Arc of the Comet by Greg Fields

Author:Greg Fields
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781633934818
Publisher: Koehler Books
Published: 2015-01-17T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII

I am part of the sun as my eye is part of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea. My soul knows that I am part of the human race, my soul is an organic part of my nation. In my very self, I am part of my family.

—D.H. Lawrence, Apocalypse

Conor Finnegan drank down the last draughts of his days in Washington with the slow, savoring relish a gourmand reserves for his finest dishes. Classes resumed in early September, the final classes of his final college year. He would be leaving soon. Finnegan thought of the places that had defined this remarkable summer, the sites he had visited with Glynnis, the monuments and memorials, the restaurants, the parks where they had walked to escape Washington’s smothering heat and find some green space.

The site of deepest meaning remained Conor’s upstairs bedroom. That Conor and Glynnis returned to it every week, reenacting and expanding their initial act, using that same bed to explore new levels of a tender sensuality, deepened their sense of passage. In the evenings they would climb the stairs quietly, hand in hand, saying nothing. Afterward, in the panting decline of their passion, they would strip away all defenses, all pretenses, lying there together as exposed emotionally as they were physically. A reverence crept over them. Conor, a Catholic who had somehow escaped any strong notions of guilt, vaguely equated what he felt in these moments with a deep spirituality. The warming quietude, the sensation of peace, the conviction of universal acceptance reminded him of what he often felt at the end of Mass.

Even during the week, when Glynnis was miles away, Finnegan regarded his room not as his alone, but as Glynnis’s too. He kept it neat and made the bed daily, things he had never done at college.

In late August, during the last week, came a series of days cool and dry. The breeze blew not from the south but from the northwest, launched from Canada, the humidity lifted, the sky rose to a rich opaline blue. Summer for a while had broken and crisp autumn appeared for the first time at a distance, far off still but present and beckoning. The autumn mood snapped Finnegan into a deeper contemplation. He acknowledged the graphic passage of time, for when the sultry swelter returned again to this city he would be well north of here, adopting another, more basic persona. Autumn in any form, with its penetrating winds, brightly dying leaves and smoky haze, moved him to introspection. Premature autumn in a place far away thrust him violently into self-account. He was not displeased.

One evening, a Thursday, Finnegan went for dinner at a restaurant with sidewalk tables, a place where he and Glynnis had sometimes gone for a simple meal. He was alone, but he had long since rid himself of the awkwardness dining alone in a public place could instill. He could afford to do it now and then.

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