Iron Behind the Velvet - Chapter 15

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A Girl as Mad as Birds 1


Catherine walked along 12th Street toward the restaurant, slowing as she passed St. Vincent’s Hospital. Though a breeze swept the morning streets, the April air was warm and in sharp contrast to that frozen night so many years before, the night Vincent was found.

Wrapped in rags ...

She trailed her fingers along the brick facade, hovering between her two worlds. Jenny waited for her across the avenue, beckoning her, expecting her. She dropped her hand and crossed at the light.

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“I want the challah French toast,” Jenny announced without looking at the menu.

“Me too.” Catherine nodded enthusiastically. “Should we get some fruit on the side so we can feel good about ourselves?”

“Absolutely, some of those strawberries, just like they’re having.” Jenny, her face a mask of mock horror, tilted her head toward a very thin couple sharing a single plate of berries, bottles of imported water in hand.

“I’ll take hours at the gym over deprivation,” Jenny said, “and maybe I’d better step it up.”

“Looks to me like you might be living on love, Jen,” Catherine observed, smiling. “But let's do get the strawberries.”

“And can you heat the syrup?” Jenny begged the silent waiter, who shrugged, scribbled on his pad and disappeared.

“So!” Catherine said. “Are you living on love?”

Jenny allowed Catherine her scrutiny. “On a lot of like, anyway! I know it seems a little fast, but he’s a great guy, Cathy. Easy to talk with, funny, well read.”

“Smart.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good looking.”

“Well, that too.” Jenny blushed. “And that accent! Sometimes I think I could listen to him read the ingredient list on a ketchup bottle. Is that just nuts?”

Catherine shook her head. “Not in my book, Jen.” Concentrating on her coffee, she continued. “Speaking of books, how's the project going, yours and Ned’s ... the Cloisters renovation.”

“Complicated. And expensive. Lots of photographs. Tons of research to make readable.” Jenny’s enthusiasm grew. “Remember the last time you and I went there? Some of the walls were crumbling? They’re going to close for a few weeks for repairs as soon as they find a stonemason who’s comfortable working with 800-year-old rocks. Did you know they need a photographic record of every single stone? There’s 3,300 of them just in one Chapel! And then the stained glass windows ... restoring those! It’s amazing, all the artisans, all the energy it will take. You’ll have to go over with me one day when they get started, just to watch.” Jenny paused for breath, her hands finally still on the table. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? That all-knowing, Cathy Chandler grin! What?”

Catherine closed her hands over Jenny’s. “I love, just love, seeing you this happy.”

Jenny turned her hands to hold Catherine’s. “You too, Cath. I look at you lately and think the same thing. I just wish ...”

The waiter interrupted the conversation, bearing their breakfast and a pitcher of warm syrup.

“Oh, boy!” Jenny said, eyeing her plate, forgetting her wish. “I love this place.”

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“Why didn’t I come in here with you before?” Jenny wandered from table to shelf to cabinet, her eyes wide. “I love everything in here!”

“Enticed by the shoe store, if I remember correctly,” Catherine laughed. “Almost everything is different. Rosaleen must have a good business.”

The shop was busy, but Eimear was there, and her sister, threading the crowd to greet them. Introductions made, Jenny and Rosaleen fell into earnest discussion of the relative merits of carved wood versus molded plaster framing. There was no doubt that Ned would have his gift today.

Catherine lost herself in a half-open drawer filled with embroidered pillow slips and colorful tea cloths. And then she opened a willow basket to reveal a trove of christening gowns, delicate white things of fine cutwork lace, frilled and tucked, studded with tiny pearl buttons. They lay cushioned on a bed dried rose petals and bundles of lavender wands. Lifting one, she buried her nose in the fabric.

“Beautiful, are they not?” Eimear asked softly, stealing to her side. “Perhaps you’ll be needing one of those?”

Catherine opened her eyes to meet Eimear’s gaze. “Not for me,” she said. “But for a friend. Most definitely for her.”

“Let’s lay these out, want to?” Eimear suggested. “There must be two dozen here, and like snowflakes, no two alike. We can go in the back, ‘tis a bit calmer back there. You can see Rosie’s studio.”

Eimear carried the basket cradled in her arms and Catherine followed her down a narrow hallway and past a staircase, toward a light-filled space. There, the walls were hung with dozens of framed photographs and crates stacked with matted prints crowded a corner. Sheet-shrouded objects and a large worktable crowded one side, and tall windows framed one of the city’s secret courtyards where a newly-leafed tree grew tall in the sun. Outside, a collection of stonecutter’s tools and a crafting bench flanked a tall sculpture wrapped in a tarp and bound with sisal ropes.

“You just missed Joe,” Eimear remarked. “He was here for one of Rosie’s early morning photo shoots. He said to go ahead and tell you, and for you to get the snickering out of your system before tonight.”

“I’m not laughing!” Catherine said. “I’m not!” she repeated, when Eimear grinned at her.

“You’ll be seeing a photograph of him added to her gallery, I’m thinking. She appreciates a twinkle in the eye and he did a good bit of smiling this morning. Rosie likes him, I can tell.”

“I think it’s mutual,” Catherine said. She wandered to a grouping of photographs, a strange series that traveled one side of the room. Engrossed, she moved slowly along, until one startled her into stillness.

The large, crisp prints were of scenes of street debris, shot from a low angle - garbage cans and broken flower pots, cracked cobblestones and rain-filled gutters, and in many, as a crowded sea, the legs and feet of pedestrians. The colors were naturally shadowed and stark, blacks and whites and shades of gray, nearly monochromatic except for a splash of burnt-orange in each frame - a young tabby on the prowl through New York streets. And in the one that took her breath, on hands and knees in an alleyway and nose to nose with the brindled cat, was a younger, but clearly recognizable, Zach.

“Remarkable, aren’t they?” Eimear commented. “She followed that cat one day for hours until she lost him. People must have thought her mad, wallowing in the streets as she did. Cat-eyed, she called it.”

Catherine remained silent as she forced her feet to move to the next print. Eimear deposited the basket on an empty table and joined Catherine at the last photograph.

“Rosie calls this her black and white in color series. She’s done others, mostly winter scenes. The one I like best was shot in Washington Square Park. It’s all snowy whites and somber grays, except for one man, bent into the wind and wet, wearing a red parka. It’s hanging upstairs in her apartment. I keep hoping she’ll give it to me.”

“Rosaleen lives here?” Catherine tried to find her voice and a safe topic as she gravitated back to the photograph of Zach. “It’s a wonderful building.”

“Family owned on my Dad’s side for a few generations. It used to be a little button factory. Now upstairs, she has more things for the store and she lives above that. She rents out the next floor but the top two, well, they’re kind of a mess and need serious work. Her apprentice lives in the basement. He’ll be delivering the mirror for your friend.”

“Is ... um ... are these for sale?”

“The whole set?” Eimear questioned as she walked closer and reached to straighten the photograph of Zach. “This is my favorite. Look at his clothes. They’re so ... intricate and odd, like something out of a movie. Rosie said he scooted off as soon as he saw her with the camera.” She paused. “Is this the one you want?”

Before she could answer, Rosaleen appeared with Jenny in tow.

“Andrew’s bringing the van around to load up the mirror,” Rosaleen announced. “I’ve run everybody out and hung up the closed sign. What do you say we start the party early, Eim, and head over to your place when we get back?”

“Jenny, won’t you come for dinner too?” Eimear asked. “We’re having some people over, just folks in the neighborhood, mostly. We’d love to have you, you and your friend.”

Jenny smiled her thanks. “I know it would be fun, but ... I think ...”

“You'll stay with the mirror?”

“Yeah,” Jenny said, laughing. “I’m riding over with Andrew and Rosaleen in the van to Ned’s. He lives in the West Village, not that far from here.” She gave Catherine’s shoulders a squeeze. “Thanks for finding this place, Cathy.”

“Let me know how Ned likes the present, okay?” Catherine whispered in Jenny’s ear.

“Old friends?” Eimear asked, after Jenny left with Rosaleen.

“Since the first day of college.”

“It’s nice you’ve stayed so close,” Eimear remarked, as she unfolded the christening gowns.

We’ve shared ... a lot,” Catherine replied. Almost everything, down to our core, right up until this last, exquisite, separating secret.

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“I can’t pick. They’re all so beautiful.” Catherine held one long, lace-trimmed ivory-colored dress to the light. “Look at the beadwork in the smocking. Can you imagine doing that, and probably by candlelight too.”

“I don’t know where Rosie finds these things,” Eimer said. “You should see her storeroom, all crammed with boxes. She knows what’s in every one of them though they’re stacked five-high. Here’s the bonnet for that one. Look...the tatted edging and the wee pink roses? It matches.”

“Perfect,” Catherine sighed.

“So who is this Ned who’s clearly captured your Jenny’s heart?”

“I’ve just met him once but he seems nice, and Jenny’s a pretty good judge of character. He’s in acquisitions at the Metropolitan ... in the Medieval Collection. Jenny’s in publishing and they met working on a book together about the Cloisters.”

“Rosie might know him then. She works with the curator of photographs there every now and then, doing some cataloguing. Let me find a box.” Eimear rummaged under a table, bringing out silvery tissue paper and a thin, folding carton.

“May I take off these covers?” Catherine asked, crossing to the other side of the room. When Eimear nodded, she slipped the sheets from several marble sculptures. “Wow. These are ... incredible.”

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Eimear said as she nestled the gown into the tissue. “She took all the talent in the family, every smidge. I can barely weave a potholder.”

“I doubt that,” Catherine admonished. She stared longingly at one table, a flat-topped but free form piece. Droplets rippled the white stone in fluid, concentric circles as if it were a lake’s surface in rain. Dismissing the logistics of its delivery, she could visualize the table Below, reflected in their own great mirror, the Connecticut lake of her youth brought home to him.

“I love this space, all these projects.” Catherine continued, turning in the center of the room. “I can’t draw or paint, but I’ve always loved art supply stores. I guess I’m hoping to discover a hidden talent one day."

“I’m proud of Rosie. She .. .perseveres.”

“I sense a story behind that.”

“I’m thinking that is your talent, Catherine, and not a hidden one. You listen to people’s stories, draw people out.” Eimear stepped to the window and, for a moment, she was pensive and intent as she watched a small bird flit from branch to branch.

“It is part of my job,” Catherine said.

“More than that.” Eimear hesitated, but then she smiled suddenly. “Want to go upstairs? We can have some coffee or tea and wait for Rosie. She won’t mind a bit.”

“I was going to ask about the covered sculpture in the garden. Could I see it?”

“When she gets back, ask her. She’s ... particular ... about that piece. That’s why it’s covered and tied.”

“That sounds deliciously mysterious,” Catherine said. “But I’ll wait. And I will ask.”

Eimear offered a long, searching look. “So will she ... ask, I mean.”

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Rosaleen’s apartment was a surprise, the main room open, modern and uncluttered, in complete contrast to the shop and it’s treasures. There were the collections of photographs Eimear had described - the feet, both bare and shod; crinkled, twinkling eyes; hands folded in prayer and in anticipation and in worry. Every wall was a gallery.

Soon the sharp, sweet scent of peppermint bathed the air as Eimear prepared the tea. “Feel free to look around. I’ll just warm the cups and we can sit out on the balcony. We’ll get a bit of sun there.”

Catherine wandered the space but stopped at the display of family photographs. In one, a young Rosaleen danced on the shoes of a man in police uniform, hand in hand with him, while a sour, pouting Eimear sat cross-legged in the background. In another, a woman, bewildered and tearful herself, held a wailing baby to her shoulder while her four-year old sister clung to her knees.

Eimear loaded a tea tray with sugar and slices of lemon. “Such little competitors we were for their affections. ‘Twas as if we knew we’d not have them long.”

“Have you lost both your parents?”

“Dad, when I was ten. Mom when I was fourteen.”

Catherine opened the balcony door. “What happened?”

“Dad was killed on duty. A domestic he’d been called to. Mom died of cancer.”

“Mine are gone too. And when Joe was a boy, his father was killed on duty. This is a sad thing to have in common, Eimear.”

“Isn’t it?”

The strong brew was comforting and for a while, they sat with their faces turned to the sun.

“You were only fourteen? Where did you go?” Catherine asked, breaking the silence.

“An elderly aunt of Dad’s moved in, but Rosie was eighteen. She won legal guardianship of me. That had its ups and downs, let me tell you. We made it through, though I think I told you before we’re perfectly willing to go one on one. But what about you? I remember you said you had no brothers or sisters.”

“My mother died when I was ten, and Dad, just over a year ago.”

“Are you okay?”

“I am now. I miss him, both of them, but it’s strange, it’s getting easier to remember them, not harder, and I’m happy when I do.”

“I know what you mean.” Refilling their cups, Eimear laughed, lightening the mood. “I remember one night ... You’ll love this story. I know you will. Do you know about the Cottingley fairies?”

“The little girls in England who took the photographs?"

“Exactly. The hoax that sent Arthur Conan Doyle over the edge. Well, now, both my parents loved a good story, and the more fantastic it was, the better. They were reared in Ireland, you know, and tales of leprechauns and fairy trees were everyday things. The story of young Elsie and Frances set them right off.

“I was about six, so Rosie was ten. Even then she was taking photographs. She pestered everyone in the neighborhood with that camera, following and badgering, popping up and peering. She had the strangest ideas too...she wanted to see inside things, like inside someone’s coat pocket or inside a lady’s purse. She’d ask perfect strangers for the most intimate of looks and with no shame whatsoever. It could be very embarrassing.

“Anyway, Mom and Dad got Ro all excited about finding fairies. For weeks, she crawled around, looking under leaves, under old newspapers in the streets, under rocks. And then it came to her, the idea that the only place fairies could be found in all of New York was in Central Park at the lagoon and at full moon. She got out a calendar, marked the day, started begging and wheedling. She was relentless.

“So the moon comes round and, sure enough, we’re out of bed in the dark of night. Off we go, me still in my pajamas, grumping along, and Ro all sure she can prove it true ...”

“That is my story, Eimear Isibeal Teresa McDermott.” Rosaleen stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Mine to tell.” She crowded Eimear on the bench. “Move over.”

______________


“She was grumpy all right, but not-so-secretly, she was thrilled with the adventure.” Rosaleen squeezed Eimear’s knee. “She was the perfect little sister. She thought I was perfect.”

“I’m dying to hear this.”

“Oh, and I’m dying to tell it. I rarely find the right audience for it, but first, I want to ask you a question.” She paused to open a tin of shortbread cookies. “About your Joe,” she continued, passing the treats. “I find him ... adorable. Why is he single?”

Catherine was surprised, having anticipated an entirely different subject, but she gave the question serious thought. “Well ... the work ... takes a great deal of his time and it’s not all that glamorous. He's kind of a black and white, good and evil, kind of guy, but he’s easy-going too. I don’t think the women he’s met lately appreciate his more...laid-back qualities...and they sell him short because ... ummm ... well, I don’t know why they sell him short! It doesn’t make any sense. I think he’s adorable too.”

“Any red flags? Be a good girlfriend and tell me before I get too focused.”

“I can’t think of any.”

“God help him,” Eimear said under her breath, “if Ro focuses on him.”

Catherine laughed. “I think he can take it.”

“We’ll see.” Rosaleen held Catherine’s gaze for a moment. “So, the two of you...?

“No, no ... he’s like my ... Well, I love him, but ...” Catherine studied her tea cup, a warmth rising to blush her cheeks. A decision made, she met Rosaleen’s eyes. “There's someone else ... since before I ever knew Joe.”

“Well, then. That’s settled. So, the fairies and the full moon story ... Are you ready?”

“You bet,” Catherine answered, settling back in her chair.

“I want to ask you another question. A very important question.”

“Please do.” A sudden shiver of anticipation traveled her spine.

Rosaleen bent forward, her eyes wide and riveting. “Tell me ... How much can you accept?”

The question pulled the heavy curtain from the theater of her hidden life and an answer skidded to mid-stage. I accept the impossible! The words filled her mind, pressing hard against her teeth and tongue. I submit to it. I refuse ... nothing!

“All of it,” she answered, her voice low and unwavering.

“Most people say, ‘what do you mean, Rosie,’ in that ‘she’s nuts’ tone of voice. Don’t you want me to clarify my question?”

“No.”

Rosaleen turned to her sister. “Told you,” Eimear said.

_______________

“The park was magical that night,” Rosaleen began. “The moon ... was enormous. I could see everything by the light of it. There were even shadows on the ground. All the stirrings of the night were sharp and clear, like music carried on starlight.

“I knew they were there, the fairies ... I believed with all my heart. When mom opened the car door to let us out, her last words to me were to remember that they might be away on fairy business or at a fairy wedding or on fairy holiday. But I knew this was the night. I handed Eimear my brown paper bag of extra film, and I dragged her along beside me.

“Anyway, we were at the lagoon, and I threw myself down on the ground, hushed everybody good and warned the grown-ups to stay way back, not to dare frighten my fairies. I made some evil threat to Eimear if she should talk or cry. I don’t remember it, do you, Eim?”

“I absolutely do remember.”

“You would. It’s not important. I think she fell asleep anyway. I set my camera on its little stand, trained it at the gnarled roots of a huge tree where I was sure they would come to dance, and began to wait. Mom and Dad sat on a bench cuddled up together. After a while, Dad came over with a blanket for Eimear, but he didn’t say a word to me. The moon grew even brighter and the lake was solid silver. I fantasized walking out on it.

“An hour passed, maybe more. No fairies. Not even the rustle of a chipmunk in the leaves. When mom came to make me leave, I got mad. Really mad. I didn’t want to go. I needed to wait longer. It wasn’t fair I had to do what they said.

“Mom was trying to settle Eimear in the front seat, and I was in the back, sighing and seething, my arms all crossed. I pressed my nose to the window, sure I would see my fairies come out just as we pulled away. And then, when Dad made this big, slow curve...I did see something. These...shadowy figures slipped between the trees as though through from another world, blending with the colors of the night. I couldn’t be sure of what I was seeing. I held my breath...but then I realized they were boys. A strange set of boys keeping to the edge of the woods.

“Except for one ... one boy. He had run ahead, apart from the rest, right up close to the road where the moonlight bathed the little clearing. He turned and our eyes met ... It was more than that. I knew him. But he wasn’t a boy from my school and he wasn’t a wee fairy.

“I started to cry; he was ... exquisite. I thought he might be an angel.”

Catherine felt her words rush from her and a pearly fog swirled in where but one thought formed. Vincent, you had it all wrong ... Scarcely breathing, she waited for more.

“I want you to see something, Catherine. Come on, both of you.” Rosaleen darted from the balcony and through her apartment, charging down the staircase, two flights, to her studio.

She stood, impatient for them, before the photograph of Zach and the orange cat. “I took this picture just a few years ago. Look at his clothes. That’s how the boy in the park was dressed, just like this, but more than twenty years ago. Let me show you something else.”

“Do you know the legend of the Grigori?” Through the door in seconds and standing before the covered sculpture in the courtyard, she raced on with her story without waiting for an answer. “Well, there are a hundred interpretations, though I have my own opinions.

“The Grigori were a tier of angels sent to guard humankind, but they found earthly women irresistible and took them as lovers. ‘And the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair.’ Anyway, their half-angel offspring were called the Nephilim, whom some say were cruel giants, monsters even, though in Genesis they’re called the mighty ones of eternity and heroes of reknown.(2)

“Some scholars say God was miffed by the sex thing and wiped out the Nephilim with the Flood, but I don’t think that's what happened. I think the descendants of those angels live with us still, generations born to women, watching over us, changing us ... giving us ... hope ... There’s at least one, anyway, because I’m sure I saw him that night in the park.”

Rosaleen untied the knot of the ropes and the tarp slipped away.

... A sensual dance of deep and ancient longing, the embrace of limbs, a melding of flesh and spirit, the yielding curve of breast...a thrust of sinewed thigh, her arching response...his roped and tangled hair and leonine nose and strange mouth, a rush of beating wings...blood and desire cast in cold white marble, the veins of it fire  ...surmounting all obstacle, threading impediment, beyond any question of what and how ...

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Rosaleen gazed upon her own creation with delight. “Impossibly, unbelievably beautiful?”

“Beautiful,” Catherine breathed the word, thinking ... but not impossible.


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click HERE for Chapter 16.


(1) Dylan Thomas. Love in the Asylum.
(2) Genesis 6:4

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sculptural inspirations:


And the Sons of God Saw the Daughters of Men, That They Were Fair

by Daniel Chester French








sculpture by Robert John Guttke, co-writer of When the Blue Bird Sings