11 July 1993 - 1 a.m. Sunday morning - S.F.
Time to catch up. I've been lax in my writing and so shall end up with writer's cramp tonight. The paperwork piled up while I was in New Mexico and LA - my excuse for being lazy about opening this book.
~~~
To my surprise the house was still standing when we arrived home. For Alex the 4th of July is always a bombastic occasion, and, knowing Philip, I was expecting a something akin to the cherry bomb-in-the-outhouse routine. The Irish are odd. They almost have a split personality - that serious, almost dour side, but flip it over and there's a hellion ready to burst forth.
Doubtless, Julia provided a stabilizing influence. On second thought, I suspect I owe Dominick and Frederick sizeable bonuses. A good household staff is worth its weight in gold - never obtrusive, but always present.
The only thing amiss is apparently a broken window thanks to the good Father's over- zealous soccer practice. Dominick informed me at the first opportunity. I took a look. It's in a harmless spot. Julia keeps hinting in her own cleverly charming way. Philip, the very soul of innocence, says nothing, and has even managed not to squirm. It will be amusing to see how he pays her back. Of course, I shall never notice.
I think I shall leave it until the good Father confesses. Confession is good for the soul and we wouldn't want to deprive him of any "godly" benefits. Then, of course, there will be penance. What shall it be? To pay for the window? I think not. Too easy. Perhaps washing a few to remind him of the value of a good, solid pane of glass. I wonder how long it will be before his conscience begins to wear upon him.
~~~
There was a note from Maggie waiting for me at the Biltmore. I have no idea how she knew my plans. Perhaps I talk in my sleep, but then God only knows what other chits she has waiting to be called in at the appropriate moment. A woman after my own heart - she knows how to play the game, and with her own, unique style. Bless her. I would not want her as an adversary.
I think she enjoys trying to shock me, which is an impossibility - occasionally a perplexed blush perhaps, but shocked? - never! She invited me to go to Tahiti in Sept. It's a temptation. Sometimes anyplace but here is a temptation, but I fear I shall be otherwise occupied, as is almost always the case. However, I countered her invitation with one to the Sydney conference in Jan.
It's just my mood talking - feeling a bit sorry for myself. Most of the time there is nowhere I should rather be. This island, this house, and the Legacy itself are my source, my home, and my anchor. I was born on this island and my ashes shall, I hope, like my ancestors and the precepts before me, rest in the niche long since prepared to receive the mortal remains of Derek Rayne. Much to do before then however. Alstublieft, Gott!
~~~
Tonight the silence is overpowering. Even here in my room with the door closed, I can hear the ticking of the foyer clock - or do I imagine that I hear it? Actually, strange as it sounds, it's more like I feel it ticking in the same way that I sometimes feel this house breathe. No one had better ever read these journals. I'd find myself in one of the Legacy's padded rooms faster than Marigold's puppies were popping out.
It's strange. The Legacy can accept vision, clairvoyance, psychokenesis, channeling, possession, empathy, but I've always sensed that what I feel is beyond their ken. Perhaps, it's simply beyond my own capacity to express. Perhaps, everyone feels these things, gifted or not, and since there is no real way to describe it, such things remain unspoken and so misunderstood. I think much of life is that way.
Have I made a mistake in bringing Nick Boyle here? Soon, I must write a formal letter announcing his presence to the Ruling Council. Should I make mention of my hopes for him? I should have written of this sooner - to try to sort out my own feelings - but I had hoped that a few days respite would give them clarity. If I cannot sort out my own emotions, how can I discern what I sense from him. I'm very confused - it's not what I had hoped for.
I picked Nick up at LA County's Main Jail at noon on Tuesday. That was quite an experience. It is situated in an area surrounded by railroad tracks north of Union Station, Chinatown, and the Civic Center, west of the concrete ditch they call the LA River. It is an immense, aging facility - not pleasant at all. Perhaps I shouldn't have delayed so long. It was rather cruel of me now that I think on it. I must beware of losing my compassion. Cruelty is never a good means to an end, nor does it make for a good beginning.
Nick was quiet when he emerged and remains so even now. Once at the Biltmore, he seemed appreciative of the opportunity to clean up and to eat. To demonstrate my trust, I left him alone while I wandered about for an hour or so. Pershing Square, just across the street, has changed immensely. The new wing of the main library is magnificent - in a way, the fire turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
I almost expect Nick to answer all questions with only name, rank, and serial number. He's not the boy I recall. I've not really seen him since before he entered the service. Then he seemed to me to be a shy, quiet youth with an underlying nervous energy and a pubescent, simmering anger. Much as I was at the same age - whereas I buried the emotions stemming from my father's death in studies that were not necessarily a part of the curriculum, Nick seemed to bury himself in his interest in cars and athletics.
It's not that I expected a profuse thank you, but I didn't expect avoidance nor this sullen anger that seems to be directed towards myself. I know that my own aloofness can make people nervous and put them off. I've long realised that many perceive it as an arrogance, but it's not and never has been. I study people. It's a quiet observation and a certain shyness that, even now, I constantly struggle to overcome. I've learned that I must be the one to put people at ease - be myself and yet be a bit of what each expects of me. Perhaps, that is how Nick is, but he hasn't yet made the same discovery. However, I've watched him with the others - no immediate warmth, but a much more relaxed attitude. The initial introductions went well.
He runs a lot - mostly alone. He even, in a very military fashion, asked for my permission to do so. I must admit that did take me aback somewhat - surprise, not shock. Philip has begun to join him. They all played pool this evening. Julia won. Alex shares his interest in technology. Relationships there are building, but with me it is a chasm.
I feel as though he watches me. It was a favorite trick of his father's, but the feeling of it wasn't the same. The major studied me in a manner that was both curious and appraising. Nick watches almost in the way the house cat watches a fly on a window pane - not watching, but, at the same time, watching - waiting for a mistake or an inattentive moment. I can't say I find it unnerving, but it is the same feeling I get when in the presence of a restless spirit - a ghost who wants something of me, but I don't know what.
I must cleanse myself of all of these preconceptions I had about Nick Boyle. He is not the boy I knew seven years ago, nor is he his father, as much as I might wish it. Somehow, I must wipe my own slate clean and start afresh.
NEXT
CONTENTS PTL FANFIC
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