Iron Behind the Velvet - Chapter 32

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~ The Subtle Electric Fire¹

(some adult content)




Steam billowed into her bedroom, swept from the bath in suspiring wisps through the balcony door left slightly, hopefully ajar. She stepped outside. The last mists swirled about her, vanishing like dreams upon awakening. The sun rose into a pale blue sky, shaded pastel to jewel in streaks of rose and copper and amethyst, though in the west dark clouds roiled at the horizon. She’d take her umbrella, just in case.

Seated at her dressing table, she pulled a comb through wet hair and searched for her watch, finding it wedged in the cityscape of perfume bottles. When she pulled at the band, the face inched into clear view and she frowned at the position of the hands.

Within the roar of the blow dryer, she struggled to clear a space in her mind for the day ahead. The hours just past, the hours with Eimear and Rosie and Martin ... with Vincent ... held her fast. But there was a bag on her couch bulging with work and in the very place she’d dropped it Friday night, and her answering machine, flush with messages, blinked with reproach underneath the pillow she’d heaped upon it on a trip to the kitchen for water. She silenced the tool. On the streets below, the blare and screech of traffic was a discordant symphony. I’ve snagged front-row center tickets, she muttered. And I don’t want to go.

The doors still unfastened, a purl of air circled the room. It riffled the bedding, the ribbons of her gown where it spilled across the bench ... murmured against her skin, a feathered touch. When she whirled, she was alone, but her bed, the covers thrown aside, a pillow lengthwise bearing yet the imprint of her zealous embrace, called her back. If only, she thought, turning again to the mirror, where her reflection wavered silvery ...

One morning Vincent led her to this stool, having washed her hair in the shower, having massaged away the jarring predawn alarm with gentle circles at her temples and behind her ears, having held her in the lock of one arm, her head cradled in his hand and just beneath the spray. He bent to her, touched his tongue to the water pooled in the hollows of her collarbone ... wrapped her in white, urged her to sit ... teased out the tangles he apologized for making.

She watched the glass, where his every move was a blessing she counted – a shift of his feet, the flexing muscle of flank, of abdomen, the hitching-up of the towel draped low on narrow hips. Her hair lay cool against her shoulders, stroked into ridges and valleys away from her face. He gathered a strand, spiraled it between his thumb and forefinger, pulled down its length ...

“Catherine. So dark, like honey secreted deep within the comb.”

Behind her he knelt and loosed the tuck of her wrap. It fell in folds around her.

He parted her hair, swept the smooth wings forward and with a slow exhale and then his lips, he warmed her nape, his tongue and teeth grazing the cords of her neck. Against the kisses down the valley of her spine, against the velvet rasp of beard, she arched into his hands; her nipples pearled ... caught in the V of his fingers. She cried out when he abandoned her breasts but his mouth was on the small of her back; his hands were sliding over her thighs, slipping between her knees. He’d carried her to bed.

“How sweet, Catherine. So sweet.”

There had been a moment – fleeting, imponderable – when above her his eyes darkened from cloudless sky to glittered cobalt. A moment when his skin flushed the color of thunder in the dark of night. When his voice ... descended.

Look away ...

She’d swear she heard him speak, though not with her ears, the demand resonating beneath her breastbone. There was a cooling of her skin. He’d raised his head, averted his gaze ... had ceased his long, gifting stroke. With nothing more than will, she brought his face ‘round to hers. His hair fell in a golden curtain to her shoulders, shimmering in the candlelight, closing out the world.

She shook her head – slowly – denying him this one thing. No.

And then from his lips, rushed as if a flame were tipped to long-stacked tinder ...

Catherine ... I am. I ... am ...

A sudden saber of light dimmed her vision to black. She was weightless with him, rocked in the eddy of the nameless river, wrapped with him, the surly bonds of earth slipped, the darkness a rapture and a glory ...

After he’d departed, she took a second shower. Under the pulsing spray, she wondered if she’d seen ... if she’d heard ...

Even now, she wasn't entirely sure. What he'd said to her on the rooftop ...

All that we will never know 

If I no longer deny 

If I give the darkness freedom

She opened her eyes to her reflection and the sun streaming in, to that truth beyond knowledge ...

Our bond, Catherine. In concurrence.

A second alarm rang, set the night before as insurance against her anticipated reluctance. This won’t do, she thought. With a weak laugh, she pushed away from her dresser. In the kitchen, she went straight for the kettle, filling it with water from the five-gallon bottle on its stand in the corner, setting it on the flame.

Owww, she thought, rotating her shoulders. An ache plucked at her. Is that from sleeping on the ground? Still? She touched her forehead with the back of her hand. Am I getting sick? I really shouldn’t be tired. She ran the tap water hot to warm her mug and the glass press, then leaned her hip against the counter to wait for the whistle. And I really should get going ...

Water was delivered to her now, water captured from the mineral spring at the ledge at the falls. Every Monday morning, she found two bottles at her door. On the rare occasions when she made after-theater coffee for friends or had people over for dinner, someone would demand to know why the taste of their water, purchased from the same company as her bottle’s label, seemed different. She could only shrug and shake her head. At least she could – and did – direct them to her coffee seller.

Phillip and Iris. Last fall at Mary’s birthday party, she’d met the helpers who for years had supplied William with the green beans he roasted himself and Father with his favored British blend of tea, one she herself loved, a delicate, smokey cup, winey and rich with malt. Father greeted each new packet of loose leaves with the glee of a child on Christmas morning.

She was with Sebastian at the railing in the Great Hall, watching as Vincent led Mary to the floor for the first dance of the evening. With his arms braced on the bannister, his hands clasped, Sebastian sighed and hung his head. "How long is long enough?" he’d mumbled. Days later when she thought of it, she assumed his question was for her, for Vincent.

A burst of conversation captured her attention. A few steps away, William stood with two guests, a man only a inch or two taller than Catherine and a woman surely six feet tall. It was satisfactory, William announced, to roast just once each week. Each kitchen assistant was assigned a turn with the hand-cranked roaster and then the grinder, though relief might appear, he said, chuckling, should someone have been caught rummaging the pantry shelves after hours.

“Three or four hooligans, an hour each,” William said, turning to hurry away. “That gets her done.” Already he waved a warning at Kipper and Geoffrey skulking too near the keg of home brew.

“One should roast every day, just enough,” Phillip called out. “I’ve told you and told you. Begged you.” His lips turned down and Iris took his arm, patting it with such sympathy, Catherine was sure she saw tears form in the corners of their eyes.

“I could use some coffee advice,” Catherine said.

“Ah,” Philip sighed, his smile sudden, startling against his espresso-colored skin. “Let me guess. Decent one day, oily murk the next? You’ve tried three machines, each more expensive than the last and it’s still a crapshoot?”

Catherine nodded. “How did–” Iris led her down the stairs to a small table, where she and Phillip settled into chairs, their faces solemn and their eyes wide.

“Tell us,” they said as one, bending forward to listen. “We can help you too.”

They asked for her address and the next Saturday her telephone rang at eight-thirty in the morning. She was just in from her run and had a day’s work spread over her dining table. Visitor, her doorman announced.

And then Iris was at her door, the handle of a large canvas shopping bag gripped in both hands. She sniffed the air and a sadness creased her face. “I just can’t let you go on living like this, burning it. I’ve brought you the fix for ... for ...” she sputtered, eyeing the coffee maker steaming on the sideboard.

Catherine laughed and ushered her inside. She marched to the dining area and removed the carafe, hurrying it to the sink. She unplugged the newest machine and set it outside on the balcony. “Out of sight,” she said, dusting her hands.

Iris unpacked a bag of fragrant beans and two French presses, one tall, the other a miniature version in a filigreed silver cage. “I know you young women are too busy to roast, but if you’ll grind every morning or ...” She swallowed hard and lifted a black box grinder from her bag. “Or every other morning. See, you sit down and hold this one between your legs. Perhaps Vincent ...” She looked around the room, then back at her, her expression unreadable. “We’ll send you something special along. Please, please promise me. Promise me you’ll never buy–” Iris broke off with a grimace of pain.

“Promise,” Catherine said and crossed her heart.

That afternoon, the first bottles of water were delivered. “Benny!” she cried when she answered his knock.

“Nope. Jimmy. But I know you, Catherine. I’ve delivered a few messages to you on the bike. Never time to explain.”

“You’re ... twins?”

He shrugged and grinned and trundled the dolly with its cargo back and forth.

Soon an aromatic package arrived in her mailbox and three days later, another and after that, a third. Not once had they forgotten her – small amounts, a different bean or blend or roast each time. After a week, she admitted defeat and purchased an electric burr grinder from Berceli’s, though lately Vincent had taken on the task of grinding, seated on the undersized chair in her kitchen, the hand-tool clamped between his knees.

They’d given her directions to their store written in squared script on the back of a business card imprinted only with their names. Not all that far from St. Vincent’s hospital, she’d mused. Or from Rosie’s shop, she realized now. Their store was a treasure trove of aroma and sight and sound. And people. Rosie would love it. Eimear too. I wonder if they know each other?

The kettle chirped and she snapped off the burner. With a longing look at the larger pot, she measured in the coarse grounds and streamed water into the single server, twisted the timer’s dial and began the five-minute wait.

Forever ago, she sighed, and it seemed so, though only two weeks had passed since he’d been with her, here in the kitchen in the blue-dark of morning. She'd stood at the stovetop waiting for the wail of the whistle and he was behind her wearing the soft robe she’d found for him, his hands at her waist, his cheek turned to her crown. A minute ticked by; a rustle like wind in the treetops gathered within the kettle. He tightened his grip and she felt the quickening of his breath, the press of his desire against her. He nuzzled at her neck ...

Oh, Catherine. The excitement.²

She shut off the flame, turned to him, tugged away the belt of his robe. Yes, she said, backing him through the doorway. The excitement.

She’d given him no chance to undress. The plush fabric spread beneath him on the bed, she moved over him, tasting him ... the knob of his ankle, the ridge of muscle at his knee. She dipped her tongue into his navel, pressing her smile against his skin when he flinched. It tickled, she knew. Afterward, she pushed his arms above his head, sliding her own inside the wide sleeves, lacing her fingers with his. His ribcage heaved and she rested there until thought returned, until words ...

She drew back her arms and cuddled to his side, reaching for the hem of the robe, smoothing it up and over his chest. This color, Vincent. So beautiful on you. It was yours, the moment I saw it.

What do you call it, this color, he’d asked. His fingers again interlaced with hers, he brushed both their hands across the rich patterned pile, laughed when she told him, sighed and closed his arms around her.

Lion, she’d whispered. It’s called Lion.

She wore his robe now, craving the scent of him, though in the few weeks of his possession, there’d been little opportunity for it to acquire his cedary-sandalwood, amber-musk scent. Still, she wrapped herself tighter within its embrace. The timer dinged. She poured and stirred and sipped, but found her first cup of coffee not as tasty taken alone.

All the clocks of her kitchen – the stove, the microwave, the radio – glared at her. Over the rim of her mug, she glared back and tried to shuttle her meandering thoughts into the channel of work. Should she leave in the next twenty minutes, she’d be just pardonably late, but there was unsorted mail on her dining table and the sun lit the balcony. Pulling back the curtains, she remembered Rosie demanding Joe’s watch, that he’d pocketed it with a dazed expression. If she were lucky, he might be unaware of the hour.

Her second cup of coffee half-finished, she studied the donor’s flyer from the Naumburg Orchestra, pleased to see Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings on the summer concert schedule. He loves that one. The center spread was a lush illustration, two emerald-colored pages edged with Celtic ornamentation. Stanford’s Irish Rhapsodies! The entire series! The performances were set for June and July, but she ached to tell him now.

Reaching for her checkbook, a captivating vision took shape. Together under the bandshell, beneath the first row ... pillowed and blanketed from the stone and cold. Eimear was there. And Flynn. And Rosie too ... her hand in Joe’s.

In a flood, the depth and breadth of the past days washed over her. Rosie’s sculpture ... it was Vincent ... she should know him. Vincent ... grateful now for that night under the full moon. He should tell her. Eimear ... his shirt in her hands. I want to share all of this.

We have to ... do something, Vincent. We must. Months ago, there was Flynn and his pain was your pain. I saw it in his eyes. And Eimear, the meaning of her name.³ I remember what you told me, what Brigit said about you, about Cú Chulainn.⁴ Then I saw her again ... Eimear ... in Rosie’s shop and found the gift I brought to you, the bronze and the geode.⁵ Now Rosie’s shop again, the marble angel, her story. Your story. The music you heard. The entry within the wall. And Martin. You spoke to him. You told me you did. There’s something true between us, between us all. So little separates us. I feel it. It’s warm and good and for the first time I think I could ...

But guilt surged, curling over, breaking on her shoulders. How can I think of myself? Kanin. Is he back? Is he all right? Could it be Mitch, back to plague us all? It can’t be. It just ... can’t. But even if it weren’t, the worst must be considered, the unnamed threat beaten back with stone-fall and craft.

With effort and fortitude. His ... and hers as well.

In Rosie’s apartment above her shop, there was a photograph from World War II, faded to sepia tones. Grand Central Station, a shaft of morning light. A man in uniform, frozen in half-turn, a stoic wave to a smiling wife and saluting son. How I miss him. But others had suffered longer ... and more, she scolded herself, reminded of Olivia – distraught and anxious. Of Kanin – bewildered and self-condemning.

The bond between them – the singing wire of her mind and heart – was a mystery, but she couldn’t ... wouldn’t ... burden him. She deflected the stab of dread icy beneath her ribs. Corralled her yearning to confide, for revelation. Consoled her restless self with memory, with the anticipation of reunion.

Faith. Courage. A chord struck in her heart.

I have that. I do. And patience. If I’ve learned anything ...

She folded her arms on the table and lowered her chin to rest, her gaze gliding over the changed apartment. A half-dozen trips to her basement storage locker and a few keepsakes gleaned from her father’s things did not adequately replace the things she’d moved Below. The rooms seemed smaller somehow, duller, less ... purposed. Of the few friends visiting in the last weeks, only Jenny remarked on the variations. Raising her brows, giving her a pointed look, she stared at the sculpture returned to its stand by her door. “Oh. The horns are back,” she said, lapsing into a short but awkward silence.

Her head hurt even to imagine the bright lights of her office, the din and argument, the attack she’d have to make on a teetering stack of affidavits and motions. Here the big storm is still on … ⁶ She turned her cheek to her arms, wishing the day were over, that it was nighttime, that she could expect the soft, tentative tap he still gave before crossing her threshold.

When this is done, when your work is finished and you’ve come home, we’ll talk about Helpers, won’t we, Vincent? And how it is that some come to be your ... our ... friends?

Like birds’ wings against a window, there was a skittering sound. A tapping. Someone at the door? Probably Jimmy with the water. She rose, remembering the empty bottles in her kitchen.


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He sat up, scooted backward to lean against the wall, raising his knees into the circle of his arms. Even with the borrowed mattress and the pillow he’d found crushed at the center of the bedroll, the stone seemed cold and unforgiving. He’d slept, but the hour was fitful and fraught with dreams. The night before, with Catherine in the crook of his arm, with her under his cloak curled to him on his pallet, he’d taken the bare ground beside her, slipping easily into the deep meditation that gave him true rest. But now his thoughts were unsettled, a tangled skein of determination, annoyance, curiosity and delight. A part of him was far away in the most northern tunnels, methodically laying stone upon stone, closing old doorways, opening new and secret portals. Working with focus and intensity to finish, to succeed. A part of him held Kanin in a steely grip, whispered cold consequence into his ear, sent him home ... or gone. His mind replayed the past hours of conversation Above, the past days of magnetic pull that would not be denied. Like a heartbeat, Flynn’s name sounded, repeated ... behind it, Martin’s promise ... bráithre.

And overarching, both understory and canopy, everything ...

Catherine.

A blush crept up from his collar. He tried to shake it away with a toss of his head, but the vision came, all his senses gathered up, his memories nearly tangible in the low lantern light. She was liquid jewel beneath him – ruby and emerald, rose-tourmaline and topaz – on a bed of ivory. The keenness of her fire was his, the taste of her nectar on his tongue. More than the desire to possess, he wanted ... yes ... to be one ... with her, to transfigure to a new and brilliant being. She was the giver of stars.⁷

Once ...

Once he’d come so close and now he’d vowed to her to no longer deny ...

At his temple, a rubber hammer struck an anvil once ... twice. Again. He rubbed his face, reached for the canteen Mouse had left for him. Splashed his cheeks and neck, drank long and deep. He rocked forward, rose to his feet.

Miles to go, he said to no one, his head tipped back, a fog creeping in, clouding his thoughts. And promises to keep.⁸


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A note came slipping under her door, the butter-yellow envelope Father favored for correspondence. She started across the floor to retrieve it, but jumped and froze at the ring of her telephone. Despite being muffled, the sound still blared. Joe, she expected, but when the answering machine picked up, she heard Jenny’s voice.

Where are you, Cathy? I called you yesterday at least eight times! I need to talk to you. Today. Call me or I’m coming to your office.

Well, that explains the messages, most of them anyway, she thought. For a long moment, she stood at the telephone table, then removed the pillow. The counter blinked a double digit. The erase button was a strong temptation, but instead, she turned on her heel.

Sharply creased in precise thirds, the heavy paper bore an invitation –

We miss you, Catherine. I miss you. I’d be honored ~ pleased ~ if you’d join me for supper tonight or at least a late tea?

I am, ever your loving father,

Jacob

Not so long ago, she’d have rejoiced at such a request. How far we’ve come! But how can I go for supper? How can I go Below at all, unless I hear from Vincent. Unless I have news of Kanin’s return. I can’t lie to Father or pretend with Olivia to know nothing. Aniela said she would call, but who knows where I’ll be this morning. She took a surreptitious look at the clock on her mantle and groaned.

No water delivery greeted her when she opened her door and stepped into the hallway. Juggling her briefcase and purse and a folder of notes she should read in the taxi, she scooted the two empty jugs over the threshold with her foot and fumbled her key into the locks. The elevator was crowded with glum passengers and she fit right in.


Share? We're going your way.


It was her neighbor, a man she'd met in the storage area late one afternoon. She'd been on her way Below and had to waste a precious hour sorting a box for the second time, waiting for privacy. He'd been eager to talk, though mostly about himself. Now he held the cab’s door open for her and she climbed in, smiling a hello at the woman already pressed against the window. The driver screeched away from the curb just as Benny sailed past on his bike, his hair flying, a pink bubble of gum forced roundly into the wind. Craning her neck to the rear window, she saw Jimmy’s battered wood-paneled station wagon nose into the empty space, but squeezed between two people already busy with calculators and spreadsheets, she had no hope of exiting the lurching car. She’d never seen the brothers together. With a flounce, she settled into her seat, acquiescing to the demands of the day. The sky had darkened and a spatter of rain drilled the roof overhead.

Drat. I forgot my umbrella.






Click HERE for Chapter 33

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1. Walt Whitman. Oh, you whom I often and silently come … from Song of Myself. Leaves of Grass. 1860.
2. Frank McCourt. from Angela's Ashes and 'Tis. "The Excitement" is his term for lovemaking.
3. from I Carry Your Heart. Chapter 3. Counterparts.
4. Season 1. Masques.
5. from I Carry Your Heart. Chapter 7. Love-Throb in the Heart.
6. Rainer Maria Rilke. Letters to Clara Rilke. August 17. 1904.
7. Amy Lowell. The Giver of Stars. from Sword Blades and Poppy Seed. 1914.
8. Robert Frost. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. 1923.