Part XXXIII

The remainder of the weekend was equally pleasant, if not as adventurous. After our bath and a hearty breakfast, we drove out to Northampton, where I had far too much fun browsing in the warehouse at Webs. Ronan accompanied me as I examined every cone and skein that caught my eye, very much amused at the way being surrounded by that much yarn effected me.

“You don’t really need more, a chuisle,” he remarked, as I added a two-pound cone of moss-colored tweed yarn to my shoppng cart.

“But it’s such a good price, and it’s enough to make a whole sweater—”

He chuckled softly. “Och, I’m just teasing you, bean. If something takes your fancy, go ahead and get it. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but—” I retrieved the cone from the cart and studied it critically. “This one’s really nice, but I already have so many clothes in this color, and maybe it isn’t such a great bargain after all.”

“Come now!” he chided. “You didn’t drive all this way to go home empty-handed, and you know it. Really, take as long as you like, and buy as much as you like. My treat.”

“You don’t have to do that, Ro. I’m perfectly capable of buying my own supplies.”

“Of course you are, but I’d like to give you a present. You’ve been awfully good to me throughout this whole wretched ordeal, and if a bit of yarn would make you happy, then let me pick up the tab. My way of saying thanks, and if you won’t accept it, then I’ll ask one of those nice clerks for assistance and fill a cart of my own with God only knows what, and give you that instead. I’m capable of having really horrible taste, and you know the sort of thing I mean, too. Lime green. Blaze orange. Crime-scene yellow. This-one-has-too-much-orange-in-it red.”

He was parrotting some of the editorial comments he had heard me make in regard to color, and I was astonished that he remembered so well, over a month after the Rhinebeck festival. It was true, I was very fussy about what shades I liked, and had a wide range of pejorative descriptions for the ones I didn’t.

“Touché,” I replied, and picked up a big, soft hank of mohair in a colorway that was totally wrong for me, and hit him over the head with it, laughing.

He laughed, too, and shook his head free of strands that still clung to his hair. “So, I take it you’d prefer to make your own choices?”

I nodded and replaced the yarn in its bin, still laughing.

After that, he simply followed me up and down the aisles in the enormous warehouse and helped me decide. Despite his saying he could have perfectly horrible taste when he wanted to, he agreed with me on some really lovely colors. I did my best to be conservative, but still ended up filling my cart and spending close to four hundred dollars. Ronan surrendered his credit card at the register without complaint, though it took him awhile to sign the receipt.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the clerk. “It doesn’t match at all, does it? But at least it’s a bit better than signing with an x.”

“Yes, sir, but I’ll need to see an ID.”

I opened his wallet and took out his driver’s license, and handed it to the girl.

She looked at the picture, then at Ronan, and back again. I thought she would remark upon the absence of facial hair in the picture, but: “New Zealand?” she inquired. “Wow, are you a long way from home! Did you see the yarns over there? Those came from New Zealand, too.”

“Yes, and very nice they are,” he said quickly, though we hadn’t looked in the front part of the shop at all. “But as you can see, my lady-friend came in search of quantity and bargains.”

She smiled and handed the license back to me. “The skeins in this part of the store aren’t quite as much of a deal,” she agreed, “but not everyone wants to go hunting in the warehouse.”

“I imagine it takes a certain mindset,” he observed, winking at me. “Someone with a healthy sense of adventure, perhaps?”

The girl laughed. “You could say that. You never know what you might find in there from one week to the next.”

“No, I suppose not. Well, we enjoyed the experience, anyway. Right, Sarah?”

“Yes. I don’t get here often, but when I do, I tend to go a little bit crazy.”

“You’re not alone. Do you guys need help getting all that out to your car?”

“No, thanks,” I answered. “I’ll just use the cart and bring it right back inside, if that’s all right.”

“Certainly. Have a nice day, now, and enjoy the yarn.”

***

A little while later, we stopped for lunch in a restaurant in town and fortified ourselves with fresh bread and pumpkin soup. The corner booth Ronan chose was comfortable and private, so he was at ease as I fed him.

“So, what did you think of Webs?” I asked.

“’Twas quite something, a chuisle. I do wish I could set Grainne loose in there for an afternoon.”

“You think she’d like it?”

Ronan snorted. “Multiply how you feel about the place by a million, and you’ll have an idea how much Grainne would like it. We always had wool on the island, see? But not much selection when it came to color, or the softness of it. The yarns were durable and nice enough, but not luxurious. Strictly utilitarian, for the most part.”

“Did you see anything you think she might like? Because we could stop again on the way back and get something to send.”

Ronan smiled. “Why do you think I insisted upon your taking four cones of that cashmere blend, instead of the two you wanted?”

“Ohhhhh. And there I was, thinking you’d taken leave of your senses. That stuff was not cheap.”

“I know, but you’ll both love it, and that’s what matters. Money’s nothing in the face of that.”

I gazed at him fondly, my heart melting into a sentimental puddle yet again. “Sometimes, Ro, you’re just—too good to be true. I’m afraid I’ll wake up one morning and find I’ve been dreaming the whole time. Tell me you’re real?”

“Och, I’m real, all right,” he answered gently. “I’m real, and I love you more than words can tell. However, I’m also hungry, so could you please—?”

According to the usual routine, I had given him his bread first, to take the edge off his hunger while the steaming soup cooled down. I picked up the spoon and stirred, and a quick taste test proved it was ready. Then we started our meal in earnest: a spoonful for him, and a spoonful for me. When the waitress came by a bit later to see if we wanted dessert, we ordered cappuccino and almond biscotti. Cappuccino was still Ronan’s favorite indulgence, and it was early enough in the day to let him have what he called “hi-test premium” instead of decaf. I had to feed him that, too, along with the biscotti, but he was in a very good humor and accepted that without complaint. “The end of this is in sight,” he said, glancing down at his arms. “With any luck at all, only two or three more weeks. I’m practically counting the minutes.”

“Can’t say I blame you for that,” I replied. “Not that I’ve minded taking care of you one bit, but I know how frustrating this has been for you. I wish I could have made it all go away somehow.” I took a sip of my own coffee and was about to give him a bit more of his, but when I looked up at him, surprised that had not responded to my words, I saw that his face had lost its serene expression and gone pale, and he was sitting up very straight, his shoulders stiff. “Ro, what’s the matter?”

“Listen,” he said, his voice hushed.

There was music playing softly in the background. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, while we were chatting, but I could hear it clearly now: one of Ronan’s earliest recordings: an eclectic compilation of folk, blues, and traditional pieces, all played on acoustic guitar, or on an electric guitar toned down to sound like an acoustic guitar with a bit of an edge.

“I knew it was only a matter of time,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper. “O, dear God!”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s probably just a coincidence. Try to act normal, will you? Take a deep breath and stay put, and I’ll see what I can find out.”

He was still pale, but he did his best to relax his posture. “I have to get out of here,” he insisted, urgently. “Please!”

“No, you don’t. Not yet. Just—wait. Anything more than that will draw exactly the sort of attention you don’t want.”

He nodded, still pale and anxious, and I slipped out of the booth and approached the counter.

The waitress was there, flirting with the cook, her back to me, and for a moment I thought of Sean and Mary, and how they had interacted when I’d first begun buying my morning coffee from them.

Soon the girl sensed that someone was waiting and turned around. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “I lost track of time. Is there something else I can get for you?”

“Just the check, please. My friend and I are still finishing our meal, but we’re in a bit of a hurry and have to rush right off as soon as we’re done, so I thought I should settle up with you now, while you’re not too busy.”

“Oh, all right.” She rifled through the slips in her apron pocket and came up with ours, and started to punch numbers into the cash register. After she told me the total, I took my time counting out the money, including her tip, thinking carefully about what I might say. “There, that’s all set,” I told her, and then I remarked upon the music, hoping I sounded offhand. “You know, I have to tell you, it’s so nice to hear that someone besides me knows about Ronan O’Farrell.”

The girl smiled. “My older brother used to play his records all the time, and I really liked them, but this one was my favorite.”

“It’s one of mine, too.”

“He hasn’t put anything new out in a long time. I wish he would. It would be nice to know what he’s up to these days.”

I felt a pang as I realized, yet again, that Ronan was so little known in the States, even some of the discerning few hadn’t yet heard the news of his “death.”

“I’m really sorry,” I began gently, “but didn’t you know he—passed away—oh, five or six years ago?”

“No! Really? But he wasn’t even fifty yet! What happened? A heart attack?”

“No. He just—wore himself out, I guess. The article I read said it was pneumonia. He came down with a bad case, and he was too weak to fight it.”

“God, that’s sad! Where did you find the article?”

“I happened to pick up an issue of Rolling Stone that had a little headline with his name on the cover. I thought I’d find an update on what he was doing. Needless to say, it was a real shock when the article turned out to be a two-column obituary in small print, towards the back of the magazine.”

“So, like, the music world forgot about him even before he died?”

“It would appear so. Anyone else would have gotten at least one page and a photograph.”

“What a shame! Now I feel like going straight home, cracking a Guinness, and having an all-night Ronan O’Farrell marathon. Did you ever get to see him play?”

“Oh, many times. How about you?”

“Only once. I was just a little kid when he was at his peak. I wasn’t old enough to get into the clubs he liked to play in, until his last tour. He was a different man by then, but he sure made that guitar wail, and it didn’t sound like he was old and tired and just going through the motions, no matter how much he might have looked it. Amazing. Anyone who had a heart would have wanted to gather him into their arms and run off with him, and take care of him until that awful sadness in his eyes went away. I thought about trying to meet him afterwards, but I was in tears by the time he left the stage, and I was too embarrassed to have him see me like that. I was a mess. Mascara everywhere. Not as bad as old Tammy Faye, but close. Did you ever get to meet him?”

‘Between the sheets every night,’ I thought, but didn’t say so. “Once, also on that last tour. It was heartbreaking.”

“Poor man,” she sighed. “May he rest in peace and groove with the angels.”

“Yes,” I agreed, and turned away from the counter.

“Hope you can come in again sometime,” the girl called after me.

“I don’t live around here, but I’m sure I’ll be passing through again sometime. Take care, now.”

When I returned to Ronan, he had wedged himself into the far corner of the booth, and bowed his head so his hair hid his face almost completely. It also veiled his eyes so he couldn’t see me, and he didn’t dare to look up.

“Sarah, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

I slipped back into my place across from him. “You have nothing to worry about. The waitress is sort of a—second generation fan. Her older brother had all your records and evidently played them ad nauseam. The one she has on the stereo now is her favorite. She saw you play once, on your last tour, but didn’t get to meet you. And she didn’t know you’d—er—well, let’s just say that the editors of Rolling Stone didn’t exactly go out of their way to spread the news.”

“It didn’t spread like wildfire through Europe and Great Britain, either. I was past my peak, still loved and respected by a small but loyal following, but fading off into the sunset. Once you start to get a bit worn out, and you can’t impress your audience with stage acrobatics, and you run to fat and lose your looks—ah, it’s a cruel business. It really is.”

“I wouldn’t say you’ve lost your looks, Ro, and you certainly aren’t fat.”

“I was towards the end. I wasn’t eating properly, and I was drinking heavily. I had an ample beer gut, and I couldn’t fit into a pair of jeans anymore, and I’d dyed my hair a perfectly hideous color to cover the gray. Everywhere I’d see images of how I used to look, emblazoned on people’s t-shirts, and then I’d go back to my hotel room after a show and have to confront my real image in the mirror.” He shook his head, then looked up at me, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I can’t begin to describe how much that hurt."

I reached across the table and stroked his cheek gently. “That’s all in the past now. Or—you aren’t still repulsed by the man you see in the mirror, are you?”

“Not repulsed, no. Just startled by how much I’ve aged in the last year or so. I’m grayer now than I was when we left N Zed.”

“So?”

“And my face is so lined.”

“Well, you’ve been through a lot in the last few weeks. The pain and the worry don’t help.”

“No.”

“You’re still handsome. I know I’ve said that before, but I’ll say it as many times as I have to, until you believe me. You’ve aged very well over time, in spite of everything. Isn’t that better than being a pretty boy for ages, and suddenly waking up one morning and finding you’re really a withered old man?”

“I suppose.” He sighed.

“Do you want to finish your coffee?”

“No. It’s probably gone cold now, and you know how cold coffee turns my stomach. Could we just go home, or do you still have to settle the bill?”

“I’ve taken care of it. Do you need the restroom before we leave?”

“No, I’ll be fine for awhile yet.” He slid over and rose clumsily.

I got up quickly and steadied him, and we walked out to the car together. The warmth of the sun pouring through the car windows made him drowsy, and he dozed through most of the ride home. His hair gleamed like polished silver as the light danced on it, and several times during the course of the trip, I couldn’t resist reaching out to stroke it.

No, he certainly was not the man he had once been, but there was nothing deficient about the man he had become. That face now had great character as well as beauty, and the silver-gray hair suited him as well, or maybe better, than the bright chestnut shade of his youth. Age had not cursed him.

As we neared home, I touched his hair once again. This time, his eyes opened and he gazed at me dreamily, still half asleep. In that state, he instinctively reverted to his native tongue. “Tá grá agam duit, a mhuirnín.”

His voice itself was a caress, and I knew what part of the sentence meant.

“What’s a mhuirnín, Ro?”

“My darlin’,” he replied softly, in a voice that sounded as dreamy as his eyes looked. “I keep forgettin’ that you don’t know very many Irish words.”

“I may not always know exactly what you’re saying, but I can get the gist of it from your tone of voice.”

“Sometimes that’s enough.”

“Yes.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes, his face turned up to the sun.

“You look happy,” I ventured.

“I am. The good things that have happened, and continue to happen, are outweighing the bad. I’m grateful.”

“Me, too, Ro. Me, too.”

***

C.P. Warner
© 30 June 2008

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