A Light in the Window (68 page)

“I think the world of Dooley!” said Miss Pearson, his music teacher. He had crept into her little house like a sneak thief, thinking he’d rather be horse-whipped than spotted by Myra Hayes, who lived only a block away.

“Yes, but he’s gotten in a lot of trouble, lately.”

“I know,” she said, looking forlorn. “But he’s working so hard and he’s so talented. I believe in him, you see. It would be grand if he could go away to a fine school and have all the privileges.”

“Mitford School is itself a privilege, but if we can... it will be for the best. Would you write a letter to whom it may concern?”

“Without question,” she said, immediately picking up her pen. “I’ll do it this minute. And Father... ?”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t tell Miss Hayes I did this.”

“Mum’s the word,” he said.

Louise Appleshaw would appear at the rectory the first Wednesday after school closed, and tutoring would begin at once.

He had talked with her on the phone, and though she certainly lived up to her reputation for being stern, he put his head down and pushed along.

She was the best, they all said, and he’d better snap her up at once or make do with leftovers.

He wrote a check covering the first three afternoons of tutelage and the books she required, mailed it, and put the whole thing out of his mind, greatly relieved.

Ever since he returned from Ireland, he’d been tripping over the sack of family records in his walk-in closet.

Who else would trip over a sack for better than nine months? The habit of procrastination was something he roundly despised, yet he was, as Coot Hendrick might say, “eat up” with it.

He dragged the sack to the foot of his bed and sat on the floor and opened it.

Postcards, old family letters trustingly lent by Erin Donovan, photographs given him by that dear old neighbor of Erin’s whose grandfather had known his...

He pored over the dim image of his grandfather as a young man, standing upright and unsmiling in the midst of a field, with a hunting dog at his heels. Was his own face forecast in the face that looked out at him?

He set it aside to show Dooley and Cynthia.

He rifled through the bag, glad to be in touch with all that he’d felt and learned in Sligo, the love that had poured in, and the kindnesses he’d been shown. He caught himself wondering if he’d done the right thing by Meg Patrick, but refused to wonder. Of course he had.

Who had she stayed with in Massachusetts? Riley Kavanagh? He’d always wanted to call Riley, who once sent him a book at Christmas.

Where was the bound document with the family names and addresses in it? At the bottom, of course. He pulled it out and looked up Kavanagh, then looked at his watch. The rates were just going down. Perfect.

He sat on the side of the bed and dialed.

“Hullo?”

“Hello, is this Riley Kavanagh?”

“Speaking.”

He introduced himself and reminded his cousin of the Christmas book, and they set off talking at a pace. He gave him the full details of the tea at Erin Donovan’s, trying to recall as many names as he could to satisfy Riley’s excited curiosity.

“And then of course, Cousin Meg has been here for... an extended visit.”

Riley let out a whoop of laughter that nearly deafened him, then shouted: “He’s got Cousin Meg! He’s got Cousin Meg!”

Hysterical laughter erupted in the background. He had never heard such uncontrolled hooting.

“Riley!” he yelled into the phone.

“Oh, heaven help us!” said Riley, gasping for breath. “You do mean the Cousin Meg who eats like a trencherman?”

“The same.”

“Room like a pigsty? Eyes like a barn owl?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How long have you had her?”

“Well, I ... she’s just left. Two months.”

“Two months!” Riley shouted into the background. “He’s had ’er for two months!”

More raucous, knee-slapping laughter, then he heard someone say, “Poor soul. How’s ’is blood pressure?”

“Riley ...”

“Forgive us, Tim. If laughter heals as they say it does, I’m a well man for life. You don’t know about Cousin Meg?” Riley blew his nose roundly.

“What’s to know?”

“What’s to know, he wants to know!” A veritable throng of eaves-droppers broke into convulsions. No wonder Cynthia Coppersmith had developed the habit of hanging up on people. They could be a blasted nuisance.

“God help us!” Riley said, returning at last to the conversation. “Where shall I begin?”

“At the beginning,” he said, tersely.

“Cousin Meg is a bloody fraud! She’s not even a cousin.”

“No!”

“Yes, indeed. Has a hookup with somebody in Sligo who lets her know which poor cousins have been stumbling around the local graveyards looking for their roots, and from all I can gather, she goes from so-called cousin to cousin without a bloody dime in her pocket. She’s a professional Irish cousin, you might say. But that’s not the worst.”

He was afraid to ask. “What’s the worst?”

“He wants to know what’s the worst!” Riley exploded with laughter yet again, which set off another earsplitting clamor in the background.

He tapped his foot, waiting, his face growing redder and his collar growing tighter. What the deuce...

“The worst of it,” said Riley, “is she’s not even Irish!”

“Not even Irish?”

Something began to bubble up in him. It was the strangest mixture of feelings. What in heaven’s name was it? It finally emerged and revealed itself.

It was laughter.

“Never set foot in Ireland, as far as we can learn,” said Riley. “Her hookup in Sligo mails those letters that say she’s coming, from over the pond. She made the rounds with four of us for seven months. You got off light.”

Once he started laughing, he couldn’t stop. In fact, he was rolling on the floor, clasping the telephone to his ear, and trying to find the breath to apologize—though, come to think of it, why should he?

June.

When he turned the page of the desk calendar and saw that four-letter word emblazoned across the top of the overleaf, he took a deep breath.

Hold on to your hat, he warned himself.

“Jis’ say yes,” said Puny, beaming.

“Yes,” he said, beaming back. “I’ll be honored to do it. But must I give you away entirely?”

“I keep tellin’ you I’m comin’ back!”

“I keep needing reassurance.”

“You’re a big baby.”

He supposed she was right, as usual.

He took the brooch to Wesley for cleaning and repairs.

He waited until the rates went down and called Tiffany’s, ordering two wedding gifts and taking the news of the total cost like a man.

He bought a rubber mask of a duck and hid it in his bureau drawer. As soon as Tommy’s headaches subsided, he had every intention of making him laugh like a hyena.

He tried to correct his tendency to procrastinate by jotting down a dinner menu for the bishop and Martha on the evening of the fourteenth, which would follow Puny’s afternoon wedding and precede the confirmation service and the bishop’s brunch—for which he’d recklessly promised to bake a ham.

He searched for free dates among the jumble of entries on his calendar, then called two schools and arranged visits. It was putting the cart before the horse, since Dooley hadn’t done the SATs, but there was no time to waste. He knew the boy could make the cut in math and had to believe the tutoring would bring him around in verbal skills. Getting him in the right school by fall was a seat-of-the-pants, wing-and-a-prayer deal, no two ways about it.

Finally, he apprised Dooley of some social obligations.

“We’ll be going to Puny and Joe Joe’s wedding and also to the Harper wedding and reception.”

“Mush.”

“In fact, we’re buying you a new jacket this very day. A navy blazer!” he said with pride. “You’ll look ...” He recalled the word the Collar Button man had used to sell him last year’s sport coat. “...
stunning.
”

“Double mush!” said Dooley.