Forbidden Fruit by Annie Murphy, Peter de Rosa Read Free Book Online Page A

the sun, alone
     and not alone, along the frothy edge of the sea or to lie in the sand dunes.
    When you are happy you don’t mind being solitary. I was happy, though with what justification I could not be sure.
    Eamonn came home earlier than Mary had predicted. I knew he would. This is why I had deliberately delayed so as not to be
     there when he arrived. Let Eamonn wait on me.
    I finally walked the couple of miles or so up from the shore, past the Strand Hotel, along a stony and pitted path, to find
     him eagerly looking out for me at the door.
    Did anyone ever welcome anyone as he welcomed me? My heart raced out to meet this man with the sunflower smile.
    Taking both my hands in his, he said, “Yesterday, your face was a snowflake, Annie, and now your cheeks are red as votive
     lamps.”
    He pointed to where the spring sun, descending, was reddening the distant mountains. He noticed me shudder and those questioning
     eyes demanded to know what was wrong.
    “It’s just… it reminds me of blood on snow.”
    He sensitively did not ask why that unsettled me.
    That night, by the hearth, I was reluctant to reveal myself further. After a long chat about friends and world events and
     Irish politics and even some Irish history, I clammed up. This was to be my Silent Night.
    I was not consciously playing hard to get. I was simply not prepared to do what he wanted when he wanted it, as if all he
     had to do, so to speak, was ring the Angelus bell.
    “Problems like yours, Annie,” he said, “don’t go away. Unless you talk them out, they’ll follow you all your life. One day,
     when you’re least expecting it, they pop up and”—he gestured eloquently to his own throat—“strangle you.”
    My continuing silence meant that from his point of view, it was a wasted day. But I felt it was good to reinforce the fact
     that I was a real person and not just an American cousin with a problem awaiting the touch of his healing hand.
    Maybe he knew that already, but maybe not, and I was not prepared to take a chance. Not till I had lowered the odds.
    That night, before he began his prayers up and down the corridor he came into my bedroom to say good night. He sat on the
     bed beside me and fondly pushed my hair out of my eyes.
    “God bless you, Annie.” As he said it, his eyes were shining, his hands and body trembling.
    I felt I had only to touch him or stroke him and he would be in bed with me. I was ready for it, but he, in spite of his obvious
     sexual excitement, was not.
    I kept to my plan. I felt for him this mysterious something that had no name but I was not sure if he felt the same toward
     me. If he did and if this feeling was to last, the first move would have to be his. I slipped further down under the covers
     to prove my good intentions.
    Without looking back, he left my room.
    Moments later I heard him walking up and down, praying. I would have given a lot to know what he was saying to his God—and
     what his God was saying to him.
    Next day, I did not see him till he returned very late at night. My turn to know what waiting feels like. Maybe this was his
     way of getting even.
    He had the problem, he said, of funding a parish in Africa. Irish missionary priests were keen to start a school for native
     children. He seemed much concerned for the poor, whom he called, Irish fashion, “green mouths,” because, I guess, they had
     nothing to eat but grass and nettles.
    By the fireside, after the usual talk about friends and family, he said, “Tell me more about yourself, Annie. For me.”
    I found that so touching, I could not hold back.
    As he encouraged me by stroking the back of my hand, I explained that after the baby was stillborn, I kept getting terrible
     headaches and my stomach seemed ready to blow up. My doctor said this was quite normal after a late miscarriage.
    Then, when my first period was due, I simply streamed with blood. It came flying out of me in great ugly clots. I felt I was
     dying. After