In the Company of Others (18 page)

The patch of land he had made into a garden was famous in the town for the beauty of the flowers which he grew there.

Proud, he had gone to his mother, carrying the open book. ‘Look, Mama. Just like you.’

In an unforgiving north light from the wash-house window, she read the words he pointed out with his finger and nodded a little and smiled. He saw something then, for the first time—the lines in her face, and the unbearable thinness of her eyelids, blue and transparent as a moth’s wing.

He looked out to the flowering beds of Broughadoon and gave thanks for her life, then crossed himself and prayed for this household, his cousins on the road in the Flying Fiat, Henry and Peggy in the house with the swept yard on the road from Holly Springs . . .

‘Reverend.’

He turned to see Liam at the kitchen door, and made a gesture toward the dining room wall. ‘Well done, Liam.’

‘Seamus and I washed out th’ rollers around one o’clock this mornin’. Then the other walls looked so bloody grim, we’re after paintin’ th’ whole business when time allows. I hope you passed a good night.’

‘Good enough, thanks.’

The clock in the library chiming the quarter hour.

‘The painting came from our family quarters down th’ hall, ’t was hangin’ above our couch these last years.’

‘Not a Barret,’ he said.

‘Not a Barret, no.’ Liam joined him. ‘But Father loved it, nonetheless. He was a man after a nice touch to clouds, said most artists weren’t up to the job of th’ human hand or th’ heavenly cloud.’

‘Agreed. No signature, I see.’

‘It wasn’t so unusual for the time, leavin’ off th’ signature.’

‘How do you feel about having it on public view . . . the possibility of ...?’

‘This was always th’ wall for hangin’ his favorite paintings—he seldom hung them at th’ house ’til they had a good run here. I was after bringin’ the baskin’ whales from the library, but Anna said ’t would be too violent a scene for guests at their food.’

‘Very thoughtful.’

‘Blood on th’ water an’ all.’

‘Yes.’

‘But ’t wouldn’t seem right without something there, something he enjoyed. So.’ Liam shrugged. ‘I like to believe . . . I have to believe ...’

‘That it will be safe?’ The nail that sticks up gets hammered down, his father liked to say.

‘Yes. Our money goes back into th’ business for now, there’s none to be raked off to extra insurance. Will you have your fry?’

‘Think I’ll wait. I’ll finish my coffee, then maybe a run. How far around the lake, by the way?’

‘You’d not be back ’til th’ moth hour.’

‘Settles that. Any word?’ He hadn’t asked last night.

‘None. Corrigan’s working with Tubbercurry to see if there’s a connection to what happened here.’

‘Do you believe there’s a connection?’

‘I have a hunch, yes, about Slade, just some gut feelin’ I can’t explain. Whatever th’ truth, I feel better he’s under lock an’ key.’

‘Did the Gards do any looking around up the hill? Since the property adjoins ...’

‘They did. Thought the lane could have been a flight path, but found nothin’ a’tall. Queried Mother an’ Seamus yesterday—an’ Paddy, of course, when they caught up with him, he’d been in Dublin. Nothin’ to be learned there, as I could have told them.’

‘I suppose Corrigan thought of contacting art dealers.’

‘He says they’ve sent a teletype to th’ Garda in Belfast, Dublin—places with th’ big dealers, he says. His personal guess is that it might have gone over to England; they’re seein’ what can be done with that.’

‘I was wondering about Slade’s bank account, if there might have been some large deposit.’

‘All looked into. All a dead end. ’t is a right cod.’ Liam rubbed his eyes.

‘Sorry about Anna and Bella having to suffer the fair incident.’

‘Ah, Bella. Eighteen goin’ on forty.’ Liam heaved a sigh. ‘Seems a hundred years since I was eighteen.’

‘What were you up to at eighteen?’

‘Runnin’ wild as bindweed.’

He had been eighteen during what Walter once called ‘Tim’s sport with Peggy Cramer.’ He had been wild enough himself.

They looked out now to the massive beeches. A bird dived by the open doors.

‘The poker club says they’re leaving us tomorrow for Italy.’

‘Righto.’

Anna came up the path, not glancing their way, and entered the lodge by the door to the kitchen. He would stir himself, get a move on, but for the languor in his bones.

‘Rev’rend.’

In Liam’s voice, an anguish barely expressible.

‘Sometime, if you could . . . if you might possibly be willin’ ...’

A silence gathered between them; Liam’s breath was ragged.

‘Willing?’ he said at last.

‘There’s a thing pressin’ me like th’ Black Death.’

‘Would you like to talk?’

‘I would. Yes.’

Since a boy, he’d been called out of himself by the needs of others. He’d never known what to do with that until long after he became a priest.

‘We could do it now,’ he said.

‘Th’ travel club is off to Sligo today for shoppin’—no breakfast, they said, they’re after savin’ their calories for Italy . . .’ Liam ran his fingers through his hair, anxious—‘so there are no frys to be made but your own ...’

‘Cynthia’s good for a while, and so am I.’

‘Still and all, there’s th’ shutter by the front door that wants th’ hinge since spring, an’ turves to be hauled up . . .’

He set his mug on the sideboard, saying nothing. He was willing to let the matter drop.

Liam appeared edgy. ‘Feels strange to think about just walkin’ away when th’ notion strikes.’

He nodded.

‘But . . .’ Liam’s smile was sudden, unexpected. ‘I guess I remember how.’

‘The trick is to put one foot in front of the other,’ he said. He hadn’t realized until this moment that Liam Conor’s smile had a way of improving the air at Broughadoon.

‘I’ll tell Anna,’ said Liam.

A bright and pleasant morning with a grand, soft day predicted
. That’s what he would write if he were keeping a journal.

Twenty

‘We hauled these stones one at a time, on a sled behind Billy th’ horse.’

They sat on a gob of limestone, one of three deposited along the shore.

Liam slapped his arm. ‘Bloody August and th’ midges are out in hordes. My father used to blow pipe smoke into my hair to give me a bit of relief. He always liked a smoke by the lough; we had some of our best talks right here.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘When I was a wee lad, about fish. After bein’ confirmed, about girls. Before he died, we talked about fish again—not fishing, but fish; their feeding habits, and how it seems they have th’ human understanding at times, that sort of thing. I liked that.’

He had no access to this sentiment. As a boy, he wasn’t allowed to fish, and when he was old enough to do as he pleased, he lacked the yen. The only lasting image of the sport had come from his Grandfather Kavanagh’s counsel on what to do when you catch an eel. One of several tactics cited was to grab hold of it, cut its head off, and skin it. Another was stuff it under a bucket and lift up one side—when it sticks its head out, sit on the bucket. This kind of talk had put him off the notion of catching anything wet and slippery.

A breeze lapped the reeds. He looked for the swan, but didn’t see it.

‘Before he got too sick to walk about, we came down to this stone for th’ last time. He was quiet that mornin’, just lookin’ at th’ lake, th’ mist was risin’ off it. Then he said ...’ Liam looked away. ‘He said, Beauty is enough.

‘He said it as if talkin’ to himself. The idea seemed to please him. But I’m no philosopher—to tell th’ truth, I don’t know what he meant.’

‘Fathers are good at saying things we can’t understand. My dad’s last words were, He was right. I’d spent a long time by his bedside, talking of a God he never professed to know or care about, then drove back to school, believing he’d pull through. A man named Martin Houck came in after I left, an old enemy who caused our family much suffering. He spent a few minutes with my father and begged his forgiveness. When a nurse went in later, Dad was dying; he spoke his last words to her. Did he mean Martin Houck was right? Did he mean I was right? Did he mean God was right? One hopes for the latter.’

They watched two ducks dive onto the water. ‘Scaup,’ said Liam. Small waves purled against the shore.

He was quiet, at peace, waiting for Liam. ‘We must give th’ travel club a right send-off this evenin’,’ said Liam. ‘They’ve been dotes.’

‘That they have. Anyone else coming in?’

‘Not for a few days. We’re five percent over last year, but probably losin’ ground now, given th’ look of things in th’ news.’ There was the gray in Liam’s eyes.

‘Who’s coming?’

‘A woman from the States, and a niece or nephew, don’t remember which. Writes books, she says. I don’t trust people who write books.’

He didn’t remind him of Cynthia’s calling.

‘When th’ book comes out to th’ stores, there’s yourself in it lookin’ like an eejit, but with a fictitious name to keep th’ solicitors off.’

‘You’ve found yourself in a book, then?’

‘Not m’self, but it happened to Toby Gibson who lets cottages in Wicklow. They made him into an English lord durin’ the evictions—had ’im done in by an Irish gardener who sticks a hayfork in ’is ribs. Modeled th’ lord after Toby, clear to his waxed mustache an’ th’ receipt for his mum’s soda bread.’

They made small talk as Liam gathered courage.

‘Given what’s on your plate, I wouldn’t worry about showing up in a book.’

‘Aye, but I worry about everything, Reverend, ’t is a curse. On the other hand, Paddy worries about nothin’ a’tall. You said you have a brother. Are you anything alike?’

‘We’re definitely alike in our faith, in our taste for poetry—anything more remains to be seen. He’s a half-brother. We haven’t known each other long, scarcely two months.’ He saw the decaying barn outside Holly Springs, saw himself climbing the ladder to the loft, shouting Peggy’s name, busting a gut to find her, trying not to step on rotten floorboards that would eject him into the cow stall below, out of earshot of any living soul and maimed for life. Sixty years would pass before he discovered why his mother’s maid had left, saying nothing to anyone. He’d been devastated by the loss, unsure of himself without Peggy’s measured way of reining him in or letting out the rope, always at the right time; she had been his second mother.

Liam gave him a sharp look. ‘If I don’t say it now, ’t won’t get said. The only place I know to start is at th’ beginnin’.’

‘The best place.’

‘I’ve never confessed to a Protestant.’

‘I confessed once to a Catholic when I was a young curate; thought I might be struck by lightning. He was a wonderful man. Confession is for reconciliation with God, it has little to do with denomination.’

The muscle of Liam’s jaw clenching. ‘’t is likely William is my father.’

He wasn’t expecting this.

Liam raised his voice, as if he hadn’t been heard. ‘Anna may be my sister.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘I remember th’ oul’ people sayin’ you could tell whose young was whose, by eye color.’

‘I’ve heard that. It’s not scientific.’

‘Brown and blue make blue. Mother’s eyes are brown—William’s are blue and so are mine.’

‘Ah, but brown and brown can also make blue, and your father had brown eyes—if the portrait I saw is accurate. The eye color business is wildly uncertain—the only thing you can count on is that blue and blue make blue.’

‘My Christian name is th’ diminutive of William.’

‘There’s many of both in this country,’ he said, feeling a mild nausea.

Liam’s anger flared, a third party suddenly between them. ‘An’ here’s a known fact—William came home to Lough Arrow nine months before I was yanked bawlin’ into th’ world.’

Liam appeared to want something of surprise or condolence. He could give neither.

‘He’d never say so to me, but one of his claims to fame is bein’ swain to my mother when she was a girl—and who’s to say he wasn’t at it again when she was a married woman with Paddy just six years old an’ his ears big as pitchers? It appears I’m livin’ under th’ same roof with a man who makes me a villain in th’ eyes of th’ law an’ a heathen in th’ eyes of th’ church.

‘But th’ worst of it is, th’ man I loved as a father is but a man who raised an’ provided for me an’ talked to me about life as if ’t was a good thing instead of th’ bloody terror I see it as bein’.’

He’d heard the sound before, the upheaving of rage and grief long hammered down, loosed in a crucifying howl he found chilling. Liam pressed his hands to his face, sobbed.

There was no saying,
It’s all right, you aren’t making love blood to blood, your father is one of the sepia figures in a photograph, perhaps the one in tweed knickers holding aloft a brown trout.
He had no right to say what Anna had told him. Indeed, there was no saying that at all, for the truth, if that’s what it was, could be more mocking than the lie.

‘Jesus, Joseph, an’ Mary.’ Liam wiped his face with the palms of his hands. ‘I knew William an’ my mother had feelin’s for each other when they were young. I knew she hated his guts because he left an’ never came back to marry her. He was a proper stuke about all of it, or maybe he knew he was dodgin’ a bullet by stayin’ away. But nobody ever said he’d been back to Lough Arrow nine months before I was born.’

‘The nine months could be a coincidence. Where did this information come from?’

‘A couple of years ago, someone William knew in th’ past turned up at Jack Kennedy’s. He was askin’ about William, said he’d driven to Lough Arrow with William many years before. He remembered th’ date because his twin nephews were born while he was stoppin’ here.’

‘What do you know about the person who said this?’

‘Nothin’ more, he was passin’ through to Belfast. Paddy said when he heard it from Jack Kennedy, he flashed on a memory from when he was six years old, said the scene sprang on him clear an’ sharp as yesterday. He remembers comin’ on th’ two of them, Mother an’ a man on a bench Father set in th’ woods. He remembered th’ scar on th’ man’s temple, he said, an’ the odd nose.

‘Th’ man had his arm around Mother, he said, an’ they were talkin’. Somethin’ about goin’ away to Dublin an’ he would give her a fine house. She laughed an’ said she already had a fine house an’ that’s when Paddy marched up an’ demanded the arm be removed from his mother at once or he would knock th’ man’s head off. Paddy was forward like that—I would have run like a hare an’ brooded on th’ shock of it.’

‘You believe Paddy was telling the truth?’

‘Paddy’s ever stickin’ th’ blade to somebody, he’s like our mother in that. But I have a feelin’ I can’t shut away, that he was tellin’ th’ truth.’

‘And so Paddy gets the house, he gets the father, he wins. Is that it?’

He was sick of this Paddy-on-the-hill, king-of-the-mountain business. ‘Let’s say Paddy saw your mother with a man on a bench. And more than a half century later, he meets the older William who bought and moved into Broughadoon. There’s no way Paddy could have recognized the much older William as the young man on the bench all those years ago. Would you say that’s true?’

‘But there’s th’ business of th’ scar an’ th’ nose.’

‘Has anyone confirmed William’s presence in Lough Arrow nine months before you were born? Your mother? William?’

‘I don’t ask that. Maybe I don’t want to know.’

‘Does your mother know Paddy talked with you about it?’

‘No, he says. He remembers she scolded him as a lad, slapped ’is face an’ boxed ’is ears an’ said he’d seen an’ heard nothin’ a’tall. ’t was his imagination bein’ fervid, she said.’

‘Fervid? He remembers such a word as that from the age of six?’

‘’t is th’ word we always used for Paddy’s imagination.’

‘You said you worry about everything. Perhaps you’ve got this out of proportion. An arm about your mother is merely suspicious; you have no proof of anything more.’

‘I know my mother. I never saw any proof of her love for my father. She was a bloody shrew, and yet he loved her. I used to feel embarrassed for him that he loved a woman so hard in her ways. He was gentle with her, he made excuses ...’

‘Have you talked to Anna about this?’

‘There’s pressin’ enough on Anna without pilin’ this rubbish on. She was educated in a convent an’ has a proper way about religion—she would think hard of her Da, and God knows what it would do to us. ’t would be an upset of th’ worst sort.’

‘Perhaps you need to risk that upset, trust her to be brave enough to . . .’

‘She has upset in plenty; she’s ever havin’ to be brave, lookin’ after William—it’s herself that irons his shirts an’ makes ’is bed an’ cuts his hair—then there’s mixin’ it up with Bella an’ runnin’ this place an’ puttin’ up with me, for God’s sake. As for th’ Barret, she was always after insuring it for its full worth—I fought her on it, so there’s that, as well.’

It was a foolish question, but so be it. ‘Can you talk to your mother?’

Liam laughed. ‘You spent an afternoon in her company. You know there’s no talkin’ to my mother. I’ve had no peace, none a’tall; th’ heaviness of it comes between Anna an’ me sharp as any blade. I don’t know how to run from th’ truth like some people do—it’s always there, festerin’.’

‘What are your feelings toward William?’

‘I can’t see how to love him like a father, it can’t be done. I can never keep th’ anger down when I think of how he betrayed a good man with a bad woman. There’s th’ rare time when I do feel love for William—like a son, you might say, but then ’t is a blight on my love for Riley Conor, an’ I feel guilty as a thief an’ angry again at William’s fornicatin’ soul. What right did he have to my mother, I say, an’ all over again, there’s my fury risin’ up against my mother for her heedless ways. ’t is a dog chasin’ its tail, a cruel heap of rubble, all of it.

‘Maybe I was feelin’ some better, then came th’ cupboard business, as William calls it, an’ Garda swarmin’ th’ place, an’ all th’ rest ...’

Liam slammed his fist onto the stone. ‘God above, what’s to be done?’

‘Let’s start where you started. I believe the beginning needed here is forgiveness.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Peace is what it will take to release you from the bondage of this thing. Forgiveness is a direct link to peace.’

‘I don’t get your meaning.’

‘I mean you need to do some forgiving, Liam.’

‘For the bloody horror of th’ whole mucking business,
I
need to do some forgiving?’

‘Starting with your mother.’

‘For God’s sake, you can’t mean that—’t is a bloody Protestant joke.’

‘I do mean it. One must begin somewhere, sometime, to let go of the bitterness, or be eaten alive and the marrow sucked out.’

Liam looked away, angry, and stood down from the stone. ‘I can’t do this. Sorry for your time. Terribly sorry.’

Liam hurried along the shoreline, away from the path to Broughadoon.

He felt in his chest Liam’s crushing heaviness mingled with his own. Through carelessness or blunder, he had estranged a man who needed God’s wisdom, which was precisely what he’d offered. He believed what he had said; he hadn’t tried to wrap it in frill or poesy.

What George Steiner had called ‘the terrible sweetness of Christ’ was needed here. Grace upon grace was needed here. Three men were vying for the fathering of a single boy, and two of them more than enough.

He closed his eyes, breathed in the lambent air of the lough, tried to collect thoughts scattered like leaves before a gale. The grace to forgive Matthew Kavanagh had literally saved his life, his feeling life. What he hadn’t known was that it would have to be done again and again over the years. A nuisance, really, like the continuous labor required to keep a garden from running wild, or a bed made, or a machine oiled. Most often, the forgiving of his father had demanded an act of sheer will, there was nothing sappy or sentimental about forgiving a bitter wound, one had to go at it head down. Late in his forties, he had come awake to a key word in the petition, ‘forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.’