The Last Storyteller

  “What happens now?” she asked after some minutes.

  “You take some rest.”

  “Ben, why didn’t you come for me sooner? Why? Why?”

  “Shhh. We’ll talk about all that. But I’m here now, and I’m staying here.”

  She calmed down further. With a washcloth I patted the stage makeup from her face. I held a warm towel to her dear neck. I bathed her as I’d have bathed you, children, had I been there when you were infants. I wrapped her in towels and took her to bed, on fresh sheets in Marian Killeen’s guest room. And there I held her until she fell asleep.

  I wish I could sing to you, but my voice would croak. I wish I could sail with you on the wrinkled sea. I wish I could grant you the fullest joy of life.

  The bedroom fire, lit by Marian while we were in the bathroom, needed stoking; I kept it going all night as Venetia slept. Now only death will part us. I had expected her to have a restless, tossing sleep; instead, she never moved. As dawn came, I slept, too.

  78

  Waking before her, I stacked the fire with coal and some logs. Through a crack in the curtains I could see sunshine.

  I daren’t think. I mustn’t think. I must control the speed at which I absorb what has happened. I must delay my reaction to the deed I’ve done, to the fact of who lies in that bed. This is the dream come true, this is what I’ve thought about for twenty-five years. Is she the same Venetia? Not yet, not outwardly. But I see glimpses. There’s so much that I have to find out. Have I done the right thing? Have I merely held on to some kind of dream because it was a dream? Wasn’t the young man of twenty-five years ago very different in his needs and desires from the man I am now? What was that old saying: Be careful what you wish for? What would James advise? James would tell me to “get the practicals done.”

  And so many of them to be done. A doctor first: Venetia’s upper arms and shoulders had bruises under the stage makeup; I had to stamp on my anger as I’d have stamped on an ember about to flame. Where to live. How to hide. If we need to.

  I slipped back into bed, and Venetia began to wake. No smile yet; no smiles last night either.

  “Good morning,” she said, and she let me hold her again. After a few minutes, I said, “The bathroom is through there.”

  As she climbed out of bed, she realized that she was naked, held the sheet to herself, and found last night’s towels—Venetia, who, all those years ago, had been an unabashed nature child. I located the tartan robe and left it at the bathroom door, dressed quickly, and said, “I’ll be downstairs.”

  Marian Killeen had left a note in a sealed envelope.

  Dear Ben,

  I’ll be at work until six o’clock. My advice is to stay here for a few more days at least—and of course you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. She’s a lovely woman, though not in good shape. In case you don’t know any doctors, I’ll make an appointment with mine for today at four o’clock. I know he’ll make room to see you both, and I’ll telephone you at noon to make sure that’s all right. Take it very easy—and I know you will; you’re doing all the right things.

  Love, M.K.

  I heard Venetia’s footsteps on the stairs and went to the kitchen doorway to meet her. She moved like a ghost, frail and slow. Get everything as pleasant as possible. Warm fires. Comforting food. No strain, no pressure, just peace and quiet and comfort and warmth.

  Do you remember, children, how I described for you the moment I first saw Venetia? She was Portia, in that goofy extract from The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare in an Irish country town. I can recall phrases from my account:

  “What is it about what we call today a star? What quality, what dimension? Is it an inner burn? … Venetia Kelly made no dramatic stride into the center of the stage; she didn’t leap or pounce. She kind of slouched on, a slow walk, shoulders taut, like somebody wondering whether to be wary …”

  Now I could see that slouch again. When she needed to, of course, she could pull herself up to her full height, be regal, statuesque. I can recall, too, what she wore that night. A black gown of light velvet brocade, throat to ankle. Small black velvet shoes with pointed toes. Not a hint of jewelry, no ornament. She didn’t need it. And everywhere she looked people sat up, giving her their full, riveted attention. She was thirty-two, with the innocence of a girl and the fiber of a queen.

  And then when I met her in the flesh—remember that? She was getting ready for bed, in that house in Charleville to which we have all returned for a visit. Part of putting the story of our lives together. And she was wearing a mask of white night cream all over her face, and a long blue robe with a hood. I remember reflecting on the bizarre combination of presence and absence, because she had disappeared beneath the hood and behind the death-white mask. And she never said a word. All I saw was the pair of eyes and the expressive finger pointing to the ceiling to indicate that she was retiring for the night.

  79

  Now I stood by the open door, waiting to greet her. She glanced at me and looked away, to the floor at her feet. No smile, no connection. With slow steps and her shoulders down, she walked past me into the kitchen, her face as white as an altar. I thought her a woman in shock. She sat at the place I had set for her breakfast. The fire glowed; the kettle sang.

  Randall and his fish. The image rubbed and rubbed until it almost wasn’t there. Life has rubbed at her, and rubbed and rubbed. Is there no blood left in her? Can I give her mine?

  When she had settled in her chair, I put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Would you like breakfast?” Venetia nodded. “A boiled egg? Some toast?” She nodded again.

  Take this very slowly. Very slowly indeed. This may not be what you expected, but it is what you’ve got. So—go easy.

  I made tea, let it steep for five minutes. She used to love boiled eggs, during those few short months we had together. And toast “soldiers”—fingers of toast cut so slender that she could dip them into the soft-boiled egg. And strong tea. All of these I took to the table, contriving to place myself where I could see whether she remembered. No recognition.

  From the chair opposite her I could watch every movement. Twice she sighed, her hands resting in her lap, before she even made a gesture toward the meal. Then she sat up a little and began to take her food. Her hands moved like tortoises—to the toast, the butter, the egg. Low on one forearm I saw a deep bruise I had missed last night, as though she had been gripped there by a handcuff.

  “What happened to your wrist?” I said, my first attempt to address the general matter of the bruising.

  She looked at me and held eye contact, her most direct gaze yet. Airing the bruised wrist with a little wave, she said, “I call it ‘life,’ Ben.”

  Easy. Easy, Ben. Slow down. Don’t rush your fences. Take it slowly.

  “Marian—whom you met last night. This is her house. She thinks—and I agree with her—that maybe you’re a little pale. And she has a friend who’s a doctor. Who could, if you so wished, see you today.”

  “If you think so,” she said.

  “They’re keeping an appointment open for you at four o’clock. I think Marian left out some clothes, too.”

  Venetia didn’t answer. She followed each piece of toast with a swig of tea, as careful at the table as an old nun. Her melancholy, her downbeat bearing suggested a woman aged beyond her years. Indeed, the woman I’d met in Florida seemed like a young athlete compared to the person who sat opposite me now.

  Somehow I held on to myself and demanded nothing of her. I prattled a little, told her the story of Jimmy Bermingham and Dirty Marian, felt that I had made it amusing—but Venetia didn’t smile. She drained her teacup, rose to her feet, and said, “I’m going to be sick.”

  In the hallway, I opened the door to the downstairs lavatory. She slid in there and pulled the door closed behind her. She retched and retched. A noise like a machine with dry cogs.

  Should I help? No. If she’d felt that need, she’d have kept the door open.

&nb
sp; Back in the kitchen, I cleaned and tidied; at least she had made the effort to eat breakfast. When she emerged she didn’t come to find me; she climbed the stairs. I listened to each step, heavy and slow as leaden boots. She went back to bed.

  I gave it a few minutes and followed. She lay on her side, facing the door. I sat in the chair.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’d like to sleep.”

  “Of course. Do you need—I mean, would you like me to lie with you?”

  “If I’m alone I’ll be no trouble to you.”

  “But it would be no trouble.”

  “I think I need to sleep, Ben.”

  And she turned away.

  80

  As you both know, I’ve never raised a child. Which makes me sad. But if I’d been there when you were ill, I’d have sat with you, or looked in on you every few minutes. At two o’clock, after my umpteenth silent inspection, I decided to wake Venetia. We had two hours before the doctor’s appointment. Given the pace of her movements, she’d need every minute.

  I filled the bathtub, and she closed the door behind herself. When she emerged, I led her to the clothes Marian had set out. My memories of my time with her were of intimacy beyond closeness—no secrets other than deliberate surprises, no doors closed except for fastidiousness. And Venetia—an actress, after all—had long experience of relaxed dressing rooms. But now her body language said, “Privacy, please.” I left the room.

  In the car, she didn’t speak. At the doctor’s, she went into his inner room without a word. She emerged—it took almost an hour—with eyes red from weeping. The doctor, in Venetia’s presence, told me, “She’s a bit run-down. But in good organic shape. She has a scrip for a tonic. We’ll see her again in a couple of days.”

  Venetia, with the piece of white paper tight in her hand, left the surgery ahead of me and walked to the car. At the chemist, she insisted on taking in the prescription to be filled. I pointed out that I had to follow and pay.

  So did our first reunited day run its course. In the car on the way back to Marian’s, she said, out of the blue, “In good organic shape. In good organic shape.”

  Back at the house, she went to bed again and was fast asleep when Marian came home at a quarter past six.

  “I hear you were at the doctor’s.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “He said she’s a bit melancholy. Noel is very understated, so that means a lot more than he’s saying.”

  “She hasn’t spoken a word all day. Nothing.”

  “Did she eat?”

  “Threw it all up.”

  “When my parents were killed, I vomited for a month.”

  “And apart from Dr. Brady, she’s been asleep all the time.”

  Marian offered, “I think you should wake her.”

  In a heated linen closet at the top of the stairs, Marian found a different robe, gave it to me, and I walked into the room. The curtains had remained open, and the streetlight haloed Venetia’s hair in the shadows.

  “Are you awake?” I whispered.

  She raised her head as though it bore a weight, then subsided again. I sat in the chair.

  “I’ve been thinking, Venetia. How do we contact the, can we—” I paused.

  Don’t know what to call them? The children. The twins? My children? I remembered what she’d said on the Atlantic shore at Jacksonville: “There were—are—twins. Do you want to know their names?”

  I found the best words: “I mean, where are Louise and Ben staying? Can we find them?”

  She rose, still in the tartan robe. I gave her the fresh dressing gown Marian had chosen.

  “We’re downstairs.”

  “I have none of my clothes,” Venetia said. “Does the telephone work here?”

  Good sign. Talking about clothes. Good.

  We waited for her in the drawing room; I had lit a fire. Somehow those early moments of being with Venetia again seem to have so much fire in them—logs burning, coal piled on, keeping the fire going overnight. Today, of course, I look back and recognize what it was: I was trying to give her twenty-five years of comfort.

  Marian poured sherry. And received a smile. Plus some words.

  “Sherry? Goodness. Haven’t tasted it in years. My mother’s favorite tipple at the end of the day.”

  Progress. Maybe the drink will loosen her.

  Marian asked, “How are you feeling?”

  Venetia smiled. “Ben’s father, if someone asked him that, used to say, ‘Medium.’ Do you remember, Ben?”

  “Actually, he used to say, ‘Med-med-medium,’ didn’t he?”

  She laughed. Not long or loud, but a laugh. “How is he?” she said to me.

  “They sold Goldenfields.”

  Venetia put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no! What will we all—” She stopped, and changed her words: “Where will they live?”

  “They bought a house eight miles away. Between the woods and the lake.”

  “But—what about you? Where will you live?” She assumed me single and alone.

  “I’m on the road a lot. D’you remember James Clare?”

  Venetia grew the most animated I’d seen her. “The old folklore man. With the beautiful long hands?”

  I said, “He died. I got his job.”

  Marian said, “I feel like cooking.”

  “Don’t go,” said Venetia; actually, she gasped it, in a kind of desperation, but with such force that Marian sat down again. All three of us fell silent.

  Marian broke the hush. “Ben told me about the twins. Do you want to contact them?”

  “I have a telephone number.” She rattled it out: “Six-seven-zero-six-seven-nine. They’re staying there.”

  “Would you like one of us to call them?” Marian said.

  “If you’d be so kind,” said Venetia. “I don’t want them alarmed.”

  Her accent had a slight American overlay, and she spoke as she had always done, with great, slow clarity. While Marian remained outside the room, Venetia gazed into the fire, her face closed to all approaches.

  81

  Not that you need the details—but I can remember what I was wearing next day, where I stood, the expression on my face when I first met the pair of you. That evening outside the Olympia Theatre doesn’t count; in the dark and the mist, I didn’t quite see your faces. Now the resemblance between you left me short of words. And your hair, Louise, cut as short as Ben’s, and how much like my mother you both looked.

  I, who prepared every thought in my head lest I be open to the dangers of spontaneity, I had not prepared for seeing you. Oh, yes, I had flirted with the idea, made up little speeches to you both, even practiced smiles and handshakes. But remember: I’d never really allowed myself to believe that a day would come when I would know you both. And I had no idea how you would greet me.

  We’ve talked about this moment, all three of us, many, many times, and I think that you were as mystified and bewildered by your feelings as I was by mine. Let me put on the record here and now, for you and your children, and your eventual grandchildren, my account of the meeting.

  In my black suit, my white shirt, my black tie, and my big black boots, I stood in the doorway of Marian Killeen’s kitchen as she and Venetia answered the door knocker. I heard no squeals or shouts, just murmurs of concern, safety, and introduction. Each of you embraced your mother, and then shook hands with Marian and thanked her.

  And then each of you looked over the shoulders of Venetia and Marian and saw me. The women parted to let you through, and you stepped forward. You reached me first, Louise; you said, without a smile, “I believe that I know who you are,” and you put your arms around my neck and clung to me as though you or I might die.

  You had no reason to do so; I was a perfect stranger to you, and you might even have had reason to resent me. Yet there you stood, holding on to me as though you had just found the most important and precious person you had ever known.

  Then, Ben, my dear namesake, yo
u came forward, and you said, “We have the same name,” and as your sister moved aside a little, you hugged me from the other side. And with just as much ardor. And with just as much freedom.

  As for me—I had no words, none at all. Do you recall how tongue-tied I was? I think I managed to squeeze out a “Well, well.” And then I repeated it: “Well, well.” And then I said, “Here we are.” I was forty-two, and I had not known the emotion of such parental contact before, and in my many imaginings I hadn’t even come close to anticipating the feelings of that moment.

  You must take full credit, both of you—but I’ve told you that so often. You were so kind to me. So interested in me. So careful with me. I believe the word “delicate” applies.

  And of course I knew—and this was hard to cope with—where your attitudes had been nurtured. How did you manage—it still mystifies me—to express yourselves like that when you met me? I know, I know—you’ve told me often that your mother spoke of me in the dearest and gentlest and kindest of ways.

  And she, Venetia? She stood there and watched and fought back tears. She said nothing. She took the hand Marian Killeen offered.

  Together they simply observed us, and how we looked at one another. I don’t know if I remembered to tell you this, but Marian said to me, late that night, “You all looked as though you’d won prizes.”

  82

  We had drinks, just the four of us, our first time together as a family. Marian stayed a long time in the kitchen, preparing food—chicken and ham and hot soda-bread scones and tea, the inevitable Irish tea, and I saw that both of you had my hungry habits.

  You know, to this day (how many years later?) I remain astonished at the same thing that astonished me then: that in an instant we became as close as though I had raised you in the warmest intimacy. We began to chat like old friends. I asked how you liked Ireland, and you used words that made me smile; you said, for instance, that Dublin was “neat” and that the Irish people were “cute.” You meant that the city was exciting and engaging, whereas in my terms, “neat” meant clean and tidy, which was decidedly not Dublin; she was, in those days, a filthy and unkempt city. As for “cute”: you used the word to denote handsome or pretty; with us, it has always meant ratlike cunning.