by Jan Karon
'Any morning traffic in the lane--to speak of?'
'Maybe th' lad as tends th' deer comin' in, maybe not. Can't say.'
'What about the steering?' The wheel was behaving like a loose tooth.
''t is a lazy wheel, ye'll have to show it what's what.'
He should have taken a swing around the car park before setting off. When bombarded by other people's agendas for his time and energy, he lost entirely what feeble mind he possessed. But that was all spilled milk and no use bawling; he was doing this thing.
Somewhere toward the end of the hedgerows, he did what he feared--ran too close to the masquerade of moss and ivy and struck the stone beneath. There was the horrific sound of scraping metal, as the side mirror was ripped from its hinges.
He killed the engine. The jet lag which he'd largely ignored, together with the upheaval of last night, crashed in. He had no strength even for humiliation.
'I'll replace it,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'
'Ah, now, every dog's a pup 'til he hunts. 't is no matter. Crank 'er up an' keep goin'.'
He cranked her up. Stuck the smashed and dangling mirror back on its thingamajig. Wrestled the stick into reverse. Backed away from the wall.
'Hold it!' shouted William. 'Ye'll be knockin' off th' taillamp. All right, now, pull ahead.'
He crossed himself. He pulled ahead. They were off.
Somehow--he didn't know how--the whole equation started to work once they clamored past what Aengus Malone called the landlord walls.
'I'm going out to the highway,' he said, 'if it's all right with you.'
'Go out!' said the old man. In the strong morning light, William's hair was a blaze of white fire.
'Left or right?' he asked.
'Left!'
Once they hit asphalt, the rattle and bang of the thing had a kind of music, after all. The noise was similar to the effect of taps on a shoe--letting a man know he was alive, and breathing, and going where he had to go.
'Hallelujah,' he said.
'Ah-men,' said William. 'An' there's a pub down th' way.'
'Not for me, thanks.'
'Ah, no, for me,' said William. ''t is a long month of Sundays since I drank a pint with th' sun up.'
Roughly three miles on the wrong side, and so far, so good, he thought, as they topped the hill and pulled onto the gravel of the roadside pub.
They sat at the bar with the morning sun warming their backs through the open door.
'I was a livin' terror,' said William.
'I'd fight a bear if there be one about. 't was a monstrous thing reared up in me as a lad. It frightened even m'self, an' scared th' wits out of th' boys I roughed about with. When it came on, 't would send 'em runnin' home to their oul' mothers.
'I felt all th' rage of Ireland in me, fierce to come out. I'd have been a happier man if it'd come out in farmin' th' land, or somethin' more peaceable. My oul' da used to say a bit he got from your man Virgil: If I can't move heaven, I'll raise hell.
'An Irishman in those days had no chance of movin' heaven, so a number of us tried the other device.
'Back then, young an' old still collected at th' crossroads in these wild regions, to talk an' joke and play th' fiddle--but me, I'd go there to fight. I'd hardly a shoe to me foot those days, but all th' while, th' name of William Donavan was goin' round th' townlands an' villages 'til th' whole of Sligo knew it. Now an' again, I was smokin' grapevine an' dinin' off seaweed, but I earned a quid or two--an' every man I fought, Irish or no, I pictured in m' mind as English. 't was the incentive, m' father called it, an' bedad, if it didn't work most of th' time.
''t was all a savage piece of business, Rev'rend, an' a miracle I'm sittin' here in your face today with these ears modeled off a cauliflower.
'I was seventeen yares old when they promoted a fight as they had in th' early times, though 't was by then against th' law to fight in such a brute manner. They went up an' down th' roads from Ballysadare to Curry, talkin' it up. 't was to be three rounds--one with swords, one bare-knuckle, one with th' cudgels, as they did in th' former century. My oul' father called it cum gladiis et fustibus, he spoke the odd bit of Latin learned from my grandfather.'
William took a draught of his Guinness.
'I'd handled a sword a good bit an' it came easy enough. First round I made a deep cut to 'is left buttock an' drew th' blood they were lookin' for; second, I done 'im up with my bare fists in three minutes. Third was th' cudgels, an' th' most violent brawl a man could ever hope to see, m'self included. 't was like I stepped out of me flesh, walked out of it like an oul' overcoat and was fightin' on th' side of the angels. If it came to th' worst, I said, 't would be my own way of dyin' for Ireland.
'He dealt me a crushin' blow to th' ribs, I heard 'em snap like twigs, an' th' breath went out of me altogether. But I managed to deal him a blow to th' knee. Smashed 'is kneecap, I remember th' sound of it, an' down he went.
'Mother of God, I only did such as that th' once, I niver did it again to any man. At th' end, they were cheerin' an' liftin' me up, a great bag of wicked pain an' bleedin' flesh, an' 't was William Donavan who won th' match.
'That one got th' name abroad, an' a cunnin' man from Enniskillen to manage th' all of it. It put a head on me, th' uproar an' blather--I was thinkin' m'self next in line to th' great John L. Sullivan. 't was Sullivan who said when he started boxin', he felt he could knock out any man livin', an' so did I.'
William hauled forth a handkerchief, gave his nose a fierce blow. 'Th' sinuses!' he said. 'From m' nose bein' broken th' three times.
'And here we went, then, to Bundoran, Long-ford, Roscommon, Ballina, Boyle, Carrick-on-Shannon--every place there was a man to fight, an' th' Irish were fightin' men. Then there was Collooney--an' 't was in Collooney I met th' woman I proposed to marry.' William's blue eyes were bright, as with fever.
'William,' said the bartender, 'introduce me to th' father.'
't is no father, 't is th' Rev'rend Timothy Kav'na from th' States. Meet Jack Kennedy.'
'A pleasure,' said the bartender.
'Named for the Irish Jack who became our President?'
'Ah, no, we've Jack Kennedys by th' legions. Throw a cap in th' air, 't will come down on a Jack Kennedy one way or another. I hear you had a bit of noise at Broughadoon last night, some fellow in your cupboards.'
'The bad news is th' quickest to go round,' said William. 'How'd you hear such?'
'From th' Gards who came by for a bit of late supper. Any harm done?'
'Only to th' rev'rend's lovely wife. Havin' a man jump in y'r face at a late hour is harm enough, I'd say.'
'Sorry to hear it. He'll not be back, is my guess. I take it you're stayin' down the way, then.'
'My wife and I are at Broughadoon for a week or two, yes.'
'Fishin', are you?'
'No fishing.'
'He's learnin' to drive on th' wrong side of the road,' said William.
Jack Kennedy had himself a laugh. 'And how's it goin'?'
'Only one side mirror so far,' he said.
'Remember the old days, William, when you walked up and back from the lodge to have y'rself a smoke?'
'Aye, an' when a man had to step outside with his fag in a hard rain, I quit tobacco altogether. '
''t was th' smokin' and drinkin' laws gave us th' hardest blow,' said Jack. 'For m' father who opened this place, 't was the telly as corrupted the pub system by keepin' customers at home, and so we put the telly in the pubs an' that helped bring 'em back, don't you know, an' things were lookin' up--then along comes the punishin' limits on drinkin', an' while they're at it, they take away th' smokin' inside.' Jack threw up his hands. ''t is one heavy blade after another.'
'Saints above, Jack, you're exaggeratin' th' truth.'
'Th' truth, William, cannot be exaggerated.'
''t is savin' lives, if you read th' papers. We'll live longer to cheat th' devil.'
Jack laughed. 'You've a point, William, you've a point. An' never let i
t be said Jack Kennedy has th' tight fist. Your drinks are on th' house.'
'Ye never stood me a drink in me life.'
'You never came in with a rev'rend before, nor a man havin' a Diet Coke when he could have himself a pint.'
They were pulling out of the car park when he saw the bicycle moving along the highway at considerable speed. He braked for the bike to pass. Orange pullover, hood up. Rider sitting tall on the seat. Dark glasses. He waited for a time, staring after the southbound cyclist, then pulled onto the highway, confused for a moment about the side of the road he should occupy.
A couple of miles out, it dawned on him that this contraption would fly if you gave it its head. 'Where's the speedometer?' he shouted.
William pointed.
He whistled. 'Eighty miles an hour?'
''t is broke,' said William. 'More like forty.'
'You said your father spoke Latin?'
'Aye, a bit, and proud of it. My grandfather was a pupil in th' last of th' hedge schools where a lad got a proper education in th' classics. Of course, 't wasn't in th' hedges by then--'t was in a cow barn with th' stalls mucked out. Many a potato farmer in th' oul' days could quote your man Virgil. As a lad, I knew off a line or two, m'self.'
'Can you recite any of it?'
'Don't know as I can, but let me see, now.' William closed his eyes, bowed his head, thumped his cane in a long meditation. 'For th' love of God, 't is like scourin' for a needle in a haystack.'
'Don't fret yourself,' he said. 'I can read Virgil in Broughadoon's own library.'
'Here it comes!' shouted William. He threw his head back, eyes still closed.
'In th' dawnin' spring,' he orated over the clamor of the engine, 'when icy streams trickle from snowy mountains, and crumblin' clod breaks at th' Zephyr's touch, even then would I have my bull groan o'er th' deep-driven plough, and th' share glisten when rubbed by th' furrow.' William looked at him, nodded in triumph.
'Well done, sir, very well done. The deep-driven plough. The glistening share. Very fine.'
'An' that's th' end of it. 't would be squeezin' water from a stone to give ye another word. Are ye poet-minded, then?'
'Since I was a boy. I like the old fellows who wandered over hill and dale with their knapsacks. John Clare, Wordsworth, Cowper. My brother's a poet.' Speaking of Henry gave him an unexpected rush of pride, something like happiness.
He turned off the highway, into the long lane to Broughadoon.
'Where does your brother keep 'imself?'
'Outside Holly Springs, Mississippi. He's retired from the railroad.'
'I was after goin' to America as a lad an' ridin' your railroad. I had a mind to see Texas, but too late now.'
'Can't do everything, William.'
'Aye.'
'Were you at Broughadoon when I was here ten years ago?'
'Anna says I was off to visit my oul' brother, John, who passed two years back. I'm th' last of five, so.'
They were hitting the rain puddles pretty hard.
'You were saying you met a woman in Collooney. '
'Th' most beautiful woman you could imagine, if you was to imagine a woman.'
William was sullen for a time, gazing ahead.
'I promised her I'd come back an' marry her, 't was what I wanted above all else, an' she wanted it, too--so she said. But I was makin' a name for m'self, an' they were callin' for me in Dublin an' Wicklow an' Waterford an' all th' rest.
''t was th' agent after th' Enniskillen chancer had th' big dream, said he'd fashion me as th' modern Gentleman Jim Corbett. So he takes me an' m' swelled head an' we make th' crossin' from Dun Laoghaire to Angelsea, an' board th' train to London. I was feelin' royal by then, struttin' th' streets in me first pair of dacent shoes and money janglin' in every pocket.
'But I should've stuck where I was, Rev'rend, for then they ran me up to Scotland for a full two yares, which is where I got th' lovely nose I'm wearin' an' th' scar on me forehead. Mother of God, th' Scots were a brutal lot.
'I was niver much of a drinker, I'd like ye to know. Love of th' drink is th' curse of th' land--makes a man shoot at 'is landlord, an' makes you miss 'im.
'Instead of leakin' me money away, I was savin' for a cottage--on a hillock proud of a little bogland, where a man might raise a family. I remember I could see it plain as day--a bench by the door an' a byre to th' side, and a clock with weights an' chains.
'Wherever I was, I would go out in th' night and look up at th' great swarm of th' Milky Way an' talk to th' heart of th' girl in Collooney. Aye, an' she would talk to me--not in a voice you could hear outright, but I felt th' sweetness of it in my blood, an' I'd tell her to wait for William Donavan. Wait for me, lass, I'd say, I'm comin' back.'
'And did you get back?'
'Ah, no, not for seven yares.' William gave him a fierce look. 'She was married to another.'
They passed the cow barn with its single blue shutter.
'I don't know much, William, but I do know this: Talking to the stars will not get the job done with a woman. I can personally vouch for it.'
William's face was dark with memory. 'The oul' termagant,' he said.
Nine
'Didn't know if it was worth mentioning,' he said, 'but there you have it.'
'Tall, you say?' Liam's blue eyes had the gray look.
'Yes.'
'And thin.'
'Very.' Ichabod Crane personified.
'Riding a black bike.'
'Yes.'
'Would there have been a basket at the rear?'
'There was, actually.'
'God help us.'
'Someone you know, then.'
'Jack Slade. Th' blaggard I booted off th' job. He worked up at Paddy's a few times, that's how I found him. I had a hunch about him, figured he was using drugs of some sort, but there's a lot of that in th' trade.' Liam rubbed his forehead. 'I turned a blind eye to 't because he was a star at th' coping.'
'He was wearing sunglasses, if that means anything.'
'He worked in sunglasses, almost never took them off. I'll call th' Garda, see what they think. Which direction was he headed?'
'South.'
'He has a place a few kilometers south. Did he see you, look your way? He would have recognized the vehicle.'
'He may have seen us as he topped the hill, but no, he didn't turn his head our way. O'Malley's shirt is still missing, I take it.'
'We tore the place apart this morning. Nowhere to be found.'
He wouldn't mention his cell phone yet--he wasn't absolutely certain he brought it. 'Any word on the fingerprints?'
'They said it could be a while--a lot of latent fingerprints from previous guests. I know a detective at the Garda station in Riverstown, a fellow named Corrigan. I'll give him a call with this.'
'Another piece of bad news,' he said, handing over the keys and hating the remorse. 'I drove too close to the wall and ruined the driver's-side mirror. I'll replace it. I'm sorry.' He couldn't remember so many regrets being exchanged in such a short span of time.
'If that was all the bad news to be had around here, I'd be dancin' at th' crossroads. How did it go?'
'Always the silver lining, as you say--I think I nailed it. But--we met only eight or ten cars on the highway and nothing in the lane, so no great challenge.'
Liam managed a smile. ''t is what's in th' lane that makes th' Irish driver. Have another go, anytime. William behaved himself?'
'We made a short visit to Jack Kennedy. Hope that was all right.'
'Aye, William will be talkin' about it for days.'
'I'll need to use your mobile to call New Jersey.' He checked his watch. Still a bit early. 'Will pay for the call, of course. Can't seem to find my cell phone.' For all he knew, it had gone the way of O'Malley's pullover.
'I'll call th' Garda. Let me know when you're after usin' my mobile, and thanks for being buggered into the bridge game. Feeney's without mercy when it comes to scaring up a fourth. I'll drive you up a half-hour
early tomorrow, if you don't mind. Seamus is after givin' you a tour of the place.'
'Perhaps my wife could come along, just for the tour?'
'Ah.' Liam closed his eyes a moment. 'My mother doesn't care for attractive women, and your wife is a very attractive woman. If we could wait 'til another day--when Mother's havin' her drop-down, as she calls it, I'm sure we can work something out. God's truth, my mother's a terror.'
Liam fidgeted, uneasy.
'And Rev'rend . . . if you could possibly wear a tie tomorrow ...'
'I would normally wear a collar.'
'Ah, God help us, she likes th' Protestant cleric to wear th' tie.'
'Not this Protestant cleric.' He said it mildly enough, he thought.
Buying time, he browsed a recent Independent, then rang Walter. Hurtling through midtown Manhattan in a cab at seven A.M., his cousin expressed dismay over the peevish star this trip had come under; he and Katherine were nonetheless looking forward to connecting at Broughadoon and reworking the schedule; and love to Cynthia who would be in their prayers, God bless 'er.
He hailed Maureen as he came along the stair hall. 'How did our patient get on while we were out?'
'Bella was after givin' her a hand, but she went up th' way she came down, except in reverse! She's a dote, she is, an' no wonder, with a drop of th' Irish in 'er. I've just done a good cleanin' on th' side she goes up an' down, to keep th' dust off her skirts. How was your drivin' lesson?'
'We made it in one piece.'
'I hear Jack Kennedy stood you a glass.'
'He did.'
'Did Liam tell you we've a big surprise for th' guests tomorrow evenin'? Cynthia says she's up to it, if th' rev'rend is.'
'Consider it done, then.'
She was sleeping, curled like a cat beneath the comforter, the armoire door open, the window closed. He undressed and crawled in beside her and was out like a light.
He woke when he heard her cry out in her sleep, and rolled over and put his hand on her shoulder. 'It's all right,' he said.
She turned to him; he was alarmed by the look on her face.
'The man . . .' She covered her face with her hands.