He cleared his throat. “I heard you went out with Andy McCarthy this weekend.”
“And?”
He rubbed his face wearily and allowed a silence to fall between us. We were both good at that. Four years of therapy, of me baring my soul, yet every new word was a word farther from discussing the very thing that consumed my thoughts most moments of most days.
“So come on, talk to me,” he said softly.
Our last session and I couldn’t think of anything. He still had no answers for me.
“Are you going to the costume party on Friday?” He picked up the mood of the atmosphere.
“Yes,” I smiled. “I can’t think of a better way to say good-bye to this place than to walk out being dressed as something else.”
“What are you dressing up as?”
“A sock.”
He laughed so hard. I knew he, of all people, would get the joke. “Andy isn’t going with you?”
“Do my socks ever come as a pair?”
He raised his eyebrows, indicating he wanted to know more.
“He didn’t ‘get’ why I turned his flat upside down when I couldn’t find the invite.”
“Where do you think it is?”
“With everything else. With my mind.” I rubbed my eyes wearily.
“You haven’t lost your mind, Sandy. So you’re going to be a garda.” His smile was shaky.
“Worried about the future of our country?”
“No.” He smiled. “At least I know we’ll be in safe hands. You’ll be questioning criminals to death.”
“I learned from the best.” I forced myself to smile.
Mr. Burton turned up at the costume party that Friday night-dressed as a sock. I’d laughed so hard. He drove me home that night and we sat in silence. After so many years of talking, neither of us knew what to say. Outside my house he leaned over and kissed my lips hungrily; long and hard. It was like our hello and a good-bye all at once.
“Pity we’re not the same pattern, Gregory. We would have made a good pair,” I said sadly.
I wanted him to tell me that we’d make the most perfect odd pair around but I think he agreed because I watched him drive away.
The more partners I had, the more I realized Gregory and I were the best pair I’d ever come across. But in my pursuit of answers to all the difficult questions in my life, I missed out on the obvious ones right in front of my very eyes.
12
Helena was watching me curiously through the amber blaze of the campfire, the shadow of the flames dancing upward to lick her face. The other members of the group had continued with their reminiscing of Derek’s rock-and-roll days, happy to move the subject away from my question about where we were. Excited chatter had resumed but I remained on the outside, though I was not alone. Finally, I lifted my eyes from the ash floor and allowed them to meet Helena ’s.
She waited for a silence to fall among the group before asking, “What do you do for a living, Sandy?”
“Oooh, yes,” Joan said excitedly, warming her hands around her teacup. “Do tell us.”
I had everyone’s attention and so I considered my options. Why lie?
“I run an agency,” I began and then stopped.
“What kind of an agency?” Bernard asked.
“A modeling agency is it?” Joan asked in hushed tones. “With long legs like yours, I’ll bet it is.” Her teacup rested in her hands not far below her lips, her pinky erect and standing tall like a dog on the hunt.
“Joan, she said she runs the agency, not is a member of one.” Bernard shook his head and his chin wobbled.
“Actually, it’s a missing-persons agency.”
There was a silence as they searched my face. I shrugged as if to say “Yes, I’m aware of the irony,” and when they all looked at each other, they erupted in laughter. All except Helena.
“Oh, Sandy, that was a good one.” Bernard wiped the corners of his eyes with his handkerchief. “What kind of agency is it really?”
“Acting.” Helena jumped in before I had a chance to answer.
“How do you know?” Bernard asked her, rather in a huff that she knew something before him. “You’re the one who asked the question in the first place.”
“She told me while you were all laughing.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“An acting agency.” Joan looked at me with wide eyes. “How wonderful. We had some excellent plays in Finbar’s Hall,” Joan explained. “Do you remember that?” She looked around at her friends. “Julius Caesar, Romeo and Juliet, to name but two of Shakespeare’s finest works. Bernard was-”
Bernard coughed loudly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Joan blushed, “Bernard is a fantastic actor. He played quite a convincing Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. No doubt you would love him to be in your agency.”
And they fell into their usual chatter of swapping old stories. Helena made her way round the fire and sat next to me.
“I must say, you excel in your occupation,” Helena chuckled.
“Why did you do that?” I referred to her interjection.
“Oh, you don’t want to tell them that, especially Joan, with her voice so hushed she feels the need to tell everybody everything just to make sure she’s heard,” she teased, but watched her friend fondly. “If anyone finds out you run a missing-persons agency you’ll be swamped with questions. Everyone will think you’ll have come to bring us all home.” I wasn’t sure whether she was joking or asking me a question. Either way, she didn’t laugh and I didn’t answer.
“Who else is there to tell around here?” I stared into the silent black woods. I hadn’t come across any others for two days.
Helena looked at me curiously again. “ Sandy, there are others, you know.”
Apart from Ewoks, I found it hard to believe anybody else inhabited these dark and silent surroundings.
“You know our story, don’t you?” Helena kept her voice low so that the others couldn’t hear.
I nodded, took a deep breath, and recited, “‘Five students are missing after disappearing during a school camping trip in Roundwood, County Wicklow. Sixteen-year-olds Derek Cummings, Helena Dickens, Marcus Flynn, Joan Hatchard, and Bernard Lynch from St. Kevin’s Boarding School for Girls and Boys in Blackrock were due to visit Glendalough but were missing from their tents that morning.’”
Helena was gazing at me with such childlike intent and tear-filled eyes I felt a duty to recite the newspaper article word for word, pitch-perfect. I wanted to express the feeling in the country during that initial week; on behalf of the country, I wanted to convey accurately the outpour of love and support complete strangers had displayed toward the missing five students. I felt I owed it to all those people who prayed for their return. I felt Helena deserved to hear it.
“‘The Gardaí today said that they were following leads although they couldn’t confirm ruling out foul play. They ask for anyone with any information to contact the Roundwood or Blackrock Gardaí. The students of St. Kevin’s have all gathered to pray for their fellow students and locals have been placing flowers near the scene.’”
I was silent.
“What’s wrong with your eyes, Helena?” Bernard asked worriedly.
“Oh,” Helena said and sniffed, “it’s nothing. Just a spark from the fire jumped into my eye, that’s all.” She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her pashmina.
“Oh, dear,” Joan said, moving over and peering in her eye. “No, it looks fine to me, just red and watery. It probably just stings a bit.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Helena dismissed them all, embarrassed by their care, and the others continued chatting among themselves.
“With acting like that you could join my agency,” I smiled.
Helena laughed and fell silent again. I felt I should say something.