The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven (11 page)

Lolly, not having been to college in America like her husband's aunt, was a bit less nationalistic than Kitty. Still, she had been somewhat susceptible to Kitty's proofs of Shakespeare's indisputable origins. Lolly had been directed by Kitty to the bard's historical tragedy
Richard II
. Kitty explained to her that, at the beginning of the play, Richard is a hedonistic tyrant. Then he goes to Ireland. When he returns, he's a great metaphysical poet. Was this not a clue intended by Mr. Shakespeare to reassure those capable of sufficient scrutiny that he was indeed of Gaelic blood, a claim it would have been mortally dangerous to make while the Virgin Queen was squatting on the throne of England?

Lolly had accepted this as a possibility. Then Kitty, to make her proofs incontrovertible, steered Lolly to
Hamlet
, act I, scene v, line
136
. And, lo and behold, the Danish prince, in the cold castle of Elsinore, when assuring his friend Horatio of the validity of the ghost of his father he'd just seen, cries out as witness to the truth of his words, “By Saint Patrick!” The only saint invoked in the entire play. Unbeknownst to Lolly, Kitty had considered one further proof, this one also involving the Prince of Denmark. In act III, scene iii, line
73
, when Hamlet, stirred to vengeance, is passing by his murderous Uncle Claudius at his prayers, he says to himself, “Now might I do it pat.” That final invocation of the saint, though admittedly more subtle than the previous proofs, could, she felt, surely serve her cause, but she had decided not only that its degree of subtlety might cause it to be resisted as a proof, but also that any right-minded person would already be sufficiently persuaded by what had already been offered. Kitty had therefore said to Lolly, regarding act I, scene v, line
136
, “Patrick's the only saint invoked in the entire play!”—with an emphasis suggesting that it would behoove (wonderful word,
behoove
) Lolly to subscribe to Kitty's promulgation. Lolly subscribed. More or less.

The drive to Caherciveen for the performance was quite pleasant, and the dinner in a seafood restaurant across from Valencia Island even more so. Aaron was genuinely impressed by the great fortresslike church where the oratorio would be sung. Lolly pridefully explained that the church was a memorial not to Patrick or Brendan or even Michael—to say nothing of Mary in all her many guises—but to Daniel O'Connell. It was he who had persuaded the Parliament legislating from London, in their famous enthusiasm for tolerance in their relationship to their presumed inferiors, to bestow on the
real
Irish the Catholic Emancipation. Lolly's use of the word
real
was to distinguish the indigenous people from the Anglos of Irish pretension who, in their Ascendancy, had no need of legislated rights, those having already been implicit in their proud birthright as subjects of the Crown.

Great gray stones rose toward the darkening sky, the church itself a massive example of the Gothic that had decided to be imposing rather than majestic. Before they had reached the gate leading through the iron fence, Aaron had said, and not for the first time, “She's going to be in the chorus. I know she is.”

Lolly, more amused than exasperated, said what was expected of her. “You know nothing of the kind.”

“It's an American chorus on tour. Lucille ran off with a member of our church choir. They're both going to be here, I know it.”

“This Lucille of yours—or formerly yours—and her gentleman friend …”

“He was no gentleman. Lucille was my wife.”

“Be that as it may, if I remember correctly, they sang in an obscure church tucked away somewhere in New York. And now they're touring the world singing Handel?”

“It is not an obscure church. It's St. Joseph in Greenwich Village—founded and bankrolled by the Irish, I'll have you know, the best parish in the known world.”

“Fine. But that hardly qualifies your wife and her … abductor? … to advance to a world-class chorus come all the way to County Kerry, just so she can taunt you and make you into an idiot blithering about crises that will never come about.”

“You'll see her for yourself.”

“I can hardly wait. Except that she's elsewhere at the present time. And, I might add, it doesn't take a Doctor Freud to suggest that all this about seeing her is a disguised wish that you
will
see her. Can't you be a little less obvious?”

“Oh? I'm obvious, am I? And what about someone who just a few weeks ago saw what I'll call ‘an old acquaintance' thought to be about two years dead and convinces herself that some moving shadow off in the fog is no one but him and calls out his name for all to hear. ‘Declan!' she cries. ‘Declan!' Does that say anything about obvious?”

“I thought it was his ghost. And I did nothing to summon him. Nothing.”

“Not consciously. But subconsciously …”

“I saw him. You saw him.”

“I did not see him. Not then. Later, at the castle, but not then. I saw a dark figure walking off into the fog. That's all you saw. And then heard ‘Declan! Declan!'—as if pleading for some deepest need to be fulfilled.”

To close down the subject, Lolly, in her aggressively agreeable voice, said, “All right. All right. Let it go. Let it go.”

They passed through the gate and followed the path leading through the well-kept lawn to the portals of the church. “And let me say this,” Lolly said, breaking her own truce, “I never want to see him again.”

“Nor I Lucille. So can we, as you so charmingly proposed, ‘let it go'?”

“We'd better. And don't think of it anymore or we won't hear the music.”

“I'll hear it. And it will be Lucille singing it.”

“Stop!”

“All right. All right.”

They went inside.

Lucille was one of the first to enter the sanctuary. There was applause. She was the fifth chorister in the second tier. Aaron didn't know whether to feel aghast or exonerated. He decided to be both. Lucille was wearing, as was the entire chorus, a red robe that Aaron immediately saw as most appropriate: She was a scarlet woman if ever there was one. Lucille was a slightly lighter blond than he remembered, but her fresh beauty still glowed, a beauty that was her irresistible allure, a beauty that had enthralled all too easily the baritone with whom she had run off. Aaron elbowed Lolly. Still staring at Lucille, who was busy licking her lips, unmindful of the weird workings of the world that had brought both her and most likely her former husband to this distant place, a coincidence usually reserved for—nay, demanded by—fiction of the Victorian era, Aaron spoke the sideways words: “Second tier. Fifth from the left.”

Lolly looked first at her husband, then toward the sanctuary, now filling with the last members of the two-tiered chorus. “It's not Lucille,” she muttered.

The soloists entered. Everybody clapped, including Aaron and Lolly. Before the applause had stopped, Aaron repeated the word:
Lucille.

“It can't be.”

“I know it can't. But it is.”

“She's too young for you.”

“She's a year older.”

“It's
still
not Lucille.”

“You've never seen her before. How can you know?”

“She's too pretty.”

“Too pretty for me? Is that what you're saying?”

“I've already said it.”

“So you're saying I could only get an ugly woman for a wife?”

Before an answer could be given, the conductor, mercifully, entered. After bowing to the audience, acknowledging the welcome, and picking up the baton, he lifted his arms and bid the chorus to rise. The music began. What Lolly and Aaron heard or did not hear was anyone's guess.

At the intermission, no consultation was needed for the decision to go out for some fresh air. The sky had misted over and the half moon was a pale blue off to the east. Lolly and Aaron went past all the other Handel enthusiasts and stood apart near the iron gate. To occupy themselves, they each made a show of regarding the impressive tombstones marking the burial plots of ecclesiastics long departed. They said nothing. Finally, Aaron spoke. “Should we leave?”

“Why leave? We've come all this way.”

In a slightly saddened voice, Aaron said, “You think I'm making this up. But I'm not.”

“I understand.” Lolly raised her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “I really do.”

“What do you understand?”

“That you have some wish to see the woman once your wife named Lucille. And I understand. As I said, I really do.”

While Aaron was formulating his reply, another voice was heard. “Aaron! Aaron McCloud! Is that you?”

A woman in a red robe was coming toward them, making her way among the tombstones. A few feet away, she said in tones not far removed from a shriek, “If it isn't you, I'm hallucinating. Am I?”

“Lucille?”

“You got it right that time, buster.”

Aaron tried a smile but couldn't quite make it. “I'm surprised.”

“
You're
surprised. I spotted you during ‘Comfort ye.' ” I wet my panties and had to get rid of them just now. I have to sing without for the rest.”

Lolly held out her hand. “Let me introduce myself. I'm his wife.”

“Oh … You, too? Tell her, Aaron. I used to be your wife, didn't I?”

“Well, yes, I guess that was you.”

Lolly held her hand in position, waiting. “I'm Lolly McCloud.”

“What a funny name. Lolly. McCloud's okay, and boy was he ever named right. Once we got married he went into the clouds and never came out. But I guess you already know that.”

Lolly lowered her hand. “No. Not really.”

“Well, some people are luckier than others. I mean … I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

“Thank you. But we have it already.” Lolly put sufficient heat into her words to sound almost convincing.

“Well,” said Lucille, her laugh close to giddy, “I got my wish. You're the luckier one.”

“Apparently.” Lolly not only smiled but bowed as well.

“Isn't it time,” Aaron said to Lucille, “to be getting back?”

“It's okay. They give us a long break to rest our voices. And I want you to pay special attention to my husband's solo after ‘I Know My Redeemer': ‘The Trumpet Shall Sound.' He's the bass you already heard, but that's his big number. It'll tell you in the program. Stanislaus Glyzinski.”

“Glyzinski?” Aaron was genuinely surprised. “I thought your husband's name was Aldershot. Jack Aldershot.”

“Oh, no, not Jack. How could I stay married to him? He played me the same trick you did.”

“Me?”

“You. If your name's Aaron McCloud. That's who. When Jack and I met at St. Joseph and he was a baritone, he did the same thing to me you did.”

“Oh?” Lolly let her mouth stay open, as if the response would enter there instead of her ear.

Lucille decided to address the current Mrs. McCloud rather than the man to whom she was now the former Mrs. McCloud. “He did. Just like Aaron here, when he wanted me to fall in love with him, he did all these beautiful things. He was so thoughtful, so kind. Just like Aaron, he took a real interest in my voice, in my singing. At least it seemed real, the same as it did with Aaron. I even sang ‘The Last Rose of Summer' for Jack more times than Aaron had me sing it for him. And when I just hinted I liked a man who opened doors, he began opening doors. Like Aaron did. And I couldn't sneeze or he'd worry, or I couldn't clear my throat or he'd be concerned was I all right. He cared. All the time, he couldn't care enough. And when he wasn't kissing and hugging, he was always polite. A real gentleman. But you probably know all this. Right?”

“Our circumstances,” said Lolly, “were somewhat different.”

“Well, that was when your luck started. But then I got married, first to Aaron, then to Jack. And know what it all turned out to be?”

“You'll tell me, I'm sure.”

“They weren't ‘courting' me, as some people would put it. They were giving me lessons. They were instructing me. What they were really saying all along was ‘This is the way I expect
you
to treat
me
after we're married. Pay close attention. This is how thoughtful you're supposed to be. This is how seriously you should take my work'—for Aaron, his writing, for Jack, his accounting. Can you believe it? Words from one, numbers from the other. And I'm supposed to care like all get-out. And be kind and generous and cheerful and uncomplaining? All that. That's what I was supposed to do. That's who I was supposed to be. Hadn't I been taught properly? Hadn't I been given a good example? I'd been taught by the best teachers, shown how by men who knew what marriage was all about! With Aaron it was sort of okay because I was inexperienced. But when it happened all over again with Jack, I said forget it. It's men. And there's no hope for us women. Then I met Stan. He told me right out I couldn't sing worth diddly-screw and please not to do it except when there are enough other voices to drown me out. He never bothered to be polite, not particularly. No presents, not even an engagement ring. For our wedding I had to use the one Aaron gave me. And I knew then that all men are
not
alike. They're not all just instructors of how to act once you're married. I was thrilled. I started out with Aaron, a tenor. Sort of. Then Jack, a baritone. Now I know where I'm supposed to be. Stan. A bass. And you're going to hear him. And he's really great. Someone to love at last. A man who knows how to really get himself a good woman. I hope, Lolly—that funny, funny name—I hope Aaron has become a Stan and isn't the same old Aaron.”

Before Lolly could say the least little word, a low, hoarse voice—quite the opposite of Lucille's—said, “Hello, Lolly McKeever.”