were liked and disliked by both Mr. and Mrs. Axe. Because Mrs. Axe had responsibility not only for both offices but the running of the castle she would most likely win out. Mr. Axe had a tendency to retreat from her after a quick burst of anger. Once he’d expressed himself he retired and returned to the dining room to his music and books. The tranquillity and silence of Mrs. Axe sitting by the kitchen window immersed in her newspaper would soon be assaulted by a blast of a Beethoven symphony, usually the Ninth, thundering from the dining room. The loud music was Mr. Axe’s way of showing his displeasure and frustration.
Apart from this Saturday-morning confrontation, only occasionally did Mr. and Mrs. Axe venture out of their own private suites on weekends. In the early evening, for exercise, Mr. Axe would take a walking stick and walk up and down the driveway several times. At times I’d walk with him. Sometimes on a Saturday and Sunday I’d accompany Mrs. Axe in her car when she drove around the estate inspecting the work that had been carried out in the garden during the week. Periodically she’d stop when she observed something she wasn’t satisfied with. “Remind me to check with Jim and Arthur about this tree,” she’d say as if she was dictating to her secretary. It wasn’t out of the question for her to use a few expletives when she referred to some of the groundsmen by name.
Most of the food and house supplies were purchased by Pat and Jim during the week but Mrs. Axe enjoyed doing her own shopping and on the odd Saturday I would accompany her when she drove into Tarrytown to buy food and household items in the supermarket. These drives often extended into different parts of the county. I sat in the big car while Mrs. Axe drove around the town of Tarrytown and its adjacent township Sleepy Hollow.
Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow were once Dutch settlements even before America was America. Mrs. Axe, in the role of tour guide, pointed out places of interest and recounted local history.
Tarrytown was a favourite residence for many rich New Yorkers, including John D Rockefeller. His elaborate family mansion Kykuit was on the far side of the town and only minutes away from the Axe Castle.
Mrs. Axe clearly enjoyed telling me about “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”. The story, written by New Yorker Washington Irving, tells of Ichabod Crane, a superstitious schoolmaster, who competes with Abraham “Brom Bones” Van Brunt for the hand of Katrina Van Tassel, the sole child of a wealthy farmer. The story goes that one autumn night Crane left a harvest party at the Van Tassel home and was pursued by the Headless Horseman, supposedly the ghost of a Hessian trooper who’d had his head shot off by a cannonball during the American Revolutionary War, who “rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head”. That night Ichabod mysteriously disappears, leaving Katrina to marry Brom Bones. The story implies that the Horseman was really Brom in disguise but the locals believed that Ichabod was “spirited away by supernatural means”. By the glint in her eyes and the smile on her face it was obvious Mrs. Axe liked to tell this story.
* * *
More than a few times Mrs. Axe found out-of-the-way places to have lunch or, if it was late in the afternoon, she would find a coffee shop and we’d sit and have an espresso. The relaxed atmosphere and visits to country restaurants on weekends afforded both of us the opportunity to get to know each other on a more personal basis. I got to the point where I looked forward to the Saturdays and Sundays when she would ask me to get into the car and drive way from the castle for a few hours.
Whenever she was away from the castle and the demands of her business, especially while we were marooned in some country café, Mrs. Axe talked about another part of her life and personality. The undemanding hours of a Saturday and Sunday afforded her the opportunity to be in touch with what she often called the artist within her. When she talked about art, music and her early ambition to be a violinist, the subject of what she might have been, had she not married Emerson and joined him in business, came up.It was during these outings that I sensed she had become more and more attached to me and I also found myself thinking about her in a very different way than I had when we’d first met in Dublin eighteen months earlier.
Mrs. Axe enjoyed going to coffee shops and outdoor markets and buying things she wouldn’t admit to liking during the week. She purchased items like colourful throw rugs, small paintings by unknown artists, large-brimmed hats and objects that appealed to her Bohemian taste. On her return home she would quickly and even secretly store everything she bought in a big room off the foyer to which only she held the keys. It was unlikely the items she purchased would ever be used, nor were they even seen again until she opened the door the next time to add more. It appeared Mr. Axe remained totally oblivious to what was stockpiled in the massive “closet” that was off the foyer.
Mrs. Axe’s personality was such that she seemed capable of accomplishing anything. She was a brilliant economist and was highly regarded by the elite of the business world on Wall Street. She certainly gave the appearance that she could manage and conquer anything. On the other hand, and perhaps more awkwardly, my presence in the castle didn’t seem as conquerable. Our friendship and relationship had evolved into one of private emotion and it presented a set of problems and, in some cases, responsibilities for Mrs. Axe that she was not prepared for. After all, waking up one morning to find a seventeen-year-old boy roaming about her cavernous residence was something she might not have taken into c
onsideration when she acquiesced to Maggie’s wish of transporting me to New York.
* * *
One Sunday while driving about Westchester CountywithMrs. Axe and looking for a new wateringhole that served espresso, her attitude changed somewhat. She was not in her usual free-floating mood and there was no talk of art, artists or chasing creative dreams. After driving about for an hour or so she decided to return to one of the small country restaurants we had frequented on previous trips. Once inside the place she immediately inquired about my progress in high school and went so far as to suggest that I was spending an inordinate amount of time with Muriel after school. I had eventually, perhaps foolishly, confessed to the fact I was going steady with a girl. Mrs. Axe had taken the news coolly and without much comment at the time, but now it seemed I had given her rope to hang me with. Apart from the issue of Muriel, the whole afternoon was taken up with arguments and discussions on just about everything. Some had to do with the loud sound of the dual exhaust pipes I had put on my car that sped around the lakes and streets of Tarrytown. She told me the local police sergeant John Gilroy had called her and informed her about the change I had made to the car.
As we droveback to the castle I did my best to assure Mrs. Axe that Muriel’s parents were very strict about their daughter’s focus on her school subjects and insisted she pay attention to her homework as soon as she came in the door. Mrs. Axe remained silent.
* * *
The luncheonette was crowded with juniors and seniors and the wordwas out that the school districts of Tarrytown and North Tarrytown had completed their consolidation into one high-school jurisdiction. The new school, Sleepy Hollow High, located closer to North Tarrytown, was built on land donated by the Rockefeller family and its glass and concrete architecture reflected the modernity of the building. Juniors at Washington Irving would be the first seniors and graduates at Sleepy Hollow High. But not every student at Washington Irving looked forward to attending it. The old school, Washington Irving, on the main highway, was the heart and soul of Tarrytown and there were some parents and students who didn’t want to become part of North Tarrytown. North Tarrytown’s image and reputation was considered a bit more working-class and somewhat less trendy than Tarrytown. The school’s football home games, normally played in Tarrytown, would be a thing of the past. However, many of the soon-to-be-seniors at Washington Irving, including me, looked forward to attending the newly built school. It had its own parking lot and those of us with cars relished that fact. There would be no more time spent driving up and down the main thoroughfare looking for a place to park.
Muriel was more inclined to take the position that the combining of the school district was in the best interest of most of the citizens of both Tarrytown and North Tarrytown. I wasn’t versed enough in the politics of either township and I abstained from even having an opinion on that. This neutral stand annoyed Muriel and she let me know about it. When Muriel and I couldn’t resolve some of the social issues floating about in the luncheonette we’d get in my car and drive all over Tarrytown and North Tarrytown to see if we could see any obvious distinction between the two townships. When we finished our limited inspection we’d return to the luncheonette where we madeout with each other in a booth in the back while the jukebox transported us away from any kind of responsibility, academic or otherwise.
Muriel’s affection for me may well have been influenced by my display of innocent ignorance when we attended class together. A certain kind of humour mingled with physical attraction certainly defined us as a young couple going very steady.
When I was at her house, her father wouldn’t hesitate to inform me of my school responsibilities. Mr.Anderson was so involved with social issues and politics that I sometimes thought he looked upon me as some kind of vote. Every time I came to his house to take his daughter out he’d belabour me with questions. Mostly they had to do with where I was going and when I’d be back.
Unsurprisingly, my discipline for doing homework was negligible and I found it difficult to complete it each evening.
* * *
Father Leo Clifford came by the castle to visit Mrs. Axe and fill her in on Maggie’s condition in Dublin. On this visit he waited for me to return from high school and we sat in the kitchen and talked about Dublin but more importantly about Maggie. I wanted to believe that her poor health kept her away from Tarrytown and from writing to me directly. Had we communicated I would have told her about my life since she’d left the castle and would definitely have informed her about my time in high school and the kind of life I was living now. I probably wouldn’t have told her much about my girlfriend Muriel. I assumed Mrs. Axe had passed along that information. Without going into specifics Father Leo told me more about Maggie’s health, in both mind and body, than I had known previously. He described her behaviour as something akin to her operatic roles wherein one wasn’t fully sure if she was performing a bit even in her present physical condition. He mentioned that Maggie had asked him to inquire about my religious observance and wanted him to remind me that I was a Catholic and that she hoped I was paying attention to that fact. Specifically she meant that I was to attend Mass on Sundays and receive the Sacrament of Communion. Receiving Communion carried with it the obligation of going to Confession. Father Clifford related that Maggie hoped I hadn’t been up to anything that required me to confess. He said she felt obligated and responsible for me, particularly with regard to keeping my religion. When the Reverend queried me on my going to Mass I told him I had “minimised” my attendance since Maggie had left for Ireland and it didn’t appear to surprise him. The word ‘minimised’ had brought a smile to his face. Whether it was my usage of it or the fact that it wasn’t a definition of a total break from going to Mass I wasn’t sure. His reaction might have had something to do with the way he was trained to handle apostates and sinners. Certain orders in the priesthood had special training with regardto dealing with the various strains of a wandering flock and this may well have been the reason he seemed to ignore my response to his answer. For a few minutes he talked about other things. He told me how much he enjoyed his station in America and seemed very happy with his life in New Jersey. Then, after we shared a few laughs about Dublin, he abruptly reverted to the subject of Mass. I told him it did not seem as important to me in America as it was when I was in Ireland. When pressed to be more specific I wasn’t really able to explain it in clear terms. Father Clifford was very much the missionary and perhaps even more so when he was dealing with his own flock from Ireland. It might have been harder for him to accept that a young Irishman was unhinging from his religious practice than someone who had never been exposed to orthodoxy before.
I could sense that he was very concerned with being something of a bridge between me and Maggie. I didn’t want him to return to Dublin and report to her that I had fallen by the wayside when it came to my religious observance. I tried to change the subject by informing him of my success on the soccer field and my difficulties with my academic subjects in school. I thought he’d like to hear about my social transition from almost no schooling in Dublin to almost too much of it in Tarrytown, but he only paused and asked me again why I was not concerned about attending Mass. He also asked me if I could pinpoint the moment when I’d had a change of feeling in this regard.
As I pondered his question he quickly reframed it. “When did the Devil take hold of you, Gabriel?” He did have a bit of a smirk and smile on his face when he looked directly at me.
I told him that I had been going to church every Sunday since I’d arrived up until a few months ago. In my confessional state, I told him I got out of bed as usual one Sunday morning and proceeded in my car to the church. On my way I got a flat tyre. For a moment or two I thought that event was the work of the Devil. Following that,the tyre-changing contraption, normally in the trunk, was missing.It was at that point thatI truly felt the Devil had me checkmated. While I wrestled with the dilemma of being stuck on a back road with a flat tyre and time run
ning out for me to get to Mass, an onslaught of guilt and fear flooded my mind. I had religiously and mechanically attended Sunday Mass most of my life in Ireland and had developed a fear that if I missed it on the Sabbath I would fall into hell, as I had been told all of my life. Then I remembered that Jimwould be heading home from Mass on the back road I was stranded on. I decided to sit and wait for him to come by and rescue me. As I waited I turned on the car radio and got a station that was playing some of my favourite songs. The long wait for Jim seemed to go by in seconds. I opened my eyes after he tapped me on the shoulder and asked me what I was doing. After a little explanation Jim got to work on changing the tyre.
On my way back to the castle I felt that even though I had missed Mass I had found something else. I had discovered that I wasn’t struck by lightning or grabbed by the toes and pulled into hell. The feeling was as if I had come out of something rather than having gone into it.
When I finished telling Father Clifford the story of my flat tyre he told me that I really hadn’t committed a sin by not being able to attend Mass. He said it was the fault of the tyre and that I wasn’t to be blamed for its malfunction. He also said that because I was willing to wait for Jim to come and rescue me it showed that I was still a person with a strong faith.
I Dream Alone Page 6
