events off stage. Send the information by messenger. Essential, if only because there is always the possibility that the messenger may be wrong.
EIGHT
… this young man is talking to me. This young man wants me to talk to him. Everybody wants me, Sissy O’Hara, to talk to them. It will be a triumph for them. “Sissy talked to me,” they’ll say. “Chatted away, just like old times.” If we talk in this country we’re all right. Silence is death to us. And that’s why my silence frightens them. Let them be frightened! I’m sorry. Let them be frightened. I don’t want to make the sound words make any more. Not me, say I. Not me.
“Mrs. O’Hara? Mrs. O’Hara! Talk to me, Mrs. O’Hara. We’ve been sitting here a while now Mrs. O’Hara.”
We have indeed. And why not sit in silence? Why not live in silence? The Cistercians do. They look radiant. Maybe they’ve got all the answers, since they never ask a question. So you, Brendan Begley, sitting opposite me here, do not ask me for the sound of words. Everyone is hungry for the sound of the word, for the fare of life. We feel we’ll starve without it. And we fear starvation. But I am not hungry. Not for human sound nor for those who make it. I am not hungry for people. Neither the sight nor the sound of them. I am hungry for nothing except what I cannot have. I will starve within and without, without him. What is it that they want from me when they say “Sissy, you have other children”? Should I feed on them? No. And so I eat less and less. They are all worried about me. They think I’m dying. Tom thinks I’m dying. Dying? I’m dead! In the week before Tom finally relented and let me come here he tried one last time to love me back to life. Love! He has such faith in love! He is love! He believes that he can make it course through me—a circulation of love pumping from his heart into my heart—pushing through the veins, pumping and pushing that old rhythm that brought life into the world. He thinks love, his love, can bring me back to life. A man in love never gives up. Never. Tom O’Hara is certain he will not fail in this. And he knows that if he fails in this he is lost. And I know that. I am what he has to show for life. I am all he has to show for life; that his love for me triumphed and the children who followed. Two of them gone …
And still I could not join him. He was holding his heart out to me. There you are, Sissy. Take it. Partake of it. This is my body. The way the Sacred Heart cries out to us in that picture in the kitchen. What a picture in a kitchen! You’ll see His Sacred Heart bleeding in bedrooms and kitchens all over Ireland. But never in sitting rooms, or in none that I’ve seen. No, sitting rooms are for mahogany sideboards and sherry and sherry glasses, Waterford glasses, cut as though by a dentist’s drill into so many peaks of sharpness it’s a wonder we’ve ever had the courage to touch them. And Irish linen napkins, huge with heavy folds you could almost hide an infant in. Polished wood and crystal clarity and white napkins, order, perfect order in sitting rooms and in convent parlours and bleeding hearts in kitchens.
And he brought his bleeding heart to me, and all the bulk of his man’s body towards me like a gift. It’s what women want, they say, heart and body, and I was still frozen, looking at him with nothing, no light or warmth glimmering in my face. Nothing. I gave him nothing. I left him lying there with his heart in his hand. He could be lying there for eternity. The place I’m in is the place I will stay. It is not a place for Tom. It has no place for him. I do not want him here. And never will again. And that’s the truth. I do not want Tom here. I’m waiting for someone else. Someone I have not seen in many months. Someone I will never see again. My son is dead. There can be no doubt about it. None at all. I have left Tom and Olivia and Daragh. They must be lonely, I suppose. But I
EIGHT
… this young man is talking to me. This young man wants me to talk to him. Everybody wants me, Sissy O’Hara, to talk to them. It will be a triumph for them. “Sissy talked to me,” they’ll say. “Chatted away, just like old times.” If we talk in this country we’re all right. Silence is death to us. And that’s why my silence frightens them. Let them be frightened! I’m sorry. Let them be frightened. I don’t want to make the sound words make any more. Not me, say I. Not me.
“Mrs. O’Hara? Mrs. O’Hara! Talk to me, Mrs. O’Hara. We’ve been sitting here a while now Mrs. O’Hara.”
We have indeed. And why not sit in silence? Why not live in silence? The Cistercians do. They look radiant. Maybe they’ve got all the answers, since they never ask a question. So you, Brendan Begley, sitting opposite me here, do not ask me for the sound of words. Everyone is hungry for the sound of the word, for the fare of life. We feel we’ll starve without it. And we fear starvation. But I am not hungry. Not for human sound nor for those who make it. I am not hungry for people. Neither the sight nor the sound of them. I am hungry for nothing except what I cannot have. I will starve within and without, without him. What is it that they want from me when they say “Sissy, you have other children”? Should I feed on them? No. And so I eat less and less. They are all worried about me. They think I’m dying. Tom thinks I’m dying. Dying? I’m dead! In the week before Tom finally relented and let me come here he tried one last time to love me back to life. Love! He has such faith in love! He is love! He believes that he can make it course through me—a circulation of love pumping from his heart into my heart—pushing through the veins, pumping and pushing that old rhythm that brought life into the world. He thinks love, his love, can bring me back to life. A man in love never gives up. Never. Tom O’Hara is certain he will not fail in this. And he knows that if he fails in this he is lost. And I know that. I am what he has to show for life. I am all he has to show for life; that his love for me triumphed and the children who followed. Two of them gone …
And still I could not join him. He was holding his heart out to me. There you are, Sissy. Take it. Partake of it. This is my body. The way the Sacred Heart cries out to us in that picture in the kitchen. What a picture in a kitchen! You’ll see His Sacred Heart bleeding in bedrooms and kitchens all over Ireland. But never in sitting rooms, or in none that I’ve seen. No, sitting rooms are for mahogany sideboards and sherry and sherry glasses, Waterford glasses, cut as though by a dentist’s drill into so many peaks of sharpness it’s a wonder we’ve ever had the courage to touch them. And Irish linen napkins, huge with heavy folds you could almost hide an infant in. Polished wood and crystal clarity and white napkins, order, perfect order in sitting rooms and in convent parlours and bleeding hearts in kitchens.
And he brought his bleeding heart to me, and all the bulk of his man’s body towards me like a gift. It’s what women want, they say, heart and body, and I was still frozen, looking at him with nothing, no light or warmth glimmering in my face. Nothing. I gave him nothing. I left him lying there with his heart in his hand. He could be lying there for eternity. The place I’m in is the place I will stay. It is not a place for Tom. It has no place for him. I do not want him here. And never will again. And that’s the truth. I do not want Tom here. I’m waiting for someone else. Someone I have not seen in many months. Someone I will never see again. My son is dead. There can be no doubt about it. None at all. I have left Tom and Olivia and Daragh. They must be lonely, I suppose. But I
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