Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘Man,’ he said.

Pud dashed back, dropped the shoe at his feet, looked up.

A curve shoe up and away.

A fast shoe high and in.

A sinker low and away.

The aerodynamic of a shoe was unpredictable, to say the least. A rivulet of sweat ran along his backbone.

He smoked a high, looping pitch down the path, sank to his haunches, watched Pud bring it back.

‘Way to go, buddy!’

After the game, the Pitch would have a hot dog with everything but onions, thanks. Ditto for the Catch.

He turned his Reds cap around with the bill shading his neck from the beating Irish sun, and gave Pud a good scratch behind the ears.

Vacation. He was finally on it.

They lingered at their table and watched a boat on the evening lake. On his first visit, he’d never sat still long enough to watch a boat on a lake. Such lulling meditation as this gave room to an interesting possibility-all Feeney wanted, after all, was a warm body.

‘Anybody play bridge?’ he asked the anglers.

‘I’m a poker man,’ said Pete O’Malley, pining toward the empty travel club table. ‘But I play a little gin with these turkeys.’

‘My mother-in-law’s a bridge nut, my wife’s a bridge nut,’ said Hugh. ‘Me, I’m gin and poker all th’ way.’

‘No bridge for me,’ said Tom. ‘I’m a bloody eejit at that game. Say, how about th’ guy stealin’ O’Malley’s pullover?’

‘That pullover caught many a big one,’ said Pete. ‘I’d rather he stole my Rolodex.’

‘Your Rolodex?’

‘Rolex,’ said Pete, who had, in his own words, been at the jug. ‘We saw the detective come in, heard you may have spotted th’ guy who did it.’

‘Maybe. They can’t pull somebody in without hard evidence. The good news is, the so-called suspect has a record of aggravated assault and unlawful possession of a firearm-they’ll be looking to see if his fingerprints match any they found here.’

‘They dusted my room,’ said Pete. ‘Asked for a complete description of the pullover. Lands’ End, maybe 1998. Tear on right sleeve from a fishhook. Stain on front, fish blood.’

‘Overall smell,’ said Tom, ‘-fishy.’

‘So, how did it go today?’

‘No fishin’ today,’ said Tom. ‘Saw a castle, drove over to Rosses Point, fooled around. Spent the afternoon with Jack Kennedy up th’ road. You ever sample poteen?’

‘No way.’

‘It’ll turn you forty shades of green,’ said Hugh.

‘So I’ve heard. My barber says whatever I do, stay away from poteen.’

‘With advice like that, I’d be lookin’ for another barber,’ said Pete.

Laughter at the fishermen’s table.

‘We’re sorry about th’ crutches,’ Pete told Cynthia. ‘Sorry about th’ whole thing.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Hugh.

‘Terrible,’ said Tom. ‘Really sorry.’

‘Thanks. I’m glad to hear nothing else was missing from your rooms.’

‘Zero,’ said Hugh.

‘Nothin’ in Finnegan’s room to go missin’,’ said Pete. ‘A sweater with a moth hole you could stick your leg through, a pair of britches he wore in high school, a pack of Camel Lights.’

‘Always keep your valuables on your person,’ said Hugh. ‘That’s my motto.’

From the dining room they made their way to the bench he had spotted in the afternoon. From somewhere along the lake came the faintest keening of a violin. Or perhaps it was the sough of wind in the trees.

‘So lovely,’ she said, gazing around. ‘It stuns me, I have no words for it. And look!-the dear old beeches.’

There was an affecting lull in the light, as if the day resisted the settling dusk. A butterfly was at the buddleia.

He took her crutches and propped them against the back of the bench, and they sat for a time, musing, looking toward the silvered lough.

‘Pete O’Malley has a crush on Moira,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Pete. Moira-the book/poker/travel club organizer.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just know.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Separated. Maureen said he wanted to take Moira buzzer fishing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a kind of fishing you do at night.’

‘I think he’d be rushing things.’

They laughed. ‘You’re a regular evening gazette, Kav’na.’

‘You love me,’ she said, amazed and certain.

It was like her to say such things, completely out of the blue. ‘I’ve always loved you,’ he said. ‘From the time I was born.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘I think I came into the world seeking something not absolutely tied to this earthly realm. Your open mind, your curiosity, your reverence promised that and drew me in.’ He put his arm around her, felt the cool of her flesh against his.

‘My mother had it, you have it,’ he said. ‘She took red dirt and made gardens that people came from miles around to see. No earth-moving equipment, just a wheelbarrow and shovel. No money, just hard work, ingenuity, and passion. All the time, everywhere you go, you know how to make something out of what most people see as nothing. You’ve made something out of me.’

‘No, sweetheart, you were quite the finished product.’

‘Never. I was an overworked, underfeeling man growing old alone. I thank you for teaching me not to fear intimacy; for making me do this thing we call marriage.’

‘I made you do it?’

‘I quit, but you didn’t. Of course, I was praying you wouldn’t, but I fully expected you to.’

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his and kissed her. ‘Happy birthday, glimmering girl. Sorry it’s been such a hassle.’

‘It isn’t such a hassle, really. It’s just life-quirky and scary and lovely and immense. The beauty to be seen from our window can’t be diminished by the dark soul that crawled out of it last night. I wouldn’t have it any other way; I wouldn’t have you any other way. You let me be the woman I am. No one has ever let me be that before. And another thing…’

‘Say on.’ The scent of wisteria…

‘You listen. Really listening to someone is a very tender and generous gift. Sometimes I’m frightened by what we have together.’

‘Don’t be frightened. There’s so much in the world to frighten us-let’s leave that one thing alone.’

The clouds above the lake were disappearing in the fading light; the air quickened with the scent of something fresh, electric.

‘Tomorrow morning’s rain,’ he said. ‘Announcing itself.’

They went in then, through the dining room illumined by the light over the painting, and through the library where Pete O’Malley snored in his wing chair and Pud slept off the narcotic of today’s big game. There had been no sign tonight of Seamus and William at their checkers.

It took a while for her to navigate the stairs in her inventive way, a way that seemed to him a kind of liturgical act of trust and humility.

With each of the stair steps, he recited a line from the Compline:

Before the ending of the day…

Creator of the world we pray…

That thou with wonted love wouldst keep…

Thy watch around us while we sleep…

O let no evil dreams be near…

Or phantoms of the night appear…

At the top of the stairs, he helped her up and gave her the crutches.

‘Keep me as the apple of Your eye,’ he said, concluding the old prayer.

Her breath came fast. ‘Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings.’

Their bed had been turned down, a lamp glowed in the corner. As he closed the door, he was glad to hear the sound of the club coming in with much laughter and talking.

3 November 1861

Earth hard as Iron