Im back, sorry for such a long wait, I had things to do, and I cam back from a bonfire, but I wanted to write, so here you go. What do you think of James? For me, I think he still loved Olivia, but he kept Julia important to home, and he loved Olivia, never stopped, but he did betray her, so I'm not sure. Anyways, enjoy and review!
Olivia had another unexpected memory then, a picture really, that James had taken. Olivia was sleeping facedown in a quilted bathrobe on an unmade bed, her arms tucked under hair. James, who had been holding the five month old baby Julia, had placed the sleeping baby, also facedown, on the hump made by Olivia's backside and her lower back. Olivia and Julia together had taken a nap, and James, moved by the sight of the pother and her papoose, had snapped the photograph.
Muire leaned against a cushion, draped one arm along its back. She crossed her legs. Olivia thought she might be six foot tall, nearly as tall as James, who'd been six two. She herself was five eight. Olivia tried to imagine what her body looked like unclothed, how she and James might look together.
But her mind protested and rebelled, and the pictures refused to form. Just as the image of James' body as it may have lain in the ocean had at first refused to form. The pictures would come later, Olivia knew, when she least wanted them.
"Yes" Olivia said
Muire took a pull on her cigarette, leaned forward, and flicked an ash.
"I flew with him twelve years ago, when I worked with United as a flight attendant."
"I know"
"We fell in love" the woman said simply
"But we only got together about five and a half years ago. We would go out to lunch when he came to London before we got married. I could say we were both swept off our feet. We were together for a month that first time. We had..." The woman hesitated, perhaps from delicacy, perhaps trying to find better words. "We had an affair" she said finally "James was torn, he said he wouldn't leave Julia. He could never do that to his daughter."
The name Julia produced a fission in the air, a tension that quivered between the two women. Muire O'Brien had spoken the name too easily, as if she'd known the girl.
Olivia thought: He wouldn't leave his daughter, but he could betray his wife.
"When was this exactly?
"Five and a half years ago, near January"
What had she been doing herself January of five and a half years ago? Olivia wondered
The woman had delicate white skin, an almost flawless complexion. The complexion of someone who spent little time outdoors. Though she might have been a runner.
"You knew about me," Olivia repeated. Her voice didn't seem her own, it was too slow and tentative, as if she had been drugged.
"I knew about you from the very beginning." Muire said "James and I did not have secrets"
The greater intimacy then, Olivia thought. An intentional knife wound.
Aware of the intense scrutiny of the woman in front of her, a woman who may very well have known James better than she did, Olivia prayed her legs would not betray her. She walked across the room to the mantle.
She took down the picture. James had on a shirt Olivia had never seen before, a faded black polo shirt. He cradled the tiny newborn. The girl, the one Olivia had just seen playing with the construction blocks, had James' hair and brow, though not his eyes.
"What's her name?"
"Siobhan"
James' fingers were deep in the girl's hair. Had James been the same with Siobhan as he had been with Julia?
Olivia briefly closed her eyes. The hurt itself, she thought, was nearly intolerable. But the hurt to Julia was obscene. One could see, how could anyone fail to observe? That the girl in the photograph was extraordinarily beautiful. A beguiling face, with dark eyes and long lashes, red lips. A veritable Snow White. Had memories Julia held sacred been repeated, relived, with another child?
"How could you?" Olivia cried, spinning, and she might be speaking to James as well
Her fingers, slippery from perspiration, lost hold of the frame. It slid out of her hands, crashed against the end table. She hadn't meant for that to happen, and felt a small breakage as an exposure. The woman in the chair flinched slightly, though she did not turn her head to inspect the damage. It was an unanswerable question. Though the woman wanted to answer it.
"I loved him" Muire said. "We were in love"
As if that were enough.
Olivia watched as Muire put out her cigarette, how cool she was, Olivia thought. Even cold.
"There are things I can't talk about." Muire said
You bitch, Olivia thought, a bubble of anger popping to surface. She tried to calm herself down. It was hard to imagine the woman in the chair, a flight attendant uniform with little wings on the lapel. Smiling at passengers as they entered a plane.
What were the things Muire O'Brien couldn't talk about?
She put her hands on the mantle, leaned her head forward. She breathed in deeply to calm herself, a distant rage made a sound like white noise in her ears.
"I was willing to do whatever it took" Muire Boland said. "I tried once to throw him out, but I couldn't."
She looked at the woman, black hair, pale skin, dark lashes and bright blue eyes, combined with the height and the long arms, she was undeniably attractive.
"How did you do it?" Olivia asked "I mean, how did it work?"
Muire O'Brien raised her chin. "We had so very little time together" she said "We did whatever we could. I'd pick him up at a prearranged spot near the airport and bring him here. Sometimes, we only had the night, at other times..."
Again, she hesitated. "James would sometimes bid schedules in reverse."
Olivia heard the language of the pilot's wife.
"I don't understand" Olivia said quickly, thought she thought, sickly, that she did.
"Occasionally, he would be able to arrange it so that his home base was London. But of course, that was risky."
Olivia could remember months James had seemed to have a terrible schedule, five days on, two days off, only the overnight was home.
"As you know, he didn't always get London." Muire continued "He sometimes had the Frankfurt airport, and I took a flat in Frankfurt during those times."
"He paid for this?" Olivia asked suddenly, thinking he took money from me, from Julia.
"This is mine." Muire said, gesturing to the rooms. "I inherited it from an aunt, I could sell it and move to the suburbs but the thought of moving to the suburbs is rather chilling."
"He gave you money?" Olivia persisted
Muire looked away, as if sharing with Olivia, for a moment the particular treachery of taking money from one family to give to another.
"Occasionally." she said "I have some money of my own."
Olivia speculated on the intensity of love that constant separation might engender. The intensity that being furtive and secret would naturally create. She brought her hand to her mouth, pressed her lips to her knuckles. Had her own love for James not been strong enough? Could she say that she had still been in love with her husband when he died? Had she taken him for granted? Worse, had James ever suggested to Muire O'Brien that Olivia hadn't loved him enough? She winced inwardly to think of that possibility. She drew a long breath and tried to sit up straighter.
"Where are you from?" Olivia asked when she trusted her voice
"Galway."
Olivia looked away.
"But you met here." Olivia said "You met James in London"
"We met in the air"
Olivia glanced down at the carpet, imagining that airborne meeting
"Where are you staying?" Muire asked
Olivia looked at the woman and blinked. She could not recall the name of her hotel. Muire reached forward and took another cigarette from the box.
"The Kensington Exeter" Olivia said, remembering.
"If it makes you feel any better" Muire said "I'm quite certain there was never anyone else."
It did not make her feel any better.
"How would you know?" Olivia asked
The outside light grew dimmer in the flat. Muire turned a lamp on and put a hand to the back of her neck
"How did you find out?" Muire asked "Discover us?"
Us, Olivia heard.
She didn't want to answer the question, the search for clues seemed tawdry now.
"What happened to James' plane?" Olivia asked instead
Muire shook her head, her silky hair swinging.
"I don't know, the suggestion of suicide is outrageous."
She looked down and the smoke curled through her hair.
"I envy you having had a service." Muire said looking up "A priest, I would of liked to be there."
My God, Olivia thought.
"I saw your photograph" Muire said "In the papers. The FBI is assembling the case?"
"So I'm told"
"Do they talk to you?"
"No, did they tell you?"
"No." Muire said "You know James would never do this."
"Of course I know that" Olivia said
"You came here just for this?" Muire asked, picking up a stray sliver of tobacco from her lower lip.
"Isn't that enough?" Olivia asked
Muire exhaled a long plume of smoke. "I meant will you be traveling on to County Clare?"
"No." said Olivia "Have you been?"
" I couldn't go." she said
There was something more, Olivia could feel it.
"What is it?" Olivia asked
The woman rubbed her head. "Nothing" she said shaking her head lightly "We had an affair" she added, as if to explain what she had been thinking. "We had an affair, I became pregnant and took a leave from the airline. James wanted to be married. It wasn't important to me. To be married. He wanted to be married in the Catholic Church."
"He never went to church"
"He was devout" Muire said and looked steadily at Olivia
"Then he was two different people" Olivia said
It was one thing to be married in a Catholic Church because a lover wanted it, quite another to be devout oneself. Olivia intertwined her fingers, trying to steady them.
"He went to mass whenever he could" Muire said
In New York, James never even entered a church. How could a man be two such different people?
" I have to use the bathroom" Olivia said, standing up abruptly, the way a drunk might do.
"It's just upstairs" Muire said
She led Olivia out of the sitting room and through the hallway. She stood at the bottom of the steps, gesturing with her hand. Olivia had to pass in front of her, and their bodies almost touched. Olivia felt diminished by the woman's height.
The bathroom was claustrophobic and made Olivia's heart race. She glanced into the mirror and saw that her face had taken on a hectic flush and was mottled. She pulled her hair from it's twist and shook it loose. She sat down on the toilet lid. A floral print on the walls made her dizzy.
Five years. James and Muire O'Brien had been married in a church five years ago, the same time she and James had been married, but not in a church. Perhaps guests had gone to the wedding. Had any of them known the truth? Had James hesitated when he said his vows? Her questions turned to images. James in a suit, kneeling in front of a priest, James opening a car door, slipping into the passenger seat, a small girl with dark curls hugging James' knees. In the distance a telephone rang.
She stood up quickly, her eyes skittering around the tiny powder room. She splashed water on her face, dried it with an embroidered towel. She opened the bathroom door and saw across the hallway a queen sized bed. From downstairs she could hear Muire talking on the telephone, her words rising in her foreign lilt. If James had not been dead, she may have not had the right to enter the bedroom, but now nothing could matter. This house was hers to see. Knowledge of this house was owed to her. After all, Muire O'Brien had known all about her, hadn't she?
She walked through the doorway and thought of the effort she had made to please James. She accommodations she had made for him. When she confronted James with a possible affair, he had denied it, made it seem beneath his consideration, beneath hers. All of this she had thought to be normal, within the bounds of a normal marriage. She'd told Robert and Elliot they had had a good marriage. She felt foolish, exposed for a fool, and she wondered if she didn't mind that most of all.
This would be the master bedroom. She looked at the messy side of the bed, where teacups and a container of yogurt on the nightstand stood, and ashtrays overflowing with butts. There were bits of lacy underwear on the comforter. The other side of the bed, still intact, had been James'. She could see this in the nightstand next to it, a white noise machine, a halogen lamp, and a book about the Vietnam War. Had James read other books here that he hadn't at home? Had he looked different in this house than he had at home? Looked older or younger?
Home, she thought. Now there was an interesting concept. She walked to the mirror fronted wardrobe and opened the doors. The clothes were Muire's, not James'. Cotton shirts, blouses. Her hand felt, in her search, what she thought was a silk blouse. Parting the hangers, she discovered it was not a blouse, but a robe, an ankle length silk robe with tasseled sash. An exceptional garment of dip sapphire. Trembling slightly, she lifted the neck of the robe from the hanger and looked at the label.
Bergdorf Goodman.
She had known it would be.
She moved back to the bathroom, where a flannel robe was on the hook behind the door. James had not worn robes at home. There was a bottle of English cologne that had not been familiar to her.
She had seen enough. She wanted to get out of the house now. Olivia left the bedroom and walked past the door to the girl's room. Siobhan lay on the bed on her stomach, her chin in her hands, the same remarkably solemn expression on her face. She was so absorbed in her program that at first she did not notice the stranger in the doorway.
"Hello" Olivia said
The girl glanced in her direction. Then turned to her side to contemplate this new person.
"What are you watching?" Olivia asked
"Danger mouse"
"I've seen that. They used to show it in America. My daughter used to like Road Runner. Until she got a bit bigger, she's your age."
"What's her name?" The girl sat up, more interested in the stranger
"Julia"
Siobhan considered the name.
Olivia took a step forward and glanced around the room. She noted the paddington bear, almost identical to one Julia had had. A photograph of James in a baseball cap and white t-shirt hung on the wall. A child's drawing on an adult man and a little girl with dark curls, which might have been done recently. A small white desk was in the color, magic marker was scribbled onto the desk, where blue sky had been drawn off a piece of white paper. What had the girl been told? Did she know her daddy was dead?
"You talk funny" Siobhan said
" I do?"
The girl had a British accent, no Irish in it, no American.
"You talk like my daddy" the girl said
Olivia smiles, the thought of James comes to her, when she had thought of him as faithful, she didn't know if she could still love him.
"Was your daddy here at Christmas? Sometimes daddies work at Christmas" Olivia asked
"He was here, I made him a bookmark. It had a picture of me and daddy on it, I wanted it back, so he said we could share it. Do you want to see it?"
"Yes, I do." Olivia replied
The girl looked under the bed for the shared treasure. She brought up a picture book Olivia did not recognize. The bookmark inside was a strip of colored paper that had been laminated. The photograph was of James with Siobhan on his lap, he was craning his neck to see her face.
Olivia heard footsteps upstairs. Muire stood protectively in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.
"Do you have to go?" Siobhan asked
"I'm afraid I must" Olivia said
Siobhan watched her leave, and Muire moved aside for Olivia to pass. Olivia reached for her umbrella and wool coat when she got downstairs.
"Siobhan mentioned that James was here for Christmas" she said, slipping her arms into her coat
"We celebrate early." Muire said "We had to"
"Does your daughter know about James?"
"She knows" Muire said "but I'm not sure she understands. Her father is away so often. I think this seems like just another trip to her"
Her father.
"And James' mother, did Siobhan know about her grandmother?"
Olivia was silent. Shaken by her own question as much as its answer.
"But, as you know, his mother had Alzheimers" Muire added "and Siobhan has never been able to really talk to her"
"Yes, I know" Olivia lied
If James hadn't died, she wondered, would he have been in this house right now? Would Olivia ever have discovered the other family?
The two women stood on the wooden floor. Olivia glanced at the walls, the ceiling, the woman in front of her. She wanted to take in the whole of the house, to remember everything she had seen. She knew she would never be back.
She thought about the impossibility of never knowing another person. About the fragility of the constructs people make. A marriage, for example. A family.
"I'm not sorry for having had him" Muire said finally "I'm just sorry for having hurt you."
Olivia wouldn't say goodbye, it didn't seem necessary. Although there was something Olivia wanted to know, despite her pride, had to ask.
"The robe" she said "The blue silk robe, in your closet."
Olivia had a quick intake of breath, but the face gave nothing away.
"It came after he died." Muire said "It was a birthday present."
Olivia nodded, understanding the reason for it now.
"You should go home" Muire said as Olivia stepped out into the rain, and Olivia thought it an odd and presumptuous command.
"It was worse for me" Muire said and Olivia turned, drawn by the slightly plaintive note, a rent in the cool facade.
"I knew about you." Muire O'Brien said "You never had to know about me."
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