grandfather and about an illegal abortionist’s possibly unsanitary operating room. Pay attention to her own affairs. Sit down. Get back to work.
She stood looking down at the computer for a long minute. Then at the kitchen table she picked up the soda bread, threw it into the garbage, and went out and got on her bike.
* * *
Tousle-haired old McIntyre grinned when he looked up and saw Torrey standing there. He was at his usual table in O’Malley’s. “You’re in pursuit of me, I wouldn’t doubt.” He put down his newspaper. “Could be that I’m your true love.”
“Close, very close.” When he had reminisced in his lyrical tenor voice, she’d felt there were things almost within her grasp. She saw Columbus sailing toward a shore that might, after all, be a mirage, but then again, what was that, glimpsed low at the horizon? Shadow of a cloud? Or substance?
She sat down. “So then? They fell in love?”
* * *
McIntyre had ordered O’Malley’s special noontime lunch with his pint. Two sausages, fried potatoes, cabbage, pot of tea. Torrey did the same. Not a word about it would McIntyre say until he’d cut into the first sausage and chewed it about. “More than adequate.” Then, sometimes resting fork and knife against the edge of his plate, he talked. “Love? Do you know the word spoor? ” At her nod, McIntyre too nodded. “Spoor! Some would call it that. Some would say desire. When young Ashenden came into the pub and saw Kathleen, it was like a terrible desire, take my word. Something he had to get out of his system, like some evanescent childhood illness — chicken pox, measles, whooping cough — something to go through on the way to become an adult. I imagine it so.
“But the young man found himself trapped in the illness. He had been careful, but grievously he’d not been careful enough. And she? At his touch, she had flowered. She was bewildered, but happy, and in love.” McIntyre speared a sausage. “They used to call it ‘with child.’ When I was a boy I’d imagine the woman’s breasts becoming tender, mysterious things happening so that her skin became more flushed, her eye brighter, her mouth fuller. With one like Kathleen Brady, I saw it happen, that flowering.”
McIntyre’s own eyes were brighter. “Ah, what a flowering!”
“And him? Ashenden?”
A gulp of Guinness. “What would you say? A Catholic girl, uneducated, and him recovering from that disease, desire. Spoor evaporated. That blinding crystal fell from his eyes. He saw again. Saw that in a year, he’d have his medical license, an office in Dublin, a wealthy practice, a social life, beautiful, educated, marriageable young women.”
“But he married her, Mr. McIntyre. He did the only decent thing, he married Kathleen Brady.”
“Decent? My dear Ms. Tunet, I would not necessarily say decent. I would possibly say cornered. ”
“How, cornered?”
“I ruminated back then, Ms. Tunet, over why. I do not know. I can guess. His parents? You’d have thought the Ashendens would have found a way to obstruct such a marriage, when they discovered — and by chance they discovered it, they were not told — that Kathleen Brady was pregnant by their son.”
“Yes. I would have thought — not being cynical, only realistic about how people, influenced by society —”
“Hogwash. There are people and there are extraordinary people. Gerald Ashenden’s parents were extraordinary. Not religious people. I think they bundled it all together: Catholic or Protestant, Old Testament or New, Buddism, Judaism, Confucianism, the like. Polite, didn’t talk about it.
“Ethical, that was it. Old Miles Ashenden had a maxim, ‘Don’t do that which, if everybody did, it would destroy society.’ Can you top that one, Ms. Tunet?”
“Not even if hard-pressed, Mr. McIntyre.”
“Indeed! Indeed! I can see it, the elderly old father, white-mustached, he was, in the library with young Ashenden, ‘Who do you
She stood looking down at the computer for a long minute. Then at the kitchen table she picked up the soda bread, threw it into the garbage, and went out and got on her bike.
* * *
Tousle-haired old McIntyre grinned when he looked up and saw Torrey standing there. He was at his usual table in O’Malley’s. “You’re in pursuit of me, I wouldn’t doubt.” He put down his newspaper. “Could be that I’m your true love.”
“Close, very close.” When he had reminisced in his lyrical tenor voice, she’d felt there were things almost within her grasp. She saw Columbus sailing toward a shore that might, after all, be a mirage, but then again, what was that, glimpsed low at the horizon? Shadow of a cloud? Or substance?
She sat down. “So then? They fell in love?”
* * *
McIntyre had ordered O’Malley’s special noontime lunch with his pint. Two sausages, fried potatoes, cabbage, pot of tea. Torrey did the same. Not a word about it would McIntyre say until he’d cut into the first sausage and chewed it about. “More than adequate.” Then, sometimes resting fork and knife against the edge of his plate, he talked. “Love? Do you know the word spoor? ” At her nod, McIntyre too nodded. “Spoor! Some would call it that. Some would say desire. When young Ashenden came into the pub and saw Kathleen, it was like a terrible desire, take my word. Something he had to get out of his system, like some evanescent childhood illness — chicken pox, measles, whooping cough — something to go through on the way to become an adult. I imagine it so.
“But the young man found himself trapped in the illness. He had been careful, but grievously he’d not been careful enough. And she? At his touch, she had flowered. She was bewildered, but happy, and in love.” McIntyre speared a sausage. “They used to call it ‘with child.’ When I was a boy I’d imagine the woman’s breasts becoming tender, mysterious things happening so that her skin became more flushed, her eye brighter, her mouth fuller. With one like Kathleen Brady, I saw it happen, that flowering.”
McIntyre’s own eyes were brighter. “Ah, what a flowering!”
“And him? Ashenden?”
A gulp of Guinness. “What would you say? A Catholic girl, uneducated, and him recovering from that disease, desire. Spoor evaporated. That blinding crystal fell from his eyes. He saw again. Saw that in a year, he’d have his medical license, an office in Dublin, a wealthy practice, a social life, beautiful, educated, marriageable young women.”
“But he married her, Mr. McIntyre. He did the only decent thing, he married Kathleen Brady.”
“Decent? My dear Ms. Tunet, I would not necessarily say decent. I would possibly say cornered. ”
“How, cornered?”
“I ruminated back then, Ms. Tunet, over why. I do not know. I can guess. His parents? You’d have thought the Ashendens would have found a way to obstruct such a marriage, when they discovered — and by chance they discovered it, they were not told — that Kathleen Brady was pregnant by their son.”
“Yes. I would have thought — not being cynical, only realistic about how people, influenced by society —”
“Hogwash. There are people and there are extraordinary people. Gerald Ashenden’s parents were extraordinary. Not religious people. I think they bundled it all together: Catholic or Protestant, Old Testament or New, Buddism, Judaism, Confucianism, the like. Polite, didn’t talk about it.
“Ethical, that was it. Old Miles Ashenden had a maxim, ‘Don’t do that which, if everybody did, it would destroy society.’ Can you top that one, Ms. Tunet?”
“Not even if hard-pressed, Mr. McIntyre.”
“Indeed! Indeed! I can see it, the elderly old father, white-mustached, he was, in the library with young Ashenden, ‘Who do you
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