“That’s nice,” I said.
“He flew her in from Knoxville. It’s one of the finest homes in the state, she gets the best of care, it’s so sad,” she said, her voice breaking a little.
“It is,” I agreed. “Alzheimer’s is the cruelest way to go.”
“I can barely bring myself to visit, once a week is about all I can manage,” she said, overcome by sadness.
That topic had killed the conversation, and we walked in silence the rest of the way to her front door.
I wished her a good night.
“Oh, come up for a quick drink,” she said, slurring her words slightly and frowning a little at herself. Tipsy from the walk and the aftereffects of champagne, I assumed. She tapped in her security code, the cast-iron gate swung open; I followed her inside.
“What a night,” she said.
“Aye.”
“I wish Charles could have been there, it’s always the way, isn’t it, everything always happens at the same time,” she said.
“Yeah, life is like that,” I agreed.
“Do you want a drink?” she asked.
I didn’t, but I said, “Anything.”
“Charles has a collection of single malts, I don’t know a thing about whisky, would you like one?” she asked.
“I suppose in Tennessee you were all drinking bourbon?” I asked.
“What?”
“You know, because you’re next to Kentucky, Jack Daniel’s, that kind of thing,” I said.
“Yeah, well, we weren’t big drinkers in my family. My father, well, he was a recovering alcoholic, you know, we didn’t really allow it in the house…. Anyway, it doesn’t bother me, do you want a whisky?”
“Ok.”
If she wasn’t accustomed to alcohol, that explained how she could be tipsy. But why mention this out of the blue? Christ, maybe she was in a confessional mood. What else did she want to talk about? Maybe more about shy, introverted Charles? I would have to go softly-softly.
“Do you want anything in it? Ice or water?” she asked.
“No, nothing, thank you.”
She brought me a glass, smiled innocently, happily.
I chastened myself. No, she hardly seemed to be breaking under the strain of angst about a double murder. Maybe I was overanalyzing everything. You’re not supposed to do that, you’re supposed to get the information first, then collate it, and then think about it. Not leap to conclusions on inadequate facts. I relaxed, sniffed the whisky glass. Peaty. I took a sip: peaty with a seaweed tinge and a sugary harshness. From Islay or Jura.
“How is it?” she asked.
I noticed that she hadn’t poured one for herself.
“It’s good, it’s from the Inner Hebrides, you can tell because of the peaty aftertaste.”
She removed her pearls and put them on a sideboard. She kicked her shoes off and sat on the leather reclining chair next to the sofa. She really was extraordinary looking. Beautiful in a way that Irish girls aren’t. Healthy, sunny, fresh. She was the whole of America. Her big wide smile, her golden hair, her long legs. Even more attractive now that the thoughts of her poor mother had exposed her a little to me.
Her fingers tapped on the leather arm of the chair.
I got up, poured her a glass of whisky to see if she would drink it.
She sniffed it and took a big sip.
“Oh, Alex, that was a lovely play, Ireland sounds very romantic. Charles went there when he traveled around the world.”
“Yeah, he told me, he went to Dublin,” I said.
“Oh, yes, of course, he went everywhere. I’ve never even left America, if you don’t count Puerto Rico,” she said wistfully.
“And you don’t count Puerto Rico, because it’s still part of America,” I said with a grin.
“Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it. What is it? It’s not a state, is it?”
“It’s a colony,” I said.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said dismissively.
“It is,” I insisted.
“No, I don’t think we have any colonies,” she said dreamily, her mind clearly on something else.
“You do, and Puerto Rico’s one of them, you got it from Spain, I think,” I said.
She bit her finger and looked at me.
“You know, Alex, when we first went out campaigning in Englewood, that night of the fire, the first time we’d talked really, apart from the interview, I was very impressed with that thing you said.”
“To the policeman?”
“No, when we talked to that dreadful woman. You said that thing about African Americans.”
“I honestly don’t remember what you’re talking about,” I said.
“You said that African Americans had invented jazz and blues and rock and done lots of things,” she said.
“Oh, I stole that from somewhere, I’m sure, it’s hardly an original thought,” I said.
“Yes, but clearly you have the sentiment, don’t you? You believe that. I mean, well, you know what I mean,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” I said, laughing, and looked at her legs crossing themselves, her hand fixing her dress.
“No, of course not, I’m not saying it very well. In fact, I don’t know what I’m saying. I just mean that you, you have real empathy. Does that make sense?”
I examined her. What was she doing? What did she mean by that? Was she complimenting me by an unspoken comparison to someone else? Was she really talking about me, or talking about herself? Maybe in a roundabout way she was trying to tell me something about Charles. Charles is not like this. He is not like you and me. Charles is cold, single-minded. Charles is a—
“Is it because you grew up in Northern Ireland, was it very hard living there with all the bombings and everything?” Amber asked softly, dripping the words out with precision, brushing the hair from her face. That accent of hers always throwing me. Not New Jersey, not the South, not Boston. A gentle echo of Charles’s patrician tones. Slightly affected. She took another drink of his whisky.
“Not that hard, you just got on with things, you got used to being searched going into stores, that kind of thing, people are very adaptable,” I said.
“Did you see any of that bad stuff?”
“Not really,” I lied.
“You didn’t see anything?” she asked, her lips closing into a pout.
“Once when I was a kid they blew up our local toy shop and we got discounted train sets and Lego. They were all fire-damaged, but it was mostly the packaging. Really, it was actually a good thing.”
“Oh, my goodness, they blew up your toy shop? Why would they blow up a toy shop?”
“I don’t know,” I said, studying the reaction on her face, which was sympathetic. Upset for me.
“I bet you saw a lot more than you’re saying,” she said, smiling.
“No, not much.”
“I bet you’re just being brave and stoic like in the play,” she said, scratching at the skin under her gold watch. Taking it off.
“Honestly, it wasn’t that bad,” I said.
“No. I know all about it. That’s why you’re here illegally. That’s why you lied to the police, because you don’t have a green card. I don’t mind. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I know how difficult it must be. I read the papers. Ireland. It’s awful over there.”
“Well, it can be hard,” I agreed.
“It’s what the play was all about. And what a story, huh? Incredible,” she said.
“Yes, I forgot that it was set in Donegal. Donegal is very beautiful. Stark, there’s still some Gaeltachts out there, villages where they still speak Gaelic,” I said.
“Do you speak any Gaelic?”
“No. Well, a little.”
“Go on.”
“An labhraíonn éinne anseo Gaelige?”
“What does that mean?”
“Is there anyone here who really speaks Gaelic?”
“Did you learn that in the Gaeltacht?”