For the second time in my life Sergeant Gilroy was delivering me to the castle. This time, however, it was Mrs. Axe who came to the door when he rang the doorbell and she wasn’t at all surprised when I stepped across the threshold hardly able to standup. In fact she laughed a bit and thanked John Gilroy for his charitable impulse and for the supervision of my welfare on this particular night.
Seconds later and almost tripping over myself, I began the effort to make my way up the marble staircase to my room. As I proceeded with the task of putting one foot ahead of the other, Mrs. Axe approached me and put her arm around my waist. She apparently sensed I was in danger of falling backwards. I tried to pretend that I was safe, sound and stable but she knew better and held me even more firmly. As we trudged and traipsed up the winding staircase Mrs. Axe told me it was no coincidence that John Gilroy had come to my aid outside the pub. She said she had called him earlier after surmising that I was going to the pub to meet up with Frank Dillon and his cohorts.
What I hadn’t known was that Mrs. Axe had had Sergeant Gilroy’s phone number ever since the day Maggie greeted him after I had driven my car into the neighbour’s garden. More than likely, with both Maggie’s and Mrs. Axe’s approval, Sergeant Gilroy had been keeping an eye on me without my knowledge.
As we slowly made our way towards my room Mrs. Axe was giggling away as if she was enjoying my folly. She appeared to have had a few drinks herself. Wine specially imported from France by Mr. Axe was her preference in alcohol.
When we entered my quarters I flopped on the bed face down but I could still hear Mrs. Axe’s voice saying she was going down to the kitchen to make me a cup of strong black coffee. In the limbo of silence that followed, I rolled over and faced the high ceiling above me. While I stared into the void and without looking at my feet I managed, while lying prostrate, to kick off my shoes and simultaneously stretch my arms and my body out in the shape of a cross. Why I automatically choose this configuration likely had something to do with my upbringing and dark days in Dublin. Everything there was symbolised by pain and suffering. The very meaning of life itself was represented by the man on the cross with nails hammered into his feet and hands to keep him from falling off it. In my tired, sad and semi-incoherent state I felt sorry for myself and I thought it appropriate to conjure up the image of the Crucifixion. Our toilet out in the back yard in Dublin had a cross with Jesus hanging on it, put there by my mother.
AsI stared at the ceiling it morphed into a floating mirror above me and I became dizzier and dizzier. After a minute or two I began to see blurred images of myself wandering around the streets of Dublin asking anyone who would stop and listen for directions to the Shelbourne Hotel. I also heard the voice of my mother telling me to get up and go to Mass. Also Maggie Sheridan’s voice kept reminding me to conduct myself properly whenever I was in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Axe. An avalanche of thoughts and faces I had known in my childhood surged into my mind like rainwater gushing into a street sewer after a torrential storm. I wasn’t sober or awake enough to hold or focus on any one of them and in the tunnels of my ears the echoes of the gang at the bar singing Irish songs, apparently in my honour, were still ringing.
As my grip on consciousness got weaker I vaguely heard my bedroom door open and I grasped the thought that it was Mrs. Axe returning with a cup of black coffee.
I heard her say, “Are you still among the living?”
I couldn’t muster up the energy to respond but I managed to move my left hand to indicate that I was still somewhat coherent but I immediately realised Mrs. Axe might have interpreted the gesture as a signal for her to sit on the bed next to me – which she did unhesitatingly. I could feel her presence and weight as she sat close to the edge of the bed. I almost stopped breathing when I tried to apologise for my present condition. Before I could find a word or the strength to say anything to her, Mrs. Axe spoke to mecalmly and reassuringly. “I brought you coffee. It’ll wake you so you can retire properly.”
The extra beers at the pub had diminished my capacity so much I thought I myself was uttering the words coming out of Mrs. Axe’s mouth. An eerie kind of silence followed that gave way to the aroma of the coffee that she had placed on the side table near me. I didn’t know if Mrs. Axe wanted me to continue to engage with her or if I should thank her and say goodnight. Bereft of energy and clarity, my eyes involuntarily closed and my ability to hold on to a single and simple thought deserted me. I felt myself floating about in a hollow void with a feeling of warmth and heat creeping upon me as if I was being returned to a previous but forgotten state of innocence, excitement and pleasure.
In the darkened state of my closed eyes I could smell the perfume that was Mrs. Axe’s signature. I could tell she was very close to me but I didn’t want to open my eyes and look up at her. The scented perfume was as intoxicating as the beer I had consumed earlier. I wasn’t sure why it was affecting me so profoundly but it was. My physical state abruptly appeared to be lighter than the emptiness of my mind, while at the same time all of my energy had retreated and assembled in my genitals. My nervous system felt like it had been struck by lightning and every bone holding up my flesh began to shake until my entire body was no longer in my control. I wanted to blame the presence of the alcohol in my system for what I was experiencing but the feeling was too overwhelmingly powerful and pleasurable for any kind of independent judgement that entertained the concept of compromise.
I felt my belt buckle being unfastened without my touching it. My trousers was slowly unzipped and a sensation, gentle in touch, was caressing me so much that I could feel myself rising and rising with all nineteen years of my life wanting to burst out of my skin in a celebration of sexual abandonment. After I erupted I opened my eyes and saw Mrs. Axe with her head bent downwards caressing and embracing my penis with her tongue and mouth. I wanted the image and the feeling to last forever and for a moment I thought it actually did. The only interference in the stillness of the room was the aroma of coffee. Its fragrance permeated the air like religious incense at a church benediction. I wanted to talk but couldn’t. I was less able to conjure up words than ever before in my entire existence.
Mrs. Axe, seemingly floating in her own aura, slowly regained her posture, licked her fingers and quietly exited my room without saying a word or making eye contact with me.
* * *
As it had been previously set to do, my alarm clock began to ring at seven in the morning. It was the hour to get ready and arrange breakfast for Mrs. Axe. This morning the image and presence of her in my room last night was so present it kept me from jumping out of the bed as I routinely did. With my head still buzzing I couldn’t muster the strength or even the will to move my body out of the bed. I was so unable to move I began even to think I was lying in my own grave after I passed out and away during the night, and thoughts that had occurred to me during the course of the night were still spinning about in my mind like flies hovering over a heap of fresh dung.
With my head pulsating like a frog in heat I began a self-interrogation. “Did it happen? Did it happen?” For a moment I was hoping it hadn’t and that I had experienced some odd hallucination. “Maybe it was the drink that played games with my mind,” I said with an assurance that might have indicated I knew what I was talking about. Frank Dillon had told me more than once that he suffered from delirium tremens, a condition that transported him to a different reality after he had imbibed too much, particularly if he mixed beer and whiskey, which he did on a regular basis. I convinced myself that I too had slipped into a similar mental dimension with regard to my encounter with Mrs. Axe. “Maybe she wasn’t in my room.” I paused to think about what I was saying to myself. “I wasn’t touched or caressed by her last night and what happened didn’t happen. She didn’t help me up the stairs and assist me in falling down on my bed.” I kept insisting to myself that the images and memories of the previous night were products of fantasy and wishful thinking.
The alarm clock rang again
as if I needed to be reminded of my morning routine. I was already late and that added even more anxiety to my state of mind. To face what was ahead of me was hard to imagine if what I couldn’t get out of my mind was actually true. It would be awkward and difficult to face Mrs. Axe if last night had actually happened. As I slowly began to roll myself out of my bed I began to believe that it was all a dream and I was delusional. Unattainable wishes are sometimes imagined and wished for. The excessive drinking binge was more than likely the reason I was wrestling with what I was accepting as a distorted reality.
Half convinced that I was being delusional I fell out of bed with a modicum of renewed energy and enthusiasm. As I did so I bumped into the side table and knocked over the cup of coffee that on was on it.The coffee began to seep onto the carpet. I rushed to the bathroom, grabbed a towel and immediately threw it over the spilled coffee. While I soaked up the coffee the unambiguous reality of the previous night became crystal clear. It had indeed happened. I knew I didn’t go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee. I never brought coffee up to my room. Mrs. Axe was here! The scent of her perfume was still lingering in the air.
As I got dressed and readied myself to prepare and serve her breakfast I kept asking myself, “What can I say? What could I say?”And “What will she say?”
* * *
When I got to the kitchen Mrs. Axe was already there and so was Pat. Both women were sitting at the kitchen table and by the looks of the dirty plates and coffee cups in front of them it was obvious that they had eaten breakfast already.
Ever since Mrs. Axe had come back from the week she spent at a health spa a month or so ago she had been looking slimmer and more youthful, though still slightly rotund and Botticelli-like. As I looked at her sitting at the kitchen table I accepted the fact that she didn’t, at least at this point in time, exude many maternal concerns towards me. The impression I had of her when we met in Dublin had been gradually changing: from a friend old enough to be my mother, to a woman whose influence had gone from physical, intellectual and material protection, to what was beginning to be an emotional obsessions for me. I began to realise I was losing my ability to resist thinking about her in this way.
While I shyly and silently observed her with my new-found image of her in mind, she and Pat in unison bid me good morning. I did my best to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Axe and was glad that Pat was present.
“Pat and Jim are going away for the weekend and we’re sorting things out,” Mrs. Axe said without a hint or a suggestion of any kind that might have reflected on the event in my room hours earlier.
“I’m up early, Gabriel, to get an early start. Jim is outside polishing up that old car of his,” Pat volunteered with her usual warm smile in full swing.
“Where are you going and when are you going?” I asked as indifferently as I could to display an attitude that showed I was not at all focused on the event in my bedroom earlier.
“We’re off to Maine for a few days, Mr. Walsh,” Pat replied, using my surname for the first time since I met her – maybe taking her cue from Mrs. Axe who used it occasionally in a playful way.
I sensed Pat was in a good mood so I got myself a cup and poured coffee into it from the pot that was between her and Mrs. Axe.
“I took it upon myself to make the coffee this morning, Gabriel,” said Mrs. Axe. “Pat needed to see me because she was anxious for cash as the bank won’t be open when she leaves this early.”
I then sat down on a chair that was near the cooking range. Before I could hide in the coffee cup Pat started talking to me again.
“I’m sorry to hear that you won’t be graduating with the class, Gabriel. Mrs. Axe told me about the whole situation and I’m terribly sorry. I don’t think it’s fair.”
Mrs. Axe then cut in. “Oh, he’ll be fine. He’ll make up the two credits in summer school and get his diploma. The only thing he’ll miss is the ceremony.”
I wanted to respond but I was still feeling somewhat ill at ease sitting with Mrs. Axe so close by.
Pat blurted out, “But that’s the fun part! Isn’t it, Gabriel? I’m sure you’ll miss that – with all your friends and everything parading up there on the stage. I remember when my daughter graduated. She was as happy as a pig in you know what . . .”
Mrs. Axe laughed at Pat’s animal reference.
By the intensity of her laugh I got the feeling, if not the signal from her, for me to relax and not to be so caught up in what had transpired between us during the night.
I then looked past the two ladies and noticed my car was back in front of the castle door. I was about to ask how it got there when Pat said, “Oh, the policeman brought your car up here this morning, Gabriel! He woke me up.”
“Sergeant Gilroy?” I asked quickly.
Pat continued as if she was holding court. “He’s the one. I don’t think that man ever sleeps. What he was doin’ with your car in the first place I don’t know. He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask him either.”
I looked at Mrs. Axe and was afraid for a moment that she’d inform Pat of how my car got into the possession of Sergeant Gilroy but before she could say a word, Jim came into the kitchen.
The first thing he did was tip his hat to Mrs. Axe. “Mornin’, ma’am,” he said with a gentility that was becoming.
Mrs. Axe reciprocated.
“Ready when you are, Missus,” he said to his wife with a movement of his head that indicated the direction of the door.
Pat took the cue, got up from her chair, shook hands with Mrs. Axe and then turned to me and planted a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be back Monday, Gabriel.” Somehow she couldn’t resist adding, “When you have time, keep this kitchen sparkling!”
There was still in existence a part of my early Dublin upbringing that was attached to being a servant and helping a servant. “You’ll be able to eat off the floor, Pat, when you return,” I said with a touch of defensive humour.
“Bye to you all!” Jim said as they departed.
After a moment or two of a palpable silence I moved from my chair and sat on the one Pat had vacated, which was on the opposite side of the table from Mrs. Axe. To avoid looking directly at the lady of the manor, I turned from her and focused my attention on Pat and Jim getting into their car. I kept my eyes on them until Jim drove the car out of sight. Before I could even think of uttering a word Mrs. Axe asked, “When is the graduation ceremony, Gabriel?” She spoke to me as if we hadn’t talked to each other in a long time. “Tomorrow night,” I replied.
“Don’t feel left out. It will pass. You’ll make up for it.”
I was happy she was talking to me and the fact that she was sympathising with me about not graduating was comforting.
“This weekend Mr. Axe and I will be away. We’re going to Boston for his class reunion at Harvard. I think he is one of ten left from that class. Don’t ask me what year he graduated. I won’t tell you if you do.” She shook her head sideways a few times and smiled. The physicality of moving her head left to right and then right to left made her appear childlike. It was as if she had just received a gift or a pleasant surprise. It was something she always did when she was in good humour. She then placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin in the palm of her right hand. This gesture seemed to re-enforce her confidence. She faced me with a look that was more questioning than words and continued to talk. “Anyway, after the colossal event of Emerson’s reunion we’re spending three or four days on Cape Cod. We used to have a summer house there and he wants to revisit it. It’s like Harvard reminds Emerson of his salad days when he was there.” She paused. “So, Gabriel, I’d like you to relax and forget about anything and everything and that includes my breakfast for awhile. Concentrate on the mornings you’ll be in summer school chasing those two darn credits. Do think about your future as well when you are ploughing through algebra and second-year Latin. You’re a long way from looking forward to a reunion but the future shows up faster than you know it. I suggest you spend mo
re time in the office here. There’s a lot to be learned and in the end it can afford a good future for you.” She stopped talking for a moment as if to think over what she had just said to me.
She had said so much I wasn’t sure what she really meant or if she even had a genuine concern for me or my future. I even wondered if she was purposely dismissing what went on in my room during the night.
“Any plans for the weekend?” she asked me very perfunctorily.
When I mentioned that I was to attend a party at Muriel’s house after the graduation ceremony Mrs. Axe reached across the table, took hold of my hand, and squeezed it a little.
She got up from the table and spoke down to me. “I’ll see you in a few days – five at the most.” She then exited the kitchen.
As if to express an indifference similar to what I was feeling from her, I picked up my coffee cup and swallowed the remnants of what was left in it, trying to accept that Mrs. Axe was not as concerned as I was about the nocturnal encounter in my bedroom, where I began the evening imaging a crucifixion that turned into an emotional and physical baptism for me.
* * *
I came to the graduation ceremony late and, as pre-arranged, I stayed outside the auditorium until the ritual was over. When the doors to the auditorium opened I joined Muriel and her parents and congratulated them. After chatting for a few minutes about the last few years, perhaps in deference to their daughter, Mr. and Mrs.Anderson bid us good night.
Almost immediately after that Muriel and I drove away from the school to attend a party given by one of the graduates. Upon entering the home of our classmate I found myself sailing through a sea of friends expressing their regrets about my being left out of the happiest day in high school. Many of the young people I’d spent two years with in class and on the soccer field encouraged me to put my sadness behind me and join in the shouts and cheers that were overwhelming any and all sense of civility. So many sad expressions were bestowed on me I was tempted to rush down to the pub and meet up with Frank Dillon and drown my feelings with the contents of every bottle that looked down on me from the top shelf. In the pub I could escape into a world of fantasy and be shielded from the painful reality of a night I wasn’t really a part of.
I Dream Alone Page 12
