Seeing into the Heart of Things 1
Joe waited until Catherine remained alone with him in the elevator. His eyes alight with mischief, he pulled a folded thing from his jacket pocket and presented it to her. A Mets cap, a little crumpled. One for her and one for him. He put his on, adjusting the brim with a practiced ease.
“Are you going like that?” Catherine asked him, eying his suit and tie.
“The game's a businessman’s special,” Joe replied, checking himself in the elevator mirror.
She raised her brows. “You don’t look especially business-like with the cap. I brought a change.” She indicated her briefcase, empty of paperwork today. "And I didn't wear heels."
“Got a sweater in the car,” he said, his tie already in his pocket.
They almost raced each other for the door.
“Who did you bribe for this parking place?” She pulled her earrings free and then her hair into a ponytail and through the back of the cap. A ribbed sweater replaced her jacket.
He shrugged out of his suit coat as he maneuvered the car into traffic. “Not many perks to this job, Radcliffe, but I can get you a decent parking place ... about once a month.” He lowered the window to shout a goodbye to their workplace, his mirth infectious. They talked shop until they cleared Manhattan, unable, after all, to leave it completely behind.
“What do you know about this school, Cathy? Howland House? Just how bad do these kids have it?”
“I checked into it a little this morning. They're almost ready for adoption or fostering. But before this ... sexual abuse, severe emotional abuse. Several documented cases of cult-based ritual abuse.” Catherine shuddered at the thought.
Joe shook his head, grim. “That makes me see red. Sometimes, no, every time we get one of these perverts on the stand, I want to rip his throat out with my bare hands.”
“I know,” Catherine answered. "Me too."
They rode in silence for several blocks.”What does Eimear do there, do you know?” Joe asked.
“Something in development, I think. Fund raising, gifts, that sort of thing.”
"Have you met her sister?”
“No, but I’ve been in her shop, near the Village. It was an amazing place. Eimear says she’s ... unusual.”
“What does that mean?”
“No idea, but we’ll find out soon. I think you turn at the next light, turn right.”
“Nice up here,” Joe said, “Homey.”
Catherine's response was distracted and Joe turned to her. She was looking back, almost reversed in her seat.
“What?” Joe asked, but Catherine did not answer. She had seen Dominick’s van parked at a building off Katonah Avenue.
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They pulled into the shaded, curved drive at Howland House and into visitor’s parking. Eimear was waiting at the door of the building, a turreted brick structure, once a schoolhouse but augmented now with wings of dormitories and classrooms. She waved them up the steps with a smile and held the door open.
“You made it!” she said, leading the way down a darkened, cool hallway and straight out the rear door. The bus was parked near the playground, the doors open, the motor running, and all its riders dancing with excitement on the sidewalk. “We're waiting for a couple of guys from Flynn's truck," Eimear began. "The kids are wild, I’m telling you now. You can still change your mind. I wouldn’t blame you.” She laughed but her eyes were serious.
A woman, a living rainbow of colors, danced as well as she led twenty children in an enthusiastic charade of umpiring. “Safe?” she cried, and each child performed his own trademark move, some falling to one knee and sweeping the air with both hands. “Out?” she yelled, and each leapt and gesticulated wildly. “Fair Ball?” she shouted, and 40 hands waved in one direction. “Foul?” and they waved in the other. “Ejected?” She kicked imaginary dirt over an imaginary home plate and 20 forefingers furiously pointed the way to the dugout. She applauded them; they applauded themselves. Then, as the children boarded the bus one by one, the woman leaned in close, whispering to each. They took their seats and sat squirming in anticipation.
“That’s my sister,” Eimear said, shaking her head. “Getting them all energized. Here she comes. I’ll introduce you. Rosaleen, I asked you to please contain yourself, and you went straight ahead and stirred them all up.” Eimear lips quivered as she fought to hold her stern look.
“So these are your lawyers?” Eimear’s sister walked over to Joe, peering at him. “You don’t really look like one,” she said to him, and turning to Catherine, continued, “but you do.”
“Rosaleen. Stop. I warned you to be nice.”
Joe couldn’t help himself and asked, “What do I look like?”
Rosaleen grinned, a wide, intoxicating thing of beauty, “I dunno, maybe a ... butcher?”
Catherine snorted while Joe blushed. “That’s what we call him. With a capital ‘B’. Behind his back, of course.”
“Right, sure you do,” Joe stammered, inspecting the hat in his hand.
"What did you whisper in their ears?" Catherine asked.
"I gave them each a magic word, I did. If an adult says their word, anytime this afternoon, they get a prize. From you."
"What are the words?" Joe asked.
"Oh, you'll find out. I hope you brought your wallets."
“Ah, here are the boys,” Eimear said, relieved, as two ESU officers joined them on the sidewalk. “Let’s go before the wee ones get overheated. Did you bring your earplugs?”
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Vincent held the beam high over his head, straining to lever it into the notch Kanin had carved, while Mouse, perched on a stone outcropping, struggled to hold the other end steady. This last beam would span the new and secret passageway to the lower levels and was the lynchpin of the entire plan. They had changed the nearest entrance to the north, erected several false walls and installed a clever hidden doorway to the corridor. Soon they would move on to the next point of concern, further into Van Cortlandt Park.
When at last he could lower his arms, the beam in place above him, he sagged to a crouch and then to his knees against the stone wall. In his repose, his heart fluttered, and Mouse noticed a distant look take hold in his eyes.
“Vincent. What?”
“Catherine is near,” he said, with wonder in his voice. “Very near.”
“You can see her?”
“Not exactly, Mouse.” He pressed his open hand against his breastbone. “Here. I feel her, here. Her heart is light.”
Kanin was listening, standing apart from them and half-turned away. “Most likely enjoying herself Above, doing things you never will,” he sneered.
“Kanin!” Mouse was indignant. “Not nice! Mean!”
Vincent reached up to touch Mouse on the arm, a simple, gentle touch, and shook his head. “Leave it, Mouse.”
“But ...”
Vincent shook his head again and was silent. In moments, Kanin walked away, soon lost in the shadows of the tunnel.
“Mean!” Mouse repeated.
“But true enough,” Vincent said, his eyes downcast, his hands clenched at his knees.
Mouse slid down the wall to sit with him in defensive camaraderie, and they rested there together until Kanin returned, a tense and burdened silence clouding the rest of the afternoon.
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Eimear introduced Mr. Maxwell and Ms. Chandler and the two officers to their charges, assigning four to each and four to Rosaleen. But it was the driver, well known to the children, who had the last words before they left the bus for the game.
“Now, boys and girls,” she said, standing tall before them, “what will we not do, no matter how bad it gets?”
“We won’t BOOOOOOOO!” the children sang out.
“And why will we not?”
“Because it’s RUUUUUUUUDE!”
Miss Stella, a silver-haired icon of calm, dusted her hands as if the subject were permanently closed. “All set* then,” she said, as she ushered each child past her and down the steps into a sunny, spring afternoon.
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A stop at the restroom, a hand washing inspection, a count of heads...in line for concessions and finally in their seats ... the day could not have been better, unless ...
Catherine closed her eyes, just for a minute, willing herself to remember everything - each earnest face, each damaged but tenacious spirit. These children were happy, in spite of what had been stolen from them, and they were hopeful. It seemed suddenly and undeniably important to see that they remained so and just as important that she make Vincent see and hear and know ...
She was roused from her meditations by Rosaleen’s good-natured squeal.
Eimear inclined her head toward Catherine’s ear. “Do you think Joe is overwhelmed?”
Catherine leaned forward to look over and down into the next row where Rosaleen and Joe sat, flanked by their charges. “I have to ask,” Catherine whispered. “Does she always dress like that?”
“Well, she is an artist, and she’ll tell you herself, her whole life is a canvas. She is a bit ... over-colorful today, but, bless her, she knows the kids love it. She shows them, I think, that it’s okay to stand out. They often huddle inside themselves, afraid to be noticed. We want them to know, to believe, that there’s good waiting to happen for them, that there’s more ahead than they leave behind. Rosie’s good for them, but I have to say, purple and green together, okay, maybe even with the red, but purple, green, red, yellow and orange? And all those ribbons and the scarves! Ach, she gives me a headache, looking at her.”
“I don’t think Joe is having too hard a time looking at her,” Catherine observed.
Eimear leaned out to look herself. “Oh, no. I see what she’s doing. Look! She’s inspecting his fingers. I told you she’s a bit much.”
“What? She reads palms?”
“No, no. Close ups. Photographs. She has a whole wall of folded hands. And another of eyes with laugh lines. A hallway full of feet. She’s relentless, once she’s decided on a model. She’ll hound him ‘til he gives in.”
Catherine knew exactly what she would say to Joe about that, should it come to pass. Something about watching out for the arty types and what they try to talk you into or out of....
"Wow. She’s asking him the question. I can read her lips. She must have a feeling about him, to ask so soon."
Catherine laughed, her eyes still on the couple. “It looks like Joe’s answering, whatever the question is.”
“Oh, she’ll ask you too, don’t worry,” Eimear said, humor and mystery at once in her voice. She paused before she continued. “From you, she might get an answer she likes.”
“Don’t you want to prepare me?” Catherine asked, intrigued but perplexed.
“It’s much better if you’re taken unawares. Besides, if I tell you and negate the surprise, she’ll kill me. Do you have sisters or brothers, Catherine?”
“No ... only child.”
“We take turns, even now, each wanting to strangle the other. I don’t know who’s turn it is. Surely it’s mine!" Eimear pulled napkins from her purse and passed them down the row before she continued. "Dad always called her his glimmerin' girl and she is that. 2 I love her, and who would I be without her, after all?
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“So, did you know Jerry Koosman and Cleon Jones were gonna be there?” Joe’s pretense at indignation was eclipsed by his obvious enjoyment of the party at Brothers Pizzaria. “And how come every kid had the same magic word?”
Rosaleen played along with a feigned but charming innocence. “‘’Twas a true miracle, was it not, announcing over the loudspeaker that two Miracle Mets were in the stands? And isn’t it easier to give them all the same word and then all the same prize. Cuts down on the arguments.”
“I was a little surprised when they all jumped up at once and starting yelling. I wouldn’t have thought they’d know who Koosman and Jones were.”
“I’m sure they don’t. Your clue came when they pointed at you and shouted ‘pizza’, right?”
“I thought they meant ballpark pizza. I figured I’d have to raid my retirement fund to pay for that.”
“This is their favorite place when we can manage a dinner out . We came here when we were little girls ourselves,” Eimear said. “A slice still isn’t too dear. But we’ll all chip in, you know. She was teasing you, that it was yours to pay.”
“Oh, no.” Joe said, bringing out his wallet. “My treat.”
“I want to help,” Catherine chimed in. “Let me split that, Joe. I mean it,” she continued when he protested.
“We’ll get the ice cream,” one of the ESU officers interjected. “There’s a shop just down the block.”
Catherine and Joe remained at the tables while the officers, Eimear and her sister herded the children to the restrooms. She took advantage of the quiet moment. “Are you having fun, Joe?” She waited for his answer and asked again, “Joe? Hello?”
He was watching Rosaleen as she stood in the hallway, counting heads going in and waiting to count them coming out. “What? Did you say something, Cathy?”
“I said, do you want me to get a taxi home so you can ...” Catherine teased him.
“What? No! Of course not. What are you talking about?”
“Maybe you could take Rosaleen home.”
“I, um, she ... well, I don’t even know where she lives.” Joe looked around, nervous to be overheard.
“You could ask her.”
“No way, Radcliffe. Not tonight. Too soon, don’t you think?”.
“No, I don’t think.”
“Mr. Maxwell? Ms. Chandler?” A soft voice behind them interrupted the conversation, and they turned to it. “Thank you, from all of us.”
Joe shook the small hand offered him. “You’re welcome, Edward. Very welcome.”
Catherine shook Edward’s hand as well and then ruffled his hair. “Let’s go again one day. Would you like that?” The little boy nodded, silent and serious, his expression shooting straight to Catherine’s heart, a winging dart to her center. When at last she could tear her eyes from Edward’s face and when she could meet Joe’s gaze, she knew he felt the same. This was a beginning, a chance to make a difference where it was sure to count.
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At their car back at the school, Catherine remembered to ask Rosaleen about the mirror in her shop.
“Oh, it is.” she responded, “It's still there. Do you want to come take another look?”
“My friend, Jenny, does. A gift for someone special.”
“Ah, like the very romantic Klein sculpture was for someone special?” Rosaleen raised her eyebrows in question.
“No, that was for ... um ... that was mine.” Catherine blushed, answering. Now Joe raised his eyebrows.
“I think I need to see this shop.” Joe said.
“Oh, I very much want you to come,” Rosaleen answered. “That’s where my studio is, you know, and where you’d do your modeling.”
“Modeling?” Catherine raised her brows.
“Don’t start, Radcliffe.” Joe warned her, though unable to maintain his glower.
“Both of you then, sure. And Catherine, bring your friend. Come Saturday. I’m there all day. And I can arrange to have that mirror moved, if she wants it.” As she spoke, Rosaleen was busy writing on a scrap of paper, using the car hood for a desk.
“And Saturday night, come to our house for dinner.” Eimear joined in the conversation. “Flynn’s cooking and we’re having a little ceilidh. Catherine, bring Jenny. I’m thinking I’d like her very much, since you do.”
“That sounds great to me,” Joe said, as Rosaleen pressed the folded paper into his hand.
Catherine nodded her agreement, but added “I don’t know about Jenny, but I'd love to come. What can I bring?”
“Since Flynn’s cooking, it’ll be boiled knuckle and liver and maybe some mashed neeps.” Rosaleen said, straight-faced. “So bring whatever you think might go well with that.”
“She’s joking! Rosie, stop that. Flynn’s making his specialty. Lasagna. Not a speck of knuckle in it, I promise.”
Catherine started to speak, but Joe cut her off, mid-breath. “That’s enough from you, Radcliffe. I know what you’re about to say, and it’s not true.”
Catherine laughed, the sweet, trilling sound that Joe always loved to hear. Eimear and Rosaleen looked quizzically from one to the other and then joined in the merriment. It had been a simply wonderful day.
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The ride into Manhattan was quiet. Joe drove slowly as if he were loathe to have the day end and kept his meditations to himself. As they passed the street where she’d seen Dominick’s van earlier, Catherine’s heart fluttered. Was he close? Was there a tunnel entrance near? But the van was no longer there, and she could not be sure at which business it had been parked.
She did know she had been long enough without him, and that it was time she went home.
At her apartment, Joe pulled in to the curb, and while Catherine gathered the jacket and briefcase she had tossed into the back seat, he came around the car to open her door.
“What’s a neep, do you guess?” he asked her.
“No idea. What’s a ceilidh?” she asked in turn.
“Must be an Irish thing,” he said, pausing to think. “Well, Cathy. First thing tomorrow, back to it.”
Catherine nodded, starting toward her door. She turned, finding Joe waiting still at the curb, watching her in. Walking back to him, she dropped her briefcase at her feet and put her hands on his arms, searching his face for a moment. “It was a good day, Joe. It felt...like we made a connection that we didn’t have before. Between the two of us, between us and Rosaleen and Eimear, between us and ... the kids. Did you feel it too?”
“Like something's about to happen?”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“But not between you and me, not ever, huh, Radcliffe.”
Shaking her head, her eyes kind and gentle, “No, Joe. Not like that.”
“Can you forget I said that, Cathy?”
“No. But ... yes.”
“Better than friends, Joe. Better than a team. Family.” Just for a moment, her hands tightened on his arms.
“I do. I do think you should. Maybe even tonight. Different can be ... good.”
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She went to her balcony with a lingering hope and found it empty after all. But Father welcomed her warmly and shared tea with her, telling her of the crew’s progress and of an upcoming theatrical reading the children planned. Olivia, when she heard Catherine was Below, insisted on a visit. and Jamie arrived and then Rebecca, and they wanted to hear about her day, about the children and about Eimear and Joe and Rosaleen and about the magic word and about the pizza.
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At the end of a long day, after supper was finished and the tools cleaned, Vincent went into camp. He hoped to find Kanin, to take him into the narrow passage and through the hidden doorways to the stairs below the garden, where the music might be heard again, where Kanin might find comfort. But Kanin stood scowling at the periphery of his friends, his arms crossed as a barricade to approach and when Vincent drew near, he looked away. After minutes of tense silence, Kanin turned to him and spoke.
“I’m sorry, Vincent. Sorry for what I said.”
“I know that.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Come with me, Kanin. There’s a hidden place and there might be music. Beautiful music. We could sit together and listen. Just ... listen.”
“No.” Kanin said, unbending. He would accept no balm for his raw wounds. “No,” he said, as he walked further into the darkness away from the camp.
Vincent made one step after him but stopped, acknowledging the pull of the dark and of isolation. He made a second step, but turned and made his way to the passage. He hurried through the last lightless tunnel to sit alone on the stone steps, closer this time, near the barred door, to hear another concert just as beautiful, just as melancholy. Night birds sang from the flute, calling to lost loves, crying in the darkness, flying through bent and ancient trees and across the barren hills to the sea. He closed his eyes, and in a moment, he felt her presence again.
She was home.
Click HERE for Chapter 8.
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(1) Rainer Maria Rilke. Rilke and Benvenuta: An Intimate Correspondence. Magda Von Hattenberg, editor. Fromm International. 1957.
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