Maura took another sip of tea as she scanned the yellow legal pad filled with the name of real estate agents she had taken down from the newspapers. One name seemed to pop out: Biddy Macguillicuddy. Anyone with a name like Biddy Macguillicuddy was bound to be sympathetic or at least have a sense of humor.
The odd thing was that Maura used to have a doll named Mrs. Macguillicuddy, a ridiculous felt creature with purple hair made from yarn, a purple dress with red plastic cherries and matching purple shoes—felt feet pointing outward.
She called the number listed in the ad. It was an answering machine with a shockingly jolly voice that seemed to speak in exclamation points.
"Hello! This is Biddy Macguillicuddy! Please leave your name and number, and I'll be sure to ring you later! Cheerio!"
Maura left a message and hung up. Almost immediately the telephone rang. "Hello! This is Biddy Macguillicuddy!" For a startled moment Maura thought the machine had returned the call, and then she realized that it was Biddy herself, the voice of merriment.
Maura explained her inheritance, and Biddy seemed all too familiar with the entire will, stanza by
stanza.
"How very lucky you are!" Then her voice dropped, still booming but somewhat less explosive. "Why would you wish to sell the gem?"
Maura cleared her throat. She needed to sell the place, she didn't need everyone—especially Charles, at this point—to know the precise details. "Oh, well..." she stammered. "Enough said," Biddy cut her off with friendly efficiency. "Shall I come round today and take a look?"
"That would be . .."
"Grand! I'll come over at half ten. Cheers!" The telephone line went dead. Maura felt as if she had just been confronted by an entire platoon of Welcome Wagon ladies, well meaning and relentless. At precisely ten-thirty, Biddy Macguillicuddy herself stepped through the threshold of number eighty-nine and a half. She was just under five feet tall, with the face of a dried apple—cherubic and care-worn. Her generous frame was cloaked in a turquoise garment festooned with plastic cherry clusters. Her hair was pinned to her head in steel gray twirls—the only color on her body that had not been the product of a natural accident or a cruel prank in the dye vat. "Hello." Maura extended her hand. "My name
is...
"But of course you are!" Biddy Macguillicuddy pumped her hand vigorously.
Maura was momentarily stunned. It was as if her felt doll had come to life as a real estate agent in Dublin.
"Now tell me, Miss Finnegan." Mrs. Macguillicuddy gave Maura a swift yet piercing glance. "Are you any relation to the Dalkey Finnegans?"
"Not that I know of."
"Splendid! They were a wretched lot, every last one of them. There was Sean, the well poisoner, his eldest son Peter, the sheep molester, and Peter's wife, Peggy, who was known to make bangers from the carcasses of stray dogs. Shame. And believe me, they were the best of the lot, the cream of the sorry crop of Finnegans from Dalkey. The rest don't bear mentioning."
Her face settled into an expression of expectant tranquillity.
"I'm sorry the house isn't in better shape at the moment," Maura began, leading the agent into the parlor. "I just arrived a few days ago and haven't had much time to really fix it up."
"Not a worry, my dear. You'll be in quids when this house goes on the market." With that she opened a roomy vinyl bag and produced a rhinestone-studded pen and a worn spiral notebook. "Do you mind if I jot down some notes for the advert?"
"Of course not. Would you like some tea?"
"Oh, there's a darling girl! No, thank you. Not at the moment. After I see the house, perhaps, perhaps. Now, let us take a look."
It was as if a shade had been drawn over the agent's face. She was all professional appraiser, her voice lost its roller-coaster dips and peaks.
"There is not much molding left, is there?"
"I'm afraid not," Maura apologized.
"Perfectly fine." She touched the tip of her glittering pen to her tongue before writing in the notebook. "Let me see ... 'Free of cumbersome, dust-catching details.' How does that sound?" She beamed at Maura. "The trick, you see, is to turn everything into an asset. The kitchen is in the back?"
Without waiting for a response, she strode into the kitchen with military precision. "We must use our imagination. Do you have much of an imagination,
my dear?"
"No." Maura crossed her arms defensively. "No, I'm afraid not. I've always been rather pragmatic
and ..."
"A bit pokey and outdated, is it not?" "A little." Maura began to twist a piece of her red hair with her fingers as she stepped aside for Mrs. Macguillicuddy to pass.
"Splendid! 'Cozy kitchen ready to move through the nineties." Her expert hand pulled back a bit of the shabby curtain. "Goodness! The backyard is in even worse shape than the front. 'Nature enjoys her freedom in both gardens.' That sounds rather nice, does it
not?"
Finally Maura smiled. "It does. I'd be tempted to buy it myself." Then she took a deep breath. "What do you think the chances are of the house selling quickly? It's just that I would like to resolve everything, and I've heard of houses being on the market for months, even years."
The agent gave a peculiar half smile. "This house will sell. Believe me."
"But it's in such terrible shape."
The perpetual cheer seemed to vacate her face for a moment. "To tell you the truth, the house will sell on the basis of its location, my dear. Whoever buys it will no doubt gut the interior—it would be far simpler than trying to make anything of this mess. But have no doubt, it will fetch a brilliant price. These homes come on the market so rarely. When they do, they are gone in a blink. Now am I to be the exclusive agent?"
The smile had returned to Mrs. Macguillicuddy's face, but Maura failed to notice. "They'll gut the interior?"
What would happen to Fitz?
"Why, of course. Shall we journey upstairs?"
Maura followed in pensive silence as Mrs. Macguillicuddy continued her note taking. "We'll punch up the location in the adverts. This is a prime piece of land. Of course, since it's a landmark, any changes would have to be approved, but that mainly pertains to exterior alterations. And since this was the home of Fitzwilliam Connolly, well, that's as good as gold. There are always people willing to pay a few thousand punts for a patch of history."
Earlier Maura had thought along the same lines. Now she was beginning to feel sick to her stomach, physically ill at the thought of someone ripping out the insides of her house.
"Will the furniture be included in the sale?"
Maura didn't answer, and Mrs. Macguillicuddy did not seem to require one. "Well, we can decide that later. Best to get the advert off and running on the house. Good Lord, look at this jumble!"
They stepped into the room adjoining the yellow parlor. "And the other room is vacant! My, what a splendid example of Georgian wallpaper! I have seen ..." Her voice trailed off.
"Hum," the agent said pensively. "There is something peculiar. It must be the lack of furniture."
Maura gasped when she saw Fitz standing, arms crossed, in the corner of the room. He stood glaring at her, with such fury that for the first time since she had seen him in her bedroom she was actually frightened.
"Is anything wrong, Miss Finnegan?"
"I'm sorry. I must have pulled a muscle climbing the stairs," she stammered, leaning down to massage her leg and to get Fitz to go away. She jerked her head to the right, toward the door, but that seemed only to add to his anger.
Mrs. Macguillicuddy had grown very quiet. "Oh,
dear," she whispered.
Maura stood up and, turning toward her, instinctively reached out an arm to steady the older woman. Her bright face had paled, and suddenly she seemed quite elderly and brittle. "Are you okay?"
The agent was staring at the corner of the room where Fitz lounged. She took a step back in her sturdy shoes, not answering Maura's inquiry. The pen slipped from her hand. Maura bent down to pick it
up, and as she leaned forward, Biddy Macguillicuddy pushed her in an attempt to escape.
"There's something in here! There's something in here and I believe it's evil!"
The rage left Fitz's face as Maura glanced at him with an openmouthed expression of surprise. Before she could say anything, the sound of the estate agent's clattering footsteps in the marble hall downstairs rang throughout the house. Even as Maura followed, she wondered how the woman had moved so quickly. Then she heard the front door thrust open, the sound of footsteps fading.
When Maura reached the first floor, the front door was still swinging on its hinges from Mrs. Macguillicuddy's exit. There was a package leaning against the threshold that appeared to be a book wrapped in brown paper with her name written in black marker. There was no return address, no postage. Whoever the sender was, he or she had placed it there rather than send it through the mail.
Maura scooped up the package and slammed the heavy door shut just as Fitz descended the staircase. The sense of fear she had experienced before was gone.
"She saw you."
"I know." Fitz rubbed his jaw, shaking his head. "I don't think this has ever happened before, other than with you. She must have seen me, but I did not make myself visible to her."
"She must be psychic or something." The book was heavy, and as she spoke she held it against her.
"Pardon me?"
"She must be psychic. You know, able to see ghosts and tell the future and read tea leaves."
"In my day we called such women either mad or drunk with spirits." "Yeah, well. I should think you would be a little more open-minded now, Fitz."
"She saw me,"
"I know."
As if coming out of a stupor, he suddenly looked directly at her. "You are selling the house."
"I was going to mention that." She held the book more tightly against her chest. "I have to, Fitz. There's no other way. I need the money for the factory and to save my father's company."
"Then you will sell me as well." He spoke from between clenched teeth.
"No, no. It's not like that at all."
"Is it not?"
"Wait a minute. I almost forgot—I found some information on you at the library. I wrote down some facts and dates. I couldn't take out any of the books since I don't have a library card yet. I think I have to establish some sort of residency."
"In that case, you need not bother. It seems you will not be a resident long enough to require library
privileges."
He spun around and began to ascend the staircase. "Don't you want to hear what I learned about
you?"
There was no response as he continued his climb. Just as the steps rounded toward the first floor, he paused, hand gripping the banister.
"I believe I want nothing more of you."
"Fitz, you have to understand—I really have no other option. I was hoping I could take you with me, maybe. Do you think you could leave here?"
He stared at her for a long time before answering. "This whole time I felt 'twas I the unnatural, cold thing. You I envisioned as warm and alive. I longed so to be like you, I, the unnatural, cold thing."
Just before he vanished, he hit the banister with such force that it rattled the entire snaking length of the staircase, vibrating the spokes, causing chunks of paint and plaster to explode through the air.
"It seems I was very much mistaken. You, my dear, are the cold, unnatural thing." "No, wait! Please ..." But he was already gone. The house suddenly seemed empty as it never had before, a sense of nothingness that seemed to permeate through to her bones.
"He doesn't understand," she said in a voice uncertain, unsteady. "He has no idea of what modern business requires."
It was painful to swallow, and she squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the package. The package. She had almost forgotten all about it. Taking a deep breath she walked over to the staircase and sat on the second step. With her thumb she unfastened the tape holding the brown wrapping paper together.
When she flipped it over, the wrapping open, she simply stared for a while.
The book was familiar. Fitzwilliam Connolly: The Soul and Conscience of Ascendancy Ireland, by B. D. Finn, the book Donal's mother had written.
Unlike the library copy, this one was in pristine condition, free of the scars and coffee circles and dogeared pages that a book earned after two decades in a university library.
She opened up to the title page. There was writing there, a neatly penned cluster of words. The script was rounded and precise, a style she had noticed that seemed to be the product of Irish elementary schools.
To my son, who, while still young, is no longer as little as I would wish . . . All my love, Mam.
It was his own copy, signed by his mother. For what seemed to be forever she was unable to breathe, simply staring at the inscription.
Donal had given her his own copy.
A small slip of paper was poking out from the pages of the book.
Maura, I do hope this book is a help. I can personally vouch for the character of the author, if not the subject. Please enjoy, Donal Byrne.
His handwriting was similar to his mother's perhaps less slanted. She stared at the two samples side by side, wondering why she was so reluctant to stop studying them. There was no point, except that the more she concentrated on something as benign as handwriting samples, the less time she would have to contemplate why she suddenly felt like laughing and weeping at once. Or why she felt a lump in her throat which wasn't completely unpleasant, yet not entirely comfortable.
No matter how long she sat on the steps with the book and brown paper wrapping on her lap, one stark fact remained. He had given her his own copy of the book.
Not for the first time, surely not for the last, Maura wondered if she would ever in a million years understand the workings of a man's mind.
chapter 10
She felt as if the house itself were closing in on her. As large as it was, the rooms suddenly seemed oppressively small, the walls too close together, and the ceilings too near to the floors. It was like being at a gathering of too many relatives, no place to escape, no corner to collect one's thoughts. To preserve her sanity Maura had to leave, to escape if only for a few hours.
Instead of calling Charles MacGuire or Biddy Macguillicuddy or any other deed that might require some sort of intelligent conversation, Maura decided to visit the furniture factory. Should Jimmy O'Neil be there, she knew she would not have to hold up her end of a dialogue, since understanding him was out of the question in any case. And if Kermit MacGee was no longer ill she could see firsthand what others found so appealing.
Maura dressed carefully, in a linen suit and skirt that seemed to proclaim business acumen with every no-nonsense inch of sensible beige fabric. Her only concession to a remote fashion sense was a well-hidden blue blouse with removable shoulder pads. She left them in, hoping that the more she resembled a linebacker, the more respect she might gain from the
employees.
Arriving just before three in the afternoon, she entered the front door just as the workers were about to embark on a tea break. Her arrival did nothing to deter them from their respite.
The first person she saw was Jimmy O'Neil. As usual he wore a black jacket and black trousers with a crumpled white shirt printed with a tiny geometric design. Whether it was the same outfit or if he had a closet filled with identical frayed trousers and threadbare jackets, she couldn't be sure. But through the transparent shirt she saw his sleeveless undershirt in some sort of thermal weave. The front seemed to have been pulled out of shape, for the neck scooped almost to the bottom of his chest, and when he removed his jacket in the afternoon warmth, she couldn't help but notice that one of the sleeves draped over his arm like a woman's errant bra strap. His hair, as usual, stood proud and erect in almost military white splendor.
"Thath a geekoma hey." He waved boldly and pointed to a gentleman with alarmingly wide sideburns. Swinging the jacket over his s
houlder, he nodded toward his companion. "Kersther Matheraga."
The whiskered man stood and bowed at the waist. His trousers seemed to have been sewn at home by someone who had not yet mastered the art, yet had a
great deal of multicolored yarn at their disposal. His tie, knotted into a small bulb at the base of his throat, dangled well past his belt and was knit of the same yarn. It was unraveling at the bottom, and she had a sudden image of him cutting the tie off as it stretched. "It is indeed a pleasure to meet you," he pronounced. "Jimmy here has told me so much about you, Miss Finnegan."
Maura blinked. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
The man seemed surprised. "Well, it's just as Jimmy said—Kermit MacGee."
"Oh, of course!" She leaned forward and shook his hand, which seemed to please him immensely.
Jimmy stepped forward and said something, while Kermit listened with a barely restrained grin. Then Jimmy stopped, nudged Kermit, and nodded.
"Nah, Jimmy! I can't tell herself the punch line, not to this joke. It's not fit for mixed company."
"Please," Maura urged. "I'd love to hear the punch line." She almost added that it didn't matter, since she had no clue as to what the rest of the joke was but was afraid that Jimmy would merely repeat it.
"Are you sure, miss?"
"Absolutely," she said with confidence.
"Well, so then he says ..." A hush fell over the workroom. A few workers scrambled closer, hunched forward in eager expectation. "So then he says . . ." Kermit repeated, slowly savoring their reaction.
He was milking the room like a real pro, she marveled.
At last he seemed to rise upon his toes, and in a high-pitched voice he shouted "Knickers!" The place went to pieces. Maura alone was not doubled over with laughter, clutching her sides, gasping for breath and repeating the hilarious word to herself over and over.
When he finally caught his breath, Jimmy looked at Maura and frowned, wiping a tear from his reddened cheek.
Kermit also stopped and seemed to stiffen. "I'm sorry, miss, if that joke was in any way offensive."
"Not at all." She tried to smile but was so confused by their reaction that she was reluctant to admit she had no idea what had been so funny.