Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘Maureen McKenna, Rev’rend.’

‘A pleasure to meet you.’

She put her hand over her mouth like a child, dubious. ‘Mrs. Kav’na says I’m to call her Cynthia?’

‘Absolutely, she likes that.’

‘M’ husband’s youngest brother married a Kav’na from Wexford, and my great-grandfather’s second wife was a Kav’na.’

‘Small world.’

She beamed. ‘Did you like my drawin’, Rev’rend?’

‘Very, very much.’

‘Maureen, she says, I’m drawin’ your inner beauty, an’ I says, all th’ beauty I’ve got is th’ inner. Then she puts th’ oul’ hump in m’ nose, an’ I say, can you erase that off, mebbe? Ah, no, she says, ’t is a lovely hump. ’t was th’ same as lookin’ in th’ mirror, that drawin’. She made me a gift of it this mornin’, ’t will go in a nice frame over th’ telly.’

Mere wisps of pale red hair remained on her head, like the Velveteen Rabbit in its age.

‘Did we meet when I was here ten years ago?’

‘Ah, no, ’t was th’ death of me poor husband, Tarry, that kept us away then.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘’t is a lonely washin’ that hasn’t a man’s shirt in it.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘But I’ve never missed a day since. I was with Anna from the first, when she started out alone to fix the oul’ place. ’t was a ruin, Rev’rend. She was slavin’ for Mrs. Conor up Catharmore by day, and us workin’ down here in th’ evenin’ like menfolk.

‘Then Herself gave Anna th’ boot an’ Liam, God bless ’im, came with her. They were married in th’ library with all th’ rubble an’ plaster lyin’ about an’ their guests lookin’ through th’ roof at th’ blue sky. I said, ’t was open to God an’ all ’is angels for pourin’ down blessin’s on us. Aye, an’ they’ve poured down through bad times an’ good, with Anna’s gift for pinchin’ th’ penny.’

Tears pooled in her eyes. ‘Troth, she’s a queen, Anna Conor. An’ look at me jabberin’ when I’m after collectin’ your laundry.’

She held out the basket as one might present the wafer, there was grace in the gesture.

‘Cynthia says send th’ shirt you wore on th’ plane and your personals; she wants her wee bit in the top drawer, she says.’

‘The fishermen got away early, I take it?’

‘Oh, they did. An’ th’ ladies an’ their ghillies will be out all day to the Lung Valley, so ’t was a big fry this mornin’. Everybody was speakin’ of th’ terrible thing that happened to your lovely wife-please God, it shouldn’t ruin her holiday.’

He deposited Cynthia’s offering in the basket and rummaged on the floor of the armoire for his own bit.

‘Mr. O’Malley was searchin’ everywhere this mornin’ for ’is orange pullover with a hood, but surely nobody would steal such as that, he says. I thought mebbe he sent it down with ’is laundry an’ Bella folded it with th’ family wash, but ’t was no pullover to be found. Mr. O’Malley calls it ’is lucky fishin’ shirt, so we’re all on th’ hunt for ’t.’

‘And I’ve been tearing up jack looking for my cell phone.’

He delivered the Mobile Library and Snack Hamper to the patient, found Liam, took him up on his offer, listened to a tutorial on the idiosyncrasies of the vehicle, collected the keys, had serious second thoughts.

Then again, why not? It was a beautiful morning, cool as mid-May in Carolina, and what did he have to lose? He and Walter had talked about Katherine needing a backup driver, just in case. One thing was clear-he did not want Walter to be the backup driver. When Walter looked away from the road, as was his wont, the car veered in the direction of his gaze.

William sat by the fire studying The Sligo Champion, Cynthia was absorbed in the journal. A true library, he thought.

‘You’re looking fit this morning, William.’

‘Same as y’rself, Rev’rend. I hear you’ll be takin’ a turn in m’ oul’ clunker-she was a beauty in her day.’

‘I’ve decided to step up to the plate and drive like an Irishman.’ He jangled the keys.

‘Ye are an Irishman,’ said William.

He kept forgetting that.

‘’t is a grand, soft day for runnin’ about. Might I go with ye, then?’

‘Why, yes. Of course.’

‘’t isn’t th’ automatic Yanks are after drivin’, she’s a stick.’

‘I drive a stick at home.’

William collected his cane, buttoned his cardigan. ‘Your missus says she’s comin’ along with th’ ankle.’

‘She is. Dr. Feeney had a look this morning. She just needs to stay off the foot.’

‘We’re ruined entirely by such as that-jumpin’ out of cupboards at defenseless women an’ all. Anna, she’ll make it up to ye some way.’

‘No need. I’ll just say goodbye to my wife and we’ll be off.’

He wasn’t so sure about this.

‘Okay, Kav’na. I’m out of here to practice driving on the wrong side. Do you need to practice with your crutches before I go? You can’t sit there forever without moving around.’

Through the open window, the distant sound of a bleating sheep. She looked up in the dreamy way she had when her mind was elsewhere. ‘It’ll be three times in a half century I’ve raced around on the wicked things; I’ll be fine, just set them closer.’

He set them closer, leaned down, and kissed her. ‘Stay off that historic ankle.’

Anna came in from the entrance hall with a trug of purple iris. ‘Da,’ she said, anxious, ‘are you off somewhere?’

‘I’m goin’ with th’ rev’rend to help with ’is drivin’.’

‘I need all the help I can get,’ he told Anna.

‘Are you sure, Reverend?’

‘If somebody around here would just call me Tim,’ he said, mocking the wistful.

‘I’ve never-’

‘I know-you’ve never called a clergyman by his first name.’

‘Yes. I mean, no. Never.’

‘Try it,’ he said.

‘’tis th’ Protestants don’t mind th’ first name,’ declared William.

She took a deep breath, smiled her engaging smile. ‘Tim.’

‘See there?’

‘Put on your ones an’ twos an’ come with us,’ said William.

‘No, Da, I’ve got my work to do. Go and enjoy yourself.’

She pressed his hand, he smelled the faint scent of iris. ‘Have a good time, then, and come back safe, please God.’

They crunched over the gravel to a faded green vehicle unlike anything he’d ever seen, and clambered in. William sat with his cane between his knees, expectant.

He fumbled with the ignition, stepped on the brake, pushed in the clutch, fired the engine.

A cacophony of shrieks and moans, and they were off.

He glanced in disbelief at William, who was laughing, and tried to wrench the stick out of first gear into second, but could not; it might have been set in concrete.

‘You got t’ torment th’ bugger!’ William shouted over the roar and babble.

‘Pull back on ’t, ’t will squawk like ye’re strip-pin’ it. Are ye heavy on th’ clutch? Bear down!’

He bore down and wrestled the stick into second. Perspiration blew from all pores. Then, the gear grooved into its sweet spot and they were out of the car park and into the narrow lane.

Green fields furled away on either side of the track, the broad lake gleamed on their right. He got a deep breath, looked at William, laughed.

‘Runnin’ like a top!’ shouted his passenger.

The intense green of Ireland had become a cliché, he supposed, with all credit going to the goodness of rain. But it was composed of more, he reckoned, than a plenitude of moisture- something supernal was ever rising from the core of this ancient land carved by glaciers.

A goulash of gear rattled on the backseat-hubcaps, spare tires, a jumble of waders and Wellingtons, a jar of nails, a couple of salmon nets.