Iron Behind the Velvet - Chapter 17

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The Stars Stand Still to Hear 1

If not for the shock of unruly white hair, the man on his hands and knees wiping the dust of flour from the floor tiles could be Father – of an equivalent age, half-glasses down on his nose, a cabled sweater, a walking stick propped against the chair, a book open upon the table.

“Ach!” Eimear protested, “I’m home too early. I was sure you’d have the remnants of your tempest cleared away by now. But look at you, Martin, on the floor still.”

"Three batches, Eim,” Flynn said, as he stood at the table disassembling a hand-cranked pasta maker. “Hi, Catherine.”

He offered a fleeting smile, bending again to his work. A chart of lines wrinkled his brow and he pressed his lips together as if weathering some deep, sharp pain. But when he looked up once more, his eyes, a more startling blue than she remembered, were clear though shy.

“Flynn, it’s good to see you.” Catherine stood in the doorway of the kitchen where the table was laden with sheet pans of lasagna ready for the ovens, the rich white and red sauces blending already in a mouthwatering aroma. “Fresh pasta? You made it fresh? Joe will keel over with giddiness.”

“His mother’s?” Eimear asked.

“Absolutely. It’s his benchmark. She sets the bar awfully high.”

“Martin, hop up now. I want you to meet Catherine.”

“Those days are sadly over, lassie,” Martin replied, as he rose to his feet. His hand was to the small of his back, though his eyes twinkled with the delight of a child, belying his age and protests. “But I do thank you for pretending I might still have what it takes to hop.”

“Catherine, this is Martin Geraghty, whom I’ve described to you, though I never imagined he’d be on scullery duty when you first laid eyes on him. Martin ... Catherine Chandler.”

Martin’s hands were warm as he took Catherine’s in a gentle clasp. “And why is it that no one’s prepared me for your beauty?”

“Martin! That is so– Catherine, I don’t know what to say about him. In the old country, he’d be labeled an eejit.” Eimear’s glare held no ire and Catherine laughed.

“Thank you, Father. It’s nice to meet you too.”

Martin released Catherine’s hands. “Martin, please, fair and plain. We’re family here.” Turning to Eimear, he asked, “Is it too early for a wee drop, do you think?”

“Tea first, for pity’s sake. You make it, though. I want to show Catherine the place.”

“Eimear, you’ll be one of the meanest girls, but I bow to your decree. I’ve a tray of After Eight biscuits in the rectory. I’ll change out of these floury clothes and fetch it back. I’ll be gone a tick.” Paused, wary, his hand on the doorknob, Martin asked, “Is Rosie on her way?”

“She's surely here already. You should check your garden.”

The screened door swung shut as Martin rushed down the porch steps. Flynn joined Eimear and Catherine at the window to watch him cross the back yard at a clip and scuttle through an arched gateway in a long stone wall.

"Rosie wants to place her piece smack in the center where the sun shines brightest on it and Martin wants it a bit to the side in the shade. We’ll see who wins this one.”

“Are you taking bets?” Catherine asked.

Flynn chuckled. “Rosie wins, every time."

“Martin forgot his cane.” Catherine said, glancing from the window to the table and back again. “Though it seems he doesn't really need it.”

“He’s okay,” said Flynn. “Almost healed. He twisted his ankle at the last ceili in a rousing rendition of The Lilting Banshee.”

“Is this Lilting Banshee something I can pick up, or am I going to look completely foolish a few hours from now?”

“You’ll have a dozen partners, Catherine. All quite willing to teach you the steps, I’d bet.” Flynn said, as he rummaged a drawer for serving spoons.

“You should go first, Flynn, a good teacher you are,” Eimear suggested. She followed him to the table and to the trays of pasta. “You made the spinach and mushroom kind. Yum.”

As she pressed into his shoulder, Flynn’s arm encircled her waist, pulling her close and he dropped a kiss to her forehead. Catherine's breath caught in her throat, and turning back to the window, she closed her eyes against their easy, everyday affections, surprised at a sudden flicker of loneliness.

“So Martin is a musician?” Catherine asked, willing herself back to the conversation, turning again to lean against the kitchen counter.

“One of the best, an All-Ireland winner several years running in his younger years, on the flute and the concertina. He sings too.”

“What about you two?”

“Somebody has to do the listening,” Flynn said, his voice deepening with the words. His fingers drummed the tabletop, a rhythmless beat oddly loud in the room.

What does he mean ... Catherine bit back her instinctive question as a fleeting vision – of a placid stream suddenly divided, roiling over sharp rocks – flooded her mind's eye.

After a moment, Eimear reached past him for a large package of napkins, tearing into it, the plastic wrapping giving way noisily. “He's being modest. Flynn can manage the guitar if there’s a shortage, but I don’t play a note. And, unlike our mother, I’ve no singing voice at all, against all the Irish stereotypes. Rosie’s just as dreadful. We took after Dad, I guess, who claimed the toaster as his rhythm instrument. What about you, Catherine?”

“I’m all appreciation myself.” Surveying the kitchen, Catherine asked. “What can I do to help?”

“First, let me show you around. We’ll take a quick tour of the garden, maybe check on Rosie and Martin,” Eimear suggested. "Then lets have our tea outside while it’s still warm and clear. It's to rain tomorrow, I heard. After tea, we’ll put you to work. How does that sound?”

“That sounds ... wonderful.”

___________

Catherine and Eimear stood at the back fence, at the end of a pebbled pathway that swept between masses of yellow and white and pink blossoms. The late afternoon sun slanted through the blooms of redbuds and cherries and through the delicate new leaves of a maple at the perimeter of the yard.

“Your garden ... it’s beautiful. All the tulips and daffodils and so many roses! I can only imagine them in full bloom. And those espaliered trees on the stone wall ... are they apples?”

“Crabapples, actually. We make the most delicious jelly from them.” Eimear brushed the tiny buds of one rose with the tips of her fingers. “Mom grew most of these roses from cuttings she hid in her baggage coming over from Ireland. She nursed the first ones in pots for years, before she and Dad found this house. You'll come back, I hope, to see them open.”

“I'd love to." Catherine breathed in, sighing, smiling. "Do you take care of all this yourself?”

“No. ‘Tis Flynn who cares for my mother’s flowers. Do you have a garden, Catherine?”

“Just a balcony. I’ve kept a ficus tree alive for several years now, a miracle really ... and I have a rose too, but just one ... with red and white blooms on a single plant.”

“The symbol of unity in the language of flowers ... of eternal bonding. Mom had one of those too.” Glancing at the house, a shift of worry darkened her eyes. “I met Flynn in this garden.”

“You said you’ve known him half your life.”

“I’ll never forget that day. Mom was really sick by then, but I worked to deny it. It was a Saturday afternoon. I’d been across the street at a friend’s, and when I opened the front door, the house was ... too quiet. I called for her and there was no answer, and I knew I had to go upstairs to check on her. Then I heard voices outside. She was talking with Flynn, though I didn’t yet know his name. He was new at my school, almost seventeen years old ...

“The family had moved just four houses down, his 4 brothers and his parents and his grandmother, too. He was needing a job, so Martin sent him on to mom. She taught him that spring and summer, her last, how to care for her flowers.”

“So you’ve dated Flynn since high school?”

“Oh no. Now that is another story. My mother ... fixed that before she left us. I began to stay home Saturdays. I’d moon about upstairs in the window for a while, just watching him. Then I’d sashay out with lemonade or cookies, and he’d stand and I’d stammer.

“After about a month of this, Mom came out, weak as a kitten, but strong enough to send me running into the house. I went straight to my window and saw her sit Flynn down on a bench. She leaned right into his face, talking a mile a minute and deadly serious.

“From that day forward, Flynn was kind to me, but distant, even after Mom ... He tended the garden still, and one day, I got up the nerve to ask him to a Sadie Hawkins dance. He was very firm that I was too young for him, and said that we were purely friends, that he’d be graduating soon. He told me, years later, what she’d said to him ... that she’d seen how I was fixated on him and how she’d threatened to haunt him for all eternity should he allow me even one fantasy before I turned twenty-one.”

“Did he call you on your birthday then?”

“On my twenty-second. He gave it an extra year for good measure, he says. Mom could be ... rather emphatic.”

"That's a sweet story, Eimear, though it’s sad too ... about your Mother.”

“Ah, ‘tis that. I wish she were here to talk to Flynn today ... and to me as well. It’s a loss we’re never over, are we.”

“No.”

“We’re you close with your father, Catherine?”

“When I was younger. Then ... I changed. My life became ... complicated. And when he died ... there were things I thought he didn’t understand, that he couldn’t possibly understand, but ...”

“You found that he did, after all?”

Catherine nodded a silent reply, her lips pressed together, a tear threatening. Eimear turned, pulling her into a gentle hug. “There’s much you keep to yourself. I can feel that, but if you need an ear ... or a shoulder.” She released her, stepping back, brushing at her cheeks. “Look at us ... We need to find our party faces, or Rosie will be all over us with the questions. And Martin! He can get a rock to sing. He’ll have us blathering and missing the dance." Eimear paused, reaching out. "Catherine ... you are happy, aren't you, despite your ... privacies."

Catherine nodded once again, her voice returning steady and true. "Not despite. I am ... because of them."

____________

“Cullen was right to keep this off the pipes. Olivia does not need this, nor does Father. Still ... I suppose I will have to go there.” Vincent stared down the tunnel, annoyance cluttering his tone.

“You aren’t going after him, are you Vincent? You can’t. It’s too dangerous.” Aniela moved closer to him. “And maybe he’s back. Couldn’t we send some kind of message ... something that wouldn’t give too much away, to ask?”

“I must ... assess the situation.” Vincent drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly through tightened lips. “There are some things I need to do first. Find Mouse. Tell him. Make changes in the work teams ... if I am not here to do my part.”

“We’ll go with you,” Damien offered.

“No!” Vincent stood abruptly, a guttural exasperation behind his single word. He began a solitary pacing in the cramped passage. “You will not. You will stay here, Damien, and supervise the work. You will keep on task and on schedule as much as possible without me. I don’t know how long I will be gone.”

“You could just let him do this thing, Vincent,” Aniela said. “He wants to go across the perimeter to look around? It’s his choice.”

“Depending on who he meets, he might endanger ... the crew ... with his ... return.”

“You mean he might lead outsiders right to our door?” Damien asked, comprehension dawning in his eyes.

Vincent bent to gather his tools and his pack, his canteen and his cloak. As he swept by her into the tunnel, Aniela reached for him, but her fingers grasped only air. Damien took her hand in his and they followed in silence.

_______________

“He went across? Not supposed to do that.” Mouse declared.

Vincent’s expression was set and grim as he unpacked his tools. “If I’m not back tonight, Mouse, you will need to clean and oil all the handles and sharpen the blades and edges. Don’t let the ropes get tangled. And do not speak of this on the pipes.”

“Sure, Vincent. Know all that. Keep the secret too.”

“Don’t tell the rest of the crew yet. Just say ...” Vincent rubbed his temples, sighing. “Say ...”

“Say you’ve gone to help out. Easy enough. They need you. True too. Right? Not even a fib.”

Vincent clamped his hand on Mouse’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the muscle. “You and Damien ... Don’t let up. No parties.”

“Joke, right Vincent?” Mouse laughed. “No cake! No party.”

A short huff of humor escaped, though he shook his head in seriousness. “You two are in charge. Work together. Be safe. I’ll get word to you when I can.”

“Maybe he’s back already. Yell at him, turn around, come back. No problem.”

“That’s what I want, Mouse. No problems.” Vincent released his shoulder, leaving Mouse alone to rub the tender area and to survey his responsibilities.

_______

Animated voices in teasing argument floated over the stone wall, luring Catherine and Eimear to the arched gateway of the churchyard. Beyond it’s shelter, more roses grew inside the walled garden, in carefully tended, intricate, and patterned beds of herbs and fragrant shrubs and boxwood hedges trained in twining Celtic knots.

“This is beautiful! More of Flynn’s work?”

“Some. But Martin finds the garden therapeutic exercise himself and he likes the time alone. He fears it will be overpopulated with parish ladies after Ro installs her Immortals here. Let’s watch,” Eimear said conspiratorially.

They were standing in opposition to each other, Rosie in the center, in the sun, Martin to one corner of the enclosed garden. Andrew, sprawled on a bench, his eyes closed, waited for instruction, the base for the sculpture strapped on a dolly parked in the path.

“Martin, that old fountain hasn’t worked in years. You took the broken basin away last spring. Now it’s just this ... stub of concrete. Hideous. Simply hideous. The spot is perfect and you know it.” Rosie pointed imperiously at her chosen location.

“Rosie, Rosie ... please. Over here by the old dormitories. This corner is so lonely and barren. People can stroll the ambulatory and gaze across the whole garden and on its magnificence, even in the rain.” Martin spread his arms wide, standing before two weathered-gray wooden doors.

“That corner is lonely and barren because those rooms are empty! Nobody uses them. They don't even have windows. And no one strolls the ambulatory. Even if they start, they’ll quit soon enough, particularly if you hand them some pruners or a rake or a wheelbarrow full of compost.” Rosie jabbed her hands at her hips. "And what are you calling magnificent? Your garden or my angel?"

Martin mumbled a few words under his breath. “What?” Rosie squealed, her eyes wide. “What did you say?”

With a sigh, Martin joined her in the center of the garden. “I said, ‘tis your space, Rosie. Have at it. I’m no match for you.”

Eimear applauded. “Tell Catherine the truth, Martin, You were always going to say yes, weren’t you.”

“Without a doubt.” He grinned as Andrew and Rosie wrestled away the fountain base. “Now to those biscuits and our tea. 'Tis getting late.” He sprinted up the rectory steps, banging through a screen door.

“Look at this,” Rosie said with satisfaction, sitting back on her heels. “He’s already cut out the copper pipes under the fountain.”

“Rosie wins, every time.” Eimear laughed.

“Joe’s done for, isn’t he?”

“Dead meat, as the kids would say.”

“Eimear!” Flynn called to her from the porch. “The school’s on the phone.”

“What is it?” she asked, surprised.

“Don't know.”

“I’ll just be a minute, Catherine, and I’ll start the tea. Don’t wander off.”

Flynn joined Catherine in the archway. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the slatted wooden door in the wall, his eyes trained on pattern of stones in the floor. “I wanted to thank you again, Catherine,” he said, “for helping me through that last legal part of the ... investigation. (2) It was ... a hard time for me and you were ... very kind.”

“We were on your side, Flynn. Completely.”

“I felt that ...”

So familiar ... Catherine bit her lip. “We were at the precinct last week. Tuesday. I saw you come out of a meeting with the brass ... and you didn’t look happy. If you need me, professionally, I mean, you’ll call me, won’t you?”

“I ... ummm ... haven’t exactly told Eimear about that meeting. I don’t want to worry her and it’s ... nothing ... nothing I can’t handle. Just a difference of ... approach.” When he looked up at her, a smile of reassurance did not reach his eyes. "And I don't think I need a lawyer. Not yet, anyway."

Closing the door ... “I understand. I do. But she’s already worried. I know how Eimear feels ...”

“You do? How is that?” Flynn looked closely at her, pushing off the door to stand, dropping his arms. A edge sharpened his voice. “Eimear told me you wanted a shooting instructor. That can’t be good.”

“Oh, I don’t know ... I’m not sure now ... It wasn’t for me.”

“If you need ... protection ... you’d do better with self defense classes. I know a great guy for that. Mean and dirty, New York street fighting. None of that oriental stuff. No Kung Fu.”

Catherine snorted. “No egg fu yung? I think we know the same guy.” She hesitated – considered her next words – but Eimear called them to the tea table and soon, Martin followed through the archway with Rosie on his arm.

“Everything all right at work, Eim?” Flynn asked.

“Fine, it was ... You know ... Just Helen, relaying some messages.” Eimear’s face flushed and her hand shook as she poured the first steaming cup.

“You sure?” Catherine asked.

Rosie looked sharply at Eimear’s face. “What is it, Eim? Your face looks funny.”

Eimear shook her head. “Thanks so much, Ro. It’s nothing, just a little work stuff. It can wait until Monday to sort out. It’s nothing,” she repeated. “Flynn, I put the pasta in the ovens and set the timer. After tea, we’ll all pitch in with the salad making. You remembered the bread, didn’t you Rosie?”

“Joe’s bringing it. He has an ‘in’ with some special baker, he said. What do you know about that, Catherine?”

“Joe has ‘ins’ with a lot of bakers. He has a weakness for pastry too. He particularly likes Rocco’s.”

“Ah, a weakness,” Rosie smiled. “I’ll exploit that knowledge if I can.”

“If you need to.” Catherine teased. “When will he be here?”

“Soon, I think. Is he the kind that’s always right on the button?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll have to take his watch from him then, maybe help him lose the constraints of time tonight.”

“Slip the surly bonds of earth is more like it,” Martin suggested.(3) “He’s a goner, he is.”

“Next weekend, we’ll have the installation ceremony. Catherine, you’ll have to come back.” Rosie said, pulling out a chair.

“What happens at that?”

“We’ll christen it with some Guinness and Martin will wail and gnash his teeth some more, but he’ll bless it and then play us a lovely tune. He always has, every time I’ve finished a big project.”

Martin fussed with the cookies, pretending to huff, then sagged in mock defeat. “I have no fight against these two. “Love conquers all things. Let us surrender to love.” (4)

“Virgil,” Catherine said.

“You know The Ecologues?” Martin was surprised. “That marks the second obscure quotation I’ve thrown out that someone knew. Just last night I....” He interrupted himself. “I’m losing my touch. I must study up.”

_____________


The direction was wrong. Nothing in his blood agreed with this route, this choice. There was only the pull to the mysterious wall, to the music at the stairs...to Catherine....

Two rope footbridges lay between his camp and the first junction and one more after that on the way to the western site. These tunnels were long unused and this particular section under Van Cortland Park, a passage without communication pipes, seemed particularly dank and eerie. Vincent’s thoughts were loud in his mind, and in the perfect silence of Below, his anger and annoyance, his frustration, seemed to echo and ricochet before him. He headed into the cloud of it, breathed it...became it.

He felt himself winding tight even as he willed himself calm. His thoughts, his feelings, were in ebb and flow like a turbulent surf, resentment following concern, sympathy crashing after disdain. Misgiving and pique nagged at his footsteps, and the farther he traveled from Catherine’s presence, the more indignant he grew. Words, muttered into the darkness, sharp and bitter from his tongue, fell like stones to his path. He trampled them, kicked and shoved at them, and they stung his feet.


click HERE for Chapter 18
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(1) G. K. Chesterton. The Strange Music. 1915.
(2) I Carry Your Heart. Chapter 3. Counterparts.
(3) John Gillespie Magee, Jr. High Flight. 1941.
(4) Virgil. Ecologues. 44-38 BC.