by Jan Karon
Roughly twenty-five hours in motion, and no sleep to speak of. He was wrecked, but not ruined--with a few good hours tonight, he could easily get in sync with the time difference.
He was not a man to part easily from home, from his dog, from his now legally adopted son, Dooley, who was twenty-one going on forty-five. Such things need watchful tending, like a cook fire. One mustn't go long away from connections lest something fragile die out. One could not fetch that particular fire from neighbors.
He'd noticed that she was carrying a couple of sketchbooks in the red handbag as big as a Buick. Why was he surprised? She was an artist, he should expect her to carry sketchbooks. While rummaging for a granola bar in the depths of that mess kit, she had set the watercolor box on the seat beside her, innocent of his stares.
So. Sketchbooks and watercolors. Just in case, of course.
Last week, she showed him the e-mail from her editor, James, in which she was exhorted to 'get a book out of Ireland.'
She hit reply. 'James--the only thing I intend to get out of Ireland is pleasure. Your devoted author.' She handed over the printed declaration. 'There, darling,' she said, 'remove that worried look from your face.'
Such intentions were all well and good, but books had a tendency to pop out of her like a jack from a box. He had never liked jacks-in-the-box.
Out of the blue, the mania would take hold, and for months following she would be cut in twain: half for him, half for the book. She gave it all the tenderness and passion of a mother toward a child, and at times all the brooding of a woman toward a lover. She would be there and not there, all at once--the way he had been, perhaps, during so many seasons of his priesthood. There and not there, all at once.
'Fire and ice,' someone had said of him in the days when he was searching for God and trying to make up the emptiness. And even when, into his forties, he had at last been found of God, it was the very same, except then he was absorbed utterly in the telling of the truth and sparing nothing, least of all himself.
He didn't want her committing her soul to another book, not now. He didn't want to be on this trip alone, though at her side daily. After more than sixty years of bachelorhood, he had discovered a terrible truth:
Without her, he was beached.
He scooped her closer to his chest and belly and into the curve of his bent knees.
Silver apples of the moon, golden apples of the sun.
Together with the sound of her light snore, the rain dripping from the leaves was his cradle song.
Four
He opened his eyes at five o'clock sharp, just as he did at home, just as he'd done for more than forty years as a priest. No international time clock could trump four decades of habit.
Still no power. He took the first of two daily insulin shots and read the Morning Office by the uncertain beam of a flashlight. Then he prayed for Dooley and Henry and Peggy and all the rest who made up his world, deciding at the end to include the smaller realm of this sleeping household.
He removed a sweater, a shirt, and pants from the massive armoire, and shucked out of his pajamas. Roughly an hour until the coffeepot would appear on the sideboard. He couldn't say he felt exhausted or even mildly disoriented; he had slept well and felt fine, which wasn't bad for the seventy years he celebrated only weeks ago--or was it seventy-one? He kept forgetting. He zipped his pants, buckled his belt. It was tomorrow when he'd be a rambling wreck.
There was a stinging chill in the air, like early October might feel at home in Mitford. He looked out to a shroud of fog over the slope to the lake, the three fishermen trooping down the shadowed path in their Wellingtons. As a limestone lake, Lough Arrow had no silt to be stirred by last night's heavy rains--the fishing today would likely be good.
He went to the bed and pulled the covers around Cynthia's shoulders, and stood looking at her, bemused. Six decades of living alone couldn't trump eight years of marriage--he marveled still at the sight of her sleeping in his bed. Or was it he who slept in hers?
He fastened his tab collar, put the notebook under his arm. In the hall, he was pleasured by the primal incense of burning turf.
For all the sound made by his passage down the stone stairs, he might have been weightless, a sylph. On the landing, he stopped and buttoned the brown cardigan and turned to look beyond the windows. In the gray murk of early light, a fenced garden. A spade thrust upright into black loam. A blue wheelbarrow; the fire of ripe tomatoes on the vine. He was starting down when he saw a dim figure moving along the path by the garden wall. He adjusted his bifocals. The girl who had brought around the hot towels, riding a bicycle with a large parcel in the basket.
Firelight shimmered over the dusky walls of the sitting room; chunks of hand-cut turf blazed on the grate. Unlike the resinous logs back home, there was no snap and crackle from decayed masses of plant material; turf burned with nary a murmur. He gazed into the color and heat of the fire, stretching his hands toward the flame in gratitude.
It was good to be away, after all. Even with the long haul to get here, he felt an ease in his shoulders as if he'd let go some large wen. He turned his back to the blaze, looking about the room at walls glazed with years of turf smoke, and shelf after shelf of books which he might search for hours without guilt over time taken from the lawn mower or the weed patrol or his almost-daily visit to Mitford Hospital. And there, hanging on either side of the door to the dining hall, a display of early sepia photographs he hadn't noticed last night. Groups of men in rough coats and trousers, formal in the act of holding aloft silvered fish; knock-kneed boys displaying their own prize catches--a way of life he'd never known, given a father who believed fishing promoted sloth. Sloth--right now, he'd like a double shot of it, straight up.
The clock ticked, the fire simmered; he was rooted to the spot in an agreeable coma.
An odd sound, then, something like a sneeze.
He peered around. In a corner, the Jack Russell sat motionless in a wing chair.
'Bless you,' he said, keeping his voice low.
The dog cocked its head to one side and looked at him. It was a steady look, conversational in feeling. He'd read somewhere that dogs don't make eye contact. Baloney.
He sat facing the fire and marking the lingering scent of last evening's pipe smoke. His grandfather, firing his pipe and flicking the match into the smoldering Mississippi night . . .
He put his feet on the footstool, if only to see how it felt to lean back, let go, breathe. The aroma of brewed coffee drifted up the hall. Yes.
The dog hadn't moved.
'Bolted any rabbits lately?'
One ear cocked.
'I have a dog--a Bouvier mix named Barnabas. A hundred and ten pounds. The Old Gentleman, we call him; likes nineteenth-century poetry.'
Two ears cocked.
'You, on the other hand, have the look of a nonfiction man. The history of the American West, I'd say. Cowboys, Indians, that sort of thing.'
He'd never seen a Jack Russell sit still. A mite long in the tooth, perhaps, though last night's tango on hind legs had been impressive.
'It's said you were named after a parson; a John Russell, I believe, who did a little breeding with his fox terriers, and voila, here you are.'
The dog suddenly leaped off the cushion, dashed from the room, and returned with the chewed shoe, which was deposited with a certain delicacy by the footstool.
'No way. Don't even think about it.'
The dog sat his ground--head slightly lowered, brown eyes gazing up.
Toss a shoe once, you're engaged. Toss a shoe twice, you're married. He concentrated on the fire.
The dog made a sound, something like a politician clearing his throat before a filibuster.
He stared at the ceiling.
The throat-clearing again.
He grabbed the notebook and was down the hall in a shot.
The dining room by candlelight had been handsome; it was less so in a morning light breaking palely through overcast.
> Above the sideboard, a large painting of low mountains and a lake at sunrise. On the water, a lone fisherman casting a net from a boat, a white swan in the rushes. On the painted hill of the far shore, a cottage with a single lighted window and a plume of smoke from the chimney.
The George Barret. And a big George Barret, into the bargain. He leaned over the sideboard and squinted at the signature. The senior or the junior Barret? He couldn't tell.
The coffee had been set out ahead of schedule, kept warm on a heated tile; a wheeled cart by the kitchen door gave evidence of an early breakfast for the fishermen.
He poured a mug of coffee and took it to what they'd already claimed as their table, and sat facing the triple windows. In the way women were loath to travel with good jewelry, he had pondered whether to carry his Waterman. Carry it, said his wife. Vita brevis!
He removed the cap from the pen she had given him years ago, and opened the notebook to a blank page. He felt no haste. How seldom he'd sat without some pressing inclination, watching mist steam off a lake, sunlight coloring a far shore. Through a door open to the garden, the sound of a rooster crowing . . .
He warmed his hands on the mug and inhaled the oily, slightly sweet scent of dark roast. It was nearly impossible to trump a blank page, a good pen, strong coffee.
Dear Henry,
We are happy to be at Broughadoon and, as promised, I'll share our experience as faithfully as I'm able.
To quote a fellow guest from Dublin, there's 'a monstrous good view' from where I sit in the dining room of the lodge, c. 1860s. After the heavy downpour of yesterday evening, the morning appears to be fairing off, as we say in Mississippi, and the view reveals itself with shy satisfaction. Outside the windows, flower borders of considerable ambition, with a deal of old buddleia or butterfly bush, and three enormous beeches beyond. We were told last night at dinner that the beech grove consists of eleven such specimens roughly a thousand years old.
Further along on a gradual slope from the lodge, a wide sward on which I see something moving--a herd of deer, knee-deep in ground fog--thrilling to behold. Then the tree line of a darkly green patch of forest descending to the pewter sheen of Lough Arrow with its several small, uninhabited islands. Beyond are hills with a house or two, and low mountains lit now by the sun.
One finds certain useful words worn to a nubbin--which, as a poet, is a fact you well understand. I refrain, then, from using 'magical,' though that would definitely work. (When I was here ten years ago, we scarcely had time to look at the view, being out and about like chickens with their heads cut off, so there's a sense in which it all feels new.)
Have brought and am reading St. Patrick's Confession and the collected poems of Yeats, while Cynthia has a go at Patrick Kavanagh, the poet and novelist--no kin as far as I know. I wonder whether all you've been through in recent months has wrung any verse from you. If suffering wrings it, then you have much to say to us.
Sounds of movement in the kitchen adjoining the dining room. The smell of cooking. Good smells.
A door slammed somewhere.
Walter and Katherine delayed four days, so no immediate visit to the ruin of the fortified Kavanagh house (not a castle, though we like to call it one), or the cemetery where my--and also your--great-great-great-grandparents are buried. When W and K arrive with wheels, I'll tell you more. But be advised even at this early stage that the land of saints and scholars is greener than can be imagined. Which reminds me--Cynthia says she will put something on paper to send your way, a watercolor or two.
He stared out the window, searching the few houses on the opposite shore, thoughtful.
It is among the oddest experiences of my life to find now that someone shares my heritage, my very blood. You must tell me how it's going with you--this adjustment to having a brother. As for me, I like it very much, yet I shake my head often as if to clear it.
'There you are, have you seen her?'
'Ni fhaca, ar chor ar bith.'
Loud voices in the kitchen. Anna. Liam.
'Is scrios mor i--scrios agus michlu,' said Anna. 'I am broken by such willfulness.'
'Is e an gra a caithfidh si a fhail tar eis an rud go leir.'
'Caithimid go leir an gra a fhail ach ni tagaimid trid an gaitear ag lorg e?'
'Ta Bella ag pleidhciocht linn.'
'Ta Bella ag iarraidh muid a bhriseadh.'
'Nil, Anna, we mustn't be broken . . . ansin ni bheidh einne aici chun tacaiocht a thabhairt di.'
The sound of a pan or pot crashing to the floor.
'Now look what I've done. All that lovely rhubarb ...'
Anna weeping.
Liam spoke in a low voice, then said in English, 'For God's sake, I hope no guests are about.'
The kitchen door pushed open to the dining room; he met Liam's startled gaze. Liam moved to close the door, his face ashen. There was an awkward pause. 'Ready for breakfast, then?' Liam asked.
'I know I'm early. No hurry at all.' He felt a flame of embarrassment. 'Thank you.'
He tucked the letter into the notebook and adjusted his glasses and stared for a long time at the view, unseeing--at a small island forested with trees, at a yellow boat moored on its narrow shoreline. He got up and tried looking again at the Barret, but moving clouds obscured the light.
Liam entered with a tray, averting his eyes. He set a warmed plate on the white cloth, then a French press, a cup and saucer. The cup rattled in the saucer. 'I'm completely undone, Reverend. Please forgive us.'
'Not at all. I hardly understood a word you said.'
Liam removed the empty coffee mug. 'But you heard the boil in it.'
'Language barriers can't disguise feeling, that's true. But it's forgotten entirely.'
'Thanks. I think it's the first time we've blurted our business in the ear of a guest. It won't happen again.'
'Gone from my mind.' Not gone yet; he felt mildly rattled.
He stared with wonder at his breakfast. A pair of eggs with yolks the color of a Florida orange, surrounded by sausages, bacon, new potatoes roasted in their skins, a broiled tomato, thick slices of brown soda bread.
'A pot of raspberry conserve there, and that would be blackberry jam. The berries weren't so sweet this year. The rain.'
'Wonderful. Thank you.' He felt the tension in the air, wanted to dilute it somehow, but could not.
'Anna remembered you like rhubarb; we'll have it tomorrow morning. Did you rest, please God?'
'I did,' he said. 'Feel good, actually. The lag won't hit 'til tomorrow.'
Liam held the empty tray like a breastplate. 'I see you're writing a letter, we've stamps.'
'Thanks, I'll be using a few.'
'Do you fish?'
'Never got the hang of it, I'm afraid.'
'It's comin' on to a grand, soft day. If you need anything at all, there's a bell on the sideboard. We're after usin' bells here.'
'You may not see my wife until dinner. She'll be happy enough with the view and the work of one of your good poets. I'll take her breakfast up, if I may.'
'The full Irish, you said.'
'Correct.'
'I apologize again for the power being off. We usually get quicker service.' Liam paused. 'There's a good deal to apologize for this morning.'
'It's quite all right. Really. We're very happy.' He poured the steaming coffee into his cup. 'How do you make blood pudding, anyway? I always wondered.'
'You begin with a couple liters of blood--'
'Of course. Sorry I asked.' He managed a credible laugh.
The Jack Russell sat at the open dining room door, the shoe clenched in his jaws.
'What's the little guy's name?'
'Pud.'
'As in pudding?'
'Just so. Some call them puddin' dogs. He's the fourth breed off the early Jack Russell. Shorter legs, longer body. He's a pest, he is, no manners like the old Labs, but good about stayin' out of the dining room. Any bother to you?'
'None at all. We have a dog the size
of your sofa.'
'There's a law says hostelries can't have dogs about.' Liam cleared jam dishes from the fishermen's table. 'We've always had dogs about. They may haul us to the guillotine for 't, but they'll have to catch us first.'
He hammered down on the eggs, sopped bread in the yolks. 'Was it Irish you were speaking?'
''t was. As a child wanderin' these regions, I heard it often. My mother spoke Irish; my father loved hearing her speak it, except when she was angry; 't would tear th' head off a billy goat.'
Liam carried the tray to the kitchen door. 'Anna is fluent, did a devil of study in it. The last great remnant of our culture, some say.'
'A very different sound to it, I hope you'll teach us a phrase or two while we're here.'
Liam nodded, hesitated, then pushed open the door with his shoulder.
This was the first of only three such breakfasts he would allot himself in Ireland. He savored it to the final crumb.
P. S. I have just had the most satisfactory breakfast since boyhood, when the sausage was new-made in the fall and your mother fried up a panful.
The light is changing over the lake--no pewter now, but platinum tinted with crimson. Something moving out there, I like to think it's the three fellows who
Liam came into the room, rolling his sleeves down, buttoning the cuffs. 'I'll just be goin' to Riverstown in a bit. Post office, victualler, butcher, that sort of thing. It's my day off ...'
'Doesn't sound like a day off.'
'A day away from th' oul' grindstone. I wonder . . . with no vehicle . . .' Liam was tentative. 'I'd be happy to fetch something for you.'
'Thank you, very kind, can't think of anything. '
'Would you . . . be after comin' with me?'