I guessed she had called Pat to come and retrieve her breakfast tray because she didn’t want to put me through the humiliation of having to explain why I went to the bar in Tarrytown. Her whole demeanour was quite apologetic and it definitely made me relax again in her presence. I remained silent and made sure I didn’t talk back when she started to speak while I lay stretched out on my bed.
“I’m sorry about what I said. You’ve a right to go where you want be with whomever you choose. I was just . . .” She stopped talking but continued again almost immediately. “Well, I got annoyed and maybe I shouldn’t have, Mr. Walsh . . .” She hesitated again and smiled at me.
Calling me Mr. Walsh was her way of breaking the ice. Whenever she referred tome as Mr. Walsh I knew she was being affectionate and humorous. The tag of Mr. Walsh fore-shadowed a different mood and a warmer kind of connection. Mrs. Axe knew from past encounters that I’d at least grin when she called me that. And I did. The air and light in my bedroom changed as if the sun had burst through the windows and all memories of the past had been hurled outtowards the Hudson River in the distance.
As I lay motionless, even corpse-like, Mrs. Axe mentioned that she and Mr. Axe intended to go to their house on Long Island that Saturday afternoon and I was welcome to come along if I wished to. The weather forecast for the weekend was for a particularly hot one. The house on Long Island was a beautiful one and its location on an almost isolated beech made it even more alluring. Mrs. Axe waxed on about how she had neglected the house but was determined to pay more attention to it. She was not hesitant or ambiguous about how she felt like vacating the grey castle for the sunny shore of Long Island.
“I should spend more time out there and I definitely know it’s good for me. Why I don’t take advantage of it is another story. It’s part of my own indecisive mind. Mr. Walsh, don’t tell anyone that I think I’m indecisive. Some people think I’m the opposite.” She paused again.
I wasn’t sure if she was waiting and wanted me to comment on her self-evaluation. I didn’t. I didn’t know what to say. Even if I had a response I would certainly have kept it to myself. A few seconds of a very heavy silence passed.
Mrs. Axe continued. “I know Emerson doesn’t take kindly to long drives and he is less predisposed to walking along a sandy beach regardless of where it is or even if he owns it. So come along. You can help me with the drive as well.”
I was simply incapable of saying no to her no matter what her request was and I accepted the invitation. Then, to my joy and surprise and maybe to humour me even further, she added that she would be dropping off Father Clifford in New Jersey on the way to Long Island. It would be a slight detour but in the big Cadillac it would be a comfortable drive. This was a great relief to me. I knew Father Leo would not go near the subject of Confession or religion with Mr. Axe sitting next to him in the back seat. All the apprehension I had been feeling earlier melted away from me and I felt I had a new lease of life – not only about myself but aboutMrs. Axe.
The air was clear again and I was about to jump out of the bed and tell her why I had left the party when she told me to relax. Again I was reminded that when Mrs. Axe had something on her mind she didn’t want to be talked back to. On the other hand, over the last few years I had learned that when the conversation was personal she was calmer, warmer and more affectionate, and that was how she was now. Her conversations with me, as opposed to Mr. Axe’s, had more of an emotional content.
When Mrs. Axe and I first met in Dublin I wasn’t sure she really noticed me. Maggie was such an imposing and demanding presence back then that almost anyone in her presence would have to take a back seat and be almost invisible. This part of Maggie’s diva personality seemed to make Mrs. Axe more alive. It was as though Maggie was constantly performing and Mrs. Axe was always applauding. When the two of them were in each other’s company they were definitely a happy duet. Maggie had reached out to Mrs. Axe and asked her to take me out of Dublin and ensconce me in her home. At the time Mrs. Axe had no awareness of me or my family history. She had then met my mother and learned as much as she could from her but that was about it. Maggie’s influence on Mrs. Axe was substantial and it was a testament of Mrs. Axe’s affection for Maggie that she consented to be my legal guardian and have me reside in her home in America. Mr. Axe had only heard about my existence by telephone. While at the Shelbourne Mrs. Axe had called her husband and informed him of her plans to bring me to New York. He acquiesced, not only because he generally left everything outside of corporate financial decisions to her but also because of his respect and friendship for Maggie. For Emerson Axe, Maggie was a living breathing diva who constantly humoured him with her tales of a life in opera. His affinity for opera was at the very least slightly fanatical. Mr. Axe wallowed in the tales Maggie told him about her life in Rome and her career at La Scala. The fact that her earliest benefactor Marconi, the inventor of the radio, played a part in her life impressed Mr.Axe greatly. Many times I listened to Maggie’s duets with the great opera singer Gigli when Mr. Axe played them. The presence of Maggie in the castle gave the place an air of festivity. Mrs. Axe enjoyed letting Maggie have centre stage. On that stage I felt at times that I was a minor character in Maggie’s real life opera. I took this to be the case particularly after she died.
I was still lying almost motionless when Mrs. Axe leaned towards me. I turned my head in her direction and with a combination of shock and excitement I felt her lips kissing me on the forehead. For the second or two while her lips rested on my forehead I could see her bare breasts. They were actually falling out from her bathrobe and towards my chin. On more than a few occasions when I brought breakfast to her, a part of her body would be exposed. Sometimes it would be her leg that was uncovered by the bedding. Other times it would be her naked shoulder after her bathrobe slid off during the course of her sitting up and readying herself for the breakfast tray. There were times, when I entered her room just as she was returning to her bed after being in the bathroom, that her nightgown would be half hanging from her body and there were times when I was retrieving the breakfast tray she’d inadvertently have her breasts halfexposed. When she wore a dress or a blouse during the course of the day I would create in my mind the half-naked image of her total body and focus on her breasts as I wished to see them every morning. Now this morning, after chastising me about my behaviour the previous evening, I could smell her breasts, see them and touch them. As I had imagined they were large, round and exuding palpable warmth and I had the feeling that they had finally found me and that I had found myself as well. There was a sense of completeness in the room as if it too had come in the window with the sun. Instinctively I reached downwards to the breast that was closest to my mouth and I kissed and suckled the nipple for a while, then released it. Without looking at me Mrs. Axe reached for her other breast and placed it in my mouth. The smell of her skin and the heat from her flesh electrified every cell in my body. My appetite to consume her grew rapidly while she unbuttoned my pants and placed her hand under my testicles. While she held me in her hand I exploded over and over. Thoughts, perceptions and anything to do with understanding anything heretofore rational became obsolete. Life for me in this moment had no past and the consuming present obliterated any need for me to contemplate a future.
* * *
The next morning I helped Pat load the big Cadillac with food left over from the party and, with Father Leo and Mr. Axe sitting in the back seat, I drove out of the estate. The morning sunshine and the anticipation of going away seemed to suit everybody. The weather was beautiful as I pulled away from the castle and headed for the George Washington Bridge and Paterson, New Jersey. Mrs. Axe sat in the passenger seat next to me but for most of the time she had her head turned towards her husband and Father Leo in the rear seat. Father Leo periodically talked about Maggie Sheridan and mentioned more than once that her gravesite in Dublin was a well-attended fixture and because so many famous people were buried in the graveyard it had become an
important tourist attraction. Glasnevin, Ireland’s national cemetery, was a repository of Ireland’s past and visitors and visitations to it often surpassed the crowds that attended national sporting events or religious shrines that promised eternal life. In an earlier time it was a source of income for grave-robbers who supplied Irish hospitals with corpses for medical students to dissect.
Glasnevin Cemetery had visited me twice: first with my brother Nicholas and again with Maggie Sheridan. Both people were in many ways my protectors and heroes. In my eyes when I was a five-year-old my brother Nicholas was my knight in shining armour. Long ago he was buried in Glasnevin Cemetery. This day, hearing that Maggie, my protector, was buried in the same place brought back memories to me. Glasnevin is the main and official burial place for ordinary and extraordinary Irish citizens, particularly the citizens of Dublin. If it was to be seen in an objective peaceful reflected and downward slumber, the cemetery would be a fossilised mirror of Ireland’s history and culture. In a dark and unseen sort of way the burial ground is Ireland at peace with itself. Most of Ireland’s political heroes, famous and not so famous, are buried there. If the inscriptions, dedications and prayers on the many oversized tombstones memorializing the famous dead were to be pooled it would guarantee that Heaven would be a hell of a place.
The image of my twelve-year-old brother Nicholas and the memory of his coffin being lowered into a hole in the ground there is as vivid an image as any that was ever branded in my brain. At the age of five and on the day of his burial, I sat crying at his gravesite while he was lowered into his final resting place. It was my first experience and awareness that the finality of one’s relationship with life and time is close to overwhelming.
I also thought back to the day when I introduced my mother to Maggie and Mrs. Axe. In a conspiracy of love and caring, all three women had reached out to me and for the first time in my existence I felt wanted and important. The sense of self that I now lived with would not have come about had Maggie not initiated the replanting of my mind and body in a soil that was conducive to enhancing the evolution of my existence.
The Axes had funded a large gravestone for Maggie in Glasnevin and both of them seemed pleased to hear that all was in order at her final resting place.
Before I got to the Jersey side of the Hudson River, Father Leo, after hearing more than he probably wanted to about the history of World War I and Winston Churchill’s exploits during the Boer War from Mr. Axe, directed his attention to me by asking if I was interested in joining the priesthood. If I was he would recommend the Dominicans,the order he had committed his life to. Before I had a chance to even respond one way or another Father Leo broke into a sermon. It probably was because he was trained to preach whenever he saw the opportunity. In this case it appeared that I was the person he was preaching to. It might also have been that he wanted Mr.and Mrs. Axe to hear him expound on his background as well.
“Members of the order carry the letters OP on our lapelsafter their names, standing for the Order of Preachers. But, Gabriel, you’ve already guessed that my trade is that of a preacher.”
Mr. Axe laughed but it didn’t interrupt.
Father Leocontinued. “To meet the needs of his life and times, Saint Dominic – 1170 to 1221 – initiated a new type of society in the Catholic Church, one with all the dedication and education of the older monastic orders but which would be organised with greater flexibility to deal with the problems of the growing populations of European cities.”
Now Mr. Axe couldn’t resist joining in. “And in England and certain other countries the Dominicans are referred to as Black Friars because of the black cloak they wear over their white robes – as opposed to the Carmelites who wear white over black and are called White Friars. Or the Grey Friars – Franciscans who wear grey. Augustinian Friars wear a similar habit but that’s another story.”
“And, Gabriel, if you should want to know, the name Dominicans gave rise to the pun that they were ‘Domini canes’ or ‘the dogs of the Lord’.”
Father Leo laughed this time as if he was congratulating himself and patted Mr. Axe on the shoulder as if to compliment him on his earlier reference to the order. The priest then reached over to me and touched my shoulder as if to remind me of his original intention but, before I had a chance to tell him I wasn’t cut out for the priesthood, Mrs. Axe interrupted him and added that I was more inclined to be a businessman and bolstered her opinion by adding that her associates at the office where I sometimes worked had verified that. It was an unexpected compliment that I appreciated and I admitted that I did like the people in the office and overall enjoyed my part-time work there.
Then Mr. Axe joined in on the conversation and suggested that I’d be more drawn to the theatre or some such show-business activity. I beeped the car horn when I heard his comment but immediately Mrs. Axe told me to pay attention to my driving. After that, the conversation in the car regarding me and my future came to an abrupt halt and for about the next ten miles or so as I drove towards Paterson a silence followed.
To change the atmosphere in the car I reached to the car radio but Mrs. Axe touched my hand and told me not to turn it on. By the time I pulled up outside Father Leo’s parish house in New Jersey I noticed in the mirror that Mr. Axe had fallen asleep in the back seat and Father Leo looked sadder than I had ever seen him. I wondered at that moment if he had second thoughts about his vocation. He had been the life of the party the night before at the castle – not only did he enjoy himself but he was very popular with the other guests. His happy state last night was probably the best thing that had happened to him in a long time and I sensed he was looking forward to visiting the castle again. In fact he mentioned that he was looking forward to it. I was also happy that he didn’t bring up the subject of Confession. He did however tell me to make sure I prayed for Maggie and to promise that I would one day visit her grave. I acknowledged his requests by promising I would. How that would come about in the near future I had no idea, nor had I any plans to fulfil it. Lately my mind was focused on places like Manhattan and Los Angeles rather than Dublin.
As carefully and as quietly as I could I brought the car to a halt, stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the religious establishment and retrieved Father Leo’s travel bag from the trunk. As I did this Mrs. Axe, still sitting in the car, reached out to him and shook his hand. Both of them then looked at Mr. Axe asleep in the back seat and smiled.
Seconds later I was behind the wheel again and making my way towards the house on Long Island. The drive to the beach house took about two hours. At times, and maybe even out of boredom with the long drive, the chat in the car turned to my parents. Mrs. Axe asked once more if I had any contact with them and I said no. The alienation of my family was consistent. Mr. Axe, having woken up refreshed, attributed the alienation of my family to the economy in Ireland and suggested it had to do with the struggle to survive and that the reason the Walshes didn’t openly embrace each other was anthropological in nature. He referred to Darwin several times. The debate about my family in the car as I drove had its comical moments. When my mother’s penchant for suffering came up as a serious reason for the family alienation we all agreed that she would be canonised before Christmas. The reason for my father’s silent indifference, at least according to Mr. Axe, was his experience on the battle front during World War I. Mr. Axe himself had been a ‘doughboy’ (that is, an American infantryman) in France during World War I. His thoughts on the issue were that my father, being an unwanted son at home and an Irishman in an English war, had a lot to do with all the Walshes being alienated from each other. My father, Paddy Walsh, according to Mr. Axe, fathered a family just like him. Having an overzealous mother, who through her religious instruction was committed to suffering, sealed the deal.
Periodically, as we got closer to the beach house, Mr. Axe, from the back seat would interject and offer a philosophical reason for not being tied to one’s family, particularly if the bonds and anchor were never real
ly secure or solid.
* * *
The Axes’ house on the North Shore of Long Island was quite a big one but small compared to the castle in Tarrytown. It was a pink two-storey residence perched on the beachand had three bedrooms and a small wooden front gate. After the car stopped, Mr. Axe got out and opened the gate. The hinges on the gate let out a squeak that sounded like someone was choking a duck. Mrs. Axe drove onto the property and stopped in the circular driveway directly in front of the house. Mr. Axe approached, complaining about the recent storms that had covered the place in litter. He immediately began to gather bits and pieces of seaweed and other discarded items. I got out of the car and helped him tidy up. Mrs. Axe then asked me to assist with unloading the food and the travel bags she had brought along with her. In seconds she had opened the door and the three of us entered the house. The place looked unused. “What happened to that woman you hired to keep this place clean and tidy?” Mr. Axe asked as he looked about.
“A few months ago I dropped in and discovered she was living here and I let her go.”
Mr. Axe took two bottles of wine from one of his bags and walked into the kitchen where he placed them in the refrigerator. The living room was very large and had tables and bureaus with many photographs of the Axes when they were younger. Mrs. Axe almost instinctively began to wipe the dust off some of them. The photos she picked up depicted a couple who seemed to enjoy the activities they shared together. There were photos of them on fishing trips with each showing off their catch. There were photographs of their travels in every capital in Europe placed on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. The two of them with Maggie somewhere in Italy were prominently placed on a nearby side table close to the window that gave a view of the beach. I guessed the photos were probably taken at La Scala in Milan some time after Maggie’s retirement from the operatic stage. By the look on Maggie’s face the essence of the photo seemed sentimental. She had detached herself from her operatic career in Italy because she couldn’t see past the veil of loneliness that seemingly was always in front of her eyes. In general, the photographic display in the rarely inhabited house reflected Mr. and Mrs. Axe as a happy couple in a happy time. One old, grey and faded one was of a very young girl sitting on a chair playing a violin. The young girl’s face in the photograph was almost identical to the present Mrs. Axe.
I Dream Alone Page 16
