In the Company of Others (39 page)

Forty-two

Their last hurrah.

‘The full Irish!’ Cynthia told Emily.

‘Make it two,’ he said.

Lorna Doolin was at the Aga this morning; she and Emily served them with a certain bravado.

‘Perhaps a mite long under the broiler, your tomatoes,’ said Lorna, using the short
a
.

‘That’s how we like them,’ said his agreeable wife.

Emily poured their coffee. ‘I read your books when I was a child,’ she said.

‘And how long ago was that?’

‘Ages ago,’ said Emily. ‘I found them really well done.’

‘Well, thanks very much. And you, Lorna, I hear you’re doing this two-week stint as research for a book.’

‘Hoping to refresh my lapsing memory of the innkeeping business. I’ve always wanted to set a murder mystery in a guest lodge.’

‘Nothing too bloody, I hope,’ said his wife.

‘Aunt Lorna loves blood and gore,’ said Emily.

‘Nonsense; I don’t like it in the least. It’s my readers who love blood and gore. Back to the States, then?’

‘First thing tomorrow.’

‘Will you want your fry?’

‘We must be out by six-thirty. Just coffee and fruit, thanks.’

‘I’ll have it on the sideboard at a quarter ’til six.’

‘We wish you well in your new occupation,’ said Cynthia.

‘I’ll relish it for precisely two weeks and not a moment longer.’

‘Running a guest lodge can be very taxing,’ said Emily.

They were off in the Vauxhall, the contents of the trug nearly overcoming the smell of motor oil and aging leather.

‘I thought Lorna looked confident in her hair cloud and borrowed clogs.’

‘Um,’ he said.

‘Whatever happened to child labor laws?’

‘Um,’ he said.

She gave him a look, itching for a clue.

‘You’ll get nothing from me, Kav’na.’

It was a morning the poets might easily call glimmering; their last morning of a full day in Ireland. In their time here, they’d seen very little, though somehow he felt they’d seen everything. It had been Blake’s ocean in a drop of water, a broad beach in a grain of sand.

‘St. Patrick’s Church, circa 1886,’ he said as they pulled into the car park at Ballyrush. ‘Aughanagh Parish, Diocese of Elphin.’

‘Tad’s church?’

‘Yes.’

An arched eyebrow, a knowing look.

‘You think you’ve guessed?’

‘I think so.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ he said.

He took the trug; helped her navigate the grassy maze among Rooneys and Rileys, Mitchells and Moores, McKinneys and McConnells.

They took their time gazing at inscriptions, she ever on the hunt for one to top his all-time favorite from St. John’s in the Grove:
Demure at last
.

‘Should be along here, I think.” He had a bit of chill up his spine. ‘Yes. Right here.’

She adjusted her glasses, leaned close to the old stone. ‘Cormac Padraigin Fintan O’Donnell, MD.’ She looked at him, beaming, then read on. ‘Born County Sligo October 28, 1810, departed this life December 12, 1887. Passed into the Care of the Great Physician.’

He held the trug. She took cosmos and rosemary and verbena and wrapped the stems with a vine and laid the offering on the green mound.

He made the sign of the cross. ‘For the many good works of Dr. Fintan O’Donnell, for his people and for Ireland—Lord, we give you thanks and praise.’

‘Amen,’ she said.

She moved to the mound beside Fintan’s. ‘Caitlin Alanna McKenna O’Donnell, Departed this life May 15, 1888. Healer, Protector, Devoted Wife and Mother, Generous Friend.’

She looked at him. ‘Mother?’

He extended the trug. ‘Save a few back.’

She took rosemary and verbena and wrapped the stems and laid the offering on the green mound and made the sign of the cross and prayed. ‘For the tireless and loving generosity of Caitlin O’Donnell in a time of trial for her people—Lord, we give you thanks and praise.’

‘Amen,’ he said.

He walked a few steps. She joined him, silent.

‘This one,’ he said.

She leaned to the stone and its crust of lichen. ‘Eunan . . .
Eunan
! The lad!’ And there came what really watered Ireland.

‘Keep reading.’

‘Eunan Michael O’
Donnell
! MD.’

‘There are Dooleys everywhere,’ he said. ‘Even in Ireland, in the old fled days.’

‘Did you bring a handkerchief?’

He dug it out and there it went, not to be recovered.

She was taking the remaining stems . . .

‘Save some back,’ he said.

She placed the flowers on the grave; he made the sign of the cross and prayed. ‘For the joy that Eunan O’Donnell brought Fintan and Caitlin, and for the opportunity you afforded Eunan to be of service to others—Lord, we give you thanks and praise.’

‘Amen.’ She shook her head, marveling. ‘Eunan! Doctor Eunan O’Donnell. This is the best.’

‘Let’s sit here a minute,’ he said. They took the trug and walked to the nearby bench, and sat in the deep shade of an old chestnut. The heat of the day was quickly coming on.

‘Thank you for doing this, sweetheart. How did you know?’

‘I have my sources,’ he said. ‘The stones are pretty revealing in themselves, but here goes. When Fintan died in 1887, the estate passed to their heir and adopted son, Eunan, who trained at Trinity College and became a surgeon in Sligo. Eunan and his family lived at Catharmore until his death in 1921, when it passed to Eunan’s eldest son, Fintan. This Fintan and his family owned it ’til Riley Conor bought it in the 1940s. Pretty derelict by that time. Anyway, turns out Eunan was quite the family man—fathered nine children.’

‘Nine! How scary and good. And how wonderful it must have been to hear children laughing in that house. Who did he marry?’

At Eunan’s grave, he read aloud the inscription on the adjoining stone. ‘Aoife Caireann O’Leary O’Donnell.’

‘Aoife!’

‘A,’ he said, feeling pretty happy about it himself.

‘He married A! Hooray for them! An older woman!’

‘By eight years.’

‘And nine children!’

‘Read on,’ he said, wiping his eyes on his bare arm.

‘Healer, Protector, Devoted Wife of Eunan, Loving Mother of Fintan Michael, Caitlin Cathleen, Kevin Barry, Ciara Aileen . . .’ She read to the end. ‘This is the best,’ she said again. ‘This is the best.’

He held the trug. She collected the remaining flowers, wrapped the stems with vine, placed them on the grave.

‘You pray,’ he said.

She made the sign of the cross. ‘For Aoife’s earnest spirit of truth, Lord, her kind heart, and her desire for the good of others, we give you thanks and praise.’

‘Amen,’ he said.

They stood on the grassy path for a time, holding hands, silent.

‘One more,’ he said.

Count fourteen stones, turn right, look left, according to Riley Conor’s notes.

‘You read,’ he said.

‘Michael Andrew Keegan of Cathair Mohr, County Sligo, died 1891. Faithful to the end.’

The Bride of the World was nowhere to be found.

At Broughadoon, they carried up the bit of lunch left for them on the worktable, and made a feeble effort to begin packing.

Cynthia gazed out the window, which was her way to jump-start the odious chore. He sighed and walked around in a state of confusion, which was his way to begin.

It was Bella at the door; Dooley was on the phone.

He felt embarrassed to have someone ever on the trot with his phone affairs. No doubt Broughadoon would be glad to see them go.

‘Has he always talked that way?’ Bella asked as they went along the stairs.

‘Which way?’

‘That sort of different, really funny way,’ she said in her own different, really funny way.

He laughed. ‘Always.’

‘Hey, Dad.’

‘Hey, yourself! What are you doing up at this hour?’

‘Callin’ from th’ hall, couldn’t sleep.’

‘Anything wrong?’

‘Hey, look, Dad, Lace and I are meeting you and Cynthia at the airport on Saturday.’

‘I was going to give you a call. How did you know we’re coming?’

‘Emma called, said you’d want me to know.’

‘You’re driving all the way from Georgia to meet us at the airport?’

‘Lace will be home for the weekend.’

‘Ah. Well. Can’t wait to see you. Thanks.’

‘I’m, like . . . thinking of giving her a ring.’

This train was moving. ‘You’re sure about that?’

‘I’m sure. But not . . . you know, an engagement ring.

‘Right. A little early for that.’

‘And not exactly a friendship ring, either. Any ideas?’

‘I gave Cynthia your Grandmother Madelaine’s rings, so can’t say I know much about buying jewelry. However, I do know this: If you’re going to give a ring, give a ring. Call Tiffany.’

‘When we talked before you left, you said a little money can be a dangerous thing, I should be careful at all times.’

‘In a case like this, picking the right jeweler is being careful.’

He savored the good news, but savored this nearly as much: Dooley Barlowe actually remembered something his old dad had said.

‘What about them apples?’ he asked Pud.

This small gazette popped out the blue in her eyes.

‘A ring!’

‘He’s just thinking about it, he said. And not, you know, an engagement ring or anything.’

‘Right. A little early for that.’

‘But not exactly a friendship ring, either.’

She laughed.

Déjà vu all over again.

There was the Darling Robe slung across her open suitcase. He reckoned he would never see the end of it; she would be buried with it, as Tut with his ostrich fan.

Best to make a feeble start at his own packing.

He pulled his three-suiter from beneath the bed, stood looking at it, mindless; moved to the chest of drawers and stared at whatever lay on the surface: three American dimes, six euros, two gold cuff links, a receipt from Jack Kennedy’s, her earrings, the strand of pearls, one brown sock, seven views of Ben Bulben.

He walked into the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror, fumbled through his shaving kit, went back to the room, gazed out the window. Sunlight striking the water. Sighed, went to the cupboard to pull out his extra pair of shoes, except there was only one shoe, not a pair. He flipped up the skirts of their wing chairs and looked beneath; hunkered down and peered under the bed.

‘Have you seen my other shoe?’ he asked when Cynthia came back to the room with a mug of tea.

‘Would this be it?’

She stood aside, and Pud trotted in, shoe in mouth.

‘He was in the hall with it, chewing like a puppy.’ She seemed pleased. ‘Well, I mean, think of his
age
, Timothy, and still
chewing
.’

‘Good grief.’ He made a lunge for the shoe; Pud escaped under the bed, shoe in tow.

‘Don’t take it from him, darling.’

‘But it’s my
shoe
.’

‘Yes, but it’s more than a shoe to him.’

‘I found his old shoe,’ he said. ‘I
gave
it to him, he doesn’t
need
this shoe.’

The raised eyebrow.

‘They’re my good loafers,’ he said, standing firm.

‘How long have you had them?’

He threw up his hands. ‘Twenty years. Twenty-five, I don’t know.’

‘Have you gotten your money’s worth?’

He remembered his good hat blowing off in a field as he drove with the top down from Holly Springs to Memphis—he had decided not to stop and retrieve it, it was only a hat, after all.

And of course this was only a shoe, and come to think of it, he might feel a bit of pride that his old-boy loafer from Mitford had replaced the prim pump from Cavan.

He yanked up the bed skirt. ‘
Okay
,’ he said to Pud. ‘
Okay
,’ he said to his wife.

‘Chewing a shoe,’ she mused. ‘Very relaxing, I should think.’ She opened her side of the cupboard, stared at the contents.

‘The robe,’ he said, not looking in that direction. ‘You’re taking it home?’

‘I was actually thinking of burning it.’

‘Great!’

She turned her gaze on him. ‘And scattering the ashes over the lough.’

‘You’re a drama queen, Kav’na.’

‘I was just kidding about burning it.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘So nice and soft, the Darling Robe—soft as the wings of a moth.’

He rolled his eyes, opened what he had used as a sock drawer.

‘Twenty-three years of blissful consolation, that robe . . . far too lovely to throw away, and such a deep, handy pocket—room enough for an entire sandwich—wrapped, of course. When we were living at the rectory and I worked at the yellow house, I often popped through the hedge in it, with a turkey and cheese on rye.’

The everlasting Ode to the Robe. He had lost the battle, and nothing was worth war.

‘In any case, Timothy, I’m leaving it as cleaning rags for Maureen.’

She let this gazette sink in.

‘And regardless of what you may think, she’s thrilled and so am I. And here’s the best part—a bit of something I love will be left at Broughadoon, which Maureen says will bring us back.’

‘God’s
blessin
’ on ye!’ he hollered. High-five and hallelujah.

‘Would it not be a beautiful thing now if we were just coming instead of going?’

‘Surely you jest.’

‘I rather like being in this family.’

He stuffed his socks in a side compartment of the suitcase.

‘After all,’ she said, ‘I never really had a family. All I saw was pushing and pulling between two people. In this case, it’s pushing and pulling among lots of people.’

‘I’ll say.’

‘Seamus is certainly glad to have this family, warts and all.’

‘Righto.’ Taking his shirts off the hangers.

‘Look at Miss Sadie—unmarried, and all those years thinking she had no family, and right down the street, Olivia Davenport, her very own grand-niece, who thought
she
had no family. And you wanting a brother and waiting seventy years to get one. And thinking you’d never have children but then a boy shows up on your doorstep . . .’

He folded a knit shirt; she thumped into the green chair.