it.”
I nodded, shaken. “Why did you clip that?”
“Painters never forget beauty. I saw her traveling show back then.” No words came to me. “D’you want to read it again?”
“No,” I said.
Randall detached the old clipping and handed it to me.
“Put it in your wallet,” he said. “Go after her. I saw her on the stage again three nights ago, and she’s more beautiful than ever. But she’s not happy.”
“Where was she?”
“They’re in Templemore.” He turned to face me. “Go on, Ben. She’s with a bad fellow.”
Several hours later, restive under the gray fingers of dawn, I thought with some bitterness,
Thank you, Randall
.
21
Do you know the word “pusillanimous?” I enjoy it now, even if it still makes me uncomfortable. It literally means “being of small mind.” Therefore of tiny spirit. How well I’ve known that word.
In my defense, I’ll say that I’d had the stuffing kicked out of me long ago by losing Venetia. At least that’s my excuse. Being pusillanimous is one of those conditions that you promise you’ll fix in yourself one day, put right. But you never do.
Randall rises at six; so does everybody else in that house. Jimmy and I left after breakfast. My head bulged, my heart quailed, as the word “avoidance” tormented me.
On the doorstep I spoke to Elma.
“Randall says I’m to stay here. Anyway, my father knows I was threatening to go to England.”
“You’ll be all right here.”
She shrugged. “Will I be all right anywhere?”
“Is there anything you need, clothes and things?”
“Annette is going to bring me shopping.”
I gave her some money, and she flung her arms around my neck.
Jimmy announced in the car, “I told Randall we’re going to talk to her father. Elma told me where he’ll be.”
Four miles from Urlingford we turned down a side road, until recently a muddy lane. Two men labored at a roadside wall. They had just begun their day’s work.
“What are we going to say to him?” asked Jimmy Bermingham.
“The stone in Randall’s eye?”
“Water off a duck’s back,” said Jimmy. “You heard what he did to his own son.”
We drove past the two workers. In those days, cars drew attention, especially on small country roads. The two men stopped working andstood erect to stare after us. I turned the car, came back slowly, and parked fifty yards short of them.
“He’s the tall fella,” said Jimmy.
“I saw him yesterday,” I said. “Him and his gun.”
As we walked to him, Elma Sloane’s father leaned across the wall and picked up a short crowbar. The forked hook on it could rip out a man’s throat.
“Keep walking,” said Jimmy, to my surprise.
Small country road. Pillows of snowy cloud drifting across the powder-blue sky. Fields bare in the wintry morning.
Sloane’s coworker stepped away, then grabbed his bicycle and rode off in the opposite direction. He halted at a distance, his back to us: this was a man who didn’t want to be a witness to anything. We walked closer to Sloane.
You could see the skull beneath the skin. He had a spider’s web of veins on his cheekbones. The hand that held the crowbar—so relaxed. He’d done this before.
His eyebrows met, like a pair of black, dangerous insects. Calm as a candle he watched us. No flaring of nostrils. No chewing. None of fear’s flinching. Boots square on the ground, perfectly apart for fighting. His hair was as short as barbed wire. Prominent forehead of a Neanderthal. Note that I haven’t mentioned the eyes—because I couldn’t look at them.
A sour taste rose in the back of my throat. I kept my hands in the pockets of my coat. He had fists as big as bowling balls. After the frozen moment in which we stopped and stood some yards from him, he spoke first.
“Will you look at the two fools,” he said.
“How d’you make that out?” I already knew Jimmy Bermingham well enough to hear the tremor in his voice.
“Sticking your nose into other people’s
I nodded, shaken. “Why did you clip that?”
“Painters never forget beauty. I saw her traveling show back then.” No words came to me. “D’you want to read it again?”
“No,” I said.
Randall detached the old clipping and handed it to me.
“Put it in your wallet,” he said. “Go after her. I saw her on the stage again three nights ago, and she’s more beautiful than ever. But she’s not happy.”
“Where was she?”
“They’re in Templemore.” He turned to face me. “Go on, Ben. She’s with a bad fellow.”
Several hours later, restive under the gray fingers of dawn, I thought with some bitterness,
Thank you, Randall
.
21
Do you know the word “pusillanimous?” I enjoy it now, even if it still makes me uncomfortable. It literally means “being of small mind.” Therefore of tiny spirit. How well I’ve known that word.
In my defense, I’ll say that I’d had the stuffing kicked out of me long ago by losing Venetia. At least that’s my excuse. Being pusillanimous is one of those conditions that you promise you’ll fix in yourself one day, put right. But you never do.
Randall rises at six; so does everybody else in that house. Jimmy and I left after breakfast. My head bulged, my heart quailed, as the word “avoidance” tormented me.
On the doorstep I spoke to Elma.
“Randall says I’m to stay here. Anyway, my father knows I was threatening to go to England.”
“You’ll be all right here.”
She shrugged. “Will I be all right anywhere?”
“Is there anything you need, clothes and things?”
“Annette is going to bring me shopping.”
I gave her some money, and she flung her arms around my neck.
Jimmy announced in the car, “I told Randall we’re going to talk to her father. Elma told me where he’ll be.”
Four miles from Urlingford we turned down a side road, until recently a muddy lane. Two men labored at a roadside wall. They had just begun their day’s work.
“What are we going to say to him?” asked Jimmy Bermingham.
“The stone in Randall’s eye?”
“Water off a duck’s back,” said Jimmy. “You heard what he did to his own son.”
We drove past the two workers. In those days, cars drew attention, especially on small country roads. The two men stopped working andstood erect to stare after us. I turned the car, came back slowly, and parked fifty yards short of them.
“He’s the tall fella,” said Jimmy.
“I saw him yesterday,” I said. “Him and his gun.”
As we walked to him, Elma Sloane’s father leaned across the wall and picked up a short crowbar. The forked hook on it could rip out a man’s throat.
“Keep walking,” said Jimmy, to my surprise.
Small country road. Pillows of snowy cloud drifting across the powder-blue sky. Fields bare in the wintry morning.
Sloane’s coworker stepped away, then grabbed his bicycle and rode off in the opposite direction. He halted at a distance, his back to us: this was a man who didn’t want to be a witness to anything. We walked closer to Sloane.
You could see the skull beneath the skin. He had a spider’s web of veins on his cheekbones. The hand that held the crowbar—so relaxed. He’d done this before.
His eyebrows met, like a pair of black, dangerous insects. Calm as a candle he watched us. No flaring of nostrils. No chewing. None of fear’s flinching. Boots square on the ground, perfectly apart for fighting. His hair was as short as barbed wire. Prominent forehead of a Neanderthal. Note that I haven’t mentioned the eyes—because I couldn’t look at them.
A sour taste rose in the back of my throat. I kept my hands in the pockets of my coat. He had fists as big as bowling balls. After the frozen moment in which we stopped and stood some yards from him, he spoke first.
“Will you look at the two fools,” he said.
“How d’you make that out?” I already knew Jimmy Bermingham well enough to hear the tremor in his voice.
“Sticking your nose into other people’s
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