over her mouth, smothering a ragged noise that was partly a scream and partly a cry of anguish. She shrank back as far as she could, as if she wanted to sink right into the woodwork and the wall. Her whole body trembled violently.
The look of pain and sadness in his face was unbearable. He opened his mouth, starting to speak, but then faltered â seeming to lack the strength. One hand reached towards her. The cup fell over with a thin clatter.
âNo,â Carrie wailed. It was wrong, somehow. She slid along the seat into the corner of the nook. It was a bad decision, she realized dimly, and now she had nowhere to go. This was her own father, he wouldnât hurt her, and yet it seemed all wrong for him to be there. She didnât want to feel his hand on hers.
He couldnât, anyway. His arm stretched across the table and covered the thin ribbon of spilled tea, but fell short. And then it disappeared. He was gone. A gasp of relief. But Carrie felt bewildered with shame and guilt, as if in some way she had failed him. Tears ran freely down her face.
It was real, it actually happened. Her father was trying to communicate with her. The second time now, in a matter of just a few days. And she couldnât handle it. Carrie had reacted to him with fear and abject weakness. She felt pathetic, so inadequate, and she couldnât stop crying.
The spilled tea was smeared along the table.
Daddy.
5
It wasnât the greatest apartment in the world but, God knows, heâd lived in far worse. It occupied the upper floor of an older building just off Orange Street, barely within reasonable walking distance of Yale.
The second bedroom served as his office/study, but his books spilled over and took up space throughout the apartment. He had accumulated thousands of volumes, including many valuable firsts of Anglo-Irish pedigree. The hardest part of this tinkerâs life was packing and transporting books. But they were indispensable. They couldnât be locked away in storage somewhere. The secret of mental balance for Charley was to be found in a houseful of good books â and a decent drink now and then.
Jan looked in at him, gave a nod of no apparent meaning, and wandered off. Well, she was like that. Quiet, you might say. A woman who kept to herself but could socialize if it was required. The girl next door manquée. They first met while undergraduates at Northwestern. They had an affair of the heart, if not of the groin, and then were apart during the first year of his post-graduate work in Dublin. With his MA in hand, Charley returned to the States long enough to marry Jan, pack up their things and bring her back to Ireland. He got a part-time lecturerâs post at University College Galway, and spent the rest of his time working on the Dunsany thesis for his Ph.D. Rented a lovely little house outside the city. Ravenswood, by name.
Jan had never done anything with her BA in English. Liked to read those windy historical novels but never wanted to teach. She had picked up some basic computer skills along the way, and usually managed to land a clerical job wherever they were living, like the one she currently had at a mail-order firm dealing in computer parts. It offered a middling wage, always handy, and where there was no challenge there was no stress.
Just as well. Jan was a different person after Fionaâs death, and she never quite came all the way back from it. He had recovered, in time, gathered himself and carried on â still essentially the same Charley OâDonnell. But Jan, not quite. Something in her was permanently lost, a sense of confidence, perhaps, her faith in life itself. She became less a participant, and more a passenger seeing out the ride.
It didnât help that they couldnât have any more children. A final twist of the knife. Perhaps they could, but simply didnât manage the trick. The biology of it was inconclusive: either her eggs grew more resistant or
The look of pain and sadness in his face was unbearable. He opened his mouth, starting to speak, but then faltered â seeming to lack the strength. One hand reached towards her. The cup fell over with a thin clatter.
âNo,â Carrie wailed. It was wrong, somehow. She slid along the seat into the corner of the nook. It was a bad decision, she realized dimly, and now she had nowhere to go. This was her own father, he wouldnât hurt her, and yet it seemed all wrong for him to be there. She didnât want to feel his hand on hers.
He couldnât, anyway. His arm stretched across the table and covered the thin ribbon of spilled tea, but fell short. And then it disappeared. He was gone. A gasp of relief. But Carrie felt bewildered with shame and guilt, as if in some way she had failed him. Tears ran freely down her face.
It was real, it actually happened. Her father was trying to communicate with her. The second time now, in a matter of just a few days. And she couldnât handle it. Carrie had reacted to him with fear and abject weakness. She felt pathetic, so inadequate, and she couldnât stop crying.
The spilled tea was smeared along the table.
Daddy.
5
It wasnât the greatest apartment in the world but, God knows, heâd lived in far worse. It occupied the upper floor of an older building just off Orange Street, barely within reasonable walking distance of Yale.
The second bedroom served as his office/study, but his books spilled over and took up space throughout the apartment. He had accumulated thousands of volumes, including many valuable firsts of Anglo-Irish pedigree. The hardest part of this tinkerâs life was packing and transporting books. But they were indispensable. They couldnât be locked away in storage somewhere. The secret of mental balance for Charley was to be found in a houseful of good books â and a decent drink now and then.
Jan looked in at him, gave a nod of no apparent meaning, and wandered off. Well, she was like that. Quiet, you might say. A woman who kept to herself but could socialize if it was required. The girl next door manquée. They first met while undergraduates at Northwestern. They had an affair of the heart, if not of the groin, and then were apart during the first year of his post-graduate work in Dublin. With his MA in hand, Charley returned to the States long enough to marry Jan, pack up their things and bring her back to Ireland. He got a part-time lecturerâs post at University College Galway, and spent the rest of his time working on the Dunsany thesis for his Ph.D. Rented a lovely little house outside the city. Ravenswood, by name.
Jan had never done anything with her BA in English. Liked to read those windy historical novels but never wanted to teach. She had picked up some basic computer skills along the way, and usually managed to land a clerical job wherever they were living, like the one she currently had at a mail-order firm dealing in computer parts. It offered a middling wage, always handy, and where there was no challenge there was no stress.
Just as well. Jan was a different person after Fionaâs death, and she never quite came all the way back from it. He had recovered, in time, gathered himself and carried on â still essentially the same Charley OâDonnell. But Jan, not quite. Something in her was permanently lost, a sense of confidence, perhaps, her faith in life itself. She became less a participant, and more a passenger seeing out the ride.
It didnât help that they couldnât have any more children. A final twist of the knife. Perhaps they could, but simply didnât manage the trick. The biology of it was inconclusive: either her eggs grew more resistant or
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