Forbidden Fruit

by Annie Murphy

  “I wasn’t sure,” he said, holding me tight, “if I would make it. Trees down on the road.”

  He felt, in my trembling, my bad day. Not knowing it was caused by bodily changes, he assumed it was due to my spending the day alone. Bridget would help me in that, he said, and in another way.

  “You see, Annie”—he was keeping apart, trying to, in the living room in front of a fire smoky from the wind—“I cannot give you a life. Bridget, without her knowing about us, may help you see that between us there is no chance of lasting happiness.”

  I held my peace while he wrestled with his problem.

  “Our ages, our worlds are so far apart, Annie.”

  For the first time in his company I felt alone.

  At two in the morning, I had a panic attack. The child was taking me over in ways no man ever could.

  This was the most intolerant, vengeful night of storm I ever experienced at Inch. Ebony clouds charioted past the moon’s scared face. A howling express wind nearly wrenched the roof off. The electricity was interrupted for a few minutes and came on, then flickered on and off for some time. When lightning woke me up, sulfur was in my throat and I was hyperventilating.

  Eamonn was swallowing pills for his colitis and trying to get close enough to me to help me knock back a couple of Valium. He spoke to me for five minutes, he told me later, but I was in a black hole and did not hear a word.

  “Switch off the light,” I begged, and when he did not do it fast enough I slid out of the bed and scrambled across the floor into his free-standing wardrobe.

  “No, Annie,” he pleaded, “this huge thing will collapse on top of you.”

  It was his turn to sit a long time outside the door with me inside watching the fireworks display in my head. He finally realized there was nothing for it but to leave me in peace. If I told him the reason for my being in the wardrobe, he would have run out the house in a panic and I needed him to look after me.

  Twenty minutes later, I had recovered enough to leave the wardrobe. He tapped the bed, inviting me to get in beside him. When I crawled back in, he slowly, kindly, unwound my clenched hands like ferns in the morning sun until my palms were fully upturned as though signaling the total gift of myself to him. Fortune-teller, fortune-teller, do you read happiness for me—for us —etched there?

  “Annie,” he said, humbly, cuffing my hands and kissing them, “my colitis is bad enough. But this is worse.”

  I stroked his cheek—it was filmed with sweat, a sign that his colitis had broken—and said, “Thanks.”

  “On the john I can sit comfortably and smoke my pipe.”

  I was starting to laugh and he joined in. “What if someone had colitis and a panic attack?”

  He once more improvised on a theme like a jazz musician. “What if you and I had the two things at the same time? And we were in your Dublin flat at night and we ran naked hell-for-leather to Stephen’s Green and the Guards…?”

  We woke to the Burning Bush of morning, a Sabbath-drowsy day of extravagant sunshine.

  Eamonn had an eleven o’clock High Mass to say in Killarney and he needed my help to remove the broken branches from the driveway. I went with him and attended his Mass at the back of the Cathedral. He preached for fifteen minutes. He had not prepared anything; he claimed he did not need to. After reading the Gospel, he simply said what was in his heart.

  His theme that Sunday was: God supplies our needs through others. That is why we have to find Him not merely in nature but first of all in ourselves and our fellows.

  I left soon after the sermon because the incense made my head ache. I walked the quiet crooked sun-drenched streets of Killarney thinking that God had come to me in the person of Eamonn. “Don’t ever leave me, Eamonn-God,” I prayed.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Seven

  ABOUT 2:00 P.M., Eamonn put me on the train for Dublin. The ride in that bumpy old train really made me afraid of a miscarriage. Abortion of bishop’s baby, courtesy of Irish Rail.

  Bridget and Wentworth had already moved into the flat. I arrived home to find guests drinking, smoking, and making a terrible din.

  1 was back about a week when Bridget said one morning, in her superior accent: “Thanks to you, Murphy, I have already missed a period.”

  She had morning sickness; curry smells and orange colors made her ill. “If your disgusting seed has done this,” she said to Wentworth, “I shall rip it out of me with my own hands.”

  Wentworth adored her and, wounded by her sharp tongue, took refuge in alcohol.

  Among the guests at one of Bridget’s parties were two hoteliers from England and a rich Arab who took a fancy to me.

  I called Eamonn from my bedroom.

  “Annie,” he inquired, “what are you doing?”

  I pointed the phone toward the living room.

  “Hear it? One of Bridget’s many parties. Wild.”

  “God Almighty, I knew it.”

  I whispered, “You were so right, Dublin is wicked. Shush. Bridget’s invited an… Arab.”

  “An Arab?”

  “I know he wants to rape me.”

  “What? How do you —?”

  “I was dancing with him and believe me…”

  “What did he do, Annie, you must tell me.”

  “He bit me.”

  There was a silence on the line before: “Where?”

  “Say, Eamonn, is this a confession or something?”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “On my—I hardly know how to tell you—on my… ear.”

  “Your ear? They’re infidels. This probably has some special significance.”

  “It has special significance for noninfidels, too. The things he whispered in my ear after he bit it.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “You’ve got to get out of there this minute, Annie.”

  “This party’s going on all night.”

  “Oh, God, dear God, how did I get mixed up in all this?”

  “Hey,” I said, “it’s me who’s mixed up in all this.”

  I slammed the phone down.

  Seconds later, it rang. “Yes, Eamonn?”

  He solemnly said, “Don’t ever hang up on me again.”

  “I was paying for the call.”

  “All right. How many people has she invited?”

  “Dozens.”

  “Please, don’t drink any more. I don’t want you having a panic attack. And don’t go near that Arab.”

  “But you said you’d never stand in my way.”

  “Indeed, but he’s probably got six wives already.”

  “I think we should all respect one another’s unbeliefs.”

  “Listen —”

  I hissed, fibbing, “He’s coming.”

  “Annie, for God’s sake.”

  To annoy Eamonn, I raised my voice, “Abdullah, so nice of you to drop in.”

  “Annie, Annie, get that man out of your bedroom.”

  “Abdullah, darling, make yourself comfortable. Not on the bed, no.” Into the phone: “Daddy, I do hope your wooden leg is not bothering you. Take care now.”

  I was pleased with myself until the Arab really did appear and sat on my bed. After several ear-nibbles, he asked me to marry him.

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  He told me. It was guttural and as long as the alphabet.

  “I still don’t know your name.”

  “What are names?” He undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing a bronzed chest. “Feel me and you will know.”

  “Pardon me if I pass on this one.”

  “Marry me, beautiful damsel,” he sighed, “and I will make a paradise for you in the long hot nights of Arabia.” He had seen far too many Hollywood movies.

  “Not without Bridget,” I said loyally, and he promised to marry her, too.

  Though exhausted, I could not sleep. After an hour, someone burst in, moaning, “The rabbit’s dead, Annie.”
<
br />   I shot up from under my pillow to find Bridget unsteadily waving half a bottle of red wine. “Confirmed?”

  She nodded miserably. “Mustn’t cry over spilled milk. I’ll have to coat-hanger myself,” she bawled.

  Next morning, I called Eamonn from the hotel. “You’ve got to come to Dublin. Something’s happened.”

  “You have not been raped by that Arab?”

  “Worse.”

  “You are not being sick in the mornings?”

  “Is that worse?” And I slammed the phone down again.

  A couple of days later, I met him near the Burlington and outlined the bad news. Bridget certainly pregnant and calling London to get the money to go home. Annie probably pregnant. “Worst of all, the flat is practically a brothel. Yes, yes, it’s leased in the name of the honorable Bishop of Kerry.”

  He held his head in his hands for a few minutes.

  “Go on,” he urged, ironically. “Tell me about you being ravaged by that A-rab.”

  “He got no farther than my ear.”

  “All the same, ‘tis the end of everything.”

  As we drove to the apartment, I told him to prepare himself by taking a couple of tablets for his colitis.

  We arrived around 8:30 to find a few couples still tearing into one another. Eamonn was in his clericals including his most expensive ring and big gold chain.

  Once again, he amazed me. This man who braved a herd of charging elephants naturally got a kick out of being in a house of ill repute.

  “Drink, Bishop?” Bridget asked, rocky on her feet but anxious to suck up to a source of possible funds.

  “A little brandy would do me no harm.”

  He was at ease, laughing and telling the odd funny story. After an hour, he signaled me to join him in my bedroom. He had no sooner given me a hurried kiss than Bridget barged in and made a grab for his pectoral cross. With drink on board, she was a formidable lady.

  “I’ll get a pretty penny for that in London,” she said.

  Instead of fighting her off, Eamonn removed his cross and chain and handed them to her. She went with them into the living room to show Jim and the others.

  “My God, Eamonn, why’d you do that?”

  “She will give it back.”

  “She’s been threatening to abort herself with a coat hanger; I just hope she doesn’t use a bishop’s cross.”

  “Dear God, ‘tis in hell we are.” He held his hands to his chest recently bereft of his chain of office. “I want to talk seriously.”

  That annoyed me. I thought we were.

  “You have to get out of here, Annie.”

  For the third time that night he amazed me. Instead of bunking, he rejoined the youngsters in the living room for a drink. From my room, I could hear the sound of his laughing and singing. And a few times, “Bridget, don’t hit me with that chain, it’ll scar my face.”

  Finally and coaxingly:

  “You are a very lovely young woman, Bridget, are you sure you need that cross of mine?”

  “Not the cross, but I’ve really fallen for the chain.”

  “Bridget,” he said, “you wouldn’t insult my religious beliefs. Oh, thank you. Yes, I do want it, please. I said please. You are very, very kind.”

  A minute later, he came to say good-bye to me.

  “I’m just off to the Burlington,” I lied. “I’d be grateful, Bishop, for a lift.” Soon we were whizzing off to the gravel pit that I thought I had seen the last of. He was always sexually most active when he was alarmed. We had a good time, but sex was followed by a serious talk.

  He told me I had to get out of the apartment in one week at most. He would tell the estate agents that the occupants were ill and had flown back to the States.

  Unfortunately, the hundred pounds he promised me was not enough for a decent place. Landlords required a deposit as well as the first month’s rent in advance.

  Eamonn next came to Dublin toward the end of November. I was expecting him about eleven, so I answered the door. As soon as I saw him, I started to heave. He solicitously took me by the arm and led me to the edge of the pavement.

  “Is this happening a lot?”

  I nodded. He helped me to the car, then drove fast until I put a handkerchief over my mouth and threatened to throw up.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned, “first Mary in my Mercedes, and now you in my Lancia.”

  I had to dig into my savings to lease a new apartment we could afford a few miles south of the hotel. It was damp and really dismal.

  Bridget said, “I’m not staying in this dump.”

  I told her I had paid the deposit and a month’s rent.

  “But,” she roared, “it has not been cleaned in years.”

  Every room had something badly wrong with it and raw sewage came back at us after we flushed the toilet. We had no choice but to knuckle down and make the place habitable.

  Bridget and I were both pregnant, yet each had to hold down an arduous job and return in the dark to a flat that drove us insane.

  “Christ,” she would yell suddenly, as we were preparing supper, and bang me on the head with a wooden spoon. “Screw that Bishop till he gives you more money. If not, I will.”

  Bridget found us an apartment at an affordable price. Eamonn sent me another £200 for the move so I did not have to carry heavy things. He still believed I was having a hysterical pregnancy, but he was taking no chances.

  My parents called me at the hotel for Thanksgiving on November 26. I was then sick all the time, as I had been when I lost my first baby.

  Bridget came with me to the drunken doctor in Ranelagh who had confirmed her pregnancy. He was madly in love with her and chased her all around his office, promising to bring up her baby as his own. It could only happen in Ireland.

  When he was finally persuaded to turn his attention to me, he took a urine sample. From then on, Bridget saw to it I did not work mornings; otherwise, my head would be in the bucket in a second.

  We moved into our basement apartment on December 1. It was near Herbert Park, not far from the hotel. Bridget gave me the bigger of the two bedrooms. I thought it was her generosity till I realized it was far colder than the other and winter was on the way.

  Within a few days, Eamonn came to see me and was delighted with the apartment. He fixed himself a drink as if he owned it. He asked me out to Jury’s for dinner.

  At the table, he told me his eighty-three-year-old father was very ill. After his second drink: “Now, Annie, tell me.”

  I shrugged as if to say, Isn’t it obvious?

  “So, you are —?”

  “The doctor thinks I’m into my second month. He has yet to confirm it.”

  His head sank on his chest. “This is a tragedy, Annie. A tragedy, the very worst.”

  “I was always honest with you,” I said, angrily. “Did I get pregnant by myself?”

  He shushed me in case the other diners heard. “Maybe,” he said, “it was that Arab who bit your ear.”

  “Say one more word,” I hissed, “and I’ll stand up and beat you to death.”

  “But you told me you were meeting other men.”

  “I said that and I will. To cover your ass and mine. But you are the father.”

  “You don’t know that. You could have been drunk and —”

  I picked up the water jug.

  “Now, Annie. Please behave.”

  I pointed my finger at my breast. “Me, behave?”

  He motioned me to sit. The escape artist was at it again.

  “I’m not asking you,” I said, “to leave the priesthood or marry me.”

  After we had eaten a little, he said, still knocking back the liquor, “The gravel pit —”

  “Oh, no. I’m just not up to it.”

  “Will you come to Inch?”

  “After Christmas, maybe. And if I do, you’ll have to drive me because the train could bring on a miscarriage.”

  After dinner, we returned to the apartment. Wentworth was on a l
ate shift, so Bridget was on her own in her bedroom.

  Eamonn stayed late in my room, gazing for long periods into the coal fire, saying little. He had a distant look in his eyes, as if things were beyond repair.

  When I lay down on my bed, he climbed alongside me.

  “You can’t do that,” I said, pointing in the direction of Bridget’s room. “She’s still awake, reading.”

  “She’ll never say a word.”

  He removed most of his clothes and most of mine.

  “You look so bad,” he said. “I only want to make you feel better.”

  “This is almost worse than the gravel pit,” I said.

  “No, no, no. But ‘tis a very cold climate in here, that’s for sure.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  ONE EVENING, the drunken doctor called to say, biblically, “You are with child.” Surprised at my joyful reaction to his unangelic annunciation, he warned me, “We Irish do not exactly cheer mothers minus wedding rings.”

  Because of my previous miscarriage, he suggested I see a top gynecologist named Charles Feeney.

  I phoned Eamonn and told him the pregnancy was confirmed. I named the specialist I hoped to see.

  “You don’t sound happy about it,” I said.

  “Annie,” he whispered, “I buried my father today.”

  “Eamonn, I’m… If only… Oh, Eamonn.”

  Feeling part of him and his family, I was sad not to have been told of the death or invited to the funeral. If only I had been at the graveside, sharing his grief and afterward, in a quiet moment, telling him that, though he had laid his father in the ground, he had lifed a child, bone of his bone.

  This was a testing time for him. The child was the continuance of his own story, his inextinguishable fire. Would he welcome him as his victory over death or as his disgrace?

  That was provided the child came to full term. I was throwing up so much I had to be hospitalized for a day or two. When I came out, I went to see Dr. Feeney in fashionable Fitzwilliam Square. He was a big shapeless man with embalmed eyes behind half-moon glasses, and with yellow hair plastered slantwise over a shiny dome.