Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

From my experience in America & in my own Country, tis clear that Alcohol has wrought more misery than can be reckoned-it is as merciless as any plague in the taking of both lives & souls.

The caffeine was wearing thin. He trooped to the bed, Pud at his heels, and crawled beneath the duvet.

As he punched up his pillow, Pud stared at him, unblinking. Needless to say, there would be no balm in Gilead. None.

‘On or off?’ he asked his reading wife.

‘Why don’t we just cut to the chase?’

He patted a spot by his feet; Pud leaped onto the bed, nailed the proffered territory, lay down, sighed.

‘Only one problem,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘We don’t know where this might lead.’

She turned a page, laughing. ‘Since when do we know where anything might lead?’

‘You have a point,’ he said.

Showered, shaved, and dressed for dinner, he opened the journal to his bookmark.

Fair

Having cured a sty on the eye of my own milch cow, the word has spread like brush fire-for everything from cow beetle to the infected teat, they are at me for treatment. No bastes, I tell them, no bastes! Old Rose McFee is determined I should deliver her calf.

Fair days-the men working at a pace-we shall take occupancy of Catharmore by early August or I’m damned.

I mark here Keegan’s report-that Balfour has twice made foul comments to the men about Aoife.

‘You’re all dressed.’ She limped from the bathroom on her crutch, steaming like a clam in the Darling Robe.

‘Why don’t you go visit in the library? Just come back in a half hour or so and give me a hand down the stairs.’ She leaned to him and fussed with the silk handkerchief in his jacket pocket, and he stood for any further improvements.

‘You’re looking very sexy,’ she said.

Until she came into his life, such a thing as looking sexy had never occurred to him-the notion would have seemed absurd.

There he’d been, tied up at the dock for better than sixty years, the waves occasionally swamping his boat, but safe at harbor, nonetheless. Then she’d moved next door and in no time at all he was unmoored completely. He was terrified of being dashed on the rocks, or adrift on the deep with no way to read the stars of his frightening passion-he was the old man ’way out at sea, in the thrall of a woman who found him romantic and clever. St. Matthew had asked, Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? Ha. He had grown ten feet tall in the first months of his fumbling courtship.

‘I mean it,’ she said, kissing him for a fare-thee-well. She drew away and laughed. ‘You’re blushing.’

‘Tight collar.’

‘I haven’t wanted to say anything, but you’re a little out of control with your diet.’

‘I’ll watch it.’ He hated watching it, but she was right.

‘Thirty minutes, then? Don’t forget me.’

‘No chance.’

Pud accompanied him downstairs, shoe in mouth. On the landing, he peered out to the garden-the rain had ended, thanks be to God.

In the library, Pete O’Malley, looking sour and wearing a tie patterned with fishing lures.

‘How did it go today at the river?’

‘Was supposed to fair off by noon,’ said Pete, ‘but not a stir.’

He sat in a wing chair. ‘Where did the poker club do their damage?’

‘Lough Key. Hardly any rain at Key. Caught enough fish to sink a freighter-they could go commercial.’

‘They’re that good?’

‘Maniacs, those women. Cast a line, hook a trout, cast a line, hook a salmon…’ Pete swirled his drink, drained the glass. ‘I’m havin’ th’ Irish T-bone this evenin’. Medium rare.’

‘Come on. It’s the poker club’s night to shine.’

Pete looked repentent. ‘You’re right. I’ll have th’ T-bone tomorrow evenin’.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

Pud sat at his feet, unblinking. ‘Give it up, buddy. I’ll catch you tomorrow.’ Seducing aromas from the kitchen. Gray flakes of burned turf rising in the draft.

‘Maybe I should get a dog,’ said Pete.

‘You can tell dogs anything, and they’ll still love you.’

‘If I told a dog everything, that dog would be gone in a heartbeat. Guess it’s different with clergy, not much to tell.’

He laughed. ‘Guess you don’t know much about clergy.’

Pete adjusted his tie, eyed the stair hall. ‘We’re out of here Friday before sunup.’

‘Sorry to hear it.’

‘A pretty good life at ol’ Broughadoon. Like Ireland used to be. Anyway, I’ll be goin’ home to a Manx cat my wife left when she moved out, an’ a parrot named Roscoe that sings Beatles tunes.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Serious as a heart attack. Ol’ Roscoe lives at the office; my secretary treats him like Michael Collins resurrected. He’s been on th’ telly three times.’

‘What’s his specialty?’

‘Yellow Submarine. Want to see his picture?’

Pete pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, glowered at it, fiddled with it, handed it over. ‘Roscoe.’

A photo of a parrot looking grouchy. ‘Amazing, ’ he said. ‘No grandkids?’

‘It’s hard to get grandkids these days, have you noticed? My daughter has a pig that sleeps on her bed, my son has a wire-haired terrier-that’s all she wrote in that department.’

‘What do you do in Dublin?’

‘Insurance. Family company founded by my great-granddad in nineteen aught nine.’

‘Aught. Haven’t heard that in a while.’

‘I’ve been seein’ a lot of it on my bottom line. Too much stress in th’ business today-I remember what my dad used to say, he owned a cattle operation on the side-stress toughens th’ meat and sours th’ milk.’

‘I’ll buy that.’

Pete looked at him intently. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

‘Can’t say I believe in luck, but why do you think so?’

‘Your wife, she’s a great lady.’

‘She is. Thanks. Puts up with me.’

‘That’s bloody hard to find-somebody to put up with you-in spite of your mess.’

‘Putting up with somebody’s mess works both ways.’

‘I couldn’t put up with my wife’s mess-I don’t blame her for walkin’ out.’

A burst of laughter from the dining room; they were finishing the table setups. Something electric was in the air-something to do with Anna’s surprise, no doubt.

‘I have bad luck with women. But, hey, if I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.’ Pete manufactured a laugh.

He knew the feeling. Balding, overweight, and stuck in a remote parish at the age of forty, he had resigned himself to the fact that it was all over for him in the marriage department. What he couldn’t know was that twenty years later, a children’s book author with great legs would move next door.

‘You know what it’ll take to save my marriage? ’ asked Pete.

‘What’s that?’

‘A bloody miracle.’

They heard the poker club coming along the stair hall. He saw the hopeful look on Pete’s face, saw him close it down and try the sour look again.

‘Refill,’ said Pete, getting up and heading to the honesty bar.

In the dining room, newly starched linens; candles and garden roses on tables and sideboard; doors open to the summer evening. A pretty good life at ol’ Broughadoon-definitely.

Though the anglers were full of praise for the club’s fishing skills, they were quick to point out that ghillies and decent weather must nonetheless be given their due.

‘Whatever,’ said Debbie. ‘Slainte!’

Glasses lifted all around. ‘Slainte!’

He gazed with his wife at the lough, silvered in the gathering dusk. ‘Maureen calls this the moth hour,’ she said, half dreaming. ‘The moth hour…’