Free Forbidden Fruit by Annie Murphy, Peter de Rosa Page B

them to enjoy one another’s company and went to chat with Justin. He was in the garden, which I loved because
     it had such neat rows of flowers and vegetables.
    After that, I did some shopping, especially for eau de cologne, and explored Killarney. I liked its atmosphere, the sense
     that so much had happened there over the centuries.
    That evening, Eamonn drank a large cocktail, and at dinner a bottle of Beaujolais, followed by a big Napoleon brandy. Not
     once did he mention our night together, not even when we sat for three hours by the fire in the living room. His policy was
     to give away as little as possible. Maybe he himself did not know what he would do. But a strange thing happened.
    Without warning, he left the room and returned with a picture. He had been speaking of his mother and I assumed he wanted
     to show me what she looked like. It was, in fact, the photograph of a curly-haired boy about two to three years old. He merely
     let me glance at it as the prelude to telling me the child’s story.
    When working in London during the sixties, he had met a pregnant, unwed young woman.
    “She wanted to keep her baby, Annie, and I warned her she could never cope. After six months, she realized it was better for
     Johnny—that’s his name—if she had him adopted.”
    Instinctively, I said, “That must have hurt her a lot.”
    “Oh, it did. If only she had given Johnny up as soon as he was born.”
    “Did you advise that?”
    “What else? Tis so much harder once the woman bonds with her baby. But she made the sacrifice for Johnny’s sake. I had to
     help her over this difficult passage of her life.” He gazed at the boy’s picture. “Johnny was special, y’see, so much life
     and joy he had.”
    “What became of him?”
    “I saw to it that the little feller was adopted by a wonderful family. He’s very happy now.”
    It sounded as if he was still in touch with Johnny, who, by my reckoning, was now about ten. That pleased me.
    I said, “Are you sure he’s happier than he would have been with his natural mother?”
    “Absolutely.”
    I disliked that kind of certainty. You could only be that sure by blinding yourself to most of the facts of life.
    “What,” I asked, “became of her?”
    “His mother? She wanted to become a children’s nurse.”
    I thought,
My God, she gives up her own child so she can take care of other people’s
.
    He was saying, God-like, “I provided the money. I presume she married. She probably now has a family of her own.”
    The indifference he showed to the mother’s fate was in stark contrast to his interest in the little boy.
    “May I see him, Eamonn?”
    He handed me the picture. Staring out at me was what looked like a miniature replica of Eamonn. Even the bump in his top lip
     was the same.
    “Well?” he demanded.
    Was he confessing his sin or asserting his pride? Was he daring me or warning me? Did he want my criticism or approval?
    Masking my desolate feelings, I handed the picture back with “A fine little boy.”
    He continued searching my eyes to find out what I was thinking, but I did not know that myself. I could not even be sure if
     my imagination had misled me.
    I had taken it for granted that his fumblings of the night before were proof of sexual inexperience. What if they simply proved
     that he was not good at sex or that several years had passed since his last intimate relationship?
    One thing had not varied: he liked to keep me guessing. With him, nothing could be taken for granted. Once again, I had the
     impression that only he was entitled to call the tune. And I could not guess the next note because this was jazz and he improvised.
    When I retired for the night, he walked up and down the corridor, reciting his breviary. Those prayers scared me now and made
     me jealous. They also intimated that he had only the holiest intentions toward me and if bad things were to happen, he would
     not be the guilty party.
    At about one o’clock, his