In the Company of Others (20 page)

William gripped the arms of the chair as if it might lift off and fly. ‘’t would be good to have a fag to settle me nerves. But I’m off tobacco since Jack Kennedy closed down indoor smokin’ an’ ran us to th’ tarmac in a drivin’ rain. Beggin’ your pardon, Missus, do I need to keep m’ trap shut?’ William drew forth the handkerchief, gave a honking blow.

‘You may talk up a storm, William, it’s the shadows I’m wrestling with.’

‘Talk about th’ good oul’ bad days,’ Maureen said to William.

‘I’ve but one thing to say about th’ oul’ bad days—if th’ current crop of young was to be up against it as we were, they’d perish with none left standin’.’

Seamus gave his white mustache a quick comb. ‘May I tell a joke, then, if it wouldn’t interfere with the proceedings?’

‘Please,’ said Cynthia. ‘We love jokes.’

‘I generally try to bring one down at th’ weekend.’ Seamus rose and buttoned the jacket of his butler’s garb, clasped his hands behind his back.

‘So. There was this gent from Ballyshannon who all his life was after ownin’ a BMW sport coupe. So when he retired, first thing he did was fulfill his dream. A few days after this mighty purchase, he was out for a spin an’ decided to see what it would do if he opened it up.

‘Ah, but you can guess what he saw in th’ rearview mirror.’

‘A Defender of th’ Peace of Ireland!’ said William.

‘Gent pulled over, knowin’ this was not goin’ to be a good thing. Th’ Gard gets off his motorcycle, comes up to th’ gent’s window, says, You know how fast you were goin’?

‘Gent says, Triple digits?

‘Gard gives him a tough look, says, Here’s what I’ll do. Tell me one I haven’t heard before an’ I’ll let you go.

‘Gent thinks a minute, says, My wife ran off with a Gard five years ago an’ I thought you were bringin’ her back.

‘Gard gets on his motorcycle, cranks th’ engine, says, Have a nice day.’

The poker club hooted, Maureen slapped her knee, the old man threw back his head and guffawed.

‘That’s it, William!’ said Cynthia. ‘Keep laughing!’

Absorbed by what she was doing, he watched her at her work and found himself suddenly happy. Dooley and Lace would manage, she had said. For now, that would have to be enough. His prayer for Cynthia floated beneath the surface of his thoughts—she could do this.

‘Don’t stop,’ she whispered, not looking his way. ‘We must keep William laughing,’ she said to the room. ‘Why don’t you tell an Uncle Billy joke, darling?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Anna.

‘Hear, hear,’ said Seamus.

‘The one you told at the funeral,’ urged his wife. ‘You remember.’

There he’d stood under the funeral tent in front of God and everybody, forgetting the punch line of Uncle Billy’s favorite joke. Miss Rose had called it to his memory in a squawk heard all the way to Main Street. He remembered, all right.

He followed Seamus’s lead and stood, buttoning his jacket.

‘Uncle Billy Watson was one of my best friends, and a type of uncle to everybody. He was born and reared in the mountains of North Carolina, where many Irish found a home after immigrating to America. I believe he told me his mother was a Flannagan. I know for a fact we’ve got Hogans and Rileys and O’Connors and Wilsons in our coves and hollers—some very gifted at playing the traditional tunes of their ancestors, by the way. Wish you could hear their fiddle music, Bella, and I wish they could hear yours.’

Bella moved from the window, silent, and sat next to Maureen.

‘Uncle Billy devoted most of his life to making people laugh. He believed that laughter doeth good like a medicine, as scripture says, and it must have done him a world of good, for he lived into his eighties.

‘I remember the day he called me at the church office and said, Preacher, I done fell off a twelve-foot ladder.

‘Good Lord, I said, did you hurt yourself, any bones broken?

‘No, sir, he said, not a dent. I only fell off th’ bottom rung.’

William laughed, raised his glass. ‘To Uncle Billy!’

‘Uncle Billy!’ said Seamus, raising his.

‘Uncle Billy was married to a fierce woman named Rose. Here’s something that may have had special meaning; I’ll try to tell it the way he told it.

‘Well, sir, a feller died who’d lived a mighty sinful life, don’t you know. Th’ minute he got down t’ hell, he commenced t’ bossin’ around th’ imps an’ all, a-sayin’ do this, do that, an’ jump to it! Well, sir, he got so dominatin’ an’ big-headed that th’ little devils reported ’im to th’ chief devil, who called th’ feller in, said, How come you act like you own this place?

‘Feller said, I do own it, my wife give it to me while I was livin’.’

A prodigious roar, he thought, considering the size of the crowd.

‘Give us another!’ cried William.

‘Well, sir, there was this census taker a-goin’ round, don’t you know. An’ he come to this house an’ he knocked on th’ door an’ a woman come to th’ door. He says, How many young ’uns you got an’ what are their ages?

‘Well, let’s see, she says, we got Jenny an’ Benny, they’re ten. We got, uh, Lonnie an’ Johnnie, they’re twelve, we got Timmy an’ Jimmy, they’re—

‘Census taker says, Hold on! You mean t’ tell me you got twins ever’ time?

‘She says, Law, no, they was hundreds of times we didn’ git nothin’.’

There was the light again in Anna’s eyes, and Maureen’s unhindered laughter. Applause, even.

William thumped his cane. ‘Another, if ye’d be so kind!’

He appealed to his wife, who was hammering away on the damp paper. ‘Um,’ she said, furrowing her brow. ‘The gas stove?’

He reeled it off, brought the house down. This was heady stuff.

Maureen wiped her eyes. ‘We’re starvin’ for entertainment.’

‘Obviously,’ he said.

‘Last man standin’ gets a pint on th’ house,’ said William.

Seamus put forth another; Moira rendered one with the full Georgia accent; Maureen stood, smoothed her apron, drew a breath.

‘O’Shaughnessy,’ she said, ‘had emigrated to America an’ done well for ’imself, bein’ made th’ actin’ foreman ...’

‘Actin’ foreman,’ said William, approving.

‘ . . . an’ with th’ grand rise in pay they give ’im, he decides to share his good fortune with th’ folks back home in Sligo. So he rummages about for a grand present for ’is oul’ mum an’ da an’ settles on a lovely gold-rimmed mirror for th’ parlor.’

‘Good thinkin’,’ said William.

‘An’ so he parcels an’ posts it, an’ before long his oul’ da is openin’ it up an’ lookin’ into th’ mirror. Come here, Mary, he says, an’ see how your son has aged since he went to that Protestant country!

‘And so the mother leans over th’ father’s shoulder an’ looks in an’ says, I’m not surprised a’tall. Look at th’ oul’ hag he’s livin’ with.’

He was oddly moved by the laughter, the ease of it. ‘Give us another, Maureen!’ he said.

‘Aye, Rev’rend, an’ don’t you know Mike Gleason is fetchin’ his long-lost brother from th’ airport tomorrow? Mike says he hasn’t laid eyes on ’im in thirty years. So I say to Mike, An’ how will ye recognize ’im, as he’s been away that long?

‘I won’t, says Mike, but he’ll recognize me, ’cause I’ve niver been away a’tall.’

Encouraged by the ensuing ruckus, Seamus set aside his pipe, combed his mustache, and stood, bowing slightly. ‘’t was a quiet night at Jack Kennedy’s.’

‘Seamus likes to put on th’ local color,’ said William.

‘Only two oul’ gents at th’ bar, who had gone at their pints quite fierce an’ would need th’ cab to get home. First one looks over, says, I’ll stand ye a round, ’t is me birthday.

‘Well, now, says the other, there’s a coincidence f’r ye, ’t is my birthday as well.

‘If that don’t take th’ cake, says th’ first, and how old might ye be?

‘Sixty-seven, says the other.

‘That’s bloody amazin’, says the first. I’m sixty-seven meself.

‘A twist of fate if I ever heard it, says the other. An’ where were ye born, then?

‘Enniskillen, says the first. And yourself?

‘’t was Enniskillen for me, th’ very same. What a blinkin’ fluke.

‘The phone rings, Jack answers, his wife says, Any business down there, darlin’?

‘Ah, no, he says, not much. Just the guzzeyed O’Leary twins.’

Miles from Yeats’s pavements grey, in what had been stables in a once-isolated corner of his paternal homeland, they were hooting and cackling like maniacs—all without help from TV, CD, DVD, or any other gizmo. Such merriment wouldn’t last, of course, but that was life and they were grabbing it and holding on.

He was the first to see it finished. The watercolor was the laughing William Donavan, the very breath of him.

Cynthia looked up, and he stooped and kissed her forehead. ‘You did it,’ he said. ‘The shadows might have been painted by the firelight itself.’

She leaned forward, holding it up for William to see.

‘Aye, God!’ William said.

Anna put her hand on William’s shoulder, pleased. ‘Mr. Yeats himself was never so handsome. ’

Maureen drew Bella into the circle around Cynthia and her paints. ‘Look, babby. Th’ spit image!’

‘Brilliant!’ whispered Bella. ‘’t is yourself, Daideo, with th’ necktie matchin’ your eyes.’

William gazed at the damp paper, mesmerized. ‘A prodigious fine work, Missus. I don’ know how ye did it.’

‘I had help,’ said his wife, looking a mite dazed.

As they heaved their way upstairs, Pud in tow, he felt her exhaustion as palpably as his own. Bouncing around in the Vauxhall for two days running made the prediction of tomorrow’s heavy rains sound welcome.

But it wasn’t weariness he was feeling. He realized he was bracing himself for something to do with her work. He would risk ferreting out the truth instead of tensing for the unknown.

They put on their nightclothes and lay in the dark, looking out to the sheen of the moon in a mackerel sky.

‘What are you going to do with this new ability to paint people?’

‘What do you mean, do with?’

‘It seems you’d want to do something with these wonderful portraits—perhaps an art show.’

‘An art show? Where? In the Local behind the produce section? On our clothesline where the garage used to be?’

‘You have contacts in New York.’

‘But I don’t want a show, Timothy. It’s too much work, it’s insanely too much work. And then the critics go after you and find you provincial, which I am, and who would want to buy a portrait of someone they don’t even know?’

‘Ah,’ he said, feeling some relief. He had pressed Uncle Billy to give an art show—Andrew Gregory had framed more than twenty of the old man’s early pencil drawings of wild-life and hung them in his antiques shop. The show had been such a hit that Uncle Billy pronounced himself ‘nearabout killed.’

‘What I want to do is give the portraits away. I want Bella to have hers, she seemed so pleased with it. And William must have his, to show off sometimes, or just look at and remember how gay we were this evening by the fire. I still can’t believe how well it came off tonight—William has a very busy face.’

No art show, then. He breathed out. However . . .

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘You’ve never been able to fool me.’

He would like to be able to fool her on occasion, but so be it. ‘What was I thinking?’

‘That I’m going to dive into another book, and abandon you for months on end.’

‘Correct.’ And shame on him, he was two cents with a hole in it.

‘I am going to do another book. I just don’t know when.’ She gave him a profoundly steady gaze. ‘Books—that’s what I do.’

‘Of course.’

‘You do people, I do books.’

The faint chime of the clock at the end of the hall.

‘Before I retired,’ he said, ‘I think you sometimes felt abandoned.’

‘As hard as I tried not to, I did. You were always caught up in dozens of other lives, and I had to make my peace with it, knowing that’s what you do. And look what came of it—you rounded up the Barlowe children, and saved Lace’s neck—that wonderful, beautiful, talented girl who might have been ruined but for tangling yourself up in her terrible life. So I long ago gave you permission to keep doing that, and you should give me the same.’

‘I do, of course.’

‘But you give it from your head, not your heart.’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You take no prisoners.’

She drew his hand to her mouth and kissed it. ‘So when we grow old—what shall we do besides people and books?’

‘We are old,’ he said, rueful.

She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. ‘Speak for yourself, sweetheart.’

She had gone at William’s portrait like a hound after a hare. He felt the tight muscles in her neck and right shoulder—this was old territory, he knew it like his own flesh. How often had he rubbed the tension from the muscles that did the heavy lifting of her calling? He was ashamed of his peevishness.

‘Who’s next under your unremitting brush?’

‘Anna and Liam. That feels good; don’t stop.’

‘But they almost never sit down, and certainly not at the same time.’

‘Anna said they would do it, she seemed happy about it.’

‘You know Seamus invited us to Catharmore on Monday afternoon?’

She yawned. ‘I’ll be the nosiest guest imaginable. ’

‘No news there.’

‘And Feeney’s dropping by to see you tomorrow.’

Beneath the bed, Pud sighed. He heard birds stirring in the trees beyond the window, and soon, her whiffling snore.

Twenty-two

Cynthia sat reading amid a wave of books washed onto the shore of the duvet. He was stashed in the wing chair, imbibing his own pleasures.

‘Timothy.’

He looked up.

‘This is heaven,’ she said.

‘Aye.’

‘You know how we’ve talked about the lake, how it looks when it’s filled with sky. A pal of Yeats wrote this:
The waters hold all heaven within their heart
. A good way of putting it, don’t you think?’

‘It is.’ He loved this woman.

She returned to her book, he to his. Rain pounded the roof tiles, lashed the windows. A gully-washer.

12 August 1862, Tuesday

A persecuting heat—midges & horseflies bedevil man & beast

C & I rejoice to see the Parlor fitted out & A declares great wonder & astonishment at the sight—she has never before set eyes on a dining table nor any bed with head & footboard nor clothes cupboard nor chamber pot enclosed beneath the hinged seat of a chair.

Keegan & I & some of the men arranged the many Furnishings both our own & Uncle’s & hung paintings whilst the draper did up the windows.

C bedazzled by the fresh beauty of our own Accoutrements so long languishing in storage. The two fine Newport chairs together with the Boston loveseats & mahogony Game Tables have been placed on the best of the Turkey carpets. The 1773 Philadelphia tea table with porcelain tray—Uncle’s pride—is positioned near the hearth & the mantelpiece fitted out with export ware as is the taste. The Paul Revere wine cooler and Pickering salver are particular favorites, but no one with whom to crow over their merits.

In the overmantel I have hung the painting of Niagra Falls that excites the imagination more than I remembered—it captivated the workers to such a degree that all labor was suspended for a full half hour, which they obligingly made up at the end. All their lives they have seen only Water lying flat in a lake or River or spouting from the spring of a Holy Well & now they observe it gushing down a precipitous inclination with a fine Rainbow into the bargain. One of the men could but utter a blasphemy, being his way of approving the astonishing Sight.

When C & A were at last fetched, the Turf Fire was alight & the chimney drawing sweetly as a man’s fondest pipe. It is beyond my dreams, C said & did not reserve her tears. In no time past was I was so over-joyed, I think we would all say the same.

As for the Library, there is much to be done. I shall strive to catalog the books after the manner of Mr. Jefferson whom Uncle greatly admired—Anatomy Agriculture Architecture Botany Chemistry History Horticulture Medicine Philosophy & so forth. It is a library well furnished with eminent works on Architecture, a passion which Uncle shared with the third American President. I am reminded yet again that an Irishman designed the White House & have related this to the men & showed them a photograph.

With the burthen of the Great Move taken from me, I find I cannot savor the relief of having finished, for indeed it is not finished by any means. The two upper floors—including servants rooms—remain to be completed at a cost beyond reason. Thanks to God for my restraint on the exterior details.

Keegan has taken to looking at Aoife in a most unsettling manner. While fixing his gaze on her yesterday he muttered something in Irish. A bitter gall rose in me & I ordered him to translate at once.

She’s a Beauty, he said not looking my way.

14 August 1862

With the last of my enfeebled strength, I mark here the passing of a most Blessed & Joyous & Memorable Day which I trust will forever endure in Lore hearabout.

Today came the Legions soon after Mass was dismissed at noon. Every form of locomotion known to man—from unshod foot to rude sled, pony cart & horse—even a quaint buggy cobbled together like a toy but large enough for several solemn children riding behind a father who drew the thing along with great pride. There were whistles & a drum at the lead as if all had convened at the foot of the hill with the notion of giving us a parade. C, A & Keegan & myself stood at the front portico gaping as the Great Smoke of roasting meates beckoned them up the lane. We looked toward an end to the stream yet it flowed on. It seemed every soul in Sligo was drawn to Cathair Mohr as the tides to the moon!

There’s naught left to home but th’ Wee Folk, said Keegan. C put her hands to her face, alarmed—There’ll not be enough, she said. There’ll be enough, said Keegan—Enough & more.

I record here that the heat of the early afternoon was crucifying, I was after mopping my brow the livelong day.

Our eyes searched the lane for Balfour & his party but they did not appear. Then at the tail of the procession came my nephew Padraigin in a carriage exasperated by age & intemperate cargo—Himself overdressed & overfed, his new & clearly costive bride of one year with a suckling babe, the bride’s sharp-faced mother, two glum sisters-in-law, a lad of seven or eight years & the poor fellow who drove them in this hired contraption with two massive trunks lashed atop.

We were greatly dismayed to learn of their intended stay of a full month. Yet—Where there be a country house, the droves will arrive to occupy it—it is a law unto itself.

I confess I feared a mild Pandemonium at the food & was astonished by the solemnity with which our many guests dressed their bowls & filled their cups & punished at once any child out of order. They sat everywhere about the place—along the hedges & on the porticos & leaned against the garden wall & even climbed with their rations into the trees where a number of children sat like monkeys eating with fierce appetite. Father Dominic stood on the portico & in a voice as loud & clear as Chas Wesley was said to possess pronounced a blessing which I copy out here.

O heavenly Father Almighty God, we humbly beseech Thee to bless & sanctify this house & all who dwell therein & everything in it & do Thou vouchsafe to fill it with all good things; grant to them O Lord the abundance of heavenly blessings & from the richness of the earth every substance necessary for life & finally direct their desires to the fruits of Thy mercy—deign to bless & sanctify this house as Thou didst deign to bless the house of Abraham, of Isaac, & of Jacob & may the angels of Thy light, dwelling within the walk of this house, protect it & those who dwell therein. Through Christ our Lord Amen.

Then came a blessing upon the barn & stables, the nearly-completed Carriage House & last but not least, all those who cross these boundaries & threshold.

As many as could then recited with Fr Dominic a portion of the Breastplate—

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort & restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love us,
Christ in mouth of friend & stranger.

Sometime in all the pomp I stood & gave a talk of sorts shouted at the top of my lungs & felt nearly faint for it. It is not what I do best, oratory.

And then Danny Moore brought out his fiddle & soon the dancing began & the lifting of cups to the doctor & his good wife & even to the Great Kettle for its bounty, after which began the pony rides & as C later said, twas the Pandemonium after all!

I was at last filling my plate when Rose McFee sought me out—the sight of her was astonishing. The left jaw was swollen beyond belief for such a scrawny face as was now wrenched with suffering. Without a word she opened her maw & pointed to the black cavern within. I reeled from the stench.

Have it out! she commands. ’t is a savage pain—I can bear it no longer.

Now, Rose, I say, I am no puller of teeth. Your man Aidan Murphy is the one for that—I saw him only minutes ago at Biddy Fitzgerald’s mouth.

He wants a shilling, she says. An’ he’s known to yank th’ bloody wrong one out. Then you’re left with th’ misery you had in th’ first place an’ back ye trot to th’ oul’ dosser for th’ real thing.’

Heaven only knows what Germs might be loosed upon the Region while mucking about in so monstrous a hole. I was after giving her two bob for Murphy & be done with it when she says, Do ye see y’r man Balfour didn’t come to y’r feast?

Yes, yes. A weight gone off us all!

Ye can thank me f’r that, if ye please.

And why would I thank ye for that?

For all he done to ye, she says, I set a curse on ’is privates.

The ructions caused here by Balfour had been noised about to the entire Region.

She gives me one of her dooming looks. Ye owe me th’ comfort I’m after, she says.

And would ye do such a thing to me, Rose, if I decline what you’re askin’?

Ye niver want to learn th’ answer to that, she says, wincing with pain.

I confess I trembled. How shall we do it then? I say.

Nippers is what I’d say. But if you’ve not th’ spunk to do it I’ll do it meself an’ th’ devil with ye.

I grew faint as any woman. I can amputate a limb or remove a rotten appendix, but a tooth is another matter altogether & especially if residing in the mouth of Rose McFee for nigh a century.

I looked about for C or A, but did not see them. Thus I passed my dinner plate off to another, all appetite quelled for the day if not Eternity itself.

In the Surgery I lit the lantern & hung it above the chair & she tipped her balding head back upon the slat. I washed my hands & looked in, holding her mouth on either side & prayed my own dear Mother would assist me in this Torment.

In a region of severe dental disease, I had never seen such an orifice—its contents but one black stump in a perilous swelling of the lower left quadrant. I held my breath against the reek & covered her withered chest with a scrap of linen.

Are ye fearful, Rose McFee? The sweat poured off me.

Do as ye must, she says.

We’ll pull it with the nippers, I say, then lance the abcess & drain it. Try not to swallow til after we rinse or ye’ll be fillin’ yourself with poison.

Out comes the ould stump like a cabbage in November.

Aye, God! she says.

Spit, I say, holding the bowl. Rinse, I say, offering the cup. I regretted my failure to tie on an apron.

When she puts her head back again I slit the angry gum & Great God what a letting of blood & pus—it splatters my shirt front as if flung from a bucket. She reels off a thoroughly medicinal amount of Irish epithets.

I hold the bowl, offer the cup, relieved that my hands have stopped their palsy.

I’m going to press your cheek, now, I say, at the point of the abcess—we must force it all out of there. Are you with me, Rose McFee?

I’m with ye, ye brute!