The Heart's Invisible Furies

“As I was saying,” continued Wilbert, raising his voice now so as not to be interrupted again, “I thought that if a man stood accused in the dock, then not only was he probably guilty but that he was also a disreputable sort, the type that society should banish to the wilderness, like a leper or an Australian. But this evening, sitting in this wonderful home, eating this fine dinner in the company of such a respectable family, it puts a lie to that notion and I disavow myself of it. I disavow myself of it wholeheartedly and without prejudice! And if I may, I’d like to raise my glass to you, Charles, and wish you well over the days to come as you endure this difficult and unjust ordeal.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Joe Masterson, the bus driver from Templeogue with a prurient interest in horsewear-related pornography, who had scarcely stopped drinking since arriving in Dartmouth Square. He downed his glass of wine and looked expectantly at the bottle in the center of the table; when no one offered him a refill, he helped himself, which even I knew went against dinner-party etiquette.

“You’re very kind,” said Charles, smiling benevolently at his guests. “All of you. However, I hope you don’t think for a moment that my invitation for you to join me and Maude for dinner tonight was made out of anything other than a desire to get to know you better.”

“But of course it wasn’t your invitation at all, was it?” asked Charlotte Hennessy, the fourth juror present and the only lady. “It was Mr. Woodbead’s. And none of us knew that we were coming to your house. We were under the impression that we were going to his.”

“As I explained earlier, dear lady,” said Charles, “Max was called away on urgent business and, having no way of contacting you, he asked me to step in as your host.”

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said Masterson.

“But then why did he invite us here?” asked Mrs. Hennessy.

“He’s having some renovations done to his own home,” explained Charles. “And so he’s been staying with us for a little while. Of course, I hadn’t planned on staying in tonight. It’s my regular evening with the local chapter of St. Vincent de Paul. And to be honest, I thought my presence might be misconstrued as prejudicial. But I couldn’t have allowed you to show up and be turned away without your dinner. That’s not how we do things in Dartmouth Square.”

“So many unusual circumstances,” replied Mrs. Hennessy. “And so many coincidences. It’s almost unbelievable.”

“Sometimes the truth is,” Charles replied smoothly. “But I’m glad things have worked out in the way they have. Sitting in the dock every day and looking across at your honest faces I’ve been struck time and again by how deeply I would like to know you all in private life, away from the rancid atmosphere of the courtroom.”

“I’ve always said,” announced Turpin, reaching down to scratch himself and doing a thoroughly good job of it, “that the man with the most class is the man who doesn’t recognize the class system. There’s many in your position who wouldn’t have the likes of us in their house.”

“With respect, Mr. Turpin,” said Wilbert, taking off his spectacles, which I noticed he did every time that he wanted to appear serious. “I am a master at a prestigious boarding school. I hold a Bachelor’s degree in Mathematics. My father was a pharmacist and my mother once gave an interview on Radio éireann regarding the best type of flour to use in the baking of a traditional Irish barmbrack. I would consider myself to be the equal of any man.”

“Oh right enough,” said Turpin, chastised. “Where do you live then, Denis? Do you have a big house like this one?”

“I happen to live with my mother,” replied Wilbert, sitting up straight, prepared to fend off any attacks on his character. “She’s not getting any younger and needs me to care for her. Of course,” he added, staring directly at me and speaking in a very deliberate fashion, “I have my own room and there are many nights when she’s out at bingo and I can do as I please.”

“Do you not have a wife, Mr. Wilbert?” asked Maude from the other end of the table, her voice carrying so sharply that I jumped. “Is there not a Mrs. Wilbert lurking in the undergrowth somewhere?”

“Sadly not,” he replied, blushing slightly. “I have not been blessed with good fortune in that department.”

“The happiest day of my life,” remarked Charles, putting down his knife and fork, and I swear that I could see tears forming in his eyes as he spoke, “was the day that Maude agreed to marry me. I didn’t think I had a chance. But I also knew that I could achieve anything with her by my side and that our love would somehow sustain us through good times and bad.”

We all, as one, turned to Maude in anticipation of her reaction; had I known at the time who Joan Crawford was, I would have said that she was giving us her very best Joan Crawford, an expression that mixed contempt and vulnerability as she took a long drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke from her lips so steadily that it created a miasma behind which her true feelings could hide.

“I’m on to my second wife,” said Masterson. “My first died when she was thrown from her horse. She was a show jumper, you see. Four-year-old event horses. I still keep her outfits in the wardrobe in the spare room and sometimes I like to go in there and just rub my hand along the velvet or give them an old sniff to remember her. I asked my current wife to model them for me but she’s fierce peculiar about things like that. To be honest, and I only say this because I feel that I’m among friends, I wish I’d never married again. My first wife was a lovely girl. The new one…well, she has a mouth on her, that’s all I’m saying.”

“A mouth on her?” asked Mrs. Hennessy. “Isn’t that a normal thing? How would the poor woman breathe without a mouth?”

“Ah now, you know what I mean,” said Masterson, laughing and looking around at the other men while jerking his thumb in her direction as if to say, And here’s another one, wha’? “She gives me the backchat all the time. I’ve told her I’ll get the priest in one of these days to her if she doesn’t buck up her ideas.”

“What a lucky woman,” said Mrs. Hennessy, turning away from him. “Did I read somewhere that you were married once before too, Mr. Avery?” she asked, looking at Charles.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Did you?”

“Tell us about you, Cyril,” said Wilbert, winking at me in such a lascivious way that I squirmed in my seat. “Do you enjoy school? Are you attentive to your studies?”

“It’s all right,” I said.

“And what’s your favorite subject?”

I thought about it. “Probably history,” I said.

“Not mathematics?”

“No, I’m not very good at mathematics.”

“Did I mention that I have a Bachelor’s degree in Mathematics?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Charles, Maude, Mrs. Hennessy, Turpin, Masterson and I in unison.

“Perhaps I could help you out sometime,” he suggested. “A little private tuition can go a long way. You could come around some evening when Mother is at bingo and—”

“No, thank you,” I said, taking a mouthful of steak and hoping that he would turn his attentions elsewhere.

“And you own a tea shop, Mrs. Hennessy?” roared Maude unexpectedly, and Masterson put a hand to his chest in fright as if he was about to have a heart attack. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Not quite,” she replied. “I’m manageress of the tearoom in Dáil éireann.”

“How interesting. Have you been there a long time?”

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