I Dream Alone Read online

  Before the water in the kettle had come to a boil I was filled in on many facts about the woman sometimes known as Vera and sometimes known as Countess Tolstoy. She had been seven years old when her grandfather, the great literary master Count Leo Tolstoy, died in 1910.

  * * *

  Since Maggie departed my relationship with Mrs. Axe had grown more and more ambiguous if not outright confusing. In its own odd and unusual way my relationship with Mr. Axe was a much more direct and easy one. Sometimes, particularly during the week, Mrs. Axe would not look directly at me when she bid me good morning. When we did exchange niceties she would speak so fast she was gone from my presence before my ears had finished listening to her. Weekends were a different matter. In many ways it was as if the roles were reversed. She asked how I spent my week and went about suggesting recreational and artistic activities. Mr. Axe seemed to have neither the desire nor the patience to go driving about on a Saturday and as far as I could discern Mrs. Axe more than appreciated that reality.

  For my part, I was in a state of constant hope and anxiety. I nervously waited to be invited to accompany her on her drives about the county. Weekends defined and even underlined my personal domestic insecurity and emotional condition at the castle. Half the time I was, or at least appeared to be, a member of the family and participated in many of the social activities and functions that took place in the mansion. Other times my presence in the castle was a bit like being a fly in a glass of milk.

  I drifted towards Pat in the kitchen when I wasn’t given a clear signal as to where I should or could be on any given day. In keeping with not having a clear and tangible compass applicable to our relationship, Mrs. Axe seemed to wrestle with my presence and often, when she discovered me in the kitchen or helping Pat with some of her domestic chores, she’d remind me about the upcoming weekend and her plans to drive about Connecticut for some purpose or other – for example, to visit the antique furniture markets that were reliably held on Saturdays and Sundays.

  If a much-talked-about artistic event took place in New York City the Axes would invite me to go with them. My first opera was Der Rosenkavalier by Richard Strauss, in the opera house on Broadway. On evenings such as that we’d stop off first at the Metropolitan Club on Fifth Avenue and have dinner and we’d likely stop off for a late snack before driving back to Tarrytown. Most of the time I volunteered to take the wheel of the car. Mrs. Axe always sat in the front passenger seat and she seemed to relax when she was able to talk without having to concentrate on driving. Mr. Axe liked to pontificate on the opera or the play he had seen and more often than not he exhibited a sense of humour not often witnessed when he was home or working at his desk. He wasn’t shy about comparing the voices of the performers either. Mrs. Axe would sometimes argue and debate him on what tenor or soprano had achieved near-perfection in productions they had seen previously. I would listen attentively and with interest although I had no opinion or knowledge on the subject matter. Nor was I ever asked for it. Only rarely did I mention the world of cinema and that was mainly when I was asked if I missed Dublin or my family back there.

  When we found ourselves in the same quarters in the castle Mrs. Axe would sometimes change her attitude towards my presence. It seemed at times that she would go from having the concerns of Maggie Sheridan towards me and other times not know how to communicate with me with regard to activities I should or could be involved in during the course of the day.

  I felt more comfortable when I sat with Pat in the kitchen. Pat may well have been a better talker than a housekeeper. She seemed more interested in filling me in on the entire history of Axe Castle – its past, present and its personal existence – than getting things done. I learned that the castle was built around 1900 by an American army general named Carroll. Pat didn’t know what war General Carroll had fired a few bullets in but it must have been the Spanish-American War. She informed me that for years the castle was occupied by the General’s family until twenty-five years after his death in 1916 when it was sold to Emerson Axe. Emerson was an expert on financial matters and had a client list of successful American companies. He predicted the fall of the stock market just prior to the great depression in 1929. It was around that time that he met and married Ruth Houghton. Both were starting out on Wall Street and each found in the other the perfect vocational partner. Their careers began in New York City but as they became more and more successful they and their newly acquired research team used a large part of the castle for business purposes.

  * * *

  The next time I saw Muriel was in the school corridor at lunch break. She had missed the first two days of the school week and I thought she was avoiding me. It turned out she was not feeling well and her mother had kept her home. Before I couldinquire about her father’s state of mindafter I left her house the previous week she told me her dad wanted to see me at the weekend. She reassured me that there were no hard feelings in her house towards me, but hearing that her dad wanted to see me sent a shiver down my spine. I was still somewhat terrified about the ‘Mass Incident’ and I wanted to apologise. Muriel’s father had appeared to be seriously angry at me for taking his beloved daughter to Mass and I hadn’t had a chance to explain to him that it was only to show her a part of my life and culture as it was before I arrived in America.

  Had it not been for Muriel’s calm demeanour and her display of affection as we walked along the corridor I might easily have run away from her that very day! She didn’t seem as concerned as I thought she should have been and for a moment I was tempted to say I didn’t want to go to her house and see her father again.It would have been a different thing had it been her mother who asked me to come to the house but Muriel emphasised that it was her father who was looking forward to me coming to the house on Saturday.

  * * *

  For the next three days I got up early, served Mrs. Axe her breakfast, had my routine and regular chat about my studies and my social life and made my way to school each morning.

  The sense of freedom and the secure feeling I felt when I got behind the wheel of my car was palpable. Inside the castle I felt lost and detached most of the time. Waiting for Mrs. Axe to show and give approval to what I was doing, and even how I was thinking about my life, was like betting on a horse in a crowded race. Some days she’d seem to be supportive and encouraging, other days I felt like I was at the point where I was begging for her approval. My bad grades in algebra didn’t impress her and she didn’t hesitate to point out to me that I might be spending too much time driving about in my car when I should be studying. I had also fallen behind on reading books that Mr. Axe periodically gave me to read. That situation led me to avoid him whenever I sensed he was going to ask me about a certain subject, but the activity and chore of serving Mrs. Axe her breakfast every weekday morning put me in the position of having to explain myself and face her criticism on a daily basis. Without wishing it, knowing it or even understanding it, my daily contact with Mrs. Axe and her concern about me was slowly turning into something like the relationship I had with Maggie. I was falling into the habit of wanting to please her with everything I said, thought and did.

  On Friday she told me that Father Clifford had related to her the story of my taking Muriel to Mass one Sunday. She also informed me that she’d be going to Dublin the next day and would be seeing Maggie. I got the impression that all might not be well with Maggie. It had been months and months since her departure and we’d had no communication. Whenever I heard about her it was either through Mrs. Axe or, on the rare occasion I met him, Father Clifford. According to Mrs. Axe, Maggie was disappointed that I didn’t write home and let people back in Dublin know how I was and what I was doing. My defence was that I had not had any communication from the other side either. Alienation had been bred into my immediate family as if it was a virtue. Affection and concern were emotions that were rarely if ever practised by my parents or by my siblings.

  * * *

  Saturday afternoon arrived. Mrs. Ax
e had gone to Dublin, Mr. Axe was in the city and Pat and Jim were off duty. I readied myself to face Muriel’s father.

  I got to Muriel’s house just after lunch and her parents greeted me as if I was a long-lost child. Her mother was a very attractive suburban woman who always appeared gentle and easy and welcoming whenever I entered the house and today was no different. In fact this day she seemed even more delighted than usual that I had dropped by. Kim was also home and she greeted me as if I was a member of the family. It was clear to me from the warm hug she gave me that she had not paid any attention to her sister going to Mass with me a few Sundays ago. Muriel’s father was in a good mood as he greeted me and led me into the living room. I sat on the large sofa in the living room and listened to him ramble on about politics and various social issues that I not only didn’t understand but didn’t even want to.

  Mr.Anderson approached me with a copy of the New York Daily News. As he opened the paper he talked to me.

  “I hear great things about your goal-scoring for the soccer team, Gabriel,” he said without looking directly at me.

  Muriel was in the kitchen helping her mother clean up after lunch and I felt a little lost sitting alone on the sofa while her father stood next to me browsing through the newspaper.

  “Soccer is not very popular in school, is it, Gabriel?” he asked me.

  “It’s getting there,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders.

  “You’re the best on the team. I’m told that anyway. I hope I get a chance to see a match one of these days. Muriel says you’re very good.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to his compliment but I decided that because his tone of voice was friendly I’d go along with him. “Yeah, I scored two goals last week when we played Nyack High,” I answered.

  “You got to be in great physical shape for that game, don’t you?” he asked me.

  I continued on the same friendly course. “When school’s out I run the track every afternoon,” I answered.

  He went silent for a bit and I could hear Muriel’s voice calling from the kitchen asking if anyone wanted coffee. Mr.Anderson responded that he did. I wasn’t sure what I wanted at that point. I wanted Muriel to come out of the kitchen and ask me to go downtown with her: anything that would get me out of the living room and away from her father. A few seconds passed and Mrs.Anderson came into the living room with a tray and four cups of coffee on it. Mr.Andersonsat next to me on the sofa and reached for his cup first. I wanted to see if Muriel and her sister would come out of the kitchen and change the air and the atmosphere that I felt I was drowning in. Muriel’s mother went and opened the living-room curtains further and I could see my old car parked outside on the street and I began to wish I was speeding away in it. Then she came and sat with us.

  We had settled into drinking our coffee when Mr.Anderson asked me if I ever read the Daily News. I told him I had but not too often. I didn’t tell him that the only time I came across the Daily News was when I was visiting Frank Dillon and his friends at the bar on the odd Friday night.

  “Gabriel, there’s something in the Daily News that I wanted to ask you about . . .”

  Before I could ask him what he was talking about or what he meant, he continued, “Remember you told me that you used to be in a boxing club in Dublin?”

  I had forgotten I had told Mr.Anderson anything about that. In fact, I normally made an effort not to talk too much about Dublin, my family and what I did when I lived there. Dublin was even more foreign to Muriel’s family than Tarrytown was to me when I first arrived.

  “I told my dad you used to be in a boxing club, Gabriel, when you were about nine or ten!” Muriel called as she stuck her head out of the kitchen.

  I wasn’t sure where the conversation was going so I decided to go along with it. “I was about twelve, Muriel,” I responded with a bit of pride.

  “And you boxed for the club every week?” Mr.Anderson queried.

  “I think it was once a month. I was only in the club for about six months. I joined it because they had great dinners every Friday night before the fights. Every neighbourhood in Dublin had a parish club and once a month we’d play a football match against each other and sometimes we’d fight on a Friday.”

  Mr.Anderson leaned towards me and showed me a page in the Daily News. “See that,” he said as he circled the print with his finger.

  I wasn’t sure what he was referring to. He then pointed his finger and tapped it a few times on what appeared to be a drawing of two boxers with an application form of some sort under the image.

  “What?” I asked him.

  “The Daily News is sponsoring the Golden Gloves and that’s an application for anyone who wants to participate. Have you given that any consideration?”

  The Daily News and the Golden Gloves were as foreign to me as Santa Claus was in Dublin. Before I could determine or figure out what Mr.Anderson was getting at, he blurted out, “You’re over eighteen now. Give that a shot, Gabriel.”

  Not being sure what he meant I answered, “Give what a shot?”

  There was a silence. He looked back at his wife and then at me. I looked at him and Mrs.Anderson looked at both of us.

  “Tell him, Rob, what you have in mind,” she said. She seemed to be enjoying what I was considering to be mysterious.

  Mr.Anderson was definitely acting in a very nice way and I was feeling more and more comfortable. It looked as if he had completely forgotten the incident of my taking Muriel to church.

  “Given that you’re in such good physical condition, Gabriel,” he said, “I figured you wouldn’t even have to train or work out. It’s mainly an amateur contest. All kinds enter it every year. When I was growing up in the Bronx I had visions of competing in the Golden Gloves. That, of course, was many years go and needless to say I didn’t. I think it was because my parents moved from the neighbourhood I was born in. This is the kind of experience that can make a man out of you.”

  I couldn’t believe it: Mr.Anderson wanted me to participate in the Golden Gloves contest that was being sponsored by The New York Daily News.

  “What weight were you when you boxed?” he queried me further.

  “I don’t know how much I weigh now, much less seven or eight years ago.” I thought I had put it to rest but then Muriel entered the room looking as beautiful as always.

  She appeared to be happy, even excited, that her father and I were sitting on the same sofa having a conversation.

  “Are you going to do it, Gabriel?” she asked me.

  For a second or two I felt outnumbered but I didn’t want to commit to something I wasn’t interested in or prepared for. Before I could muster up the courage to decline Mr.Anderson’s ambition of having me sign up for the boxing contest, he looked over at his daughter.

  “I think you’re either a featherweight or a lightweight,” he said, smothering my impulse to retreat from the conversation, and added with a deepening sense of interest in my life as a boxer: “You’ll have three two-minute rounds to do the job, Gabriel. I think you’ve got what it takes to win.”

  * * *

  The following Monday after school Mr.Anderson in his red-and-white 1956 Chevrolet drove from Tarrytown to the Bronx. The drive to the boxing arena took about forty minutes. I was extremely apprehensive but I did my very best not to show it. I didn’t want Muriel’s father to think I was not brave, proud and fearless.

  After parking on a side street, Mr.Anderson and I walked a few blocks and entered a huge public area. The building looked as if it was a cattle market in a previous incarnation. We entered the building with a crowd that seemed to be in a serious rush. In no time I found myself in a dressing room somewhere in the bowels of the building. The place was saturated with voices in languages that sounded like hungry animals fighting and howling to be let out of a cage. There were screams, and bells ringing every minute. If it wasn’t a Roman Circus it was easily a place for a PT Barnum. The public-address system was bellowing out names of individuals, young
contestants like me, to come forth and be ready to step into the ring. The arena was jammed with young boys and older boys of every shape, weight and size.

  I was hoping Mr.Anderson had entered me in the featherweight category. A punch from someone my own height and weight didn’t frighten me. As it turned out, Mr.Anderson had filled out the application in the newspaper a few weeks earlier than when he first brought up the subject. I deeply regretted having boasted of my skills as a boxer when I was twelve and thirteen years old. I didn’t take it seriously myself then and I hadn’t expectedMuriel’s father to think much of it either when I’d related episodes of my childhood to him months earlier. The idea of me competing in the Golden Gloves had come to him in the form of some sort of revelation. Was it a secret wish of his to have a son? I thought about all the possibilities and prospects as to why I was in the situation I was in this particular evening somewhere in the Bronx waiting to go into a boxing ring. Why was I volunteering to have my head knocked off me in the ring? I reflected that part of the reason I was sitting on a bench, waiting and waiting to enter a boxing ring for a three-round bout with someone I had never seen, met or talked to, was that I hadn’t wanted to appear afraid or cowardly in Muriel’s presence when her father proposed that I enter the contest.

  It was a good thing Mrs. Axe was away in Ireland visiting Maggie. She would not have sanctioned this misadventure. Though she likely would not have believed that I would have allowed myself to fall into such a state of danger.

  As the names of the competitors continued to be bellowed out over the public-address system it became crystal clear in my mind that the situation I was in had obviously something to do with my courting Mr.Anderson’s daughter. It even occurred to me in my shivering state that my introducing Muriel to a Catholic church and showing her what Mass looked like was not a diplomatic thing to do to someone who was not inclined to be an observer still less a practitioner of another’s religious faith.