In the Company of Others (9 page)

Goethe said,
‘One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.’

I have heard a little song, as my good wife rattled off a verse or two of Danny Boy this morning. I have read what I believe to be a good poem by Patrick Kavanagh, and looked out to a fine picture on every side. Further, I have spoken, and am trying to write to you, a few reasonable words. In this way, Goethe might agree that I have enjoyed a full day’s pleasure though it is but four in the afternoon.

Just learned that I’m to be questioned by a detective, yet another component of our vacation saga, so will sign off for now with an Irish proverb useful to all:

‘A light heart lives

Something nudging his leg.

‘Pud?’

The little guy was looking up at him, the shoe fastened in his jaws.

‘I forgot to tell you,’ said Cynthia. ‘He slipped in when Liam came to the door and hid under the bed.’

In terms of never giving up, this was a very Churchillian dog. No, go, get away, heel—what difference would it make? No dog had ever obeyed his commands; his Bouvier-wolf hound mix, in the long years of puppydom, was disciplined only by an emphatic vocalizing of scripture, preferably from the KJV.

Lie .
. .
down
, he might have commanded early in the game.

Result: Walking about, licking the empty food bowl, possibly scratching.

For God so loved the
world
, he learned later to proclaim, that he gave his
only begotten son . . .

Result: Instant lying down or, if required, bounding forth into a despised torrent of rain to take care of business. Dog Disciplined by Scripture—it was a show people lined up to see, worth taking on the road. His gut feeling was, it wouldn’t work in this application.

‘Drop the shoe,’ he said.

Pud did not drop the shoe.

‘Roll over.’

Pud blinked.

‘Sit,’ he said.

‘He is sitting.’ Obviously starved for entertainment, his wife was watching this hapless demo.

‘Try fetch,’ she said.

‘Fetch.’

‘You have to throw the shoe first, Timothy.’

‘If I throw the shoe, there’ll be no end to it, I won’t have a minute’s peace.’

‘You don’t have a minute’s peace anyway, since what transpired the other evening. I would throw the shoe.’

‘So you throw the shoe,’ he said.

‘He doesn’t want me to throw the shoe.’

He threw the shoe.

Glee and jubilation, full Jack Russell style. Pud returned the shoe, placed it at his feet, looked up. Two shining brown orbs of hope and expectation . . .

He sighed; thought of his own good dog; calculated how long he could hold out against a terrier.

‘We’ll be back,’ he told his wife.

On his passage through the entrance hall, he gave a salute to Aengus Malone’s hat. Then he and Pud crunched over the gravel and around the lodge to the head of the lake path. The water’s surface was golden now, hammered by afternoon sun. Bees droned in the flower beds; the trunks of the beeches convened like patient elephants.

It was a wonderland out here, in summer air moved by a breeze off the water. In Blake’s words, his soul felt suddenly threshed from its husk. With no effort, he drew a deep breath; the straitjacket fell away like William’s overcoat.

When he stepped to the mound, the crowd rose to their feet, cheering. He was pitching for the Mitford Reds, and they were winning.

Before he delivered the pitch, Pud was racing ahead of it on the path.

He burned the shoe straight down the middle. Pud leaped like a salmon, spun in the air, caught it.

‘Man,’ he said.

Pud dashed back, dropped the shoe at his feet, looked up.

A curve shoe up and away.

A fast shoe high and in.

A sinker low and away.

The aerodynamic of a shoe was unpredictable, to say the least. A rivulet of sweat ran along his backbone.

He smoked a high, looping pitch down the path, sank to his haunches, watched Pud bring it back.

‘Way to go,
buddy
!’

After the game, the Pitch would have a hot dog with everything but onions, thanks. Ditto for the Catch.

He turned his Reds cap around with the bill shading his neck from the beating Irish sun, and gave Pud a good scratch behind the ears.

Vacation. He was finally on it.

Ten

They lingered at their table and watched a boat on the evening lake. On his first visit, he’d never sat still long enough to watch a boat on a lake. Such lulling meditation as this gave room to an interesting possibility—all Feeney wanted, after all, was a warm body.

‘Anybody play bridge?’ he asked the anglers.

‘I’m a poker man,’ said Pete O’Malley, pining toward the empty travel club table. ‘But I play a little gin with these turkeys.’

‘My mother-in-law’s a bridge nut, my wife’s a bridge nut,’ said Hugh. ‘Me, I’m gin and poker all th’ way.’

‘No bridge for me,’ said Tom. ‘I’m a bloody eejit at that game. Say, how about th’ guy stealin’ O’Malley’s pullover?’

‘That pullover caught many a big one,’ said Pete. ‘I’d rather he stole my Rolodex.’

‘Your Rolodex?’

‘Rolex,’ said Pete, who had, in his own words, been at the jug. ‘We saw the detective come in, heard you may have spotted th’ guy who did it.’

‘Maybe. They can’t pull somebody in without hard evidence. The good news is, the so-called suspect has a record of aggravated assault and unlawful possession of a firearm—they’ll be looking to see if his fingerprints match any they found here.’

‘They dusted my room,’ said Pete. ‘Asked for a complete description of the pullover. Lands’ End, maybe 1998. Tear on right sleeve from a fishhook. Stain on front, fish blood.’

‘Overall smell,’ said Tom, ‘—fishy.’

‘So, how did it go today?’

‘No fishin’ today,’ said Tom. ‘Saw a castle, drove over to Rosses Point, fooled around. Spent the afternoon with Jack Kennedy up th’ road. You ever sample poteen?’

‘No way.’

‘It’ll turn you forty shades of green,’ said Hugh.

‘So I’ve heard. My barber says whatever I do, stay away from poteen.’

‘With advice like that, I’d be lookin’ for another barber,’ said Pete.

Laughter at the fishermen’s table.

‘We’re sorry about th’ crutches,’ Pete told Cynthia. ‘Sorry about th’ whole thing.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Hugh.

‘Terrible,’ said Tom. ‘Really sorry.’

‘Thanks. I’m glad to hear nothing else was missing from your rooms.’

‘Zero,’ said Hugh.

‘Nothin’ in Finnegan’s room to go missin’,’ said Pete. ‘A sweater with a moth hole you could stick your leg through, a pair of britches he wore in high school, a pack of Camel Lights.’

‘Always keep your valuables on your person,’ said Hugh. ‘That’s my motto.’

From the dining room they made their way to the bench he had spotted in the afternoon. From somewhere along the lake came the faintest keening of a violin. Or perhaps it was the sough of wind in the trees.

‘So lovely,’ she said, gazing around. ‘It stuns me, I have no words for it. And look!—the dear old beeches.’

There was an affecting lull in the light, as if the day resisted the settling dusk. A butterfly was at the buddleia.

He took her crutches and propped them against the back of the bench, and they sat for a time, musing, looking toward the silvered lough.

‘Pete O’Malley has a crush on Moira,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Pete. Moira—the book/poker/travel club organizer.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just know.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Separated. Maureen said he wanted to take Moira buzzer fishing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a kind of fishing you do at night.’

‘I think he’d be rushing things.’

They laughed. ‘You’re a regular evening gazette, Kav’na.’

‘You love me,’ she said, amazed and certain.

It was like her to say such things, completely out of the blue. ‘I’ve always loved you,’ he said. ‘From the time I was born.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘I think I came into the world seeking something not absolutely tied to this earthly realm. Your open mind, your curiosity, your reverence promised that and drew me in.’ He put his arm around her, felt the cool of her flesh against his.

‘My mother had it, you have it,’ he said. ‘She took red dirt and made gardens that people came from miles around to see. No earth-moving equipment, just a wheelbarrow and shovel. No money, just hard work, ingenuity, and passion. All the time, everywhere you go, you know how to make something out of what most people see as nothing. You’ve made something out of me.’

‘No, sweetheart, you were quite the finished product.’

‘Never. I was an overworked, underfeeling man growing old alone. I thank you for teaching me not to fear intimacy; for making me do this thing we call marriage.’

‘I made you do it?’

‘I quit, but you didn’t. Of course, I was praying you wouldn’t, but I fully expected you to.’

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his and kissed her. ‘Happy birthday, glimmering girl. Sorry it’s been such a hassle.’

‘It isn’t such a hassle, really. It’s just life—quirky and scary and lovely and immense. The beauty to be seen from our window can’t be diminished by the dark soul that crawled out of it last night. I wouldn’t have it any other way; I wouldn’t have you any other way. You let me be the woman I am. No one has ever let me be that before. And another thing . . .’

‘Say on.’ The scent of wisteria ...

‘You listen. Really listening to someone is a very tender and generous gift. Sometimes I’m frightened by what we have together.’

‘Don’t be frightened. There’s so much in the world to frighten us—let’s leave that one thing alone.’

The clouds above the lake were disappearing in the fading light; the air quickened with the scent of something fresh, electric.

‘Tomorrow morning’s rain,’ he said. ‘Announcing itself.’

They went in then, through the dining room illumined by the light over the painting, and through the library where Pete O’Malley snored in his wing chair and Pud slept off the narcotic of today’s big game. There had been no sign tonight of Seamus and William at their checkers.

It took a while for her to navigate the stairs in her inventive way, a way that seemed to him a kind of liturgical act of trust and humility.

With each of the stair steps, he recited a line from the Compline:

Before the ending of the day . . .
Creator of the world we pray . . .
That thou with wonted love wouldst keep . . .
Thy watch around us while we sleep . . .
O let no evil dreams be near . . .
Or phantoms of the night appear . . .

At the top of the stairs, he helped her up and gave her the crutches.

‘Keep me as the apple of Your eye,’ he said, concluding the old prayer.

Her breath came fast. ‘Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings.’

Their bed had been turned down, a lamp glowed in the corner. As he closed the door, he was glad to hear the sound of the club coming in with much laughter and talking.

Eleven

3 November 1861

Earth hard as Iron

Men framing

One wants a Name for this mighty effort—it is ever gnawing at me to find the pleasing name—Inistiorc perhaps—Irish for Island of the Boar.

When Keegan came to us we rowed to the Island & found a wild Sow and her sucklings—where the Boar had gone, we couldn’t know, perhaps to a table hereabout—Keegan wanted a suckling for his own board, but I couldn’t stomach the killing of it—he didn’t disguise the sour look he had for me nor his disdain for the fact that once dressed & properly cooked I would agreeably eat the innocent Creature.

The People along the water are calling it Cathair Mohr or Big Fort—Caitlin declares it a good name, easily disguised in English as Catharmore—we must not appear to think too highly of ourselves with a ‘Big Fort.’

Clar House, meaning Plain House—that will do it for Balfour no doubt—but tis disagreeable in the extreme on the page & on the Tongue. We consider Cluainaigh or Cloonee, for it is mostly pasture land. Then there is Caiseal Mor, or large stone fort, which anglicizes to Cashelmore. I am fond of Tullagh Mor or Tullachmore, for great hill—but perhaps after all, Catharmore, letting the People be the judge—a pesky business to tag the work of one’s heart & hands.

As wether permits, we labor on the large building sited near the Lough in a grove of ancient Beeches. Six bay two-storey Limestone on the rectangular plan with projecting end bays to the East elevation—hipped slate Roofs, clay ridge tiles, mitred hips, roughly-dressed stone Voussoirs to arches, stone sills, square-headed door openings to North and South, square-headed central threshing room & Loft.

Keegan has made a fine temporary stall for Adam off the Surgery which confers a secondary benefit—though but a mite of equine heat escapes through the wallboards, it is welcomed by all—Caitlin wished our good mount to be blanketed at night with one of Uncle’s Turkey rugs but Keegan ascribes to the Country way of warming a horse from the inside which he accomplishes with a daily feed in Winter of heat-producing corn—Adam is the sleekest Steed in these Wild Regions.

Tis a most humble satisfaction to be the source of economic improvement to families of this Region. Near twenty men take home wages from Cathair Mohr & many learning trades to which they would not otherwise be exposed.

We pray toward the completion of the house by Spring & thank God Who is the one true Source of all our Blessings.

After praying the Morning Office at five-thirty, he had opened the window to the patter of rain among beech leaves, then sat with the journal, reading pages at random.

20 November

A virulent Maladie has lately run amok though the Countryside, especially infecting the young—we can find nothing like it in the many journals on these shelves.

Twill run its course, says old Rose McFee when we despair of our helplessness—Rose is believed to be of great Age, perhaps beyond the century mark—she has but snags in her head, alarmingly revealed in a roguish Grin used to frighten unruly Children.

Balfour noses about overmuch, walking among the men, playing the Cock, suggesting improved ways to do the work at hand—he also sends a steady stream of servants from his household presenting every offense from Bunion & Sty to Gout & Goiter, all to be treated gratis—we often see angry welts & bruises on the skin but they decline to comment. If anything should aile the family we are called to come at once & minister as best we can in a small, foul Compartment without windows or good light. We have twice rid his stout wife of Hemoroids using the homeliest of methods—a procedure requiring the Hemoroids to be opened externally with the subsequent application of a poultice of boiled Onion—this was not learned in Philadelphia but from my dear Mother, a natural Physician who swore by it—I have not seen it fail. As for Balfour—the old Proverb, He who marries for money earns it, reminds us that he who receives Land without charge pays for it—til the Lord comes with His trumpets.

C & I are swamped beyond our Mortal Energies yet she vows she has never been happier nor have I. May God have Mercy on us in this impossible Calling.

In turning the November pages, he found a scrap of paper folded in half. He liked finding the odd scrap in old books; he recently came upon a list of his mother’s in the devotional she wore to tatters.
Qt milk 5 lbs potatoes cake flour 1 coconut Ovaltine

The few words had startling power—he had tasted her coconut cake, smelled the Ovaltine in her cup.

The ink on the scrap was more faded than that of the journal entries, and the handwriting distinctively different. He put the flashlight to the task.

My dearest F, I found this in my reading last evening of Mr. Dickens’ Little Dorrit, Uncle’s last book purchase before his passing. It reminds me of you.
He went like the rain, among the just and the unjust, doing all the good he could.
Your loving C

12 December

By dint of unstinting Sacrifice amongst the People, Caitlin has been obliged to take to her bed—She has forged her own Lenten season through an exhaustion both utter and complete—I have not watched over her properly—am sick at heart for the frightful turn in her Health—She hardly sips Tea. She gives until there is nothing left in her store—I now know that it is I who must mind her store. The eldest child of O’Leary the Shoemaker, a scantling of a Girl just turned fourteen, comes to address C’s needs while I’m about the business of Doctoring—as well as minding the labors of twenty men as Wether permits. To have the fine Surgery in the basement of the new house will be a Blessing beyond telling to us & to the People.

The shocking lore about Dr. Wilde reaches even to these Remote Quarters—if a man is paying his due portion of service under God he should have no time nor even spunk to sire an Infant in every cabin as all say of him—Tis the heartless and self-serving fool who would add to the world more mouths to be fed in these desperate times.

Father Dominic has delivered the Host today on his mare Fiddler, finding ice still moored in patches along the bleak Road—ice on the Lough thinning somewhat—have brought our seven Red Hens inside lest their few Eggs be frozen—am thankful that C finds the hens an amusement though young Aoife is not amused in the least. As A has no shoes to equip her in this wether—(I am reminded of the proverb)—we have paid her father to fashion a pair with great haste.

Prior to Tuesday’s mild Thaw I had broken a slab of ice in Adam’s watering Trough on nine consecutive mornings.

A grinding hard Winter.

He laid the journal on the table and got up and cranked the window shut, petitioning God for the grace to adopt a more agreeable attitude toward the day at hand. With Fintan and Caitlin O’Donnell making themselves useful, who was he to carp about a card game?

He eyed in the far corner of the room the carton of books they’d schlepped across the Pond. They were both fearful of being stuck without a decent book, and who knew they would find everything from Virgil to Synge on the shelves of a fishing lodge?

Returning to his chair, he opened his notebook, uncapped his pen.

‘. . . longest.’

You and Peggy are faithfully in our prayers. Will write again soon, reporting the outcome of said ruckus.

God be with you, my brother.

Timothy

He folded the letter with the watercolor, licked the envelope he’d rounded up, laid on more Irish stamps than were probably needed, checked his watch.

Six-thirty; the sun had been up for a half hour. He wanted coffee.

He also wanted soda bread with local butter, and rhubarb compote cooked to perfection on an Aga the color of a fire engine.

That was the trouble with vacations. At home, he was perfectly content with cereal and a banana, or the occasional poached egg. Here, he was ravenous from first light onward and eating like a field hand—while his sole exercise consisted of tossing around a shoe, no pun intended.

He glanced at his wife, burrowed like a vole into the bedclothes and as dead to the world as any teenager. ‘A clean conscience,’ she said when he made envious remarks.

He dressed in waterproof running gear and stepped out to the hall, greeted by a zephyr of cooking smells from downstairs.

While Cynthia read last night, he’d used the kitchen phone to call the erstwhile secretary who served during his years as Mitford’s working priest. Then, when he retired, she didn’t. Known by some as the Genghis Khan of church secretaries, she was Velcro that wouldn’t unstick.

No, he couldn’t remember his cell phone number, because he never called it. And no, he couldn’t remember his PIN number or even if he had one.

But yes, she would try to reach Dooley and get the phone number from him, and yes, she would take care of calling the phone company ASAP, but keep in mind that she’d be put on hold ’til she was old and gray, as if she had time to waste, thank you, didn’t he know she’d been rooked into organizing the Bane and Blessing at Lord’s Chapel this year, and if it was all the same to him, would he bring her a really nice souvenir, her preference being a vase from Waterford?

If anyone could get the account unplugged, it was Emma Newland, who would go after Sprint like Turks taking Cairo.

No Pud in the wing chair; he was disappointed.

He placed the outgoing envelope in the box on the sofa table, and took a minute to examine the sepia prints of the fishermen. Boats in the background, no houses yet built on the opposite shore, a black Lab seated in front of the lineup of men in boots and tweed, their catch on display at their feet—all looked particularly happy, he thought. Perhaps one day even he would cast a line, send it singing over the water . . .

In another photograph, two boys in shorts and sweaters and buckled shoes, the taller one sober, the other smiling and shy, each with a large fish in one hand and a net in the other, most likely Liam and Paddy. He wondered which of the men was their father.

‘Rev’rend.’

He started.

‘I heard back last night from Corrigan.’

He saw that Liam hadn’t slept well.

‘No matches to Slade’s prints. No evidence to warrant a search of his place.’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Somehow, it felt too easy.’

‘But they’re sending a Gard to question his whereabouts the other night.’

‘Thanks for the update.’

‘You’re going out?’

‘Need to get the heart pumping.’ As if recent events hadn’t done the job. ‘Back in half an hour, maybe less, it’s still raining.’

‘Take care,’ said Liam.

‘Don’t worry about this,’ he said. A useless comment in the world’s view, but thoroughly scriptural and all he had just then.

In the entrance hall he pulled the hood over his head, tied the drawstring, and stepped out into the misting rain. The path to Catharmore was almost completely engulfed in fog. He jogged across the gravel and around to the garden bench, where he warmed up before beginning his measured lope down the path to the lake.

Someone had said that in Ireland there’s no such thing as bad weather—only the wrong clothes. He was prepared. In his hood and jacket, he was as hidden as a turtle in its shell, yet he felt more at one with the rain than if he were naked to it. Halfway along the path, he stopped running and lifted his face to its quenching sweetness, opened his mouth to it like a child.

He had known for a long time in his head, and knew now in his marrowbones—his spirit was dry as dust. He hadn’t completely realized that ’til this moment. Dry from giving out for months and even years, and failing to take in.

Create in me a clean heart, oh, God, renew a right spirit within me.

It was a prayer borrowed from the psalmist, but too long to sum his great need. It was a breath prayer he was after.

Clean me out, fill me up, please.

Running again. The woods on either side fell away; the lake opened itself to him—gray water devouring gray clouds, immense.

He could see the absurdity, even the comedy of his feeling about the bridge afternoon, see that it didn’t matter enough to be resisted.

Clean me out, fill me up, clean me out . . .

He drew the smell of water on water into his lungs, felt the fulsome air enter the tissues in a way he’d never experienced, heard his living breath suck in, pump out . . .

He reached the shore, heart hammering, and stood looking over the great swell of the lough, palms lifted to the rain.