There was usually one thing men wanted from her, and, generally, it was the same thing she wanted from them. She didn’t have relationships per se but a series of short-term boyfriends. She liked the dance, the approach/avoidance of attraction. But relationships were far too complicated. Her therapists called it a fear of intimacy. Maybe it was. Callie thought of it as something more positive. Quick hits, no entanglements, that was her philosophy. Was that what Paul Whiting wanted, too? She was pretty sure it was. Just turn around and find out, she thought. It would be easy enough to turn.
Something stopped her. She didn’t step away, nor did she turn to face him. Instead, she kept her eyes on the horizon for several minutes until the sun finally disappeared.
“They’ll be looking for us,” Paul said, finally, breaking the spell.
There were no lights on the stairway, and as they descended they moved into complete darkness. “Wait here,” he said.
His footsteps echoed on the metal stairway, dulling as he walked across the wooden floor. Finally, Callie heard a pop and a rush of sound and saw old gas lamps flicker to life. He came back and took her hand for the final few darkened steps. The gaslight filled the main room with a warm glow. As she moved into the space, she noticed the desk in the corner; his laptop was open, his books and papers spread all over. Above the desk was the painting of Minerva he’d bought at the auction.
“Oh, this is where she ended up,” Callie said.
“Goddess of Wisdom. I figured she’d help me in my work. She’s also the Roman goddess of music,” Paul said. “Which should interest you.”
“And medicine, I remember. Wisdom, medicine, and music?” Callie said, recalling the auctioneer’s description. “That’s quite a workload. I hope the owl is helping.” She squinted at the painting. “He looks a bit sinister up close.”
“In many cultures, the owl is the portent of death.”
“Like the banshee?”
“Kind of. The name for owl in Scottish Gaelic is Cailleach, the crone aspect of the triple goddess, which is sometimes thought to be connected to the banshee. But that’s Celtic mythology,” he said, “not Roman.”
Callie took another look at the owl. “I wouldn’t want those eyes staring down at me every day.”
“The owl gets a bad rap. She’s really a creature who can see what others miss. Some may be deceived, but she never is.”
“She?”
“Oh yeah.” Paul nodded. “The owl is definitely female.”
Callie could see the bedroom through the French doors, his unmade bed. He noticed her looking at it. His cell phone rang. He removed it from his pocket, glanced at the number, and turned off the ringer. She could see the Salem phone number, Ann’s name flashing. The house phone rang next.
My, she is persistent!
This time Paul picked up.
“Hello, Mother.”
Emily said something, and he answered, “Absolutely.”
He hung up. “We’ve been summoned.” Then, doing his best impression of an English butler, “Dinner is served.”
Outside, a blanket of fog fell on the cooling water and settled in for the night.
Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.
—KARL MARX
The cavernous dining room was illuminated only by candlelight, casting a halcyon glow on every dark wood surface. Sterling silver sconces circled the perimeter, taking Callie back instead of forward in time, from the gaslight of Paul’s boathouse to the tapers of an even earlier period. Candlestick holders of gold, silver, and bronze dotted every available surface, a hundred tiny flames casting overlapping circles of gilded light. Soft music played—strings, both violin and harp—and muted the accompaniment of the foghorns from the distant harbor.
As soon as everyone was settled at the table, three strapping young waiters appeared and stood silent, a magical presence ready to anticipate everyone’s needs. Just as Marta had predicted, Callie found her place card next to Paul’s. If Emily objected, she showed no sign. She smiled across the table at her son.
Archbishop McCauley said the blessing. It was not a biblical verse but a traditional Thanksgiving poem, “Fire Dreams” by Carl Sandburg.
“I remember here by the fire,
In the flickering reds and saffrons,
They came in a ramshackle tub,
Pilgrims in tall hats,
Pilgrims of iron jaws,
Drifting by weeks on beaten seas,
And the random chapters say
They were glad and sang to God.”
Callie could see that the poem summoned the ghosts of memory for her hosts. Suddenly, she saw what they were remembering as she surveyed the table, and, for a moment, there were more people in the room than the guests and silent waiters. Callie stared as time shifted and history revealed itself: Finn’s eyes were cast down and looking to his left. Next to him sat his dead father, now young again. He had the same dimpled chin and a mischievous grin. The scene altered and Callie saw Finn’s father’s part in the early, shadier family business, collecting money from bars in Dorchester.
Another shift, and they were back at the table. She smelled the pleasant doggy odor before she spotted the beloved dog, not Jasper from this afternoon but one they had loved and lost, a black and white springer spaniel, lying underneath the table, at his master’s feet, and another sitting next to him, a golden retriever. Finn sat at the head of the table, looking every bit as regal as the Celtic gods Callie had seen in Ann’s gallery. In the space between Finn and Emily was Paul’s paternal grandmother. Callie turned to Emily, and her history was as clear as if it had been written: DAR aunties, cotillions, and then college and a hasty marriage that came with Catholicism, a religion she’d never embraced. She also felt Emily’s illness, lurking in shadows the candlelight couldn’t reach.
Callie looked at Marta, and another portrait emerged. Her face was softer. Her eyes sparkled with innocence and youth. She was much younger, a teenager, sitting on the pier in front of the boathouse, dangling her feet in the water. A young man sat facing her, his back to Callie. Was it Finn? His hair was lighter but had the same thickness and wavy texture.
“Excuse me,” Paul said to Callie, pulling her out of her visions. “I couldn’t hear what you said.”
“Nothing,” Callie said, waving him away, unaware that she had spoken aloud. What had she said?
She glanced around the table, seeing everyone as they were—no one was staring at her. Good. Then the waiters approached bearing oysters and caviar and began serving.
“All right, now that everyone is here,” Emily said to her son, “tell our guests what you’ve been doing in Matera.” Her speech was more animated than Callie had noticed before, but her eyes were a bit bloodshot. “We’re lucky. We have him home until February because they have to do some work on the rock church he’s been restoring. Some water damage or something they have to clean up before he can go back to Italy.”
Paul smiled, waiting for her to finish.