Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (51 page)

“Mostly it hurt, though I got used to it after awhile, ye learn tricks to make it bearable. It was worse, somehow, when I did feel somethin’. I’d feel sick later an’ wonder if—” He stopped abruptly in his monologue as if he’d only just realized what he was saying.

“If it meant that you were homosexual?” she finished for him.

He nodded, freckles stark against his pale skin even in the dusk.

“That’s something you shouldn’t have had to think about until much later.”

He sniffed. “Life’s not so convenient that way is it though? Least that’s what Himself in there says.”

“Himself,” she said wryly, “often has the annoying habit of being right.”

“I’ve noticed that.” One corner of Lawrence’s mouth turned up in a wobbly smile. The smile disappeared with his next words though. “If I were—an’ I’m not sayin’ that I am, but if I were he’d not want me under his roof anymore.”

She was silent for a moment, weighing her answer, realizing that she really wasn’t entirely certain of how Casey would react to such an admission. But she also knew that when he loved someone he did it with a ferocity and loyalty that overlooked almost all forms of behavior.

“He loves you Lawrence, and he doesn’t give his love lightly. I don’t think there’s much you could do to change that.”

“But if he knew what I’d done, he’d think it unnatural an’ then he’d not see me the same.”

“Lawrence he does know. He also knows it was a matter of survival.”

Lawrence’s face had gone so white that his freckles stood out like stark points on his thin face. “How long has he known?”

“Always,” she smiled gently, “the man is no fool, you know that well enough yourself. Did you really think he’d take you under his roof without knowing where you’d come from?”

“An’ he doesn’t…” Lawrence swallowed, unable to finish his sentence, eyes bright with a terrible tension.

“No, he doesn’t,” she replied firmly, knowing that Casey had put what he knew about the boy in a firmly locked compartment, aware of it, but not letting it color his daily perception of this child he’d become protector of.

“I wish I could forget, ye know, an’ not have the memory of it on my skin.”

Under the thick gloom of the pines, harebells and ragged robins looked like small patches of fairy light. She could picture Casey’s evil leprechauns picking their way through, red-capped and gimlet eyed. She hadn’t believed in fairies, neither good nor evil, for a very long time. She doubted Lawrence had ever had such luxury at all.

“A body is just a vehicle, Lawrence, something to pack our soul around in for this part of the journey. When someone violates that vehicle it’s awful because the vehicle is how we give love. But you, the thing that makes you Lawrence, lives in there,” she tapped his clear, narrow brow, “and there.” She put her fingers to his heart and felt him flinch. It would be a very long time before he could allow anyone to touch him and know they meant him no harm. But he didn’t move away from her hand and she knew that in itself said much about how far he’d come since moving into their home.

“I want ye to know, I didn’t steal the watch. I’d never give him something stolen. It was all I had when I first went to Kincora. I think maybe my mam left it for me. Maybe it belonged to my father, I don’t know. It was the only thing I had from before,” the sincere gaze faltered for a moment, “I wanted to say thank you an’,” his voice had dropped to a whisper, “the watch was the only way I could think of to say it.”

“Tell him that,” she said, “exactly as you just told me. He’s not entirely unreasonable.” This statement was met with a snort of derision and a great deal of eye-white on Lawrence’s part.

“Alright,” she amended, “when he’s not in the grip of his temper he can be reasoned with.”

“I’m
not
speakin’ first,” Lawrence said, a mutinous quality to his tone that reminded her of how very young he was.

“Well until one of you decides to be less mulish, you might as well go in and get some sleep. It’s very late,” she said, feeling exhausted by all the male pigheadedness she was subjected to.

He nodded, rising to his full gangling height, the dog his echo in canine silhouette. He turned to the path, hesitating for a moment as though he’d a mind to say something, but couldn’t quite decide how to word it.

“What is it?”

“Thank ye for—for the talk, it helped,” he said awkwardly, poised on the balls of his feet, ready to flee.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, then started as he bent down and kissed the side of her face. He darted away immediately, slim form quickly disappearing under the gloom of the pines, like a sprite whisked into a barrow. She heard the faint
whush
of the door opening and closing after him, and felt the wash of relief that came with knowing he was safe for another night.

She sat for some time after Lawrence left. The night sky above her was uncommonly clear, pale and luminous against the long-fingered pines. She could smell the sharp tang of crushed mint in the air, Lawrence must have trod upon it on his way up the path.

Lawrence’s words had made present thoughts she generally brushed off as if they were no more than an annoying fly. But to speak the words he needed to hear she’d had to let the shape and substance of her own rape become distinct, to remember the hurt and the shame and the sheer terror she’d felt. She’d been certain both she and Pat were going to die and indeed, Pat had come very close to doing just that. And though she’d boxed and sealed the memories of that night, the body had a recall of its own. The skin and cells remembering what the mind could turn away, then the violation would return, churning her stomach, dirtying her skin. But many days, more often now than not, it was distant, kept so by a love that had become sanctuary and in a deeper sense, the home she had sought all her life.

She rose, skirt damp and speckled with bits of the glowing moss. The night air was still warm, though with a hint of cooling like a tepid bath. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling the painful tingle of tension from her toes on up. She allowed the spectre of the blond man’s face to rise in her mind, saw the hard hazel eyes, felt the shape of his bones beneath her hands and the brute intrusion of his flesh within her own. The other men did not haunt her, she had banished them long ago, but still the blond man remained. She shuddered, a wash of nausea passing through her and leaving her empty and cold. Then she invoked her husband’s face, the touch of his hands, sure and large, the scent of his skin both primal and secure. He was her anchor in the midst of every storm.

She opened her eyes, the house a warm sturdy shape on the horizon and felt the tension drain away, leaving her sleepy and whole.

No, Lawrence would not forget, but he might, given time, find forgiveness for himself and with that a peace that would grow into something strong, allowing him to bend but not break.

She walked up the path, brushing against the roses and releasing their heady scent. Globe flowers, petals cupped around their fragile hearts, glowed like small stemmed moons, lighting the way to the door. Casey had turned on the light over the stove, a beacon to guide her in from the night.

She opened her hands in supplication, or perhaps surrender and whispered the words that lay foremost in her heart. “Dear God allow us to do right by this child.”

Above, the stars meandered along on the billowing river of the Milky Way. She chose a small green one, almost obscured by the bright giants that surrounded it, and made a wish for Lawrence.

Maybe she no longer believed in fairies or wishes that came true but it didn’t hurt to hedge one’s bets. Then she opened the garden gate and stepped through it, leaving the night and its ghosts behind her.

SHE FOUND CASEY SITTING UP in bed reading, Paudeen tucked in the crook of one arm blissfully asleep. One hoof bobbed lightly over the book, the woolly head lolling over Casey’s forearm. Casey flicked her a brief glance over the top of his glasses then returned to his reading.

“Did you feed Paudeen?” she asked, picking up her brush off the bureau and snapping it quickly through her hair.

“Aye, two bottles an’ the wee bastard had the nerve to kick me in the chin three times while I was doin’ so. I’ll be glad when he starts eatin’ grass instead of nibblin’ the hair off my arms.”

“Good book?”

He laid the book down. “Couldn’t tell ye, I’ve read the same page over five times an’ still haven’t the slightest notion what it’s about.” He cleared his throat, rubbing one of Paudeen’s big ears. “Is the laddie alright then?”

“He’ll do for now,” she said, “but you’re going to have to talk to him. He didn’t steal the watch by the way.”

“I don’t suppose,” Casey took in the rather stern look on his wife’s face, “this talk will wait ‘til morning?”

“If your conscience allows it, then I suppose it can wait.”

He kicked the blankets back, rising quickly enough that Paudeen let out a semi-conscious bleat of protest. “Ye’ve a wicked streak in ye at times woman, do ye know that?”

Pamela merely raised an eyebrow at him and continued to brush her hair. He sighed, Paudeen’s heavy, milky breath tickling the bare skin of his chest. There was a trickle of moonlight coming through the little octagonal window at the top of the stairs, enough to guide him down into the dark of the lower floor.

He settled Paudeen into the basket on the hearth, the lamb no more than stirring at this change of environment. He headed for the foot of the stairs then turned back with a sigh. He hesitated by the boy’s door, not wanting to wake him, hearing the low growl of Finbar from the vicinity of the bed.

“Are ye goin’ to say somethin’, or just stare at the back of me head all night?” asked a defensive voice that sounded less than threatening, coming as it did from a heap of blankets.

“Didn’t want to wake ye.”

“Well ye didn’t.”

“Can I come in for a minute?” he asked, determined not to let the boy’s tone rankle at him.

“It’s yer house, do as ye like,” came the less than convivial reply.

Casey uttered a silent prayer to whatever saint might be handy to give him some patience and then went to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Down,” he said sternly to the dog, who’d emitted a low rumble of protest at this intrusion on the limited bed space.

“Don’t get mad at him,
he’s
not stolen anything.”

“Nor have you,” Casey said gently, “I’ve come to say that I’m sorry laddie, I jumped to a conclusion an’ it wasn’t warranted nor fair.”

A disdainful sniff was the only reply Lawrence deigned to give him. Casey supposed he didn’t deserve to have it made simple. The boy’s back was still turned to him, stiff with reproach and Finbar had taken up his post right next to the bed, emitting the occasional disapproving
whuff
in Casey’s direction. He ordered his thoughts and tried to imagine what his father would have said in such a situation. However none of Brian’s words of comfort or wisdom made themselves immediately available to his memory. He was on his own here, without the knowledge of how to heal the damage he’d done. He would just have to fumble through it.

“Fact of the matter is,” he said, pausing to clear his throat nervously, “I don’t know much about bein’ anyone’s father, so ye’ll have to give me a bit of time an’ expect that I’ll mess it up occasionally. Do ye think ye can do that?”

Lawrence turned on his back, face pale in the wash of moonlight. “Father?” he said, eyes riveted on Casey’s face.

“Aye, I’m makin’ certain there’s food in yer belly, a roof over yer head, an’ that yer gettin’ yer schoolin’. What would ye call it?”

“Yer a bit young to be my da’,” the boy said doubtfully.

“An’ I think yer not really in a position to be picky about how old the man lookin’ after ye is.”

“True enough,” Lawrence admitted pragmatically, though his brow was furrowed in a knot.

“What is it then?” Casey asked.

“Well it’s only that...” Lawrence trailed off reluctantly, long fingers plucking at the sheets.

“Only what?” Casey coaxed.

The boy didn’t respond at once, but took a shaky breath, then let it out in a stream of nervous words. “It’s only that a father is someone that ought to care for ye more than anyone else does. An’ he ought to trust ye,” this last was uttered with a defiant edge.

“Do ye think I’ve taken ye in off the streets for the good of my health, man?” Casey said, shaking his head. “An’ as to trust, it’s earned laddie—even between father and son. Now I was wrong about the watch, but I wasn’t wrong about the wallet a week back was I?”

Lawrence shook his head reluctantly.

“Now as to the other bit of what ye said,” he laid a hand on the boy’s forehead and stroked the ginger hair back from the clammy skin. “I love ye boyo, an’ don’t think that doesn’t surprise me, but still there it is, I do.”

Lawrence turned his head to the side, mouth tight and frowning. A long silence ensued.

“Have I said somethin’ wrong?” Casey asked, feeling absurdly uncomfortable.

“No ye’ve not, it’s only that I’m afraid ye’ll be sorry ye said what ye have come mornin’,” the words were spoken in a flat monotone, though Casey could see the tension in the boy’s neck and shoulders as he fought to keep back his tears. It caused him a pain different from any other he’d known to see Lawrence’s life had been such that he believed love was something that could only be given in the dark, and easily recanted in the morning.