Mackenzie’S Farewell

By William Allen Burley

Maryann Caton is a tenacious environmental attorney who is glad that when she is craving solitude she can escape Manhattan for the only positive takeaway from her recent divorceher country home in Roxbridge, Connecticut. But just when she thinks her life is finally resuming normalcy again, Maryann decides to drop her son, Jake, off at a school activity and visit The Guggenheim where fate intervenes and changes everything.

Rob MacKenzie is an introspective science educator who immediately captures Maryanns attention with his rather bizarre behavior inside the museum. After he confesses he is conducting legitimate research for an article he is writing for a childrens magazine, the two continue their conversation over coffee, instigating an eventual romantic relationship. As Rob continues work on a new book of poems, Maryann delves into a South Carolina nuclear waste case. What neither knows is that very soon they will both be firmly entrenched in defending Roxbridge from becoming a nuclear waste warehouse. But if they succeed, what will be the cost?

MacKenzies Farewell shares the tale of two environmental activists who must fight to prevent a low-level nuclear waste dump from moving into a Connecticut town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532024344

William Allen Burley

William Allen Burley earned four degrees at Columbia University, including an EdD in education ethics. Retired from teaching in Connecticut schools, he now focuses on population and environmental issues. Bill has one son and lives with his wife in Boulder, Colorado, where he is an avid cyclist. Sundown Requiem is the third book in a trilogy.

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Copyright © 2017 William Allen Burley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-2435-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2434-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017908193

iUniverse rev. date: 05/30/2017

Contents

1 Bonny Ann

2 MacKay’s Reel

3 Over the Isles to America

4 The Gruagach

5 The Accepted Suitor

6 The Kilt is My Delight

7 The Green Hills of Tyrol

8 Waltzing in the Kitchen

9 The Sticking Pen

10 Caitlin Mo Ruinsa

11 The Festival March

12 Daft Donald

13 Mo Dhachaidh

14 The Cradle Song

15 The Lament for the Old Sword

16 Mairi’s Wedding

Last Words

For Suzanne

Farewell To Rob MacKenzie

To my best student. Cheers. P/M Angus MacKay

Slow Air

image1.jpg

Lyrics by Liam Allen

Young MacKenzie sallies forth, he’s headin’ to the north.

Old Ben Lomond’s beauty beckons from the sky.

He’s searchin’ history, Holy Grail’s a mystery.

Fare-thee-well, young MacKenzie, do or die!

O, search for evermore, open up the hidden door.

Fare-thee-well, young MacKenzie, that’s the plan.

O, don’t give up your quest, life’s journey is a test.

A measure of the strength that makes a man

1

Bonny Ann

Bonny Ann

A four part march in 2/4 time

March 7, 2015

The possibilities for diversion were limitless. Entertainment, education, culture - these were the treasures that glued Maryann Caton to New York City. And, of course, she had her work. Even though her life was altered wrenchingly in the last year, leaving Manhattan was off her radar. True, as part of the divorce settlement, she kept the country place in Connecticut. Its value was growing, but still there was a monthly mortgage obligation. However, the pleasure it provided outweighed any downside or thought of cashing out. When she needed solitude, she could escape the city for a weekend respite. It was a small divorce victory, but a victory, nevertheless. Zachary said he was tired of Roxbridge anyway, preferring to head to a condo in the Hamptons for the weekend. Maryann knew he was attracted to Long Island’s money, a fast crowd, and younger women.

Although her marriage was over, and it was a challenge to raise a child as a single parent in Manhattan, Maryann figured the rewards were worth it. Where else could her son, Jacob, be exposed to all the riches a city offered? It meant juggling her career with his school schedule and a persistent search for after school and evening child care. But she was up to the task. She had to be. Zachary, recently made full partner at Dane, Shapiro & Taylor, was of little help.

When the divorce became final, she was awarded primary care of Jake. Zachary got the usual weekend and summer sharing rights. He never contested the decision. His expanding partnership duties and his social merry-go-round always seemed to interfere with his promises to Jake and Jake’s need for a reliable father. Although Zachary was a prolific rainmaker for his firm, he was becoming a nasty storm cloud in Maryann’s life.

#

Early in March, months after the divorce, on a raw, blustery Saturday morning, Maryann entered the Guggenheim Museum at 89th Street and Fifth Avenue. She dropped Jake off at 10 AM, three blocks east at Dalton, so he could be with his friends for school-sponsored weekend activities. Maryann was pleased the school installed a climbing wall in the gymnasium. It was a nice addition to the more traditional activities typically offered in physical education. Youngsters like Jake, not yet adept in game skills and team sports, could succeed on the wall confidently knowing they were safe in their harnesses, roped and belayed.

Watching him in Connecticut, Maryann knew Jake was a daredevil. He left no tree unclimbed. At Dalton he easily clawed his way up the gym wall, like a monkey ascending a vine. He learned rock climbing techniques at Camp Ossipee. Paying for Jake to attend camp was a convenient way for Zachary to fulfill his mid-year parental obligations. Fortunately, Jake thrived in New Hampshire. He never guessed his Ossipee summers were more for the convenience of his father than for his own growth. It saddened Maryann to see Zachary and Jake drifting farther apart.

Maryann promised the Dalton staff to pick up Jake by 4, even though the program continued to 5. After a stop home, they planned to have dinner at Jake’s favorite Mexican restaurant on Second Avenue, El Burrito Perfecto. Then, after dinner, catching a pre-St. Patrick’s Day rerun of Rob Roy at City Cinemas on Third and 86th was in the cards. Although the film was about Scotland and not Ireland, Maryann reasoned that a movie featuring hunky Liam Neeson was close enough to the old sod to be re-screened in March.

Jake persuaded Maryann he was mature enough to deal with the movie’s violence. The film was rated R, but Jake could get in if he was accompanied by an adult. After all, he argued with a defense attorney’s logic, third grade was studying the myths, murders, and mayhem of the ancient Greeks. Eighteenth century Scotland was the same, just a different time and place.

Mom, it’s really cool! Jake insisted. Someone at school said Rob Roy cut open a cow’s stomach and climbed in.

Why would he do that?

I don’t know … to hide from something, I guess.

Disgusting! I don’t think I’ll be able to watch.

Aw, Mom. It’s only a movie!

Maryann reluctantly admitted his reasoning, although contrived, made some sense, with emphasis on contrive’s prefix con. She gave in and agreed he could see the film.

#

The Guggenheim was a favorite attraction for Maryann, although she occasionally grouched that the admission was over-inflated at $25. Why didn’t she wise up and get a membership? It would save her a ton of money and was tax deductible. Newly divorced, she worried about many things. She admitted too much was on her daily plate.

The Guggenheim was a gem, regardless of the price. Maryann marveled at the imagination and inventiveness of architect Frank Lloyd Wright, ignoring a persistent complaint from design critics that the building was a lousy place to view artwork, particularly paintings and graphics. The sloped, spiraling ramps of the main gallery never allowed visitors to stand with two feet in the same plane. This imbalance, so the argument went, skewed the viewer’s ability to fully absorb the works on display.

None of this bothered Maryann. She loved the topsy-turvy feeling of the building. It was childish, of course, but once inside she liked to imagine she was a ball of ice cream in a huge sugar cone. She realized her craving for Ben & Jerry’s was a factor in her fantasy. In her imagination, the other museum patrons became scoops of different flavors, or perhaps sundae toppings. It depended on how they looked, or what they were wearing. Today, she felt like Blueberry Bog, a bit melancholy as the long winter lingered. Around her the early visitors were dressed in shamrock shades - pistachio and mint chip and lime sorbet. St. Patrick’s Day was ten days away, but already an abundance of green started to spring up.

The purpose of her visit on this day was to enjoy a Robert Rauschenberg retrospective. Although the artist died in 2008, for Maryann his work remained vibrant and was a consistent connection to an evolving society. She adored the man’s art. It was playful and inventive. At times it was provocative. Often, it was integrated with the allied arts of dance, music, and drama. Maryann also thought Rauschenberg uncannily resembled her father, Charlie, no small reason for her emotional connection with the artist. If both men were still alive, Charlie and Rauschenberg would be about the same age. Her father had been a sitting duck on his bicycle.

Maryann’s features closely mirrored the artist’s. A high forehead and dark blond hair accented by a cowlick on the left helped define her face. An engaging smile revealed dimples and good teeth. She carried herself with strength and confidence, as if she never accepted no for an answer. The entrances to her soul, her eyes, were dark and penetrating. But they could easily dissolve into glittering sparkles, especially if a situation was outrageously crazy or silly beyond belief. The Three Stooges tied her into knots, and Groucho Marx applied the coup de gras.

After checking her pea jacket and shoulder bag in the museum’s cloakroom, Maryann quickly ascended the pedestrian ramp that looped wider as it corkscrewed to the top of the glass-domed building. She did not digress into the numerous side galleries and exhibition spaces. She first wanted to get an overall impression of the show before returning to the smaller galleries for additional details about the collection. From the top of the ramp, her plan was to slowly unwind downward, hungrily devouring the visual banquet concocted by Chagall, van Gogh, Kandinsky, Mondrian, Picasso - whoever was being featured that season. It was a lineup of many of the greatest impressionist and post impressionist artist chefs of all time. Sprinkled into the recipe was a taste of pop art, seasoning the visual casserole that was ready to be enjoyed. Today, she planned to feast on Rauschenberg.

Few patrons were in the museum. The weather was not conducive to walk across town or for a trip up to 89th Street. March winds scoured the north-south avenues. Besides, why shell out the admission price of a museum? Instead, people could stay warm in mid-town department stores, shuffling among other customers, looking at overly-expensive merchandise.

Nearing the top of the ramp, Maryann was almost alone. A security guard stood thirty feet away, leaning over the solid waist-high railing, scoping out the activity on the main floor, five levels below. He was uniformed in a navy blue blazer and carrying a two-way radio. Another man also stood at the railing, but unlike the guard, he appeared to be looking at the exhibit. Maryann barely noticed the two on her trek to the top. Absorbed with Rauschenberg, she continued to the first side gallery, passing and ignoring both men.

Maryann studied the art. In the gallery, two pieces were displayed, both installations parked on the floor. The first piece featured the partial remains of an inverted bicycle, festooned with brightly colored strips of dented sheet metal and one tireless wheel. The second piece was a dark red bicycle of vintage era. Its tubular frame was outlined by thin glowing neon bulbs. Maryann knew these two works were part of a collection of forty constructions, completed during a span of nine years. Collectively they were called gluts.

Try as she might, Maryann could not remain focused on Rauschenberg. The male patron she passed was distracting her. She knew anything was likely to occur in New York, but most people ignored bizarre behavior and went on their way. Somehow, this was different. She positioned herself to appear to be studying the art, while inconspicuously watching the man.

At first, he seemed to be normal. Dressed in an open-neck denim shirt, chinos, and well-worn, low-cut hiking boots, he was tall and lean. He could pass for an REI or LL Bean clothing model, she thought. With shaggy, reddish-blond hair, he sported a well-trimmed military-style mustache. Whom did he remind her of? A youthful Robert Redford? Her dad? A version of Rauschenberg with facial hair? Who?

She saw him kneel to retie his boots. Was that what he was doing? Adjusting his laces? Wait a minute! He knelt again. No, it wasn’t his laces. He placed something on the floor. After analyzing the results of his effort, he repeated the movement. Maryann was clueless about what he was up to. There, he did it again!

Maryann usually ignored strange behaviors. She knew leaving well enough alone was always good advice in the city, but she was hooked. She noticed a focused intensity on his face, frequently softened by a slight smile and a shake of his head. She could faintly hear him chuckle. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he had Tourette’s. Or maybe he was somewhere along the autism spectrum. Whatever was causing his behavior, Maryann wanted to know. Probing was a compelling part of her nature. She casually eased closer to where he was standing.

Excuse me, sir. I know it’s none of my business, but what in the world are you doing?

She saw him flinch, not aware of her approach, lost in his thoughts. He looked at her, shrugged, and quietly whispered, Research.

She frowned. Research? What do you mean? I don’t get it.

Look, I’ll show you.

He checked for the guard’s whereabouts. Seeing the employee still distracted by action below, he withdrew a small metallic ball and placed it on the floor. Immediately it began rolling away from him, slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed. It followed the slope of the ramp and the pull of gravity, traveling in a straight line, eventually colliding with an outside wall. From there, the ball continued rolling downward, stopping in a corner created by a gallery partition. It nestled among three or four other balls already at rest.

Okay, I see your marbles, she said, resisting the temptation to ask if he had lost his. What kind of research is this?

Ball bearings … not marbles, he corrected. I wondered whether they’d roll down to the lobby. I didn’t realize the ramp wasn’t angled inward like a parking garage.

People could get hurt, you know. She immediately regretted sounding like her mother.

Not really. They’re only little bearings, an inch round. Anyway, I picked a time when there was no one up here.

Except me.

Right, except you and the guard. But he’s half asleep, and you were communing with the bicycles. He nodded to where she had been standing.

But I came along and spoiled your fun.

He laughed. Aye, then you came along. But you seemed to be fixated on the bloody bicycles.

I admit, they are kind of odd, aren’t they?

Well, a bike’s only a bike to me. What do you think they’re trying to get across? Or are they just art for art’s sake?

There’s an explanation on the wall. Read it. They’re by Robert Rauschenberg, a prolific contemporary artist. He passed away a few years ago. He’s one of my favorites.

Okay, I’ll have a look, but first I need to pick up my ammunition. He pointed to the collection of bearings in the corner. Experiment’s over.

She watched him scoop up the bearings, pocket them, and walk back to the bicycles. She knew he was looking at her, sizing up the woman who intruded on his scheme. She was much shorter than he. She was frequently told she looked like a pint-sized version of the actress, Jennifer Lawrence. She wondered if he noticed how she was dressed. Her choice of a royal blue turtleneck and jeans were perfect clothes for an overcast, blustery Saturday in March.

Maryann guessed he was older than she. But who can tell these days? Ever adventuresome, she risked an encounter with a strange man doing strange things. Names were not exchanged. Suddenly she realized she wanted the encounter to continue and would work to keep it alive. That was her nature.

Were you experimenting for the fun of it, or did you have some master plan in mind? Maryann asked the question diplomatically, with a hint of humor. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She admitted to herself, he seemed nice enough and non-threatening.

Actually, I’m conducting a bit of legitimate research, he answered. He was pleased she spoke first, prolonging their conversation. It took him off the hook. He wasn’t sure what his next line might have been.

"I’m writing a piece for a children’s magazine, Science Sizzlers. Ever hear of it? My article’s about natural vortices … you know … rotational oddities in the natural world. Things like that."

Are you a scientist?

Sort of. I’m a writer focused on science or a scientist focused on writing. Take your pick. I once wrote an article about tornadoes, so the magazine asked me to expand my ideas to include other phenomena. That’s why I’m here. This building’s a man-made vortex.

I never thought about the Guggenheim that way, she said, looking at the architecture. What else meets your criteria?

I’ll tell you in a minute. First let me read this. He moved closer to the printed explanation of gluts, read for a moment, occasionally glancing at the two cycle sculptures.

Oh, I get it now. Waste and over-consumption. The sculptures are a metaphor for greed.

Exactly! she said. See how Rauschenberg explained it?

In the middle of the text were Rauschenberg’s own words:

It’s a time of glut. Greed is rampant. I’m just exposing it, trying to wake people up. I simply want to present people with their ruins. I think of the gluts as souvenirs without nostalgia.

Okay, I understand. He’s got a bleeding good point. I’ve been preaching that for years.

He backed away from the exhibit and rejoined Maryann. They began easing down the ramp studying other works. They passed more installations and sculptures Rauschenberg created from found objects. But by this point, Maryann barely noticed. Her attention suddenly shifted from Rauschenberg to the tall man at her side. She resumed questioning him.

You mentioned tornadoes. What else meets your criteria? By the way, please excuse my rudeness for interrupting your experiment. My name’s Maryann.

Nice to meet you, Maryann. I’m Robert, or Rob, if you prefer. What other things? Shells of all sorts - snails, the nautilus, and other sea creatures. Then there are weather-driven vortices in addition to tornadoes … dust devils, cyclones, waterspouts, micro-blasts.

Micro-blasts? What the heck are they?

Tornadoes that roll horizontally along the ground, like giant grain reapers. He considered his next example for a moment, then continued. There’s a vortex you probably see every day.

What’s that? She pictured the swirls of dirt and litter frequently haunting the cavernous avenues of New York City.

Take baths?

Of course.

What happens when you drain the tub?

Oh, I get it. Yes. That little whirlpool sucking away the suds.

Right. You probably heard some folks say it spins one way in the northern hemisphere and the opposite way in the southern hemisphere. That’s not always true. On the other hand, giant storms, like hurricanes, do rotate predictably, depending on the hemisphere they’re in.

Why’s that?

"Large scale rotations are caused by something called the coriolis force. Bathtub whirlpools are too small to be affected."

Jeez, I always thought otherwise. Ninth grade earth science! Busted!

By now, she forgot the exhibit. Maryann was focused solely on their conversation. Robert’s unaffected ease was comfortable. And his eyes, so green! Unlike many men, he looked squarely at her when he talked, locked on her. But his directness wasn’t a challenge or confrontational in any way. He radiated genuine warmth. Rather than being disarmed, she was charmed.

Maryann shifted the conversation back to Rauschenberg. She was passionate about the artist’s work. Why else would she traipse alone to a museum on a miserable weekend morning in March? She was happy to find someone willing to listen as she described the retrospective. Rob’s attention to her chatter signaled he was interested in her ideas.

#

Two hours flew by as they discussed the exhibit before realizing they were on the main floor. Rob wondered if this was the end of their brief acquaintance.

It was kind of you to tolerate my questions and ignorance, he said. I knew nothing about Rauschenberg. From now on, whenever I see a bike messenger cutting through traffic on Second Avenue, I’ll think of you.

Thank you, she said. The whole point is for you to think about Rauschenberg. As for me, I got to see a scientist at work. Good luck with your article.

They stood looking at each other. A gaggle of museum patrons pushed past, heading up the ramp. Neither wanted their encounter to end. To Rob’s relief, Maryann took the initiative, ignoring accepted rules of engagement requiring men to be aggressors. That seemed to be her nature. She got right to the point.

Robert … I mean Rob, she said. One more thing. Again, please excuse my rudeness. Lord knows I’ve been sticking my nose in your business all morning. You have an accent. Are you Irish?

Rob chuckled. Nae, lassie, wee Robbie’s from Scotland.

I’m sorry! I feel perfectly stupid … a total fool! This time she blushed. She felt blood flush her cheeks.

No need to be sorry, lass. American ears often confuse the two accents. Actually, he continued, I’m a U.S. citizen. I emigrated from Scotland to attend college. A bloody stint in the Army helped me qualify for citizenship.

Now he took the initiative. Say, Maryann, how about a cup of coffee or something? There’s a Starbucks on Lexington Avenue I frequent. Or we could stay here and try the museum cafe. I’ll buy.

Maryann jumped at his offer. "Sure, all right. I know that Starbucks. Yes, I could go for coffee. Besides, it’s time to go outside and get the stink blown off."

Stink, is it? Okay, let’s do it.

As they squeezed through the incoming crowd to collect their coats at the cloakroom, she thought, Things like this don’t happen in Manhattan. At least never for me.

The attendant brought their outerwear. Rob put on his red, fleece-lined parka. For urban mountaineering, he joked. He also retrieved an aged hardwood case with brass hasps and corner fittings. It resembled a large tool box.

What in the world is that? Maryann asked. Yikes! That’s twice this afternoon I’ve said, ‘What in the world?’

You’re curious. That’s a good trait. These are my pipes.

I’m sorry. Your what?

Bagpipes.

Really? No, you’re kidding! Wait a sec, of course! You’re Scotch! I mean … really?

He laughed. She was tripping over her words like a school girl.

#

They exited the museum, walked south one block, then turned left at 88th Street, heading east.

Aye, he continued. Bagpipes. It’s the truth, I swear.

Why do you have them with you?

I practice outside Saturday mornings if I’m in town. I tried today, but it’s too cold for my fingers. The weather’s bloody dreck, and I have a touch of frostbite. So instead, I retreated to the warmth of the Guggenheim to play with my ball bearings.

Crossing Madison Avenue they dodged a taxi and continued walking at a fast clip. Maryann quickened her pace to keep up with his stride. He noticed and slowed down.

Where do you practice?

Central Park. Near the jogging trail at the reservoir.

Isn’t it dangerous? I mean, things happen over there.

It’s safer than you think. Hundreds of people run, and usually there are police patrols in the area. Also, other musicians practice outside … saxophonists, trumpeters … all kinds of instrumentalists. Some of the musicians are world class. Studio time in New York is expensive. Practicing in a flat is a quick way to have your lease terminated.

You practice only once a week?

Nae, I practice every day. When I’m inside, I use a practice chanter. It’s similar to a recorder but with a tiny reed. It’s quiet, so neighbors are not screaming at me.

They scuttled across Park Avenue. A raw, wet wind knifed from the south cutting into them.

In a city, you have to make do, he continued. In Scotland, many pipers play on the street. You see it all the time in Edinburgh and Glasgow. The tourists love it. The lads put out their cases hoping to make a few quid, like the good Scots they are.

. . . or the subway musicians in New York, Maryann added.

Aye, exactly. A friend of mine pipes here in the city, usually down by the Metropolitan Museum. Believe it or not, he’s a full-time piper. Has his union card.

He makes a living playing the bagpipes? She sounded incredulous.

He’ll never be rich like that orangutan, Donald Trump. But at least he can look himself in the mirror with a clean conscience. He gets by.

Why do you call Trump an orangutan?

Look at the ape and the man. Both are orange. If you ask me, it’s a sad day for the great apes being compared to The Donald.

She laughed, then asked, Do you ever play on the street?

"Nae. I’ve got