by Elyse Lortz
“Has it really? I wouldn’t have thought so with all that exercise you’ve been partaking in. I must say, it was rather a shock to see you playing ball with those other young lads.”
“You were there? I didn’t see you.” But of course I saw little of anything as the baseball soared above Jack’s head. “Baseball seemed a rather good use of my time.”
“Indeed. However, I must object to you starving yourself ‘for the love of the game’, as they say. Were you aware it is nearly seven? No, of course not. Nevermind, we can find something suitable, don’t you agree? None of your arguments, Lawrence. My nerves really couldn’t stand such a lethal blow. You go into the washroom and get changed. I’ll sit here and smoke, if you don’t mind. Thank you. Off you go.”
In the end, I did not bathe, but rather replaced my soiled uniform with a clean shirt and trousers. For once in my life, I even considered the addition of a bright red sweater rather than my RAF jacket, but fortunately came to my senses soon enough to veto the ridiculous notion. Keane was still smoking in the corner when I returned. Then, in one great motion, he stood and stepped fully into the dim glow of lamplight. This time the three piece suit was his, but, beyond that, he was a stranger. The dim blue eyes, entirely naked of their usual vividness, had been carved into his gaunt features. Lines had deepened into ravines, and all natural colour had been leached. I managed to hold my mouth firmly shut as he handed me my jacket and all but shoved me toward the hotel door.
The fresh air—or rather, the air exterior to the building—seemed to do him some good as he threaded my arm through his, but there was so much of him still kept at bay beneath his stony exterior. Every few cracks in the pavement I found myself unintentionally glancing up at that stolid face, firmly set upon the path of doom I hardly dared express. The dark shadows of exhaustion tugged relentlessly at his eyes, giving him the rather eerie effect of those men of war staggering along the battlines.
Men who would drop dead only a few meters later.
I thought these horrid, blasphemous things in the depth of a still silence. But even silence did not keep his eyes from catching mine as I stared up for what must have been the thousandth time.
“Do I not look acceptable, Lawrence? I did manage a quick shave and change of shirt before I came.”
I washed my face and hands afore I come, I did.
“No, it’s not that. You just look . . . tired.” I felt my companion stiffen for a moment before again allowing his arm to relax.
“Is that really anything absurdly unusual for a human being? I have spent the past several nights playing an ungodly amount of checkers and serving as both doctor and jailer. In that time I have also been subjected to a man’s constant attacks of shell-shock while smoking seldom and eating even less.” My companion waved away my concern with a quick flick of his hand through the chilled air. “You needn’t worry about James at the moment. I have a medical friend watching him until I return.” Within the next few strides, Keane veered off into a nearby restaurant, wheeling me in tow. We were swept to a table and I sat quietly as Keane ordered a meal more than sufficient to subside the hunger of a giant. As the waiter strode away, my companion sat back from the table with his eyelids half closed against the evening lights. His despondent features strained more in this position, establishing a heavy knot in the pit of my stomach. I cleared my throat.
“I’m sorry, Keane. I suppose I didn’t know everything—that is, I didn’t think James would need—God, Keane, I’m sorry.” He took a sip from his water glass before offering me a weary smile.
“It’s hardly your fault. Come now, Lawrence, that look of hopeless guilt does not become you. There are already a sufficient number of people who spend their days drowning in sorrow. I knew an old woman in Cork who, having lost her only son in the war of independence, spent her days knitting. Nothing more than knitting. Everyday she grew older and uglier behind those needles and frowns. By the time she died, she was a hundred and ten with a wart on her nose.” I chuckled, causing Keane to edge further from the brink of sleep’s hand. “That’s much better. It does me good to see you smile, and to do it often. Now, shall we continue this path to nowhere, or might we have a real conversation? How is your writing? Any new plots growing in that marvelous imagination of yours?”
“I’ve decided on a series of essays. About bachelorhood.” I thought my companion would fall from his chair.
“I would hardly think a young woman could write knowledgeably on such a topic.”
“I shall attribute your lapse of stereotypical thinking to a lack of proper sleep. Of course, a woman alone might not have all of the details that could create a respectable paper, but surely you could spare a few facts that may mortar the bricks together.” He chuckled dryly, swirling the water around in his glass.
“‘A bachelor’s life is a fine breakfast, a flat lunch, and a miserable dinner.’”
“Francis Bacon. Though, I believe it is better to recall that, as a woman, there are those bachelors one ought never let too near..” I watched with no end of satisfaction as Keane made ready his stark reply just as our food was brought forth to the table.
“I see.” He said at last as the waiter’s arm withdrew. “Sound advice that, though not idealistic to the remainder of the population. What a place the world would be if people could say things straight out, rather than hiding themselves in lines of absolute dribble.”
“You ought to tell that to Mrs. Caine.”
“Mrs. who?” I proceed to explain the entire incident of Ruth Woodsworth and her brigade of prattling women, who found more value in life tied to a supposed husband than to live oneself. It would be amusing if it weren’t so damnable to my half of the sex. Keane, on the other hand, listened intently as he shoveled laden forkfuls of meat into his mouth, nodding with every other word and asking questions when convenient. As the conversation wound on, I managed to explain even the most miniscule detail of my brief career as a female ball player, while making light of the fact the rest of the team were men. Young men. I did; however, bring to his attention the variety in that rag-tag team.
Keane eventually leaned back in his chair, his coffee half drunk and brow lowered in concentration. After a long instant, I had feared him to be nearing night’s dreary grasp, but his voice shattered all doubt; coming warm and rich as the food which had once filled our plates.
“It is good, Lawrence, that you appreciate such freedoms in life. There are some who have not been granted with the gifts you and I have known throughout our lives. Are you by any chance familiar with the works of William DuBois?”
“Vaguely.” I admitted. Keane shifted further against the back of his chair and tugged thoughtfully at his ear.
“You should make yourself aware. He is a most incredible man with ideas well established in a proper morality. I shan’t be foolhardy enough to say that other countries in our world are innocent of the maltreatment of our fellow men, but America—America has that singular talent of ignoring the obvious and magnifying the superfluous. Lawrence, I am pleased to see in you some hope for your nation, just as Daniel O’Connell was for mine. We are only truly products of our nation’s psychology for so long as we wish to be. But we must not blindly follow a cause we do not fully understand. To do so would be the start of yet another plague of war, and I pray I’ll be long since rotting below the earth when that day occurs.” His words, spoken with such conviction and enforced by years of wisdom, filled my mind as sweet nectar doth a bee’s hive; instilling a renewed urge for work that might be praised by him who hath spoken.
Keane motioned our waiter and reached for his billfold.
“I think a brisk walk would be welcome before retiring tonight. That is, Lawrence, if you are free?”
“As a bird.” My companion nodded solemnly.
“Good. And you wouldn’t object to me taking an adjacent room at the hotel? I find the long working hours aren’t quite so manageable as they once were.”
“Object? Keane, between f
ueling the tongue of that damn clerk and scraping your remains off of the road after you collapse, I would prefer it.”
I SLEPT EXCEPTIONALLY well that night, far better than I had those several darkened days before. The heavy blankets pinning me down to the mattress cradled me with a gentle warmth I could not place, but would not, in all sanity, reject. It was as if the entire world had been righted for my sake. Night had made victory over the day’s exhaustion and I could rest in the knowledge that—for that night, at least—I could relax and know myself through the richest gift no human may ever bestow, but can take away when the idea suits them. Sleep. The tell-tale titterings of an overactive mind ceased until the moment that following morning when a solid knock echoed against my door.
I snatched my jacket, ensuring it was well-zipped before unlatching the wooden barrier.
“Good morning, Keane. I trust you had a good night’s rest.” It wasn’t a question. Questions ought to be reserved for times when one requires an answer. My response had already come through my companion’s impeccable appearance and the uncanny scents that accompany a visit to the barber. The heavy creases and shadows, which had marred his face the night before, had been lifted by sleep’s priceless gift and a hot towel. His shoes had been freshly polished. His collar had the ideal amount of starch. And no doubt there was a new package of cigarettes somewhere in his pockets.
I caught the masculine scent of his cologne as he strode past into the hotel room.
“And a very fine morning to you as well, Lawrence. By God, I haven’t felt so alive in ages. It’s incredible what sleep can do for a man. The ‘universal king of God and man’”
“Homer.” I noted, but I was not certain Keane heard me as he strode to the windows and flung them open in one strong swoop. A blast of fresh air struck my nostrils with its sweetness.
“Get dressed, Lawrence. We are going to breakfast.”
“It may take me a minute.” Keane turned and faced me, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“Of course. But hurry. I ought to be back with James by eleven.”
“Must you go back so soon?”
“Well, I can hardly leave him to his own devices after all our work, now can I? Why? Have I forgotten something?”
“No, it’s just . . . well . . . it’s odd not having you around to consult. And those lines for the play—” I let out an exaggerated sigh as I slipped into the washroom.
“Oh, those. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it, right enough.” His confidence was, if nothing else, vaguely reassuring to my bruised and battered ego. But it did not change the knowledge he was an olympic champion swimmer, while I was but a goldfish tossed out into the sea. I had not his grace or charm or chivalry or anything else I had long ago attributed to his infallible masculinity. I did; however, have a script pounded out by a typewriter and a basket of flowers to be sold in Covent Garden.
“HOW THE DEVIL DO YOU do it?” I interrogated as Keane cut into the eggs lying limp on his plate.
“How the devil do I what? Verbs, my dear Lawrence. The Lord made them for a reason.”
“How do you play Henry Higgins as you do? How do you represent that character on stage so well? All I can get out of Eliza is a cynical flower girl whose hobby is to whine until everyone wants to throw her out the nearest window.” My companion let out a deep chuckle and laid his eatery diagonally across the plate.
“Well, in this particular instance, I have the advantage of playing the man before in London. It was many years ago, mind you, but it doesn’t take long to get back into character. However, I also have to completely rethink how I play the role, otherwise it would be like putting on an old overcoat. That would hardly be creative.” I watched attentively as he quietly ate a bit of sausage before continuing. “You see, Lawrence, in the theatre you are working with human beings; one helping another to better themselves through a growth of personality, as well as knowledge and acceptance. Pygmalion is really a story that dates back to the beginning of civilization. To willingly overlook that piece of information is to make a mockery of life itself.” I sighed and prodded half-heartedly at my own breakfast.
“You do make a good point for the man, woman-hater though he may be.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say Higgins is a ‘woman-hater’. He may be a little afraid of women, and I have a healthy respect for that. A fear of women is one of the wisest tools for the modern man. It gives women a sense of security and men a priceless sense of sanity.”
I could have slapped him.
The audacity!
The cheek!
But, oh, the gentleness with which he said it. That vague grin that always made the world seem so dreadfully small and life so wonderfully full.
It was also one of his best defenses against a solid smack to his jaw.
“Keane, I swear, if you say that once more, I shall create a character in your name and make it the most infernal, frustrating man ever to ruin the pages of a perfectly good novel. Stop laughing! I mean it!” I raised my head in cruel defiance to his show of hilarity until at last he threw up his hands; the sweetest show of surrender.
“Very well, Lawrence, I bow to your wishes. Perhaps in a few years; however, you will realise I was quite right in what I said.”
“Perhaps.” I conceded grudgingly. “But, even if I do, don’t expect me to admit it.” The restaurant erupted in a sharp bark of laughter which gradually softened into the fading edge of a hearty chuckle.
“I would expect nothing less from such an educated young woman. I must say, though, that you completely wasted your time with that degree in English. You ought to have studied law and thrown all the fat leeches in parliament out on their backsides. But nomatter. Any degree would have suited you marvelously, and you made a logical decision based on your chosen profession. Logical impulsiveness is a fine thing to have. Cherish those impulses. Know thyself and you shall know the whole of the world.”
And, from that moment onward, I knew Keane had been right all along.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“NO, NO, NO. THAT’S not even close to what I want. Walter, open your eyes you damn oaf. We have a show to put on here.” The young man, always eager to oblige, jerked his scrawny form toward the other end of the stage, tripping over my shoe and nearly toppling over the wooden edge. Harrison’s gaunt and pale face sharpened and a hand shot through the air with a screech of fury. “You stupid, no good, son of a fucking—”
“Lunch!” Keane bellowed, releasing all the people from the theatre in one deep lurch of his voice. All, that is, save myself and the director. “James, sit down.” My companion demanded. Though his voice held not the viciousness so often used in the heat of anger, there was just enough bite to his English clip that the grown man fell easily into one of the theatre chairs and sunk a weary head into his hands. Keane too settled his long form into one of the cushioned seats, heaving a sigh that caused his ribcage to visibly retreat into the rest of his frame.
“James, are you certain you are well enough to continue all these rehearsals? It could be another week at least before your strength fully returns. Often a good deal longer.” Keane’s voice came not as some gentle hum of knowledge, but the gunfire of a cold, indisputable fact. Harrison jerked in his seat.
“And would loosing five thousand fucking dollars fix this damn body of mine any faster? Don’t you see, Brendan, this is exactly what Cohen wants; to ruin me and let me die a penniless man. That is, if he doesn’t kill me instead. I am nothing but a standing target. An old man. A—”
“Oh, stop being overdramatic.” I snapped from my position still on the heavily-lit stage. “So you bought your Hydrocodone from this Cohen character. Fine. Surely Keane and I could afford paying that debt.” In all honesty, I was not entirely certain of the amounts tucked safely away in my companion’s various bank accounts, but Mrs. McCarthy had often hinted to an amount more than sufficient to any man. While this was, no doubt, a fine example of acute exaggeration, I knew my own accounts well and
was by no means unaware of their bounty.
Keane glanced approvingly at me and gave a short nod.
“Lawrence is quite right. Name the amount and I will contact my solicitors immediately. Give us the devil’s number. No, I will not listen to arguments. This is no time for fool hearted chivalry. Now, what is it? Six thousand? Seven?” The amount the director did indeed name was considerably more than that, but my companion did not so much as blink before drawing out his checkbook. To my surprise, it was Harrison who appeared more unstable with each stroke of Keane's pen, and not, I thought, out of some masculine embarrassment.
“Your offer is extremely generous—more than generous—but I am afraid there is more—er—weight to my problem than you could possibly fix. You see, I had this affair—”
Damn it.
Of course he did.
“I loved her, Brendan. Honest to God I did. We were young, reckless, foolish, and . . .” The director’s head once more dropped into his hands. “There was a child.” Keane’s face remained stolid as the string of lethal bullets whizzed past his ears.
“A child.” God, even his voice sounded calm—logical—as his eyes slowly absorbed the onslaught of information.
A child.
Damn it.
Of course there was a child.
Harrison sucked a harsh gasp between his slightly parted lips. I had feared the man had worked himself into an inconsolable state of depression when his voice again came, coarse, dry, and wavering on the edge of obscurity.
“He was born less than three years after my marriage to Marilyn. I couldn’t tell her what I had done. What I had procreated. Our relationship was already suffering due to my other . . . various ailments. To know I had a child—a son—by another woman; that would have killed her.” A heavy silence fell between us, only interrupted by the faint click of Keane’s cigarette case and those first few wisps of tobacco smoke entering the air. It was him, my companion, friend, and wise mentor, who spoke first.
