In the Company of Others

by Jan Karon

  Christmas is nigh, I say. Shall we send Keegan for the lad?

  She takes the brush in hand once more & looks at me in the mirror.

  Send word to Padraigin, she says, that the rooms they used are under repair--we can take only Eunan. Tis true, for I am having the wallpaper put up in those rooms.

  I say nothing of the probable expense, as she never spends a bob on anything, including herself.

  We'll have a fine Christmas, I say, feigning enthusiasm. Roast geese & bacon & sausages of our own & the Port that came over from Uncle.

  And garlands of holly, she says, for the stair rails. And a fire in the front hall & a Yule log.

  She turns on the bench & fixes me in her gaze & then she smiles. I cannot reckon the last time I saw her smile. The air is suddenly quickened & my heart roused from its long stupor--the thought of Christmas becomes real & beautiful to me.

  Your sister, I say, would she come?

  Fintan! Oh, yes, I think she would. What a wonderful idea. And your brother Michael--would he come?

  He doesn't get about, I say, without Kathleen.

  But we shall have your niece, too, of course. How gay it will be!

  The wallpaper, I say.

  We shall delay it til spring.

  And beds! I say, as we have none but makeshift for those quarters.

  She thinks & soon says, O'Hara the casket maker!

  Of course! O'Hara makes beds for the dead & the living. I determine to see O'Hara tomorrow & post a letter to Michael & one to Padraigin to tell him Keegan is coming.

  We must do something for the lad, I say, something grand. A pony or such as that, shall we?

  She is laughing. Oh, yes, she says, Yes! And Father Dominic, as well, we must have him out for the Christmas feast.

  I move quickly about the room to disguise the trembling which comes from a terrible gladness & desire. I step to the window & look away to the lough bleached by a Winter moon & know I can no longer bear to contain such strong feeling. I go to her & lean down & kiss her yielding mouth & sink to my knees overcome with gratitude. I hold to her & we weep like children with a joy never before known to us.

  Some time in the night, he dreamed of a pony.

  Twenty-nine

  'Cassie Fletcher,' she said, extending her hand.

  'Tim Kav'na,' he said, taking it.

  She eyed his collar. 'Father or rev'rend?'

  'Father in the States, reverend here. Dr. Feeney says you're the one for the job.'

  'I've done th' same for my da and a few others.'

  He liked this bony, wryly attractive woman with the dry palm and fierce handshake.

  'I hope you don't mind th' look of a hematoma, ' she said. 'We must keep the covers off it.'

  'I've seen a few.'

  'She rested well enough last night, but the pain is fierce even with th' meds. She's after seein' you but it musn't be long, Rev'rend.'

  'I won't stay.'

  'She's had a bad go, comin' home only yesterday from hospital an' all.'

  'Of course.'

  'Just a warnin'--the tremors have begun and th' nausea. There's worse ahead but we count our blessings today.'

  She led him by Paddy's closed door, and into the darkened room.

  The sight of her was jarring--the splint, the cast, the grossly swollen leg with its hellish purpling, the anguished plea in a face grave with shock.

  The old Lab came to him and sniffed his pant leg.

  'Mrs. Conor.' He wanted to touch her, it was instinctive, he always touched the suffering, but her injuries were many. He stooped and scratched Cuch behind the ear.

  'Is it you, then, Rev'rend?' Her voice a vapor.

  'It's Tim Kav'na, yes.' He pulled the chair close to the bed, sat down, saw the tremoring in her fingers where cast and splint gave way.

  She did not look at him, but stared at the ceiling. 'I have one question and one only.'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  'Can I do this?'

  'You can do this,' he said. 'With God's help.'

  'I do not seek nor expect help from God. Keep him out of it. Answer me. Can I do this?'

  'As for keeping God out of it, you're asking the wrong person. With that in mind, however, my answer is yes. You can do this.'

  'Are you lying to make me feel cozy, as they say?'

  'I don't believe anything could make you feel cozy just now, least of all a lie.'

  She flinched, said something in Irish, licked her dry lips. 'Tis a brutal punishment being unable to lift one's arms, unable to dress oneself. One must do one's business in a pan and shout for another to scratch one's nose.

  'Nor is there anybody to comb my hair in a sensible fashion. Think about it, Reverend, and tell me how you would feel in such a case.'

  'With so little to comb, Mrs. Conor, I'm hardly the one to ask.'

  She closed her eyes against him. 'You're a difficult man.'

  'You're a difficult woman, enormously stubborn, from all I've observed, and full of grit--just two of many reasons I believe you have what it takes to do this.'

  She caught her breath. 'A scalding pain,' she said. 'My God.' Sweat shone on her face.

  He stood to leave, whatever professional poise he had, shaken.

  'Water,' she said.

  A glass of water with its bent straw was on the bed table. His father, his mother, his Grandpa Yancey, his grandmother, all had sought the bent straw in their suffering. He held the straw to her lips, she sucked, and nodded it away.

  'One glass of gin and 't would be over, this wretched nausea and trembling like an ould woman--they say it's the instant cure . . .'

  Her unbound hair was dark against the pillow, the streak of silver more startling than he remembered. She was panting now, her words hard-won.

  '. . . but I thought to combine all the torment into one living hell. One doesn't wait for sunshine and roses to do a hard thing, Reverend. I know how to suffer; I have suffered all my life. Life is but one long suffering.'

  'Sometimes we grow too fond of our suffering, ' he said. 'We count it too dear and it becomes exquisite, the holy of holies.'

  'Answer me again.'

  He met the pale ferocity of her gaze, measured his words. 'You can do this.'

  Fletcher was waiting near the door. 'You're white as any sheet,' she said, raising an eyebrow.

  'Scary business.'

  'Oh, aye. Tell me about it. But that's nothin'. That's your comedy show you just had, compared to what we'll see this evenin'.'

  'I wouldn't have your job.'

  She raised the other eyebrow, grinned. 'Nor would I have yours, Rev'rend, believe me. Not with all th' antics your Church is up to in th' States.'

  That was his laugh for the day.

  Seamus was waiting in the kitchen.

  'I spoke hard to her, Seamus.'

  'Joseph an' Mary,' said Seamus, stung by this.

  'I don't know why, exactly.'

  'What did ye say, for all that?'

  'I told her she was stubborn, enormously stubborn.'

  'Aye, an' you told th' God's truth, it's just that your timin' was off.'

  At Broughadoon, he changed clothes, ran along the lake path, but no time for the Mass rock expedition. Back at the lodge, he shared a late lunch with Cynthia, their bed a picnic blanket.

  He gave her the full report from Catharmore. 'Your turn now,' he said. 'Tell me everything.'

  'I've been thinking how we'll never have this time again, that it's come to us as a gift, though maybe we don't know how to open it.'

  'I think we've opened it and we're unsure of the contents,' he said.

  She laughed, spooned creme fraiche into her bowl of fruit.

  'You're an amazing woman, Kav'na. But I worry about you. No tears, no lashing out at the unfairness of life. You're a better man than I am.'

  'Oh, but I did go nuts, Timothy, the day you and Liam went to the lough I completely lost it, but there was no pleasure in it. Remember me, sweetheart? I'm the girl who tried to t
ake her own life. Since then, life has looked pretty good--I've learned that, if nothing else. Besides, I'll probably never do this again, loll about like the queen of the Nile. I've surrendered to it; it is what it is. I can't even apologize anymore, to you or anyone else.'

  'That's an achievement.'

  'And I'm not sorry at all to miss days of popping in and out of hotels, packing and unpacking. '

  'It's the long confinement I worry about. You're not the woman for it.'

  'I have company all the time. Anna, Bella, and now Maureen, our honey in the rock, and Irish poets from the sixth century to Seamus Heaney--Between my fingers and my thumb, the squat pen rests . . .'

  'That's everything you have to tell me?'

  'And there's the wonderful view of the lough and the dear old beeches for company, and think of all the sleep I'm getting.'

  'Yes, but is that everything?'

  'As soon as we get home, I'm going to start another book.'

  He took her hand and kissed it.

  'That's my girl,' he said.

  When he delivered the tray to the kitchen, he heard the fiddle. Close by, he thought, listening. In the lodge. Yes. The music was coming from Ibiza.

  He went up to the library and rifled through a stack of magazines. A cover feature on the Irish rose garden. Worth a look. He wondered about his own roses in their double-dug beds at the yellow house, and the many he had planted at Lord's Chapel. What havoc had the beetles wrought? And the black spot? Had Mitford gotten enough rain?

  'I don't need to know,' he said aloud.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  He turned around and looked behind him. It was the writer with the cloud of hair, hidden by the chair wing. He saw a lap with a book in it, her feet in the odd shoes.

  'Sorry,' he said, embarrassed. 'I've been driven to talking to myself.'

  'And what drove you there?' she asked.

  'Ease and indolence. I've done next to nothing for days on end!'

  'I should like very much to be driven somewhere, anywhere, by Ease and Indolence rather than Stress and Striving. I'm just off a book tour. A grueling business.'

  'I'm sure. Mystery? Romance?'

  'Both. Romance is, after all, a mystery.'

  'I'll say.'

  He wondered if he should get up and go around where they could talk face-to-face. But he rather liked looking at roses climbing a stone wall in Kerry while speaking with someone he couldn't see.

  'Is that Tim, the clergyman?' The sound of pages turning.

  'It is. And is that Lorna Doolin, Irish-American from Boston, born in Houston?'

  'The very same.'

  'Your niece is a wonder.'

  'Honor student. Plays the harp. Raises corgis. Now busy cataloging the flora and fauna of Lough Arrow.'

  'Good gracious!'

  'You're from the South.'

  'Mississippi. My wife is from Massachusetts.'

  'Do you like being married to a Yankee?'

  'I do,' he said. 'This particular Yankee, anyway.'

  'I married a Yankee once.'

  'Aha. Here to do some fishing?'

  'Heavens, no. Here to escape the rigors of reading my reviews. They're mixed, to say the least. Are you a fisherman?'

  'Never got the hang of it.'

  'I must take my niece out tomorrow with a ghillie--she has the most insatiable curiosity. I, of course, shall be entirely out of my element. All I've ever done is muck about in words--except for two years of managing an inn in New Hampshire. If you ever wish to give yourself a bad back, irritable colon, and possibly a stroke, well, then, manage an inn. I'm off for a walk.'

  He heard her close the book, lay it on the table. 'It's been lovely seeing you--in a manner of speaking.'

  'Yes, yes, very pleasant.' He stood, hoping to shake her hand or something civil, but she was already across the room and entering the stair hall.

  Catharmore's complaints were writ large on every face at Broughadoon--Anna, Liam, Maureen, Bella, William, all were quiet as they went about their tasks in the evening. Liam was sobered yet again.

  In a move, he presumed, to restore jollity to the Broughadoon board, Anna seated all guests together at dinner: the three generations of Sweeneys, the author, the niece, and himself. But he was the sore thumb, unable to withdraw his thoughts from the family's concerns. He realized he didn't feel like a guest anymore. He left the table before dessert orders were taken, and went into the kitchen.

  'May I give a hand?'

  'Ye're an oul' dote!' said Maureen, as if she'd been expecting him. 'Ye could help with unloadin' th' dishwashers, as the next course gives us another load.'

  Anna looked up from arranging the dessert tray. ''t would be a feirin,' she said.

  No one was pushing him out, or requiring him to remain a guest. Yet every string was taut, he could feel it.

  Liam jiggled something in a pan on the Aga. 'I'm finishin' the dining room paint job tomorrow, if you'd care to join me. Around noon, if you're about. An hour or so, an' it's done.'

  'I'm in,' he said.

  Out there was the world, in here was something better.

  At two-thirty in the morning, the knock came. He knew without being told.

  'I'll be right down.'

  He dressed in the bathroom, and picked up his prayer book on the way to the door.

  'Stay,' he said to Pud.

  Thirty

  'I pray th' worst is over--for th' night, anyway.'

  A barefoot Fletcher appeared in the hall, a wraith in a white nightgown. 'She's burned our ears off shouting at God, givin' him th' devil if I ever heard it. I was lookin' for lightning to strike th' place.'

  'What can I do?'

  'Eileen's with her, an' Seamus is up if you'd like tea. I'm telling you, Rev'rend, even with th' lorazepam, her mind is a steel trap, I've never seen its equal in an old lady.' The nurse drew her hands through her hair, looked at her night-dress, her bare feet. 'Excuse my getup; round here, we must hit th' floor runnin'.'

  'Liam said I was wanted. Has she asked for me?'

  'She's been askin' for you, yes, we hated to rout you at such an hour.'

  'No rest for the wicked, as we say back home. Perfectly fine. Paddy?'

  'Dr. Feeney packed him off drunk as a lord an' blubberin' like a babby. Some gosser from Jack Kennedy's came for him.'

  'Blubbering because he didn't want to leave?'

  'Oh, no, he wanted to leave, for all that, I don't know why he was blubberin'. Th' drink does that with some, you know.'

  'Dublin?'

  'That's th' plan.'

  'Anything else going on?'

  'Until a bit ago, it was weeping an' gnashin' of teeth like in th' book of Revelation--my uncle told me all about the end times, which he shouldn't have done as I was a nervous child. Talkin' out of her head, calling for her mum an' sisters enough to break your heart. And God above, th' screamin' she can do. It elevates th' pain, but she does it anyway, to see how much she can dish out to herself.'

  'How are you getting on?'

  'Even after what I went through with my father, it still scares th' daylights out of me. 't is like the devil himself gets loose. But I'm fine, I'm keepin' up. Eileen goes on short hours soon, her brother's in a bad way; I'll be th' one-armed paper hanger for a time.'

  'Is she sleeping?'

  'She slept for a bit after wearin' herself out, but she's awake now, has something to ask you that's agitating her. If you don't mind, Rev'rend, I'll just try an' catch a wink, as God knows I've had none. There's Eileen if you need her, and Seamus. Overlook th' smell, we got a bite down her an' back it came an' more. We'll air out tomorrow.'

  A single lamp burning. Eileen in a chair by the door, Cuch sleeping. He stepped into the room.

  'Eileen.'

  'Yes, mum?'

  'You may leave.'

  The nurse left at once.

  'Reverend.'

  'Yes, Mrs. Conor. I'm here.' The desperate panting; her reddened fingers thick with swelling.
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  'Call me Evelyn. Everything must be simplified now.'

  The ghastly leg uncovered. He pulled the chair up and leaned close, as if offering fire to a cold hearth.

  'You can do this,' he said.

  He was gripped by the look of her, as if she were going away to nothing, would be but an impression on the pillow the next time he came. And yet her will was there, he felt the iron of it.

  'I have a question,' she said.

  'I'm listening.'

  'Something happened tonight.' Her finger movement rapid. 'After all the promises to myself that I could do this, I felt I couldn't bear it, after all. The agony was overcoming; I knew I was dying. I wanted to die. If I could be said ever to pray, then I prayed I would die.

  'But I didn't wish to pass until I told God what monstrous evil he is and how he had fooled so many but not myself, not Evelyn McGuiness, no, he could not mock me. I emptied myself of my last strength--with everything in me I obliterated him, I erased him from the heavens.'

  Her quick breath stirring the sour air.

  'There was nothing left then of either of us, I thought I had died. But I had not died, as you see. What I thought was death was a peace such as I've never felt or believed possible. It was completely strange to me, and cannot be explained. I knew it had nothing to do with God, for God was dead, I had killed him in retribution for the many killings he has laid upon me. The peace did not pass quickly, as I believed it might. I thought, if this is dying, then I am not afraid to die.'

  'Don't die,' he said, simply.

  'There's no reason to live. I only wished to live as proof I couldn't be made to die.'

  'You must rest, Evelyn. You must give yourself time to heal.'