Irish Lace

by Andrew M. Greeley

Even though all my siblings and their spouses own their homes, they tend to come over to our place for meals and to bring the kids to the beach. They cooperate by implicit agreement so that the work is distributed evenly.

  “You’re forgetting something, Nuala Anne.”

  “What? … Oh, the saints preserve me”—hand to her mouth—“I’ve forgot to read your story!”

  She grabbed it and read it in a guilty hurry. Then she read it again slowly, her face turning crimson the second time around. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard. Tears streamed down her face.

  “Och, Dermot, isn’t it terrible lovely? Don’t you keep improving? You really are a friggin’ genius, aren’t you, now?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I can understand how you know your young man—though he’s not afraid of the cold water, is he? But how do you get inside the woman’s feelings? How do you know what it means to her?”

  “Maybe I’m just good at getting inside women.”

  “You dirty-mouthed thing, you! Isn’t that just like a man?”

  She was smiling when she said it.

  She gave the story back to me and, an odd sort of frown on her face, examined my face closely.

  “You’re going to send it to your editor?”

  “Unless you mind.”

  She waved her hand. “Why should I mind? Isn’t the young woman grand?”

  “I thought so.”

  “Dermot … ?”

  “Yes, Nuala?”

  “Do you really understand me that well?”

  “Sometimes. Not very often. Maybe I was just lucky in that story.”

  “If you understand me at a time like that, there’s not much point in my hiding from you, is there?”

  “We all hide, Nuala. It’s part of being human.”

  “I suppose you’re right … . Well, I don’t care if you see right through me. I kind of like it. It’s like being naked, if you take me meaning, and not being afraid.”

  “I take your meaning.”

  “Come on, then, let’s play tennis.”

  So we played tennis. She won both sets 6—3, 6—3. Then she beat Prester George 6—4, 6—4. Then my brother Mike (the oncologist as opposed to my brother Peter the lawyer). 6—1, 6—1. My brothers thought it was great fun being beaten by Nuala, but then, they’re not as competitive as I am.

  She also played the maid-of-all-work role all weekend, giving orders at a frantic clip, but only to men. All the rest of them thought it was very funny.

  Moreover she acted as baby-sitter, nursery schoolmarm, and entertainment impresario for children of all ages, even the two teens that the family had managed to produce. She sang and told stories and led the games.

  “You’ll be exhausted before the sun goes down.”

  “I will NOT! I’m young and vigorous, not a wornout old man like certain people I know.”

  My mother said to me at one point, in the tone of one who has given long and serious thought to the matter, “I don’t think Nuala’s quite ready to marry yet, do you?”

  “I am unaware that she is contemplating marriage at the present time.”

  “She’s so young.”

  “Only six months younger than you were when you married the Old Fella.”

  “Things were different then.”

  “That is what they all say.”

  She laughed and kissed my forehead.

  “Well, she’s a wonderful young woman.”

  End of discussion.

  Before Mass on the dune, after long and serious consultation with His Lordship, Nuala, now dressed in a modest flower-print summer dress—no reference to Galway Hookers this time—taught the congregation to sing an Irish “Kyrie” and “Agnus Dei,” as she called them, by a priest named Liam Lawton.

  “Aren’t you a grand choir, now? Sure, won’t I have you all talking in the Irish before the summer is over?”

  Normally, congregations resent those who impose yet another hymn on them, even in English and even when the day is not a Technicolor masterpiece on the shore of a mighty lake. However, no one could resent Nuala, the pretty and charming music teacher who made everyone laugh. Yet another quickly donned persona.

  The little bishop caught my attention and then rolled his eyes. He didn’t know the half of it.

  Even super-Nuala runs out of energy. On Sunday, just as a Coyne family wiener roast on the beach was winding down about one o’clock, she whispered in my ear, “I’m exhausted altogether. I’m going to bed.”

  “I warned you.”

  She kissed my cheek and bounded upstairs.

  “You’ll never figure that one out, little bro, not in a hundred years, but it will be fun trying.”

  “Quite the contrary, if I am to believe that one’s testimony, I already have figured her out on all important matters.”

  “Yeah?” he said in a tone of someone who finds the last statement very hard to believe.

  “Yeah.”

  On Sunday morning while herself was bustling around the kitchen I flipped on the TV to watch Today on Sunday, something I rarely do. Reading the Sunday New York Times is usually enough of a Sunday obligation.

  NBC reported yet another art heist in Chicago, this one at the prestigious Armacost Gallery, with the usual tone of faint contempt with which the media view crime in our city—as if crimes never happen in New York. Two Monets which were being exhibited there before the big Art Institute show later in the summer had been stolen the night before. Chicago police suspected that the thieves had found a way to disarm the electronic detection system with a laser beam. They had removed the door of the gallery, taken the paintings off the wall, and escaped out the door. About one A.M., a driver on Huron Street had seen four men rushing out of the gallery with two large objects in their hands, and depart at high speed in an old pickup truck. The driver had then driven to the Chicago Avenue police station to report what he had seen; the police had not been able to apprehend the perpetrators (that last phrase from a captain at the station).

  Pictures of the paintings appeared on the screen, both of them of Monet’s garden. The driver of the car was interviewed briefly by the anchorwoman, who said it was too bad he was not equipped with a car phone. The man said that he had one, but had not thought to use it.

  Poor fellow.

  I did not like the sound of this stuff. Could the lads or the pseudo-lads be into art thefts these days? In the United States? In Chicago? Would Gerry Adams tolerate that?

  No way those guys could be so sophisticated as to snatch two Monets.

  Later I insisted that Nuala phone her mother and father in Carraroe.

  “I can’t be using your ma’s phone for a long distance call.”

  “You can, woman. The rates are so cheap that they actually pay you to make the call. Besides, I cleared it with the old gal. She said you worked so hard here this weekend that you’re entitled to it.”

  “Grand!” She bounded over to phone and punched the buttons from memory.

  “Ma, tis meself!”

  Then she spoke to her parents in Irish, a soft, musical, gentle language, at least the way Nuala spoke it.

  I was then constrained to talk to her parents.

  “Hasn’t herself become a wild Yank already?”

  “Wasn’t she always wild, the wildest of all of them?”

  “Aren’t you just discovering it, Dermot, you poor boy?”

  “Well, I’ve had my suspicions … .”

  Then Ma got on the line to sing herself’s praises to the sky—a marvelous young woman, a great credit to her family and to Ireland.

  “I may vomit,” I whispered to Prester George.

  “I think we can all manage to get used to her,” he replied with a crooked grin. “She’ll exhaust us though, won’t she?”

  “On that subject, big bro, I have no comment whatsoever.”

  I wondered whether herself would display as much vigor and energy and enthusiasm in bed. No reason to think she wouldn’t.

&nbs
p; On Monday morning at 6:30, I rolled out of bed to drive her into Chicago so she wouldn’t be late for work. She’d wound down by now, I said as I staggered down to the kitchen.

  No way. She was in the kitchen producing buttermilk waffles for the two of us.

  “Only two for you now, Dermot Michael. You don’t want to be putting on weight, do you, now?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She was content with consuming only one.

  Then we piled into my Benz for the drive to Chicago. Leaving Monday morning instead of Sunday night always looks good on Sunday night. It looks bad when, feeling gray and blah, you must struggle with traffic into the city. I expected her to do the sensible thing; relax in the comfort of my car and take a good long nap.

  She did no such thing. Instead, she jabbered all the way into the Loop about her job, her plans to go to school in the fall, the excitement of her lessons with Madame, the great fun of the weekend at Grand Beach.

  She jumped out of the car when I pulled to up to 123 West Monroe.

  “All eager for another exciting day at the office, Nuala?”

  “’Tis a grand life, isn’t it, Dermot Michael?”

  She leaned over and kissed me solidly.

  “Thanks for a brilliant weekend.”

  Nuala Anne was on a roll.

  I drove back to my apartment, straightened out my notes, ignored the temptation for a relaxing morning nap, and set to work on my final report. There was a lot of material to digest into a narrative which tried to present both theories of the “Camp Douglas Conspiracy,” a conspiracy in which, one writer said, you can believe only by an act of faith.

  I finished it about five o’clock, went to the pool for my daily swim, and cooked myself a hamburger for supper. Junk food is less junk if you eat it at home.

  I polished my short story after the hamburger and dropped it in the mailbox on my way up to the Tricolor.

  Nuala was into grunge that night—black jeans and a black cropped top which left several inches of delectable midriff open to view. Why the change in public image? Better not ask.

  She seemed tired as she sang; she was not at full vitality and energy. Only someone who heard her every time she sang would notice. The crowd was as enthusiastic as ever.

  At her first break, she joined me at my table and brushed her lips against mine. She seemed listless and preoccupied.

  I made a quick decision to give her only half of the documents in my final report. I’d save the last document and my own commentary until she read the others and had a chance to reflect on them. It would be interesting to see how she would react to one side of the story without even knowing that there was another side.

  “Report number three,” I said, giving her the manila folder in which contained two different versions of the Great Conspiracy.

  “I’ll read it tomorrow,” she said putting the folder aside.

  “You do seem tired,” I said cautiously. “Too much kitchen work over the weekend?”

  “I said I’d read it!” she snapped.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that you wouldn’t.”

  “That’ll be the end of it, Derm. I appreciate all the work you did because of a silly whim of mine. I really do. This was a long time ago, though, wasn’t it? It has nothing to do with our lives today, does it? I’ll have to learn to ignore these foolish experiences of mine. They’re a waste of time. You have a lot better things to do than being my research assistant.”

  I became uneasy. Had the child become a changeling? Where had the real Nuala Anne gone?

  “That’s up to you, Nuala. I’ve always enjoyed poking around in history. I found enough material for a couple of novels.”

  “You don’t have to work for a living, Dermot, but I do.”

  “You must always listen not to what a woman says, but to what she means,” my father had advised me.

  What did Nuala Anne mean?

  “And you work very hard and very effectively,” I said tentatively.

  “That’s NOT what I mean.”

  “I didn’t think it was.”

  “I’ve got to get back to me frigging harp,” she said as she rose from the table. “We must talk when we walk back to my house.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Something was up, something serious. I didn’t like it.

  She carried my manila folder in her right hand as we left the Tricolor and thus avoided my left hand.

  Dermot Michael, me lad, you are in deep trouble. What had you done since this morning to upset this one?

  “Dermot, I think we shouldn’t see so much of one another.”

  My heart sank. I knew these breakup lines when I heard them.

  Uninvited and out of nowhere, the Adversary intruded himself in our privacy.

  YOU’VE BLOWN IT, ME LAD. BLOWN IT REAL BAD.

  “Shut up,” I told him. “I haven’t done a thing all day.”

  To herself I said, “That’s your decision, Nuala. I won’t argue with you.”

  “I don’t mean we should break up, Dermot. I love you too much to want you out of my life.”

  That was standard breakup talk, too. Let’s go out occasionally. Let’s remain friends.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  The Adversary had no intention of shutting up.

  YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO WHAT SHE MEANS, ASSHOLE.

  “Go away!”

  “I mean,” Nuala said as she rushed on, “that if we went out once a week or so, would that be all right?”

  Nuala the accountant was quantifying the rules of our relationship. Well, that was better than suggesting that we should remain friends.

  I almost said that normally that was what we had been doing. However, that would be responding to words and not to meaning.

  So instead I said, “Once a week would be wonderful.”

  “You’re not angry at me, are you, Dermot Michael?”

  “I have no reason to be angry, Nuala. Once a week would be grand.”

  “I haven’t hurt your feelings?”

  “Woman, you have not.”

  “You seem, well, kind of funny, if you take me meaning?”

  “I’m a little surprised, that’s all.”

  “I gave me notice at that frigging pub tonight. Next Thursday will be the last time. I’m sick of them amadons ogling me tits and for twenty-five dollars a night.”

  “I never liked the place,” I said. “Maybe you could try the Abbey. They’re always looking for Irish talent.”

  “I’ve heard from them. I told them that I didn’t want to sing in public any more.”

  “Now I AM surprised.”

  “I’ll see Madame until the end of July because you’ve paid her up to then. She’s a darling. But I just don’t have enough time to spend with her or to do all them friggin’ exercises.”

  Ah, that was it. Not enough time. Welcome to America, Nuala Anne McGrail.

  “You really feel under terrible time pressures,” I said, hoping that now I was hearing meaning. “Everyone is making demands of you.”

  “I just can’t go on this way, if you take me meaning.”

  “I do, Nuala. You want to be left alone for a while.”

  “Not completely alone, Derm. I’d die if that happened.”

  She must have shifted the manila folder to her other hand because now she was touching my hand cautiously and tentatively. I took her hand firmly in my own. She sighed.

  “Never completely alone, Nuala.”

  “And I’ll have to stop coming to Grand Beach on weekends.”

  I gulped.

  “We’ll all miss you.”

  “Your family is wonderful, but I just don’t feel like I belong there.”

  “With all the swells?”

  “That’s NOT it, Dermot Michael,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I’m not a frigging snob.”

  We turned onto Southport. The dimly lighted street was deserted.

  I was losing it. Once again not listening.

 
“You simply don’t have the time for it?”

  “A weekend up there wastes four days.”

  “Four?”

  “Friday, because I dash around like crazy to get everything packed on Friday, and Monday because I’m so worn out, especially from the ride in during the morning. I don’t have that kind of time to waste.”

  “You told me this morning that it was a brilliant weekend.”

  “You’re not listening to me, Dermot Michael! It WAS a brilliant weekend, I just don’t have the time for any more—not this summer, anyway.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t.” She took my hand again. “It’s not you or your family or Grand Beach or anything like that.”

  “It’s time.”

  “That’s it,” she said vigorously. “When I think about learning me new job and getting ready for the University of Chicago and then taking me courses, I already don’t have enough time. They say that the university is a terrible difficult place.”

  She’d be the best student in class on arrival, but I’d better not say that until she got her first A.

  “It is a demanding school,” I said cautiously, for fear that once again I’d be accused of not listening.

  “I have to support meself, Dermot Michael, and develop my career. I have to earn money for meself and for my family back in Ireland and Ma and Pa getting on in years. I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m not playing a game. My life has to be serious because the real world is serious.”

  “It is that.”

  “Not for someone who is rich like you are … . Do you finally understand what I’m trying to say?”

  Oh, yeah, I understand. The raise and the promotion and the promise of graduate-school money has scared the living daylights out of you. You’re trying to become a responsible, ambitious Yank overnight. God protect you from that because if you’re successful, you won’t be Nuala Anne anymore.

  “I think I do. You’re saying that you need more time.”

  SHE’S SAYING A LOT MORE THAN THAT, GOBSHITE, the Adversary whispered in my ear.

  “I know that, you eejit,” I responded. “Leave me alone.”

  “That’s it, Derm. I have to concentrate my energies and my attentions, if you take me meaning. It’s not you or your family … I love all of you. It’s me own fault for acting like an a frigging onchuch.”

  Which is a female amadon. Sort of.