Miles from Ireland
***
Miles from Ireland
There was no doubt about it, I thought, looking out the staff lounge window onto the swath of green and yellow below, Spring was earlier than ever this year. The lawn in front of the Physics Building at the University of Northeast Alabama, where I worked as
a staff photographer, had long ago been planted with daffodils by some forward-thinking gardener, and they had been left to naturalize over the intervening fifty or so years.
By the thousands, they nodded their soggy yellow heads in the March drizzle. On the sidewalk that barged through this luxuriant growth, Miles Quinlan, a relatively new post- doc from Ireland, strode toward the main entranceway, his forefinger expertly flicking the remains of his cigarette to a far corner of the lawn. He was carrying a bag emblazoned with the campus grocery store logo, and I sincerely hoped he had my 90-millimeter portrait lens inside. Truthfully, I could have done without the lens, but I kind of wanted
an excuse to talk to Miles.
Miles photographed trains, in monochrome only, with his trusted, non-digital Pentax
P3. He only had a standard 50-millimeter lens, and he sometimes borrowed lenses and other equipment from me. As a post-doctoral fellow, he didn't earn enough to afford these luxuries, and since the school had completely gone to digital photography, it was no effort to spare the odd lens now and again. Within a minute, he knocked on the open door of the lounge, and entered bearing what seemed to be a confused apology along with the shopping bag.
"I hope I've got you the right kind. The lens is back home in the coat cupboard, and there, well, Sweet Sixteen, right?"
I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about. I had never heard of a "Sweet Sixteen" lens, and was about to say so, when he enlightened me by removing from his shopping bag a smaller one, which contained sixteen miniature donuts heavily dredged in confectioner's sugar.
"You said you liked these once. I'm really sorry I forgot your lens. Can you do without it until tomorrow?"
"OK," I said, wondering for the hundredth time just how he talked that way. He once verbally eviscerated a mean old professor who taught Statics and Dynamics with a lilt that reminded me of the liquid music of a lark. Another time I heard him laughing in the hall at something a student told him. It sounded like church bells, or wind chimes.
The subject of Sweet Sixteen donuts had come up a couple of weeks ago in a brief conversation over a cup of tepid coffee in the hallway, when Miles and I for some reason
were exchanging anecdotes of bizarre local cultural icons, in Ireland, and here. The Sweet Sixteen donuts are made outside the city limits, at the local Sunbeam bread factory, and I told him that they tasted exactly the same now as they did when I lived here as a tiny child, and that the paper bags in which they were sold had always had the same line drawings of teenagers dancing gaily, with old-fashioned vinyl records floating improbably amongst them. I had forgotten about the conversation quickly, being obliged as I was to go back to the lab and create a contact sheet for a press release. But Miles had remembered, much to my secret delight.
I was musing on this past conversation, when his lilting voice beckoned me back to the present moment.
"The second floor at Rosemund Hall is having a party for St. Patrick's Day next week. Would you like to come with me?"
I found myself nodding in reply. "And don't worry about the lens," I said. "Tomorrow is fine."
"I can pick you up at six o'clock and we'll have supper. Freddie Wu said I could borrow his car." I was much touched by this. My ancient Spitfire, while very cute, had been sounding a death rattle for years, and Miles didn't have a car at all.
"Oh, you don't have to," I said, not trying to be coy, but because I had seen Freddie Wu's dilapidated Fiesta parked behind the Physics Building with its cracked windshield and dented fender and was horrified at the thought of riding in it, even with someone as appealing as Miles. "I don't mind walking, if someone's with me," I said, and immediately wished I could retract the last half of the sentence.
"It might be raining," he said, nodding toward the now-streaming window. "It would be my pleasure." Now he was training his beautiful eyes on me, and the effect lingered even after I answered.
"OK, then."
"I'm off to teach wave theory to imbeciles," he said, his gaze still warming me. "I
promise to bring your lens tomorrow."
I nodded in reply, feeling like a complete idiot. At nearly thirty, here I was, behaving like a giddy schoolgirl. It was his voice, I decided. His soft inflections could charm a hermit crab from its shell. And he certainly didn't look like an Irishman, at least not like my mind's stereotypical conception of them. He was dark, with eyes of indefinable
color, greenish in this light, golden in that. But if I went to this party, I suddenly realized, someone might tell him about what happened to me, or, God forbid, he might see my scar. Should I cancel outright? Yes, squeaked my fearful self. But it had been over
a year and a half since I had been out with a man, and I missed something I couldn't readily describe, the smell, perhaps, of someone else's skin. Further complicating matters was that I knew that the smell of skin could so easily mutate into the smell of the man who cut me, and caused that scar.
Upon arriving home from work the afternoon of the party, I had greeted Rosie, my calico cat, only to be answered by a lackluster expression. She had then raised an elegant paw and begun her bathing, rather more deliberately than usual. In the kitchen, I discovered that a vase of fresh flowers had not only been overturned from the top of
the counter, but had shattered on the tile below. No wonder Rosie was playing it cool in true cat fashion. I had cut the palm of my hand while cleaning up the mess, and
sat catatonic for a good ten minutes breathing heavily and trying to rid myself of the memories of being stabbed under my collarbone during a robbery near my home when I lived in Nashville. Even a small amount of blood rendered me positively sick with squeamishness, and by the time I rose to bandage my hand, several drops of it had mingled with the flowers and water and tears and glass on the floor.
There had been little time for primping by the time I put everything to rights, and when
I went to change clothes, I noticed a blue streak across one cheek, which looked like a ball-point pen mark, and which I knew would be the very devil to remove. I had finally put on some makeup and was about to brush my hair when I saw Miles outside in the courtyard.
If I had expected Miles to dress like the Notre Dame mascot, I would have been sorely disappointed. He was wearing very faded jeans and a gray sweater. He was bending down picking something up, something that I could not identify, since I had removed
my contact lenses for cleaning. But he seemed to stay in that position for an inordinate length of time, and I finally decided to return to my interrupted dressing. I pulled on a soft, celery-green crew-neck sweater. The tiniest edge of my scar showed above the collar, but I didn't think it would be noticeable.
I was still forcing my right foot into a boot when he rang the buzzer. When I opened the door, he handed me a handful, perhaps two-dozen, four-leaf clovers.
"It's been awhile since I took a girl out," he said in explanation. "I should have brought flowers, but I forgot."
I was so flattered at being called a "girl" that he could have presented me with a block of peat and I would have smilingly accepted it.
"You found all these yourself? Out on the courtyard?" He nodded.
"How did you do it? Is it an Irish thing?" I said as I went to the now-pristine kitchen to find a suitable container for the clover.
"No, actually. I'm colorblind. We tend to see things differently."
&nbs
p; "You mean, you can't tell that these are green, but you can find the ones with four leaves just like that?"
"That's right. Outlines tend to be very clear."
I think my expression must have given something away. A note of concern passed across his face. My scar should stand out nicely, I thought.
Rosemund Hall was a dormitory for graduate students, and a few post-docs, like Miles lived there, too. I only knew three or four people at the party. It was the least expensive dorm on campus, and I guessed correctly that being there allowed Miles to pocket a
few more of the precious dollars he earned teaching particle physics and wave theory. His room had the look of having been tidied in a great hurry, and I didn't dare open the
closet for fear of an avalanche. The walls were covered with monochrome photos of trains, which he described to me in loving detail. It was plain from his photos that he really did view things differently than everyone else. Whether it was a colorblind thing, or an Irish thing, I couldn't discern.
As he described the engines, pistons, and other train parts on display, I made polite nods with my head to keep up my side of the conversation, but I was distracted by some drunken students in the common room. They were attempting to sing a barely identifiable poem ("Jabberwocky"?) to the accompaniment of someone picking out, with painful inaccuracy, "The Wearing of the Green" on an ancient piano. It also sounded as if one or two keys were mute, giving the whole thing an odd syncopation.
The whole night was taking on a kaleidoscopic quality, perhaps from my nervousness, the half-glass of green beer I'd had with dinner, or maybe due to the swirling, grinding machinery in its hyper-masculine grandeur all over the walls of Miles' room. It was not wholly unpleasant; quite the contrary. I found myself relaxing in his presence, something I'd convinced myself I'd never be able to do unless they caught my assailant.
Fortunately, no one mentioned anything about my previous ordeal in Nashville, and, really, why would they? They probably figured Miles already knew. I was ready to
go home at a little past midnight, but Freddie Wu needed his car to get more beer, so Miles offered to walk me home, and I gladly accepted, having genuinely enjoyed his company, and feeling thankful that I might make a clean getaway without having to explain how I had been cut open with a fish scaler half a block from my home that night.
There was only the slightest chill in the air as we walked along, and somehow it felt like we were in a warm little bubble of our own. Instead of feeling like running away, back
to the safety of my apartment, I felt pulled in close to Miles. He must have felt it too, because he took my hand in his, and softly stroked the side of my hand with his thumb.
At my door, he kissed me on the cheek. God, it had been ages since I had been that close to another human being. But what he said startled me right back into my bubble.
"I know what happened to you. Charlotte in the copy room told me about it. I can see the top of your scar above your collar. I'm really very sorry."
Damn Charlotte, I knew I should have worn a turtleneck, I thought. Involuntarily, I hiked up the collar of my sweater to cover the mark and started to turn away.
"You don't have to do that, Isabel," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. I mean, it's ... it's a part of your story, it's some of your story that I can know, even if you don't want to talk about it."
"This is the first date I've been on since it happened," I stammered. I reluctantly met his eyes, the scar somehow feeling less burdensome.
"And this is the first date I've enjoyed since I came to America. So there," he said, and kissed my cheek once again. "Good night, Isabel."
"Good night, Miles. Thank you."