Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘Any morning traffic in the lane-to speak of?’

‘Maybe th’ lad as tends th’ deer comin’ in, maybe not. Can’t say.’

‘What about the steering?’ The wheel was behaving like a loose tooth.

‘’t is a lazy wheel, ye’ll have to show it what’s what.’

He should have taken a swing around the car park before setting off. When bombarded by other people’s agendas for his time and energy, he lost entirely what feeble mind he possessed. But that was all spilled milk and no use bawling; he was doing this thing.

Somewhere toward the end of the hedgerows, he did what he feared-ran too close to the masquerade of moss and ivy and struck the stone beneath. There was the horrific sound of scraping metal, as the side mirror was ripped from its hinges.

He killed the engine. The jet lag which he’d largely ignored, together with the upheaval of last night, crashed in. He had no strength even for humiliation.

‘I’ll replace it,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Ah, now, every dog’s a pup ’til he hunts. ’t is no matter. Crank ’er up an’ keep goin’.’

He cranked her up. Stuck the smashed and dangling mirror back on its thingamajig. Wrestled the stick into reverse. Backed away from the wall.

‘Hold it!’ shouted William. ‘Ye’ll be knockin’ off th’ taillamp. All right, now, pull ahead.’

He crossed himself. He pulled ahead. They were off.

Somehow-he didn’t know how-the whole equation started to work once they clamored past what Aengus Malone called the landlord walls.

‘I’m going out to the highway,’ he said, ‘if it’s all right with you.’

‘Go out!’ said the old man. In the strong morning light, William’s hair was a blaze of white fire.

‘Left or right?’ he asked.

‘Left!’

Once they hit asphalt, the rattle and bang of the thing had a kind of music, after all. The noise was similar to the effect of taps on a shoe-letting a man know he was alive, and breathing, and going where he had to go.

‘Hallelujah,’ he said.

‘Ah-men,’ said William. ‘An’ there’s a pub down th’ way.’

‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘Ah, no, for me,’ said William. ‘’t is a long month of Sundays since I drank a pint with th’ sun up.’

Roughly three miles on the wrong side, and so far, so good, he thought, as they topped the hill and pulled onto the gravel of the roadside pub.

They sat at the bar with the morning sun warming their backs through the open door.

‘I was a livin’ terror,’ said William.

‘I’d fight a bear if there be one about. ’t was a monstrous thing reared up in me as a lad. It frightened even m’self, an’ scared th’ wits out of th’ boys I roughed about with. When it came on, ’t would send ’em runnin’ home to their oul’ mothers.

‘I felt all th’ rage of Ireland in me, fierce to come out. I’d have been a happier man if it’d come out in farmin’ th’ land, or somethin’ more peaceable. My oul’ da used to say a bit he got from your man Virgil: If I can’t move heaven, I’ll raise hell.

‘An Irishman in those days had no chance of movin’ heaven, so a number of us tried the other device.

‘Back then, young an’ old still collected at th’ crossroads in these wild regions, to talk an’ joke and play th’ fiddle-but me, I’d go there to fight. I’d hardly a shoe to me foot those days, but all th’ while, th’ name of William Donavan was goin’ round th’ townlands an’ villages ’til th’ whole of Sligo knew it. Now an’ again, I was smokin’ grapevine an’ dinin’ off seaweed, but I earned a quid or two-an’ every man I fought, Irish or no, I pictured in m’ mind as English. ’t was the incentive, m’ father called it, an’ bedad, if it didn’t work most of th’ time.

‘’t was all a savage piece of business, Rev’rend, an’ a miracle I’m sittin’ here in your face today with these ears modeled off a cauliflower.

‘I was seventeen yares old when they promoted a fight as they had in th’ early times, though ’t was by then against th’ law to fight in such a brute manner. They went up an’ down th’ roads from Ballysadare to Curry, talkin’ it up. ’t was to be three rounds-one with swords, one bare-knuckle, one with th’ cudgels, as they did in th’ former century. My oul’ father called it cum gladiis et fustibus, he spoke the odd bit of Latin learned from my grandfather.’

William took a draught of his Guinness.

‘I’d handled a sword a good bit an’ it came easy enough. First round I made a deep cut to ’is left buttock an’ drew th’ blood they were lookin’ for; second, I done ’im up with my bare fists in three minutes. Third was th’ cudgels, an’ th’ most violent brawl a man could ever hope to see, m’self included. ’t was like I stepped out of me flesh, walked out of it like an oul’ overcoat and was fightin’ on th’ side of the angels. If it came to th’ worst, I said, ’t would be my own way of dyin’ for Ireland.

‘He dealt me a crushin’ blow to th’ ribs, I heard ’em snap like twigs, an’ th’ breath went out of me altogether. But I managed to deal him a blow to th’ knee. Smashed ’is kneecap, I remember th’ sound of it, an’ down he went.

‘Mother of God, I only did such as that th’ once, I niver did it again to any man. At th’ end, they were cheerin’ an’ liftin’ me up, a great bag of wicked pain an’ bleedin’ flesh, an’ ’t was William Donavan who won th’ match.

‘That one got th’ name abroad, an’ a cunnin’ man from Enniskillen to manage th’ all of it. It put a head on me, th’ uproar an’ blather-I was thinkin’ m’self next in line to th’ great John L. Sullivan. ’t was Sullivan who said when he started boxin’, he felt he could knock out any man livin’, an’ so did I.’

William hauled forth a handkerchief, gave his nose a fierce blow. ‘Th’ sinuses!’ he said. ‘From m’ nose bein’ broken th’ three times.

‘And here we went, then, to Bundoran, Long-ford, Roscommon, Ballina, Boyle, Carrick-on-Shannon-every place there was a man to fight, an’ th’ Irish were fightin’ men. Then there was Collooney-an’ ’t was in Collooney I met th’ woman I proposed to marry.’ William’s blue eyes were bright, as with fever.

‘William,’ said the bartender, ‘introduce me to th’ father.’

’t is no father, ’t is th’ Rev’rend Timothy Kav’na from th’ States. Meet Jack Kennedy.’

‘A pleasure,’ said the bartender.

‘Named for the Irish Jack who became our President?’

‘Ah, no, we’ve Jack Kennedys by th’ legions. Throw a cap in th’ air, ’t will come down on a Jack Kennedy one way or another. I hear you had a bit of noise at Broughadoon last night, some fellow in your cupboards.’

‘The bad news is th’ quickest to go round,’ said William. ‘How’d you hear such?’

‘From th’ Gards who came by for a bit of late supper. Any harm done?’

‘Only to th’ rev’rend’s lovely wife. Havin’ a man jump in y’r face at a late hour is harm enough, I’d say.’

‘Sorry to hear it. He’ll not be back, is my guess. I take it you’re stayin’ down the way, then.’

‘My wife and I are at Broughadoon for a week or two, yes.’

‘Fishin’, are you?’

‘No fishing.’

‘He’s learnin’ to drive on th’ wrong side of the road,’ said William.

Jack Kennedy had himself a laugh. ‘And how’s it goin’?’

‘Only one side mirror so far,’ he said.

‘Remember the old days, William, when you walked up and back from the lodge to have y’rself a smoke?’

‘Aye, an’ when a man had to step outside with his fag in a hard rain, I quit tobacco altogether. ’

‘’t was th’ smokin’ and drinkin’ laws gave us th’ hardest blow,’ said Jack. ‘For m’ father who opened this place, ’t was the telly as corrupted the pub system by keepin’ customers at home, and so we put the telly in the pubs an’ that helped bring ’em back, don’t you know, an’ things were lookin’ up-then along comes the punishin’ limits on drinkin’, an’ while they’re at it, they take away th’ smokin’ inside.’ Jack threw up his hands. ‘’t is one heavy blade after another.’