Malarkey (24 page)

"You're probably right," Jay murmured. It's possible that
Dad was reassured. I wasn't.

I unlocked the door. Jay disabled the alarm system.

Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row
and a ruction soon began

Irish song

Jay fixed Denver omelets for dinner. Afterwards, Dad took
one of his books downstairs to read in bed. Jay and I stayed in the
kitchen. It was my turn to wash dishes. I soaked the flatware first. I
wash the flatware, then the plates. Jay does the opposite. Go
figure.

As we cleared the table, and scraped and stacked the
dinnerware, I could feel tension rising like the steam from the
dishwater. I suppose there were too many unspoken reproaches
between us.

"So you're flying home this weekend." I cleaned egg from the
tines of a fork.

Jay gave an assenting grunt.

"Nice of you to let me know."

"Wasn't it?" He doled dried spoons onto a cloth.

"I guess you like surprises." Plop went the spatula into the
rinse water.

"Love 'em." He dried the forks.

I lowered the three plates we had used into the dishpan. "I
was surprised, speaking of surprises, that Joe Kennedy let you enter
the cottage all by yourself with a putative burglar on the premises.
That must have been a kick."

"Pure adrenaline."

"I'm beginning to see how your mind works. You object to it
when I take risks. When you do, it's okay."

"If you're referring to the risk you took when you went for a
walk in Stanyon Woods, you're right. I do object. It was a stupid thing
to do. Also inconsiderate. I know you don't give a rat's ass about
scaring me, but you might stop to consider what your father would
have felt if something had happened to you."

"Let me deal with Dad in my own inadequate way." I
dumped a plate in the water. "The Gardai had searched the woods
thoroughly, it was broad daylight, and I am not incapable of
defending myself. I also run very fast. As you know. I can outrun
you."

"That's childish."

I scoured the omelet pan with vicious energy.

He went on in a quieter voice, "Why did you do it?"

I took a breath. "That was the day you came. I went for a
walk because I wanted to be alone. I came to Ireland because I
wanted to be alone."

"You told me that in Shoalwater. I was trying to
accommodate you—"

"When I landed myself in another mess. So you mounted up
on your white horse and charged to the rescue. Thanks. I needed
your vote of confidence."

Jay dried the three plates without speaking.

I squeezed the sponge and began wiping the nearest
counter.

"I wish you'd consider my viewpoint." He set the skillet on
the Rayburn. His voice was so quiet I barely heard him.

I turned. "I do consider it. Whatever you may think, I don't
go out of my way to worry you. I didn't choose to find a corpse in the
potting shed. I understand your viewpoint," I repeated, louder, as if
he were going deaf. "It's my own viewpoint I'm having trouble
with."

"That doesn't make sense."

"You're a strong personality, Jay. You're older than I am,
more experienced. I respect that, but I won't let you blot me
out."

"Christ!"

"I have to figure out who I am." He was going to hear that as
the cliché it was. Unfortunately it was also true.

"I don't think we're talking about Stanyon Woods."

"In a sense we are. I entered the woods because I had to
enter the woods."

He shoved the dried plates into the cupboard with
unnecessary force. "I said I thought you'd fight fair. Is it fair to accuse
me of trying to blot you out? Is it, Lark?"

"I didn't mean..."

"You're not accusing me of trying to off you." He leaned his
hands on the counter, head down. "I can grasp that. So what the hell
do you mean, blot you out? I've never forced you to do
anything."

I was making pointless circles on the surface of the table
with my damp sponge. "It's hard to put into words. And I don't think
you're trying to erase me, even metaphorically. It's not what you're
doing or not doing. It's who you are."

"Can I help who I am? You don't leave me much room to
maneuver."

"When I came to Ireland, I was trying to give us both some
room."

He whirled. "Don't lay that on me, lady. That was not my
choice." He was really angry, eyes a darker brown than usual, mouth
set.

I held his gaze. "I feel useless. Your coming over here made
me feel more useless."

"Useless! For God's sake, Lark—"

"Useless," I repeated. My voice was starting to shake. "And
incompetent."

He pulled a chair and sat slowly. "So tell me what you want
me to do."

"I don't know." I threw the sponge at the sink. "If you'd
asked me that when you first came I would have said go home. Now I
don't know. You're here. I guess we'll have to work it out."

"Do you want to work it out?" He sounded tired, his anger
seeping away.

"Of course I do."

"Well, that's something."

I had a very strong urge to throw my arms around Jay and
hang on for dear life. But that was part of the problem. After a
moment, I said carefully, "I'm going to turn in early. It was a tiring
day. When does the locksmith arrive?"

"Around ten."

"Are you coming down?"

"Not yet."

"Shall I reset the burglar alarm?"

He stood up. "I'll do it. I'm going to work on George's papers
for a while. Good night."

I was too tense to fall asleep at once. I tried reading
Phineas Finn
. It is a very masculine novel. I was having
viewpoint problems. A lot of them. I shut the light off and stared at
the darkened ceiling for a long time.

I heard my father turning pages in his room and hoped our
quarrel hadn't carried downstairs. Dad's light clicked off and the
darkness deepened. I heard Jay walking around. Dad snored a little.
After a while everything went quiet. Outside, the trees and bushes
whispered in the light wind. Rain brushed the window. I didn't try to
think because I wasn't ready to. If I tried to think, my mind would
move in circles. Spirals. Long elegant double spirals.

When I woke, it was barely dawn, and Jay was not beside
me. I froze in panic for a moment and then forced myself to relax.
When I had dressed in my exercise suit and thick socks, I carried my
shoes upstairs. Jay was asleep on the couch with the light on and the
computer plugged in. He didn't stir as I tiptoed through the room.
Dad's notes lay in neatly labeled folders on the kitchen table.

I stood in my stocking feet for a long time, staring at the
folders. Then I sat down and put on my shoes. I even remembered to
disable the alarm before I opened the door.

I ran on Suicide Lane all the way to Killaveen. Nobody was
awake, not even the dogs that make a runner's life hazardous. I ran
past the pub and along the road by the fishing stream. I looped up
and around the village and down past the Garda station. A light
shone, but the place looked empty.

On the way back to Stanyon, I saw a patrol car headed the
other way. It was Joe Kennedy. He waved and I waved. Then I ran
down the curving drive to the rhododendrons. I didn't stop to look at
the Steins' fake castle. As I approached the cottage, I slowed to a jog
and then a walk. In the slanting eastern light the woods looked
inviting. Sunlight sparkled on the pond. I walked along the grassy
rim, watching the ducks, until my breathing slowed. Then I went into
the cottage and made a pot of coffee.

Jay was still asleep, but frowning, restless. I showered and
changed into jeans and a tee shirt. On impulse, I carried the duvet
upstairs and covered Jay. He had fallen asleep in his shirtsleeves and
must have been cold. He made a vague interrogatory noise and
burrowed into the cover.

Dad came upstairs as I was stirring a pot of oatmeal. "Jay's
asleep on the sofa. Is something wrong?"

"He worked on your notes for a while after I went to bed. He
probably didn't want to wake me. Coffee?"

"Mmm." Dad touched the stack of folders. "He shouldn't
have done all that. It must have taken hours."

"It's okay, Dad."

He didn't look convinced, but he drank a cup of coffee and I
ate porridge without complaint. We went for a short walk together,
came back, and drank another cup of coffee while Dad riffled through
the folders. At that point, Jay woke. He walked into the kitchen
unshaven, crumpled, and yawning. I poured coffee and handed it to
him.

When he had drunk half a cup, Dad said, "I'm in your debt,
Jay. These are in better order than before the break-in. Thank you
very much indeed."

Jay blinked at the folder. "S'okay. They were more
interesting than my students' reports." He took another swallow.
"What time is it?"

"Nine."

"Hell, the locksmith will be here in an hour." He set the cup
on the table half-finished. "Anybody need the shower?" He headed
downstairs. Presently I heard water running.

My father said, "You quarreled, didn't you?"

"Yes, but not to the death. We're speaking."

"That's good." He looked unhappy.

I sighed. "Don't worry about it, Dad. Tell Jay you want to go
fishing this afternoon. I'll drive you to Killaveen."

He brightened. "We could do that." His face fell. "But it's too
sunny out for decent fishing."

"You don't really have to catch anything, do you? Go sit on a
rock and think, or whatever it is the two of you do when you
fish."

"Maybe it will cloud over." Dad has a hopeful
disposition.

Jay agreed to carry the garbage sack to the dumpster if I
double-bagged it. He returned sooner than I expected and said there
was a camera crew at Stanyon. He had responded to their questions
in Spanish, an old trick. It worked. They got a good shot of the
garbage sack.

The locksmith turned out to be as taciturn as Toss Tierney
was loquacious. He finished installing new locks on both doors in
less than an hour. The alarm system interested him, but he declined
a cup of tea and drove off in short order, a model of efficiency. All the
same, I would have laid odds that Toss did better business.

Jay called in to the Garda station and reported the changed
locks. He said he talked to Constable Byrne. Joe was off interviewing
Tommy Tierney. I felt sorry for Tommy's mother.

After lunch I drove the two men to Killaveen. The pub was
just closing, but they caught the publican in time to rent gear. I left
them deep in fish talk and went shopping in Arklow.

I strolled around for a while, admiring the town. I bought a
guide to the area in the lone bookstore. There was an Indian take-out
and a full-blown Chinese restaurant. The shops in the High Street
looked reasonably prosperous.

When I retrieved the car, I headed up to the roundabout and
spotted a sign for Avoca. So I followed the winding street down to a
secondary highway, reached Woodenbridge by the back way, and
crossed the river twice. In Avoca, I bought a smashing hand-knit
tunic at the famous handweaving establishment, pale turquoise it
was and rather expensive. I ate a scone in the tea shop.

I can't say all that solitary to-ing and fro-ing stabilized my
identity, but it didn't hurt. I waited for Jay and Dad in the pub. This
was not a brilliant idea. Three men tried to buy me beer, two of them
reporters and one a lonesome farmer. I declined all three offers and
sipped Perrier. Eventually Dad and Jay showed up with two fat
brown trout which they had already cleaned. Jay drank a celebratory
beer, and Dad drank a whiskey. I drove.

I was meditating over the trout when I heard the phone ring
in the living room. Jay brought it to the kitchen. "It's Maeve, for
you."

I tucked the phone under my chin. "Hi, Maeve. How's
Dublin?"

"Dear and dirty. Fancy what I uncovered in the library!"

I had no idea what she had found and said so.

"There's no evidence of a survey of Stanyon in the OPW files
and no site on the register. On a hunch, I browsed through a
collection of early nineteenth century works on County Wicklow—
travel journals, diaries, published letters. One English travel diary
gave a detailed account of a visit to the Stanyon estate before the
present house was built."

"Before the woods were planted with conifers?"

"Right. The diary's awful, full of nonsense about prospects of
the river and picturesque natives, but there is a story about an
antiquarian Stanyon, someone's loopy uncle, who did extensive
digging in a mound behind the estate at the end of the eighteenth
century. He found something, a structure, and decided to turn it into
a folly."

"The one Joe said was torn down?" I asked, doubtful.

She tsked. "Joe thinks it was torn down. Who's to know? The
Stanyons have been gone more than fifty years."

"True."

"The book's grand, full of gossip. There a bad sketch of the
folly and a view of the estate. Everything's distorted, out of
proportion, but the artifacts the loopy uncle uncovered sound as if
they might have come from a neolithic grave site!"

"That's uncanny." I was impressed and said so.

She burbled on a bit about the artifacts, all of which had
apparently disappeared long ago. "I've taken the book out, and I'll
bring it to the cottage Thursday around teatime. Shall you be
there?"

"Yes, and I'll tell Dad." And Jay. I would enjoy telling Jay. I
thanked Maeve again, and she hung up.

The Rayburn had no broiler, so I poached the trout with
wine and lemon. Nobody complained. Dad was impressed by
Maeve's find, Jay silent. I considered describing my megalith for
them by way of corroboration, but I didn't. Some things are
private.

After dinner I let Jay give my father a lesson in dishwashing
while I lay on the sofa and read the regional guide. Water sloshed,
their voices rumbled. I heard words like bream and tench that led me
to believe they were talking fish. Fine with me. Jay and I were
speaking to each other, but with a degree of ceremony that made
conversation uncomfortable.