Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

This was no root canal, after all; it was brain surgery. He managed to deliver the thing, with a napkin.

She looked up at him, raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you teetotal, Mister Kav’na?’

‘No, ma’am, not at all. I’m a sherry man.’ He felt the perfect fool for saying it. A sherry man.

‘Sherry,’ she said with distaste. ‘An English habit.’

Spanish, too, he might add.

‘You’re in Ireland, Mister Kav’na, you can’t go about as dry as the bones of Ezekiel.’

‘Cheers,’ he said, terse. The morning with Anna had hardly quickened his regard for Evelyn Conor.

‘Slainte!’ She lifted her glass and turned to a contrivance by the mantel, pressing a button.

Seamus’s voice boomed into the room. ‘Yes, mum.’

‘Do we have sherry in some remote quarter?’

‘Oh, yes, mum, we do, indeed. Only a moment. ’

Why couldn’t he be like everyone else instead of standing out like a sore thumb? But he’d never been like everyone else; he’d always stood out like a sore thumb.

‘I enjoyed my tour of your handsome rooms. The entrance hall is a great tribute to classical form-a privilege to see it.’

‘It is an Irish house.’

‘Yes.’

‘Historians tell us that Catharmore was a fine school of architecture. Doctor O’Donnell had access to a few very skilled men, who tutored a legion of the unskilled. Many trades were learnt here.’ She drank with evident thirst.

‘Have you read O’Donnell’s journal?’

‘I have not. I admire him for what he accomplished, but find his ramblings tiresome. A very inward-seeming man, in my view.’ She dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin. ‘I trust you and your wife are enjoying your stay.’ She appeared to lack interest in his reply.

‘We’re enjoying it very much, thank you.’ He glanced at his watch-he was needing backup.

‘In your Protestant religion, sir, I hear there is great distress.’

‘Well, of course, we have the same religion, you and I, Catholic and Protestant-we both believe in the divinity of the Christ, the head of the Church, the one who entered into death that we might have life. As for great distress, I believe it is fully shared between Catholic and Protestant.’

The Great Distress. He would have to remember that.

‘And to what do you account such disarray?’

‘Disobedience, Mrs. Conor.’

‘The Protestants were in disobedience against the Irish for more than seven centuries. What do you say to that, Mister Kav’na?’

‘I say that we were gravely mistaken.’

‘The Irish are suddenly quick to forget. I shall not forget.’

‘I feel the need is not to forget, but to forgive. Where there is forgiveness, the heart of stone becomes a heart of flesh.’

‘I’ll thank you not to preach to me.’

‘I was not preaching, Mrs. Conor, I was making an observation out of my own experience.’ To be precise, out of his father’s experience of unforgiveness, and the calamity it caused on all sides.

She drank, appeared abstracted. ‘I dislike late arrivals.’

‘The rain,’ he said.

The realization had begun when he took her hand, and now came all of a piece-he had known Evelyn Conor for most of his life. Nearly every parish had one, though he couldn’t recall that any had been so proficient at the acid tongue. He was reminded, too, of his father’s lacerating coldness, which rendered Evelyn Conor’s behavior somehow familiar; the thought that they had met in other times and places, shared some sort of past, was oddly relieving.

She drew in her breath. He checked his watch.

‘I had hoped to meet Paddy.’

‘Paddy is in Sligo on business. You can see him in the portrait of my late husband, if you like. The spit image.’

Rain streaming onto the glistening panes. The fire smoldering. A clock ticking.

‘I don’t suppose anyone from Broughadoon has sent their compliments?’ she asked.

‘Why, yes. They did. Thank you for reminding me. Mr. William Donavan sends his compliments.’ What William actually said was, ‘A tip of me cap to the oul’ scrape.’

‘You must pass mine along to him, and to the rest of the household,’ she said. ‘And Mister Kav’na…’

‘Yes, Mrs. Conor?’

‘I hope you won’t need reminding.’

‘You can count on it.’

The doors opened. Three rain-soaked dogs burst into the room, followed by James Feeney and a stout and laughing priest wearing a dark suit. Seamus and his silver tray brought up the rear.

Deo gratias.

He stood, took a deep breath, buttoned his jacket. Tonight, he would be the evening gazette.

Messages at Broughadoon.

‹Googled your lodge and got email address. Pray for Lew Boyd he has prostate cancer it’s a good thing he married that little Tennessee woman when he did. Saw Dooley and Lace-Dooley was filling up the truck, they were headed to the lake for a picnic. He is tall as a chimney and she is pretty as a speckled pup-looks like I may have to buy a new dress, ha ha. Knowing you I called Puny and low and behold she found your cell phone ON THE HALL TABLE. Have canceled yr international plan, etc since you won’t need it. You should make a list when you travel and CHECK IT TWICE!!!

‹PS-I already have a small Waterford vase, so large would be great.›

‹Unable to contact yr cell, emailing u at B’doon from LaGuardia. K needs hair appt tomorrow-will C ride with her? Blow dry. Pls make arrangement as necessary for after one pm if possible. Looking forward, W›

‹Hey, Dad, whats the deal? Can’t connect w/ yr cell phone. Dooley›

The afternoon nap-he was perishing for want of it.

Thinking of Lew, he prayed his way upstairs, slipped into their room, undressed, and climbed into bed next to his napping wife.

But he couldn’t sleep. He was wired from the coffee he’d slugged down at the bridge table. At Catharmore, they didn’t know from decaf.

‘Home is the hunter from the hill…’ She turned to him, smiled. He was ever amazed that she appeared glad to see him.

‘It’s hard being too beautiful to get invited anywhere,’ she said, propping on an elbow.

‘You’re invited up one afternoon before we leave; Seamus will show you around. Except for bridge days, she naps from two ’til four.’

‘Well done, darling. It’s a little cool, I’ll just put on my robe and you can tell me everything.’ She sat up and slipped into the Shred, then thumped down beside him, expectant.

‘Emma says Lew Boyd has prostate cancer.’

‘Thank God he has Earlene. I’ll pray. I’m so sorry.’

‘Puny found my cell phone.’ He felt sheepish; he’d almost rather it was stolen. ‘She saw Dooley and Lace on their way to the lake. Dooley emailed to say he couldn’t contact my cell. And Katherine would like a hair appointment for tomorrow after one o’clock-she hopes you’ll arrange it and ride with her.’

‘Only Katherine would fly all night, change planes, drive to Lough Arrow, then race out to get her hair done.’ She drank from her water glass. ‘I’ll take care of it; surely there’s some place around here. Okay, get going.’

‘Where to begin?’

‘The house.’

‘As handsome on the inside as it is plain without.’ He told her about lintels, cornices, columns, pilasters; stuffed fish in glass cases; the windowed kitchen, the tumbled garden.

‘Did you see the surgery?’

‘Seamus says they don’t venture belowstairs except at gunpoint. More than a little dereliction going on at Catharmore, but most of it out of view.’

‘What does she look like?’

‘A little like Rose Kennedy, and a lot like Liam. You’ll enjoy seeing her portrait as a young woman-it could pass for a Sargent but was done by an Irishman. She told me she’s dying, but Feeney said later she’s dying in the same way we’re all dying. He said he’s trying to get her in for blood work, he’s concerned for her liver, but so far there’s nothing seriously wrong that leaving off the drink wouldn’t cure.’