She had told Professor Mulligan, when the offer was first made, that she’d think about it—and think about it she did. Among the concerns to be considered, there was her husband. Separation would be intolerable. Also, a distraction from her present project, The House of Mirth, now titled The House of Fenimore Blythe—a reconsideration of the name given by Mrs. Wharton’s Lily Bart, now transformed as the novel itself was sure to be. Also, her vegetable garden was already beginning to yield. That, too, weighed heavily upon her. Beyond this, how would Brid and Taddy and, yes, the pig, how would they fare when she would no longer be observing their sorrows and bewilderments? Add to that the share of those sufferings she had taken to herself at the sight of them. What would her days be without them? She must refuse. Reluctantly. Very reluctantly.
That decision was made, however, before she had had the good sense—to say nothing of the conjugal obligation—to consult with her husband, informing him first of the offer, then of her refusal and the reasons supporting her final decision.
They were in the garden, harvesting green beans. There would be ham hocks and green beans for supper, one of Kitty’s several specialties brought back from the Bronx (one of the greater benefits dating back to her years at Fordham University). Kieran seemed distracted. To Kieran, Kitty seemed distracted. The task at hand usually inspired an enthusiastic delight prompted by a disbelief that their labors seemed some-what minimal in comparison to the real work done by the soil itself. Nature had played a joke and their response would surely gratify the Gods of Plenty whose contribution had easily surpassed their own.
In an attempt to distract Kieran from his distraction, Kitty said, “The college in Cork wanted me to be part of a seminar based on my novels. I told them no.”
Kieran, suddenly no longer distracted, said, “So Miss Mulligan told me.”
“What?”
“Miss Mulligan. From Cork. She told me you said no.”
“Why would she tell you anything?”
“Because you said no and she wants very much for you to say yes.”
“But why you? What business is it of—”
“Of mine?”
“Well, yes. What right had she to—”
“None, I suppose. But the young woman seemed not to be overly concerned about right or wrong. She wants you. Desperately.”
“I know that. And I took it under consideration.”
“She wants you to reconsider.”
“But I went over all this. Over and over …”
“Then you’re practiced enough to go over it one more time.”
“Kieran, I am not going to go shuttling back and forth to and from the city of Cork—”
“Don’t shuttle. Go there and stay there.”
“Go … ? What are you saying?”
“Why waste time coming and going? Cork is a reasonably interesting sort of town. Always has been.”
“I should go there? And stay there? How can you—”
“Why can’t we stay with my brother’s family outside Blarney, which means we could take the cows?”
“And what would your brother and his wife and his family think of—”
“They like the idea. I asked them. They’re delighted.”
“But … but I’m not a teacher.”
“Oh? Think of all the things you’ve taught me.”
“Are you talking dirty?”
“Kitty, my love, here’s a chance to do what’s long been needed to be done.”
“And what might that be?”
“You know as well as I.”
“Defend myself?”
“No. You need no defense.”
“Then what? Tell me.”
“You could correct them. Isn’t correction your prime purpose is life?”
“No. You’re my prime purpose in life.”
“Then make teaching a secondary purpose. They’d say what they have to say. And you’d correct them. Isn’t that one of your more than several gifts?”
And so it went. But not for long. By the time they had plundered the bean patch, Kitty had promised to e-mail Ms. Mulligan. And Kieran would phone his brother to tell him that he and his wife, Kitty, would be coming to stay with him and his family. He’d bring the herd; Kitty would bring her computer. Brid and Taddy, Kieran told his wife, had survived without them for over two hundred years. A few months would hardly matter. As for the pig—well, as Kieran was wont to say on special occasions, “Who gives a shit?”
That evening, gorging themselves on ham hocks and beans, Kitty reconciled her husband to the idea that Declan would be thatching the sheds. When they had first come to the castle, Kieran had advocated slate—which, in turn, had activated Kitty’s contrarian nature. She immediately opted for thatch. The impasse had caused the cows to be housed in the great hall from the first days of their tenancy. The cows’ characteristic scent had, from that time forward, permeated the castle, reaching even to the widened second landing of the turret stair where Kitty plied her computer-driven wares.
She’d made the agreement with Declan the day he’d delivered the sea-soaked copy of The House of Mirth, but Kieran had yet to suspend his preference for slate. Kitty mentioned that Declan had been their friend and fellow Kerryman all their lives. Kieran, reckless beyond rationality, laughed and said, “Friends indeed, Miss Kitty McCloud. Have I not known you from the day of your birth? And haven’t I known you from that time to this? And didn’t I, sworn enemy that I was, of necessity keep myself aware of your comings and goings and all of your shenanigans between? And didn’t I, along with everyone else, know that you, when still a girl, with Declan Tovey—”
Eyes ablaze, Kitty stopped him dead in his tracks. “What is it you’re saying Kieran Sweeney?”
“Let me finish and then you’ll know. Kitty McCloud.”
“Finish if you can.”
“I’m only speaking of common knowledge known by one and all.”
“And what might that knowledge be?”
“No need to say the words.”
“Don’t contradict yourself. That’s my job. Finish the sentence you started. ‘When I was still a girl—’ Yes? Say the words so I can take them and do with them what deserves to be done. Such as shove them back down your throat. Say them. Say them!”
“Kitty dear—”
“Don’t ‘Kitty dear’ me. If it’s slander you’re going to speak, be a man and say it unafraid. Your wife is waiting.”
“Kitty, it was a long time ago.”
“Then why is it mentioned now?”
“Well …”
With growing intensity, Kitty said, “Is it because you want to deny me my way for the sake of denying me my way when I say thatch? And you’ll do anything, say anything, to win out over me? Is that it? If so, then it’s locked in mortal combat, are we?”
“To be locked with you in any way has always been my first hope in life. So let’s not stop now.”
“Then I’ll say this. It’s your wife you’re slandering.”
“Is the truth slander?”
With diminishing control, Kitty answered, “It is. It is. When it’s said to hurt and to humiliate—”
“Not when it’s said to make a legitimate point?”
“And what’s the point, then?”
Kieran folded his arms across his chest. “The point is that it had to occur to me that your choice of thatch in the current circumstances, and the employment of Declan Tovey here at the castle day after day after day—”
“Are you saying that I … I … that I …”
“It had to occur to me. How could it not?”
“And if it did, had you not the good sense to know that it was a foolish thought being thought by a foolish man?”
He unfolded his arms and placed his fists on his hips. “What I thought did happen. When you were—”
Kitty’s voice was lowered an octave. “All right, then. And while we’re at it, let me present what else is common knowledge. I was a girl, you say. Well, you wer
e a boy … and it involved a heifer. And who is there doesn’t know it?”
“It was a dare! Conan Kennedy dared me!”
“And little resistance is what I heard. And I’m going to add this. You impute certain motives to me in wanting Declan near. Well, Kieran Sweeney, did I ever object to you sharing the same roof with a herd of cows and all number of heifers? Did I? Did I?”
Kieran had no choice. He began to laugh. “Well, maybe you should have.”
Kitty’s lips trembled, struggling to hold back the sounds about to erupt, but to no avail. With her head thrown back, a raucous howl came out of Kitty’s mouth, a form of laughter usually let loose by the demented or the damned. On it went, and Kieran’s laughter, too, until they had to throw themselves onto each other and, to rescue themselves from the pains of high hilarity, kissed and kissed again until only murmurs were heard.
They separated. Kitty touched her husband’s left cheek, scratching the bristle of his tawny beard. “Yes, my darling,” she said softly, “I went with Declan. But only because I knew I’d never marry—and I wanted to know what it would have been like. And he would let me know the glories I’d be missing.”
“And why never marry?”
Kitty slowly shook her head. “You should be the first to know.”
“I don’t.”
“I was brought up to see you as my eternal enemy. And yet, from all the time I’ve ever lived, I wanted only you. But it was not only against my flesh; it was against my blood. And if I couldn’t marry you, I’d marry none at all, glory or no glory. And I will tell you this: With you greater has been the glory—” She stopped. “I’ll say no more.”
And so it was decided. Declan Tovey the thatcher.
The reeds had not yet arrived, but Declan was there, readying the sheds, putting up supports, taking the measures, and staring, from time to time, at the places where the thatch would go. Then he would hold one of his tools and stare at that, as if trying to remember what it was and what it was for. When Kitty came out the doors of the great hall, trying not to spill the turnip soup she was carrying, she saw him, unmoving, his gaze fixed on what she recognized as his thatcher’s leggett. It was similar to the one she had seen in the grave, beside the buried bones. She wondered if she should interrupt him. But the soup would get cold and, reheated, might lose some of the savory taste and sturdy scent Kieran had coaxed from something so negligible as a turnip.
Keeping her eyes on the soup to check any impulse it might have to spill over the side of the bowl, Kitty continued on. When she looked up to make sure she was on course, she noticed that the pig—or, rather, the ghost of the pig—was regarding the man intently. Declan turned slightly and looked at the pig. For a full minute he seemed to fix his gaze on the animal. Then, as if he had sufficiently acknowledged its presence, he returned his attention to the leggett in his hand.
Kitty waited. She knew from Maude why Declan could see Taddy and Brid. But why the pig as well? She continued to wait. She already knew Declan could see the pig. The ghost of the pig. And the pig, with its casual presence, seemed to have the same relationship to him as it had to Taddy and Brid. That phenomenon was understandable. Taddy and Brid and the pig inhabited the same realm. But Declan was not, like them, a ghost. And there was Declan, acknowledging it. And then going on about his business.
There was, of course, an added complexity. Kitty herself and Kieran, too, were not ghosts, yet they, like Declan, could see the pig. There was only one explanation that could encompass these shared sightings: the pig was—and would most likely remain—a mystery. As Kieran had once said, “Sometimes the unknown is better left unknown.” To this, Kitty, uncharacteristically, had had no ready challenge.
She started again toward the thatcher, still careful not to spill the savory soup. Holding it out, she said, “Kieran wants you to try this.”
Declan shifted his gaze from the pig to the bowl in Kitty’s hands. He gave it the same concentrated stare he’d given the pig. No muscle in his face moved, no sign indicated recognition of what was being held out toward him. “Turnip,” Kitty said, purposely avoiding the tone of encouragement one would use with an unconvinced child.
Declan lifted his stare and looked directly at Kitty. So pitiful did he seem that she almost took a step back, which would have spilled the soup and most likely sent the spoon down onto the ground. Without blinking or flinching, in a calm voice, Declan said, “I have some cheese and some bread and a bit of bacon and an oatcake from the Widow Quinn where I’m staying.”
“But doesn’t the house always—”
“Yes. I know. The house provides the food in the middle of the day. But for me it’s this way: the cheese, the bacon, the bread. But I thank you kindly.”
“Well, maybe just this once since it’s already here—”
“I have enough. And I do thank you. And Kieran, too.”
“Well, if that’s what you—”
“It is.” He paused, then said, “But I do thank you.” At that, he retreated to the farthest shed.
Without Kitty’s having noticed, Peter McCloskey had come up to her side and was scratching with his shoe an itch near his left ankle. “I’ve come to ask did you ask him,” he said.
“Peter, aren’t you at school?”
This brought forth a giggle. “You don’t know we’ve finished for the summer? But did you ask him?”
Holding the soup bowl more firmly, Kitty looked for a place to set it down and be rid of it. With no place available, she shoved it into Peter’s hands. “Here. Eat this.”
“But I’m to be back home to eat.”
“Well, since you’re here, this is a first course.”
“You’re giving it to me? And did you know I was coming?”
Kitty was tempted to remind him that he was the clairvoyant, not she, but she let it go. “Yes. I knew it. Now go sit over there on the stones and eat it.”
“Mother said she knew you knew—”
“Never mind all that. Go eat it before it gets cold, like a good boy.”
“And you haven’t asked him?”
“I forgot. I’ll do it now. Go. Eat.”
Ever obedient, Peter went to the stone wall, got to the top without spilling a single drop, and settled down to have the first course of his midday meal. Kitty went to Declan. He was studying some structural work he’d done, not responding to the achievement much less anticipating the next phase of his assignment. “Peter McCloskey wants you to teach him how to thatch,” she said. “I was supposed to ask you but forgot. He wants it terribly. It would be a sin to disappoint. He’s a good boy, and you’re going to need some help, I’m sure. He doesn’t expect to be paid. And he’ll go home to eat. Or he can always eat with Kieran and me.”
Declan had been shaking his head, first slowly, then with increased urgency, until now the movement had become a furious wagging back and forth. His lips parted, his eyes those of a man terrified. “No! No!” the word was repeated, part growl, part plea that no more be said, as if Kitty had asked him to commit some vile crime.
She tried to continue. “But aren’t you going to need—”
“No one! I need no one! Ever.” His words seemed an even greater pleading than before, an entreaty that he be released from whatever was tormenting him.
Peter, who seemed to have heard none of this, called from where he sat, “Mrs. Sweeney, is there any bread for the soup?”
Distracted, Kitty repeated the word, befuddled, as if it were foreign to her vocabulary. “Bread?”
Peter came toward her, toward Declan, the soup still filling more than half the bowl. “Yes, please. I think the soup wants some bread.”
“Oh. Bread. You want some bread.”
“It’s for the soup.” To prove his point, he held out the bowl as if the soup could speak for itself.
“Yes. Bread. I should have thought of it. I’ll get you some. Wait here.”
After a glance at Declan, an unspoken request that he, like Peter, stay where he was, she
hurried toward the great hall.
Peter looked down at the bowl, then held it out to Declan. “Would you like some?”
“No,” he whispered. “But I thank you.”
“Did Mrs. Sweeney ask you about me? About me being a thatcher?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “If she did, I hope you said yes. My mother hopes so, too. She said at first she was worried it was becoming a lost art with everyone so rich now. They say that thatch was considered a sign of the old poverty. Then, according to what my mother said, thatching will come back and not just like some imitation of the old ways. It’ll come back because we’ll all be poor again. We’re going to be, she said, like the Americans, where all the money goes to just a few, the way it did here for so long a time, and the rest go without, like it was before. In America, she said, thousands and thousands of people are soupers in what they call soup kitchens spread out over the whole country, like here during the famine, only there you don’t have to change your religion to get something to eat. It’s been like that for a while, but it’s getting worse and worse, the way fewer and fewer have more, as if they were lords and all the land was theirs and the little left is for everyone else. It’s in America now and it’s sure to come here. That’s what my mother said. Then thatching is going to be needed again. And I’ll have a skill so I can take care of my family. Being a thatcher. So I hope it’s yes. My mother, she says you’re the best that’s ever been, only I shouldn’t be the way you are, and no girl, no woman safe. So I won’t be like that. I’ll just be a thatcher. So I can take care of my family when we’re all poor again and the rich have all the riches again. The way it was here in the days now gone.”
Declan had been backing away from the boy little by little. He stopped when Peter stopped speaking. “I told her no,” Declan said, first a whisper, then louder. “I work with no one. I want no one. I need no one. Go away. Don’t come back. Find some other thatcher. Go find him. And go away from here. Do you hear me say it?”
“But Mrs. Sweeney is bringing me—”
With an arm flung out, Declan slammed the back of his hand up against the bottom of the bowl, sending the soup flying onto Peter’s shirt and the bowl broken at his feet. Declan glared at the boy. Peter leaned down to collect the broken pieces. “No! Leave it. Go!”
The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven Page 10