Part XXXI

It seemed like no time at all before we were settled at Emily’s dining room table again, with three desserts to choose from, and steaming mugs of freshly perked coffee beside each plate.

“So, what have we got?” Ronan asked, eyeing the serving dishes Jon and Emily had set before us.

“Apple-cranberry pie, pecan pie, and pumpkin cheesecake,” Emily answered. “You’re welcome to try any or all.”

Ronan’s eyes traveled from plate to plate and back again. “I couldn’t possibly choose, a cara, so I’ll have a bit of each, if you don’t mind. If they taste as good as they look, I’m sure I’ll have no regrets.”

“Sarah?” Jon asked.

“I can’t choose, either, so I’m with Liam. A bit of each, please.”

The plates we received held much larger portions than we wanted.

“Jon, I did tell ye I’m not Fionn mac Cumhaill, did I not?”

“You did, but I have no frame of reference yet. Leave whatever you can’t finish, and we’ll pack it up for you to take home. Now, about this Fionn mac Cumhaill—”

“Let me eat a bit first, man!”

I smiled and offered him a forkful of the cheesecake.

Ronan tasted it and groaned with pleasure. “Och, Emily, I do believe you’ve outdone yourself.”

She leaned towards him, looking mischievous. “Well, I know that, Liam, but—is it better than sex?”

It was an unfortunate moment for her to tease him that way, as I had just given him a sip of coffee. He hadn’t swallowed it yet, and when he snorted with laughter at Emily’s question, it all shot out through his nose. I figured he’d be upset, but he was still chuckling as I took a spare napkin and cleaned up the mess. It took him a moment, but when he finally managed to respond, his cool, offhand tone of voice didn’t match the vivid color suffusing his cheeks.

“Well, Em, it runs a close race as is, but if you added bittersweet chocolate sauce and Irish Cream, I daresay it might bring me to a toe-curling moment of truth.”

My jaw dropped, and Emily gasped, and Jon laughed heartily, his hand poised to give Ronan a high-five. Then he remembered that Ronan couldn’t return it, and lowered his hand to the table, blushing.

Ronan didn’t laugh, but his eyes were twinkling, and he smiled sweetly, all innocence, as if he hadn’t said anything outrageous at all. “Sarah, would you give me another taste of my coffee, please?”

I raised the mug to his lips and let him drink, and then I fed him small bites of the other desserts in turn.

“Now, seriously, Liam,” Emily prompted, unwilling to let the matter drop, “what do you think?”

“Excellent. Sarah must have told you I have a terrible sweet-tooth.”

“She didn’t have to tell me anything. I’ve seen your sweet-tooth in action at Mary’s Place. It’s a wonder you’re not diabetic, and half the size of Boston.”

Ronan’s smile broadened, his eyes squinting up at the corners. “Well, I only allow myself that indulgence once a week, so I don’t take in as much sugar as you might think. As to my size, well, I’ve a fast metabolism. All it takes is a good fifteen minute walk, and I’ve burned off most of whatever I’ve eaten.”

“I hate you,” Emily retorted, then laughed. “You can’t begin to imagine how hard I’ll have to work out to make up for today!”

“If I could let you borrow my metabolism, I would,” Ronan said earnestly, “but as it is, you’re stuck with your arse, and I’m stuck with mine. And so it goes.”

Emily shook her head, still laughing, then leaned closer and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek.

“What’s that for?” Ronan asked, startled.

“For being you, and making me laugh, and introducing me to Jon, and making my best friend a happy woman. You’re an absolute dear.”

He blushed again, more deeply, and ducked his head, and shook his hair down so only the tip of his nose showed. “Och, get on with you!” he muttered.

“Well, you are,” she insisted. “It’s your cross to bear.”

He chuckled softly. “I suppose there are worse crosses to lug about. Sarah, my coffee?”

I held the cup for him again, and let him take a long drink.

Jon took advantage of the break in conversation. “Liam, you were going to tell us about that Fionn mac Cumhaill guy. How about it?”

Ronan swallowed his coffee and leaned back in his chair with a smile. “Och, Fionn mac Cumhaill!” His eyes took on a distant, dreamy look, and he began to speak softly, with a slight sing-song lilt in his voice. “Well, back in the auld days, in the time before time as we know it, there was a great hero in Eire, by the name of Fionn mac Cumhaill. He was brave, and gallant, and wise, and a giant of a man. He and his wife, Oonagh, made their home on the northern coast of Eire: as wild and beautiful a place as ever there was. Their life in that place was grand until one day when a Scottish rival, another giant by the name of Bennandonner, began to taunt Fionn mac Cumhaill from across the channel that separated the two lands. Bennandonner claimed to be bigger, and stronger, and fiercer, and declared that he could kick Fionn mac Cumhaill’s arse to kingdom come in short order, if only the channel did not lie between them. Being a manly man, Fionn mac Cumhaill couldn’t abide that insult to his honor, so he decided to make it easier for his rival to prove his point. He built an enormous stone bridge across that channel, so Bennandonner might come over and show what he was made of. Well, of course Bennandonner accepted the challenge and started across, and when Fionn mac Cumhaill saw him coming, the very sight shook him to the core of his being. Bennandonner was indeed the larger, stronger giant, and if Fionn mac Cumhaill couldn’t think fast enough, he was in for a righteous thrashing. Woe betide men of any stature who challenge each other’s honor and manhood! So, what did Fionn mac Cumhaill do when the challenge got out of hand? Why, what any sensible man will do when push comes to shove: he sought his wife’s advice. No doubt about it, he was the brawn of the outfit, and she was the brains. She was only perplexed for a moment, lost in thought as she pondered the situation, and then she sprang into action. She dressed Fionn mac Cumhaill in baby clothes and fashioned a rough cradle beside the fire, and she bade him lie there and feign sleep. When Bennandonner arrived at the door, banging and blustering, Oonagh invited him in for tea and told him Fionn mac Cumhaill would be along soon. Then she cautioned him to keep his voice low, so as not to wake her tiny, sleeping baby, Fionn mac Cumhaill’s son, and she stood aside so Bennandonner might see the infant lying there in his cradle. Bennandonner drank his tea and looked upon the tiny baby, and he drank some more, and he looked again, and finally he decided that if Fionn mac Cumhaill’s tiny baby was such a giant, then his father must be even more of one, and therefore of a greater size and strength than Bennandonner himself: not at all the sort of man he’d want to meet, much less do battle with. So, he finished his tea and thanked Oonagh for her hospitality, and ran out of the place as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. So fast and furious did he go, the bridge was torn up in his wake, and forever after he hoped he'd done a good enough job of it to keep Fionn mac Cumhaill from crossing over to Scotland. The remains of that bridge are there to this day: a well-known landmark. You’ve heard of the Giants’ Causeway?”

We all nodded, still utterly charmed and spellbound by his telling of the tale.

“Have you seen pictures of the place, or visited it?”

“I’ve been to Ireland, but not that far north,” Jon replied. “Is it worth seeing?”

“Worth seeing?” Ronan echoed. “Jaysus, man! It’s more than worth seeing, and then there’s the Carrick-a-rede rope bridge not far from there. That’d be sure to give you a thrill if the Causeway wasn’t enough for you. I’d e-mail some links to you if I could type, but I can’t, and I’ll probably have forgotten all about it by the time I have a free hand again. Do a search on the internet, though, when you have a minute, and you’ll see. There are lots of snapshots floating around in cyberspace. I think there’s even a series someone took of me on the Causeway, back in the day.”

“Back in what day?” Jon asked.

“Back when I was—” Ronan hesitated. “Younger. In my twenties,” he concluded.

“And it’s on the web?”

He nodded. “My sister built a website for the family awhile back. Our cousins are scattered far and wide around Great Britain, so the website is the best way to share our news and pictures.”

“Do you have the address?”

“Not off the top of my head, but I’ll try to remember to send you the link sometime.”

Ronan sounded cool and calm, while I held my breath, terrified. Only my hand on his thigh, delivering a discreet pinch beneath the table, had reminded him of what dangerous waters he was heading into. He had covered his tracks well, but a sudden loss of color and beads of sweat gathering on his furrowed brow betrayed his anxiety.

“Liam?” Emily laid her hand on his shoulder, looking worried. “Are you all right?”

“No,” he answered softly, his face ashen. “I’m sorry. My head—”

“What is it?” she asked, turning to me.

“I’ve started a migraine,” Ronan answered. “I need to lie down.”

Jon rose quickly and helped Ronan to his feet.

“Take him down to the bedroom, Jon,” Emily said. “Turn off the lights and close the curtains, and let him rest. Sarah, come with me while I heat up my flaxseed pillow.”

***

Emily tucked a small cloth pillow into the microwave and waited. “Well, that headache sure came upon him suddenly! The heat will help a bit, but what else can we do for him?”

“Nothing, really. So far the doctor has said the best thing for it is Ibuprofen—up to 800 milligrams—and heat, and sleep.”

“For a migraine? That’s all? He should be taking something stronger.”

“No, really, it’s not necessary. His headaches aren’t like the ones you get, Em. They’re painful, but they don’t last more than a day. It’s due to the concussion. He’s still recovering from it.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that! Poor man. Do you think it was too much for him, coming over here today?”

“It shouldn’t have been. I don’t have any idea what triggered this, and when it’s over, he won’t remember, either. He’ll just be glad to be past the pain.”

The microwave beeped, and Emily took the pillow out and shook it from side to side to distribute the heat evenly, before handing it to me. “There, go and give him that, and tell him he can stay and sleep as long as he needs to.”

“I will. Thanks, Em.”

***

I went down the hall to the darkened room, sat on the edge of the bed, and gently laid the heated pillow on Ronan’s forehead. Jon had gone to join Emily in the kitchen, after telling me to be sure and let him know if we needed anything at all to make Ronan more comfortable. I thanked him, and turned back to Ronan. When I was certain that Jon was out of earshot, I spoke.

“Ro, I know you had to think of a quick way to deflect questions, but really! This was a little too convincing.”

“Ohhhhh,” he groaned. “You think I’m putting on?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“I wish I could say I was, but the fact is, it feels like someone’s pounding on my head from the inside with a sledgehammer. It came on all of a sudden.”

“All right, then. I believe you.” I lay down beside him and settled his head on my breast. Then I adjusted the pillow and stroked the back of his neck.

“Och, this is a bad one,” he moaned. “All the bones in my face ache, including my teeth.”

“If you sleep awhile, it may pass. Give it a try. Em said you could rest here as long as you need to, until you feel up to going home.”

“Tell her I said thank you, and that I should be good enough to go in an hour or two.”

“I will. Hush, now. Hush.” I cradled him in my arms and kissed the top of his head, and continued stroking the back of his neck.

He sighed and relaxed, and in a few minutes, he was asleep.

I got up when I was sure my leaving wouldn’t waken him, settled him back on the pillows, and covered him with the quilt Emily had folded and laid out at the foot of the bed.

Ronan shifted a bit, then lay still.

I tiptoed out, leaving the door ajar behind me, so I could hear him if he called.

Emily met me in the dining room, a plate and dish-towel in hand. “Is he really all right, Sarah, or should I call 911?”

“No need for that, Em. It’s really just a migraine. He doesn’t get them quite as often as he did at first, but when they come on, they come on fast, with little or no warning.”

Emily scowled. “It’s so unfair! Hasn’t he suffered enough already, without adding migraines to the mix?”

“It would seem so, wouldn’t it? But we’re trying to trust what the doctor told us. He swears the headaches will go away once Ronan’s fully recovered from his concussion. In the meantime, we know what to do to get him through it.”

Emily put away the plate and picked up another from a stack on the table, and began to polish it. “I hate to say this, Sarah, but when that headache first came on, I thought he might be faking it, to throw the conversation off track. He came a bit too close to blowing his cover, telling us about the Causeway and all.”

“I thought so, too, at first, but I’m afraid it is genuine. I know the signs. He gets a slight furrow in his brow, and then his face turns that sickly shade of gray, as you just saw. He’d have to be an awfully good actor to fake that, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes.” Emily put the plate down and reached for the next one.

“And he was right: there is a series of photos of him on the Causeway. They’re on the cover of his second album, and inside the gatefold. He was so beautiful then.”

“He’s still quite a good-looking man.”

“I know, but not like he was then. The ground might well have been paved with broken hearts instead of stones.”

“Oh, come on!”

“I’m not exaggerating, Em. Women really threw themselves at his head. He’s told me all about it, and about his aversion to it.”

Emily shook her head, but offered no comment, and I pretended I didn’t feel her sardonic “yeah, right” hanging in the air between us.

“Did his sister really build a website with those pictures?” she asked, breaking a silence that had lasted a few moments too long to be comfortable.

“I don’t know. I think he may have just said that as a way to cover his tracks. It might not have been so effective if the headache hadn’t hit him when it did.”

“You don’t think he could have psyched himself into it, do you?”

“No, but I do think the stress of realizing how close he’d come to betraying himself might have pushed him over the edge.”

“Maybe. Sarah, I’m really sorry the day had to end like this, especially after he weathered everything else so well.”

“He did, didn’t he?” I agreed, smiling. “The food thing was really hard for him, though. Not being able to feed himself is his idea of the worst degradation a man could endure. He’s been good about everything else for the most part, but he really hates the food routine.”

“Funny, I’d have thought the bathroom would be his Waterloo.”

I snorted. “Em, that was really bad!”

“What?”

“Waterloo?”

“Ohhhhh!” she exclaimed. “That’s not what I was thinking at all. It’s the unintentional puns that are the worst, don’t you think?”

“Sometimes. Anyway, surprisingly, that’s not his pet peeve.”

“Peeve?” Emily echoed. “Honestly, Sarah! You’re as bad as me!”

I threw her a mock frown. “All right, I’ll try again. The bathroom business is not the thing that causes him the most distress, and I think it’s because that’s not a part of his life other people ever have to see. But being fed makes him feel like a baby, and it’s even worse when other people are around to see. He’s told me so from the beginning. Next on his list of general annoyances is how clumsy the casts are. They’re heavy, and the extra weight bothers his back and shoulders, and throws his balance off.”

“I’ve noticed he tends to stumble.”

“Yes, and when he does, he can’t steady himself easily. I don’t like to let him get too far away from me when he’s up and about. He could hurt himself if he fell.”

Jon emerged from the kitchen. “All done,” he announced.

“Thanks, Jon. You’re a treasure.”

He smiled and moved to stand behind Emily, locked his arms around her, and bent down to touch his cheek to hers. “You need to stop polishing dishes, Em. No one’s going to notice a few water-spots. Come on.” He took the plate from her hands and gently set it down on the sideboard. “You’ve worked hard enough. Time to relax and put your feet up. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please. Jameson’s. You know how I like it.”

He tweaked the tip of her nose. “I know how you like it, all right, and I know how you like your whiskey, too.”

Emily laughed. “Whiskey now, dear, and other things later.”

“Right.” Jon busied himself at the sideboard, preparing Emily’s drink. “Would you like something, Sarah?”

“A little ice water, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Did Liam manage to fall asleep?”

“Yes. He thought he’d be all right to go home in an hour or two, but I don’t know. He was in a lot of pain. Said it felt like someone was pounding on his head from the inside, with a sledgehammer.”

“Sounds like that could take a long time to go away.”

“Yes.” I took the glass Jon offered me. “Thanks.”

Emily leaned back against the sofa cushions and sipped her whiskey slowly. “It was a perfect day, though, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, until Liam got sick,” Jon agreed. “You’re sure he’ll be O.K., Sarah?”

I nodded. “He’ll probably be back to normal by morning.”

We were running out of things to say, and beginning to repeat ourselves. It felt awkward, and I wished Ronan would wake up so we could go home.

“I should go check on him,” I said, trying not to notice that Jon was massaging Emily’s bare feet, and she was practically purring with delight. “If I can wake him, I really should get him home. He’ll rest better in his own bed.”

“As we all do,” Jon agreed. “Will you let me drive you back?”

“That would be nice. Normally I wouldn’t ask, but I think taking the T would be too much for him right now.”

Jon released Emily’s feet and stood up. “I’ll help you get him moving, Sarah.”

We started down the hallway, but Ronan was already up and making his way towards us, a bit unsteadily. Jon caught his right arm and held him. “Whoa, man. You don’t look too good.”

“I don’t feel so good, either, but I think I’m well enough to go home. Sarah?”

“I’m right here, hon.” I moved in close on his left and put my arm around his waist. Together, Jon and I guided him down the hall and into the living room, and settled him in an easy-chair.

“Sit tight, Liam. I’ll just get my shoes on, and then I’ll drive you guys home.”

“Really, you don’t have to do that,” Ronan protested. “There’s no reason Sarah and I can’t take the T.”

“Jon is taking you home,” Emily said sternly, “whether you like it or not.”

“So, I’ve no say in the matter?”

“None whatsoever,” she replied, folding her arms: a gesture I knew well from having worked with her for so many years. She had determined a course of action, and would brook no opposition.

“Emily, it’s just a headache,” Ronan said, making one last attempt to change her mind.

“Maybe so, but I don’t like the looks of things. You’re white as a ghost. Do you feel faint?”

“No. I just have a headache. Really.”

“All right, but please remember that you’re still recovering from a concussion, and you’re bound to have your ups and downs. No need to feel embarrassed when you’re among friends. Just be gracious and accept help when it’s offered.”

“I’ve never been good about that sort of thing.”

“Then you’re like me: too damn independent for your own good. Change that while you still can.”

“I’m trying,” he replied faintly.

“Good. Jon, are you ready?”

He came back into the living room, zippng up his jacket. “Yeah. Come on, you guys. Let’s go.”

Together, he and I raised Ronan to his feet.

He didn’t protest further, and remained silent as we supported him and slowly made our way to the car.

***

C.P. Warner
© 13 April 2008

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