Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘Is there anything Mrs. Kav’na doesn’t love?’

Her tone was chilling, he felt the venom in it. ‘Men jumping out of cupboards would be one,’ he said, seizing the tray.

In their room, he set the tray on the foot of the bed.

‘Love her if you like, but leave me out of it.’

She was clearly amused. ‘She’s a terrible pain.’

‘Man,’ he said, quoting Dooley. He needed to get out of here-be a tourist, see a castle, anything. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to get a room in Sligo? We can call Aengus Malone to drive us.’ He’d be happy to dodge running up the hill tomorrow to the den of a fire-breathing dragon who devours Protestants and sucks the marrow bones.

‘Calm down, sweetheart. She’s testing us. She’d be thrilled to know she’s upsetting you like this.’

‘What happened to her, anyway?’

‘There was a divorce years ago. She lived with her mother until she was twelve, then went off to Dublin to her dad, a very famous Irish musician. Apparently, his influence hasn’t been the best; she was quite free to do as she pleased, and now his new girlfriend has moved in. It’s someone Bella despises, and so she’s back to her mother after six years.’

‘Eighteen, then.’ His heart was oddly moved, if only a little. He’d been through this himself, through years of Dooley’s arrogance and rage-and then the miracle issuing forth, albeit slow as blood from stone. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Maureen.’

‘She volunteered it?’

‘I asked her.’

‘When it comes to meddling, my dear, you make clergy look like amateurs.’

‘Maureen believes in her. I think Maureen is the unofficial grandmother-Anna’s mum, she says, died in childbirth. Oh, and Bella’s Irish name is K-o-i-f-e, pronounced Kweefa…’

Two castles. A ruin, even.

‘Eat something,’ she said, laying into her sandwich.

Yes. He didn’t want to rile his diabetes, anything but.

He was washing up when the knock came.

Liam’s piercing blue eyes were gray. ‘Corrigan would like us to come to the station at Riverstown. They want to hear what I know about Jack Slade, and what you saw on the highway.’

Come here, go there, do this, do that. ‘What I saw could be told on the phone.’

‘Aye. Of course. I’m sorry.’

He couldn’t tolerate another apology, from himself or anyone else.

‘If they want to talk to me in person, I’d be glad to do it here.’ He would mention the business of his cell phone then.

‘I’ll see to it,’ said Liam.

‘Before dinner, please.’

How simple it was to say no. And it had only taken seventy years.

‘I have an idea,’ he told Cynthia.

‘I love ideas.’

‘After dinner this evening, I’m taking you out.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘It’s a surprise.’ They would have daylight until nearly ten o’clock.

He shifted what had become ‘his’ wing chair to face the view, and sat with his notebook and pen.

… are staying here at Broughadoon.

He completed the sentence that had dangled for-how long? It seemed weeks.

Much has transpired since this letter was begun.

In brief, Cynthia was surprised by an intruder in our room, which caused her to wrench her bad ankle-all this followed by police, fingerprinting, and the visit of a local doctor who ordered her to stay off her foot for up to ten days. This, of course, cancels a good bit of our tour with Walter and Katherine.

Happily, W and K don’t mind the upset of plans. They arrive day after tomorrow to spend one night, then on to Borris House and beyond, after which we join up for the last leg (north to Belfast, down to Dublin).

A bit of an expense to cancel rooms on short notice, but worth it, and fortunately our room here remains available. W and K insist they’re grateful for time to themselves, W having been consumed for months by a disagreeable legal case.

C in good spirits and learning to navigate on crutches and true grit. She sends her love along with this watercolor view from our bedroom window. As ever, the very soul of her subject is called forth by her brush.

Goethe said, ‘One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.’

I have heard a little song, as my good wife rattled off a verse or two of Danny Boy this morning. I have read what I believe to be a good poem by Patrick Kavanagh, and looked out to a fine picture on every side. Further, I have spoken, and am trying to write to you, a few reasonable words. In this way, Goethe might agree that I have enjoyed a full day’s pleasure though it is but four in the afternoon.

Just learned that I’m to be questioned by a detective, yet another component of our vacation saga, so will sign off for now with an Irish proverb useful to all:

‘A light heart lives

Something nudging his leg.

‘Pud?’

The little guy was looking up at him, the shoe fastened in his jaws.

‘I forgot to tell you,’ said Cynthia. ‘He slipped in when Liam came to the door and hid under the bed.’

In terms of never giving up, this was a very Churchillian dog. No, go, get away, heel-what difference would it make? No dog had ever obeyed his commands; his Bouvier-wolf hound mix, in the long years of puppydom, was disciplined only by an emphatic vocalizing of scripture, preferably from the KJV.

Lie… down, he might have commanded early in the game.

Result: Walking about, licking the empty food bowl, possibly scratching.

For God so loved the world, he learned later to proclaim, that he gave his only begotten son…

Result: Instant lying down or, if required, bounding forth into a despised torrent of rain to take care of business. Dog Disciplined by Scripture-it was a show people lined up to see, worth taking on the road. His gut feeling was, it wouldn’t work in this application.

‘Drop the shoe,’ he said.

Pud did not drop the shoe.

‘Roll over.’

Pud blinked.

‘Sit,’ he said.

‘He is sitting.’ Obviously starved for entertainment, his wife was watching this hapless demo.

‘Try fetch,’ she said.

‘Fetch.’

‘You have to throw the shoe first, Timothy.’

‘If I throw the shoe, there’ll be no end to it, I won’t have a minute’s peace.’

‘You don’t have a minute’s peace anyway, since what transpired the other evening. I would throw the shoe.’

‘So you throw the shoe,’ he said.

‘He doesn’t want me to throw the shoe.’

He threw the shoe.

Glee and jubilation, full Jack Russell style. Pud returned the shoe, placed it at his feet, looked up. Two shining brown orbs of hope and expectation…

He sighed; thought of his own good dog; calculated how long he could hold out against a terrier.

‘We’ll be back,’ he told his wife.

On his passage through the entrance hall, he gave a salute to Aengus Malone’s hat. Then he and Pud crunched over the gravel and around the lodge to the head of the lake path. The water’s surface was golden now, hammered by afternoon sun. Bees droned in the flower beds; the trunks of the beeches convened like patient elephants.

It was a wonderland out here, in summer air moved by a breeze off the water. In Blake’s words, his soul felt suddenly threshed from its husk. With no effort, he drew a deep breath; the straitjacket fell away like William’s overcoat.

When he stepped to the mound, the crowd rose to their feet, cheering. He was pitching for the Mitford Reds, and they were winning.

Before he delivered the pitch, Pud was racing ahead of it on the path.

He burned the shoe straight down the middle. Pud leaped like a salmon, spun in the air, caught it.