by Terry Kay
“Leave me t’be,” she said in a weak, ruptured voice.
And Rachel and Dora stepped away to the foot of the bed, against the quilt wall, and watched as Mama Ada pulled her face to Michael’s arm.
Michael could sense her lips moving close to him. He could feel her cool breath against his arm. He wondered with amusement how he should react to the old woman and her hocus-pocus of deceptive divinity. Her fingers fanned over the wound in a spider’s touch, meticulously, like a reader of braille. Then her fingers stopped and she cupped the palm of her hand over the cut and blew on his arm, circling her own hand. It had the feel of a cool, gentle wind. Michael’s body quivered in surprise. A lightness entered his arm and swam up his shoulder, across his back, and along the corridor of his spine. His left hand snapped open by a command he could not control and his fingers spread wide, straining the muscles. He could feel an electric shock numbing his fingertips. His mind whirled dizzily and his head rolled against the pillow. A word he did not know filled his mouth and broke through his lips in a guttural cry.
* * *
Suddenly Mama Ada dropped his arm. Her hands snapped open, palms down, and her thin fingers began to tremble. Her eyes widened and her tiny, dry mouth cracked open in a tight circle. Her hands turned up and she began to push weakly against an invisible force above Michael’s body. Her head twisted left, to her shoulder, and a feeble cry—a whine—rose from her mouth.
“Mama Ada?” whispered Rachel.
“Watch her,” Dora warned.
Mama Ada sank back against the chair and her head bobbed in a rubbery seizure. Her hands fell to her sides and she closed her eyes tightly.
“Be gone, be gone,” she cried. Her eyes flew open and she stared into Michael’s face. Her arms and hands rose again and she waved them in a swimming motion, stroking the air, pushing it aside. “Be gone,” she repeated, whispering.
“Mama Ada? What is it?” Rachel asked, stepping toward her.
“Somethin’s there,” Dora said quietly. “She feels it.”
“Mama Ada?”
“I told you,” snapped Dora. “There’s somethin’ about him.”
The swimming motion of her arms slowed and stopped and Mama Ada stared fearfully into the space beyond Michael. Her arms closed in front of her, under her chin, as though pinned to her body. She began to bend forward at the waist, falling.
“Get her,” called Dora, moving quickly.
Dora and Rachel reached Mama Ada before she toppled from the chair. They held her and let her head rest against her own shoulder. Her eyes were widened in terror and her breathing was deep and erratic.
“Go get Floyd,” Rachel said to Dora. “She looks bad.”
* * *
It was morning, in the prelight of day. Michael leaned forward, his elbows on the oilcloth of the table. He held a cup to his mouth, breathing in the rich vapor of coffee.
“Ah,” he said peacefully. “It’s the fullest I’ve been since I took a mind to splurge my last few dollars at a restaurant in Memphis. It was a feast like this, all right. Little restaurant with tablecloths made out of two colors of pink. And the waitress wore a starchy little white uniform with pink lace. Even on her cap, it was. She was turned up and snooty at my bein’ so scruffy-lookin’, but when I ordered the evenin’s best, plus a half-bottle of imported pink champagne to match the pink tablecloth, why, she changed her mind. Couldn’t have had better service if I’d been the blessed Pope, mind you.”
“It’s good to see you eatin’,” Rachel said. “After not takin’ a bite the last couple of days.”
Michael replaced the cup in its saucer and nodded.
“But it’s not to be taken as a slight,” he replied. “I don’t have much recall of the past few days, to be truthful. Just some flashes of light, like the heavens openin’ up, all bright and shiny after a rain. I guess it was the poison that that blessed lady drove out. It’s a miracle, I’d say. In Ireland, she could be sainted for such a gift.”
“Mama Ada’s helped out lots of folks,” Rachel said. “It’s her way.”
“Well, she’s got me beholden to her. There’s no other way of puttin’ it,” vowed Michael.
“You feelin’ better this mornin’, Mr. O’Rear?” asked Sarah.
“Fit as a fiddle,” Michael answered merrily. “Fit enough to dance the day down and still have some left for night. It’s one thing I do, Miss Sarah, I bounce back. Why, I knew a fellow once—a Britisher, he was—who caught the malaria soldierin’ down in India, and he’d get those chills so bad, you’d have to strap him down to keep him from vibratin’ away. Then he’d get the heat and they’d have to wrap him in wet sheets. But, quick as that, he’d be up and about. Sassy as the soldier he was. And I’m the same.”
Sarah laughed quickly. Her eyes flashed.
“You’ll be goin’ on, then?” Dora asked bluntly.
Michael let the weight of the question crush the room. Then he smiled easily and replied, “Yes, Miss Dora. I’ll be goin’ on, soon as the sun peeks up.”
“Not today,” corrected Rachel. “Not till you get some strength back.”
Michael shifted in his chair. He rubbed the snakebite wound with his right hand.
“Miss Dora’s right,” he protested. “I’ve got to be movin’ on. Likely I’ve missed out with the circus job in Florida, but there may be a ragtag carnival along the way.”
“The circus?” Rachel said.
“The circus, indeed. Wouldn’t you know? I’m a barker.”
He stood up with a grand sweep of his arms and struck a comical pose.
“Ladies and gentlemen, right this way,” he sang. “See the famous women of the mysterious East. Dancin’. Wigglin’. Tellin’ strange stories with the wavin’ of their arms. Right this way. Careful there, fellow, you’re lookin’ faint-hearted, you are. Maybe it’s the merry-go-round for you.”
Michael finished his chatter with a bow and a flourish and sat down heavily in his chair. Sarah laughed gleefully, covering her mouth with her hands. Rachel and Dora stared at him in surprise.
“I hope you’ll be forgivin’ me,” Michael said. “Bein’ off-color like that in front of ladies. It’s circus talk and it fits me the way a church hymn fits a good preacher. Just part of bein’ what I am, it is.”
“It’s—it’s no harm,” Rachel stammered.
“I’m takin’ advantage of your good carin’, carryin’ on so, but the spirit’s flown up in me like a sparrow, and bein’ Irish to boot, well, it’s just hard to keep down.”
“Nothin’ wrong with feelin’ some of life,” Rachel said hesitantly.
The mood changed in Michael like color. His smile fell. His voice softened.
“But I’m bein’ less than a gentleman,” he apologized. “I’ve raved about things to feed my own selfish feelin’ and I’ve not asked about the three of you.”
“Nothin’ to say,” Dora remarked.
“There’s always somethin’ to say to others, Miss Dora,” corrected Michael. “Always. For one, I’ve been wonderin’, since I’ve got some senses back, about your menfolk. There’s been none around that I’ve seen. Could it be they’re off workin’?”
The room froze. Sarah’s stare locked on Michael. Dora turned away. Rachel stood at the table and began stacking the breakfast dishes.
“I’m askin’ your forgiveness if—” Michael began.
“No,” interrupted Rachel. “It’s—it’s a fair question.” She placed the dishes before her on the table and faced Michael. “Fact is,” she said, “my husband—Sarah’s father—has been gone a few years now. Off somewhere. He was always that kind of man. The wanderin’ was in him.”
Michael stood slowly. He turned away from the table and walked to the kitchen window. Outside, the mountains were washed pale with morning.
“If I could’ve guessed, I wouldn’t’ve asked,” he said slowly. “It’s not of my matter, and I’ve clouded this good house with hurt by bringin’ it up. I’m shamed by it.”
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p; “No reason,” Rachel replied. “Wadn’t no way for you to know.”
Michael shook his head.
“But I am shamed. Ought to be,” he mumbled. “Here you’ve taken in a stranger, and a man at that, and that stranger’s been more fool than grateful. And there’s the neighbors—that fine old lady and her family. They must be thinkin’ the worse, and I’m shamed by it.”
Dora’s voice cut the stillness like a whip.
“That’s took care of,” she said. “Rachel seen to that.”
Michael turned back to the women.
“How?” he asked.
Again the room froze. The question lingered. Rachel stared hard at her sister.
“How?” repeated Michael. He heard the urgency of his own voice and tried to control it.
“I told them you was Eli’s cousin,” Rachel confessed. “He—Eli—is my husband.”
“O Holy Father,” Michael whispered desperately. “I’ve caused you to be bearin’ false words before your neighbors.” He dropped his head. A shimmer of delight arose in him.
“It’s been done,” Dora said flatly. “None of us’ll say different.”
“What you done was for one of us,” argued Rachel. “You talk about bein’ beholden to Mama Ada; we’re beholden to you. It’s all we can do. You’ll not leave until your strength’s back.”
Michael paced the small room. He ran his fingers through his hair. A small clucking sound, a protest, rattled in his throat.
“It’s not right, it’s not,” he said. “Bein’ alone in the house with the three of you. Not the least.” He stopped his pacing abruptly. “Miss Sarah, if you’ll be bringin’ me my knapsack and goods, I’ll feel better bein’ outside, in the barn.”
“There’s no need—” Rachel began.
Michael’s raised hand stopped her.
“Exceptin’ how I feel about it,” he corrected. “There’s some decency left, I’d hope. The barn’s fine. The barn’s better’n any night I’ve seen in weeks, save the softness of your own bed.”
Sarah moved in her chair. She started to rise, then sat back. Her eyes darted from Dora to Rachel.
“Mama?” she said.
“Do what he wants,” ordered Dora. “A man’s got a right to his pride.”
Rachel nodded once and Sarah rose and left the kitchen.
“There’s a room out in the barn,” Rachel explained methodically. “We used to have a worker when Eli was home, a man he bailed out of jail one time. They put up a little room in one corner, out of the way, with a stove and a rope bed. We keep the place picked up and the mattress aired. Out of habit, I guess.”
Michael heard the monotone of her voice, the note of resignation, of invisible surrender, to her sister. He saw the curl of a smile in Dora, though the muscles of her face did not move.
“You’re an understandin’ woman, Rachel,” he said gently. “I’d feel better about it, and it’d do me good, bein’ outside. Maybe there’s some light work around I can do to help out today. Nothin’ heavy, mind you. Just somethin’ to get the blood flowin’ again. I know the needs of my own body; work’s good for it.”
Rachel carried the dishes to the work counter. She would not look at him, or Dora.
“We’ll see,” she said. “Dora knows about the outside work. I do the quiltin’.”
“We’ll be hoein’ in the garden,” Dora replied. “You can help out some if you feel up to it.”
“I do,” Michael said. Then to Rachel, in a whisper: “I’m sorry about your husband, your Eli. Him bein’ a wanderer. I’ve some of the same blood in me, I’m sorry to say, travelin’ the world over like I’ve done. It’s a bad sickness, it is. Worse than any fever. Could be you told the truth in part; could be me and your Eli are cousins of a kind.”
The words drove into Rachel. It was like a voice in the back of her mind. He was very like Eli.
Sarah reappeared in the kitchen, struggling with the knapsack. Michael took it from her, lifting it lightly with one hand.
“Now, what’s the matter with me?” he said gently. “Askin’ a lady to carry the burden of a junk collector. I’d do better burnin’ it in the trash than carryin’ it around like it’s a king’s prize. Shows what a man thinks of himself, pickin’ up bits and pieces along the way just to prove he’s been there. Truth is, not a thing in it’s worth the price of a smile. Exceptin’ my greenery for Saint Paddy’s celebration.”
“What’s Saint Paddy?” asked Sarah.
“Saint Paddy? Ah, child, it’s the soul of the Irish, it is. Saint Patrick was the patron saint of Ireland. Grand as the sight of the Almighty himself.”
Michael turned the knapsack in his hand like a toy. He dropped it into a chair and unlaced the top.
“But there’s somethin’ else in here,” he said secretively. “Somethin’ I’d be grateful if you ladies would let me share with you. Made by my own hands, they are, and it’d be my honor to make a gift of them.”
He pulled back the cover of the knapsack and reached deep into it and withdrew a small box tied with a string. He held the box up in front of him and smiled proudly.
“It’s little enough,” he announced, “but next to my greenery for Saint Paddy’s Day and the carvin’ on my walkin’ stick, it’s the best I’ve got.”
He untied the box and removed the top.
“Close your eyes, Sarah,” said Michael.
Sarah obeyed, like a child.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
Sarah cupped her hands before her.
He reached into the box and picked out a green paper flower and placed it in her hands.
“It’s a shamrock,” he told her. “The flower of the Irish. And I made it with my own two hands, to sell on the streets of New York City.”
“It’s—it’s pretty,” Sarah said softly, turning the paper flower in her hands. “I never seen one.”
“It’ll bring you luck—but only paper luck, I’m afraid,” Michael replied happily. “The real thing, now that’s another story. That’d be a blessin’. Here, ladies, there’s one for each of you. Woman I worked for in New York City said I should’ve been an artist. Said I was the best at makin’ paper flowers she’d ever seen. We sold ’em by the baskets, I’ll tell you.”
Rachel and Dora accepted the flowers silently.
“It’d make me feel good inside to know you’d be rememberin’ Michael O’Rear whenever you look on these in days to come,” he said gently. “The people I’m fond of, I leave a shamrock, like it was a fancy callin’ card. Like Johnny Appleseed markin’ out his travels with apple seeds.”
“They’re pretty, like Sarah said,” remarked Rachel. “We thank you for them, Mr. O’Rear.”
Michael smiled broadly. He retied the box and pushed it back into the knapsack.
“Miss Dora,” he said, “let’s have at that garden before the sun gets up and makes a puddle of us all. Get it done while the dew’s up and then I’ll be for findin’ a fishin’ pole and bringin’ in a string of fish for supper.”
Dora dropped the shamrock she held onto the table and stared coldly at Michael.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said.
* * *
Michael’s presence filled the day, with the playfulness of his stories, the booming of his song, the drum of his laughter. And Sarah circled him like a butterfly, awed by the exaggerations of his endless adventures. She was girlish and giddy and her small voice, flooding with questions, was as free as a bird sitting on the shoulder of a limb, singing into the ear of a tree.
Rachel worked inside at the quilting frame and listened. She could feel the power of exuberance building like a parade, with brass and cymbals, march-time and costumes of shimmering colors. The parade was a man very like Eli, whose step had the heavy sound of an announcement and whose shoulders seemed to crowd even the out-of-doors. It was good, she thought. It was very good. She wondered only if Sarah would become intoxicated by the man, as she herself had become intoxicated by Eli. No, she decided. No, h
e was far too old. Sarah would see him only as someone who was fascinating. And that, too, was good. Dora’s warning did not matter.
At night, Rachel and Sarah sat on the front porch and listened as Michael recited Irish poetry and told them of his years on the tent Chautauqua. His voice was that of a man who had been often alone and was unashamed to speak aloud for the joy of his own sound. It was a time that passed quickly, too quickly, before Michael went to the barn to sleep.
* * *
Rachel woke before morning to the sound of a lusty Irish tune whistled in the field below her bedroom window. She wrapped her cotton robe around her and peered through the window. Michael was in the field with a shovel, marking the ground with shallow holes.
“You’re up early, Mr. O’Rear,” she called through the screen.
Michael whirled on his heel and faced the window. He could not see Rachel through the screen.
“True,” he replied. “I’ve rested my fill, I suppose. Couldn’t stay asleep another minute, not with all that’s waitin’ to be done, and with the day screamin’ to be lived.”
“You feelin’ better?” she asked.
“Better, Rachel. Better. A fellow once told me that a man what lived in the mountains would be a bit of a loon to want to be anywhere else, and I’m believin’ I know what he meant. It’s a lovely time of the day, it is. Like lookin’ into the face of the Almighty. Take a breath, Rachel. You can feel it.”
Rachel breathed deeply, obediently. The air was sweet.
“What’re you doin’?” she asked.
Michael raised his shovel like a flag and pointed along a line from the road across the field.
“Well, I’m doin’ somethin’ that should’ve been done a long time ago, Rachel,” he answered. “I’m markin’ out for a fence. Put in a fence and there’d be grass aplenty for grazin’, and it’d be a help to the land. It struck me last night, when I found the rolls of barbed wire in the barn, just sittin’ there. It’s the least I can do before movin’ on.”
“That’s doin’ too much, Mr. O’Rear,” Rachel protested. “You don’t owe us—”