"I realize that." Jude came up close to her and blew on her ear.
Síle smiled, trying to shed her bad mood.
"There is no stasis. At Heathrow, on New Year's Day—when you marched off with your baggage cart," said Jude, sliding her hand into the small of Síle's back, "I knew I wanted to see you again, but it seemed impossible. And now look at us!"
"Yeah, squabbling away like long-timers," remarked Síle, which won a laugh from Jude. "Well, I suppose every couple has one argument they replay over and over. One, if they're lucky: Vanessa and I had about fifteen!"
"Listen," said Jude, looking reluctantly at her desk, "I really have to finish this big application, so I can get it into the mail by five."
"Oh yeah, can I read it?" Síle didn't want to leave while their quarrel was still lingering in the air.
"Would you, seriously?"
"Sometimes an outsider's eye—"
"That would be fantastic," said Jude.
They worked on the application together for almost two hours; it was far less tedious than Síle had expected. "You meet every criterion on this foundation's list," she told Jude; "I don't see how they can turn you down."
"If we get even half of what we ask for, it'll cover overhead for the next three years," Jude told her, grinning.
But the humidity was really getting to Síle now. She went back to the house and lay on the sofa with The English Patient.
Jude woke her with a kiss and a glass of cold fresh mint tea. "Three people stopped me on the way down the street to say they'd met my friend from Dublin. You're a big hit."
"Is it still baking hot out there?"
"I know how to cool us down," said Jude, beckoning Síle outside, where the Triumph stood at a rakish angle outside the garage. "A ride to the lake."
"The saddlebags look fantastic," said Síle, playing for time. This had seemed a very sexy idea, but..."The last time I was on one of these was student days," she mentioned, "and when the guy went up a hill I started sliding off."
"You can't," said Jude, patting the black leather seat back; "this is known as the sissy bar." She handed Síle a helmet.
She tugged it down over her face; it was heavy, claustrophobic, like something an astronaut would wear. "Ugh," she said, spitting out her own hair.
Jude flipped up the visor and leaned in to kiss her. "Here's my old jacket. Oh, and roll those pants down or you'll burn your leg on the tailpipes. And don't forget, lean into the corners."
Síle let out a faint moan.
But as soon as they were moving—her arms tight round Jude, leather on leather—the breeze cooled her beautifully. This had to be like what driving a car felt like, circa 1910. Such a sense of cutting through the air, and the air play-fighting back; Síle could feel the hungry tug of it on her helmet. Behind her back, her hair whipped and cracked like a flag; she'd never get the knots out. "This is wild," she yelled through her visor, but she could tell Jude couldn't hear her over the roaring of the engine and the wind.
And then they turned a corner and Síle thought, We're going to crash, the whole side of my body will be scraped off. She forced herself to lean in on the next corner, curling fetally toward the tarmac. Centrifugal force, she reminded herself. Oh Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief. The whole world was vibrating; where the back of Síle's borrowed jeans met the sissy bar, her skin was itching madly, but there was nothing to be done so she just clamped her teeth together and held on, held on. Mostly all she saw was the back of Jude's helmet (ITQ Nad, it said enigmatically), and yellow and bronze and green fields flashing by in the corner of her eye, but if she tilted her head to the side she could catch a glimpse of the little road snaking ahead of them.
Jude lifted her gloved hand in a minimal wave to the first biker they passed, then the second, then the third—at which point Síle figured out that she couldn't know them all, it must be some biker solidarity equivalent of the local wave. When they were between a truck and a minivan full of children, Síle wanted to ask Jude to slow down, but couldn't think how; she thought if she tugged at her sleeve, Jude would assume it was an emergency and pull off onto the soft shoulder.
The sea, she thought, finally, catching a sparkle of blue, and then corrected it to: the lake. When the bike puttered to a stop, Síle got off dizzy and sore. "Forty-five minutes, and not a word out of my mouth," she remarked.
"At last I've found a way to shut you up!"
Síle swam in her silk knickers (well, it was a Monday, so there weren't many people about); in the high waves they played tourist and shark. Though it was Síle who should have been jet-lagged, back on shore it was Jude who fell asleep, head pillowed on her jacket. Síle wandered down to the waterline to look for colourful stones, like a child. She looked back over her shoulder at Jude, curled up in the shady lee of a dune; she could see her better from here, glimpse her entire. You could say that much for distance, it sharpened the image. She was with Jude so rarely that when she was, every cell of her body rang with grateful knowledge of it. And a tinge of resentment, too, she registered. Like that of someone starving who was offered only a morsel to eat.
After a while Jude woke up and tried to teach Síle to whistle through grass. Jude's sounds were like plaintive curlews, Síle's like retching gulls. The two of them lay on their backs and stared up at the sky, clouds scudding by.
"I remember being seven, walking behind my parents, down this sunny hill in West Cork," Síle remarked. "I started running, and suddenly I couldn't stop; I was heading straight for the edge and I hadn't the breath to shout."
"What happened?"
"Amma turned her head and saw me hurtling down; she grabbed Dad's hand and they got in front of me, they caught me in their net. I was five feet from the cliff, I swear. That's what I think of when I hear the word love: that feeling of being caught, all the breath knocked out of your body."
"Wow," murmured Jude after a minute, "what a memory!"
"The only problem," said Síle, "is that she died when I was three."
Jude frowned. "So maybe it's a memory of being three, not seven?"
"But we only went to West Cork the summer I was seven. It happened all right, Dad says I did nearly run off the cliff, only it was him and some German tourist he was chatting to who saved me. I must have written my mother into the film, afterwards, and now I can't remember it any other way."
They lay Silently for a while. "What was it your father said the Sanskrit word for 'world' meant?" Jude asked.
"That which moves," Síle supplied. "That which changes."
"That which never stands still for a damn second."
Síle watched the surf rush in. She'd never known that lakes could have waves. "Did you know that every maritime culture comes up with its own selkie story?"
"What's selkie?"
Síle tried to remember what the word meant. "Half seal, I think, and half woman."
"Like a mermaid?"
"Mm. The man lures her out of the sea and hides her sealskin or comb or whatever—she's sort of tamed, has kids with him—"
"Oh, I know that one. Some day she finds her things and gets overwhelmed by the longing to go back," said Jude, nodding. "Like your Oisín in the Land of Youth. So the poor jerk comes home to find wife and kids have disappeared into the sea."
"My sympathies were always with the selkie," said Síle with a grin. "If you've gotta go..."
They ate local perch outside Casey's Clam Shack. On the ride home, pinky-orange forks fractured the sky; flashes lit up the whole flat landscape. Síle tried to remember if any of Rizla's warnings had pertained to lightning storms. Did lightning like to strike motorbikes, because they were made of metal, or avoid them, because of the rubber tires? She felt disjointed, and thrilled, and safe.
The rain held off till they were back in the house. "It always seems to rain when we're in bed," Síle remarked, throwing aside the pillow. "Of course, there haven't been that many nights yet."
"This is the sixth," said Jude.
&nbs
p; She sounded amazed, Síle thought. That there'd been so few, or that they'd been granted so many? On this trip there'd be five more, she calculated; that made eleven. She caught herself wondering how many nights they'd get to sleep together, in total. She thought she might cry, but she went to sleep instead.
Geography Lessons
Ye Gods!
annihilate but space and time,
And make two lovers happy.
—"MARTINUS SCRIBLERUS"
[ALEXANDER POPE]
Peri Bathous: or,
The Art of Sinking in Poetry
Re: death in the skies
Jude, you say "high-risk job" as if I'm an astronaut! You realize your dread of my being in a crash is just a metaphor for my discarding you the first time Sigourney Weaver's name turns up on my manifest? Seriously, sweetheart, it's not cabin crew but pedestrians and cyclists who have the highest rate of accidents.
But it does get on my tits when people (I suppose I mean Americans) go on about their fear of flying "these days." Did they kid themselves that the world was a cozy place before 9/11? Even leaving terrorists aside, big machines can always get into big trouble. A duck can dent a plane's windshield, and aviation's greatest loss of life happened on the ground (Tenerife, 1977) when two jets ran into each other.
Oh dear, I've wandered from the point, which was to reassure you about my personal safety...
Re: missing you
By now I've acquired quite a good collection (fonds, as we say in the trade): framed photos, a file of letters and e-mails, a lipstick called Bruised Fruit you left here in July ... But somehow documentation and artifacts aren't doing it for me, Síle.
Here's your quote for the day. This one's from a woman called Catherine Talbot to one called Elizabeth Carter, back in the days (1744) when women who fell for each other had to stay at home with Mamma and write a lot of letters ... Anyway, here goes:
We must be content with loving and esteeming people constantly and affectionately amid a variety of thwarting, awkward circumstances, that forbid all possibility of spending our lives together.
I was babysitting Lia last night so Cassie and Anneka could go to bed--anyway, she said a whole sentence that I'd swear was Japanese. Cassie told me something interesting, that language is a side effect of love. Apparently hunger or tiredness wouldn't be enough to motivate Lia to learn to speak, because she could just gesture or cry. It turns out that language is pure fun, a game played with those you love.
Of course, from my current point of view language is looking like a side effect of loss. I guess absence makes the heart grow louder. Writing to you reminds me that you're far away, but it also throws a kind of bridge across the abyss. It's a sad fact, couples who spend blissful lives together don't leave much trace in the archives. Whereas a love letter will outlive us both, if printed on acid-free paper and kept in a dry place.
Síle was down in Leitrim, recuperating after seeing nine films in three days at the Dublin queer film fest. Lying in Marcus's meadow, she smelled honeysuckle and cowpat on the August breeze. She could still taste the home-grown raspberries and white currants he'd served up for dessert. "So here's the latest," she told him: "The airline is in dire straits and wants to ax another thirteen hundred of us. They've proposed a voluntary severance scheme—"
"Sounds like slitting your own throat," observed Marcus.
"Doesn't it!"
"I have news too," he said, going up on one elbow. "Brace yourself."
"What? You're pregnant?" she asked.
"Ha ha. Pedro's moving in."
"In where? In here, into your ruin?"
"The indoor toilet now has cold and hot water, and the bats have been banished. It's an eighteenth-century farmhouse with a view of Lough Allen and rock stars would kill to own it."
"But..." But you've only been together since April, Síle wanted to say. As if that were the measure of anything. As if it weren't possible to be entirely serious about someone before you even got to kiss her.
"The thing is," said Marcus, "the drive is hell, and weekends aren't enough for us anymore."
"Well I never," Síle said, playing for time. She thought of what it would be like to see Jude every weekend, as easy as hopping into her car.
"And besides, the rent's shooting up in his flat in Temple Bar. This psychic he met said his life's at a fork in the road."
Síle couldn't help rolling her eyes. "Since when have you believed any of that guff?"
"Whatever works on Pedro," said Marcus with a grin. "So he's persuaded his boss to let him work from home. We're going to finish the solarium, maybe add an extension if we can get permission."
"And make mad, passionate love among the nettles."
"Hourly." After a few seconds, his smile faded. "You don't get it, do you?"
"I do! Sort of."
"I thought, because of your Jude woman..."
Oh, Síle understood that love could come up behind you and grab you by the throat, all right. She understood about no amount of time together being enough, when the heart was a hole that couldn't be filled. "I do," she repeated weakly. It was true, so why this vague dread, this cynicism? "It just seems sudden."
He shrugged. "When you're ready, you're ready."
Her friend never used to make such meaningless remarks, Síle thought. "What if all the wild romance gets stifled by domesticity?" She was afraid that might have come out sounding malicious, but Marcus only laughed. There was grass embedded in his shirt; she'd never seen him look so handsome. "Oh sweetie," she said, "I do wish you luck."
"They were only living a four-hour drive apart anyway," Síle told Jude on the phone; "geography's never been a major problem for them the way it is for us."
"Is it?" A pause. "I mean, sometimes I think it's part of what attracts us," said Jude.
The notion took Síle aback. "Well, we're not the girls next door, that's for sure," she conceded. "Do you mean we wouldn't actually like living together?"
"No no. But it would be a whole new dynamic," said Jude. "Right now, my pulse starts hammering the second I hear your voice."
Síle smiled at the wall. After a second, she went on: "So Marcus and Pedro are having their wedding in the cow pasture on the thirtieth—"
"Oh? I didn't think it was legal in Ireland yet."
"It isn't; this is a ritual of handfasting, or so says the invitation."
"I didn't know Marcus was a pagan," said Jude.
"It's Pedro's shtick," Síle told her. "Apparently he goes off on camping trips with the Radical Faeries, and Marcus is so besotted he'll plight his troth in any language. Anyway, you have to come."
"But I've only met them once—"
"Not for them, you thick, for me! Weddings bring me out in a rash. So I hope it's okay but I've booked you a flight to Dublin the day before."
A Silence. "Darlin', you can't do this."
"I already have," said Síle, hoping she sounded masterful rather than childish. "Don't worry, it was an amazing Web bargain," she lied. "Besides, how often do you get to take part in a pagan ritual in a Neolithic stone circle?"
"Oh, right, play the Ancient History card!" Jude's sternness sounded like it was easing off. "And what about the fact that I used up all my vacation days lolling in the porch swing with you last month?"
"Aha, well your ticket was so dirt cheap—only ninety-nine euro," Síle improvised—"that you can take a week of unpaid leave and I'll top up your salary."
"Don't push your luck," Jude told her, but she sounded like she was smiling.
Unfortunately, Síle had managed to forget that airlines always e-mailed the passenger a full receipt. Which in this case included the line "Total charged to credit card Ms. Síle'S. O'Shaughnessy, 荤803.92."
When she answered the phone, she made the mistake of using the phrase "little white lie."
Jude said she didn't care for lies of any colour.
Síle told her she was a poker-arsed prig. "It cost me no more than a couple of pairs of good shoes,
and god knows I don't need any more shoes."
"I just prefer to pay my way," said Jude.
Síle could feel her temper bubble up. She was tired; she needed a cup of strong chai and some satellite television. "Yeah, well I just prefer to see you once in a while."
"You should have asked me, instead of tricking me into it. You're older, and a lot wealthier," Jude went on before Síle could answer, "and sometimes I feel like I've been sucked into your orbit, and I'm swirling round like a rag doll."
"That's ridiculous," snapped Síle. "You're so rooted to the spot, it would take a tornado to dislodge you."
"I'm just saying—"
"It's stubbornness and pride, that's all. Now would you please accept the bloody ticket before you make me cry?"
Síle's little BMW was ailing at the garage, so she accepted a lift to Leitrim with Jael's family. She and Jude sat in the back beside Yseult, who was watching The Incredibles.
She found it endearing how enthralled Jude was by everything old. When they passed the sign for the Hill of Tara (STONE AGE TOMB, IRON AGE FORT, SEAT OF THE HIGH KINGS OF IRELAND) Jude asked if they could stop, but Jael snapped, "We're not even past Navan yet, we've got half a lifetime to go."
"In her village, the oldest surviving building's what, 1830s?" Síle put in.
"Eighteen forty-seven," said Jude, "ever since the McPhee homestead burned down."
Anton snorted. "I grew up in a 1780s house, and there was nothing glamorous about it. Spidery high ceilings and a dank basement kitchen."
"There were five great paved roads in early Ireland," Síle told Jude, "and one of them went from here—the Hill of Tara—all the way south to the monastic site of Glendalough in Wicklow, and the bit that passes through Dublin is called stone road—Stoneybatter!"
"Did you dig that up just to impress me?" asked Jude.
"She did of course," said Jael over her shoulder.
"Googled it when I was bored in the crew lounge in Boston last week," Síle admitted.