Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘So that’s buzzer fishing,’ said Cynthia.

Pete looked dazzled, or perhaps dazed. ‘You’re not goin’ to believe this.’

‘Way not,’ said Moira. ‘We can’t believe it ourselves.’

‘Troth, ’t is a guessin’ game,’ said William, who didn’t appear to care for guessing games.

‘Wait, wait, don’t tell us,’ said Debbie. ‘You’re goin’ to meet in Atlanta and see how things pan out!’

‘Or,’ said Lisa, ‘Roscoe is flyin’ up from Dublin?’

‘Try again,’ said Pete, rocking on the balls of his feet, grinning.

Nobody tried again; they were dumbfounded.

His wife leaned to him, whispered, ‘Moira said she wouldn’t go out with him if he was the last man on earth. What happened on that bench?’

He didn’t know, but he and Cynthia were next in line to check it out.

‘Get on with it,’ said Hugh.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Pete. ‘Ready?’ he asked Moira.

‘We’re cousins!’

Tom whistled. Pud barked.

‘My great-great-grandmother Margaret on my daddy’s side,’ said Pete, ‘went with a crowd of O’Malleys from Sligo to Tyrone, where she married a Tommy O’Beirne-’

‘O’Beirne bein’ my maiden name,’ said Moira. ‘And Tommy bein’ my great-great-grandfather-it’s in our old family Bible plain as the nose on your face: Tommy O’Beirne of County Tyrone to Margaret O’Malley of County Sligo, emigrated 1869 to Boston. I used to study all those names when I was a little kid, I loved that stuff. So I just called Atlanta and my daughters looked it up in th’ Bible, and ta-da-a-a, I was right!’

‘Oh, Lord,’ said Debbie. ‘This is way too much.’

‘And,’ said Moira, ‘since Pete is cousins with Hugh and Tom, maybe, just maybe I’m cousins with them, too.’

The din grew in volume and pitch. William thumped his cane. At the anglers’ request, Seamus brought forth a tray of Guinness.

Amused, they worked part of the thatch, two sheep, a bit of hedgerow, as one by one the exhausted club made their way to bed.

‘I’m callin’ it a day, too,’ said Hugh. ‘We’re up with the roosters and off to Strandhill first thing in the morning. Tim, Cynthia, sure great to meet you, hope everything goes slick as grease from here out.’

‘Ditto,’ said Pete. ‘Hope you’ll come over again next August, same time, same station, we’ll help you finish your entry in th’ guest register.’

Back-slapping. Hand-shaking. Laughter.

Hugh handed him a card. ‘Give me a call if you’re ever in Annapolis. Got a nice guesthouse with a pool, you’d be welcome.’

‘It’s been a pleasure,’ said Tom. ‘Here’s a little something to remind you of this rough crowd.’

Tom deposited a fishing fly in the palm of his hand. ‘Connemara Black. Might come in handy someday.’

‘Why… this is beautiful. Thanks.’

‘Tied that myself. That’s a feather off th’ crest of a golden pheasant, that’s black seal fur right there, an’ th’ beard hackle’s off a blue jay. You can use that for sea trout or salmon.’

‘Great,’ he said, ‘Thanks again.’

Tom gave him a serious look. ‘That’s your classic pattern for that fly.’

‘God be with you,’ he said, shaking Pete’s hand.

‘Dhia dhuit,’ said O’Malley. ‘As for my Irish, that’s th’ whole kabosh right there. Take it easy.’

He held on to Pete’s handshake, feeling an odd regret. Somehow, he and Pete O’Malley hadn’t finished being together in the same place at the same time.

The library was empty. Strangers had come into their sphere, shared a connection, and vanished into the remainder of their own lives. The anglers had been like a wallpaper pattern that took some getting used to, followed by the realization that one had grown fond of it.

They went to the garden and sat looking up into the great hall of night. The laughter in the library had been relieving; an ice floe had melted. Her bare shoulder fit neatly into the cup of his hand.

‘There is no light in earth or heaven,’ he quoted, ‘but the cold light of stars; and the first watch of night is given to the red planet Mars.’

She mused. ‘Not Yeats.’

‘Longfellow. Tomorrow, Ben Bulben, Yeats’s grave, and lunch in a good pub. We’ll go out every day and see the sights, but never anything to stress your ankle.’

She was off in that world of hers. ‘You know how the Irish say nothing’s so bad it couldn’t be worse?’

What could be worse than the painting being stolen? He didn’t want to think about it.

Even in the dark, he could see the flash of her smile. ‘How about this, instead? Nothing’s so good, it couldn’t be better.’

She turned to him and kissed him. Then kissed him again. He thought it might be the scent of the golden iris, but it was the fragrance of wisteria.

On their way through the library, she turned off to the powder room and he discovered Pete in a wing chair.

‘Guess I’ll be sittin’ up awhile. I never drink coffee at night-then on these fishin’ trips, I start rollin’ th’ dice.’

‘It’ll catch me, too, before it’s over.’ He sat in the chair facing Pete.

‘I’m always rollin’ th’ bloody dice-with alcohol, women, business, life in general.’ Pete furrowed his brow. ‘I’m goin’ home an’ call my wife.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘All I can do is call. As for seein’ her, that’s up to her. Out on th’ bench, Moira talked me into it. Before I found out we’re cousins, I was comin’ on to her, Reverend, I admit it. I put my hand on her leg, I mean, what did I have to lose, us leavin’ tomorrow and all that? Touch me again, she said, and I’ll kill you. Can you believe it?’

‘I can believe it,’ he said.

‘So we got to talkin’ about me being such a badass, and what was my problem, anyway, and first thing you know, I’m bawlin’ like a baby, because she’s right. I’d been wanting to have another shot at things with my wife, but I didn’t have th’ guts to go to her, hat in hand. I’m not wired that way.’

‘You love your wife?’

‘It’d be a flamin’ lie if I said I didn’t.’

‘Let her know it,’ he said. ‘I’ll pray for you.’

‘I need it. I’m goin’ to try, I swear to God. I’m tired of bein’ th’ bloody walkin’ wounded.’

‘While you’re at it, stay in touch with the one who wired you. We’re all wired for love, all wired to go hat in hand if that’s what it takes.’

Pete looked at him, looked away, sighed.

‘Talk to him about everything, Pete-your wife, your business, what ails you. One of his jobs is to listen.’

Cynthia was making her way out of the powder room.

‘Nothing to lose,’ he said.

They stood; shook hands again, embraced.

‘Next year,’ said Pete.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I’m open.’

He made the slow ascent of the stairs with her, carrying the crutches. As they reached the landing, he heard someone below.

‘Reverend?’

He couldn’t see Liam’s face in the shadowed hall, but the despairing tone of his voice was familiar.

‘Could I see you when Cynthia is safe in your room? It’s extremely urgent.’

‘He’s after disproving my edit of the Irish proverb,’ Cynthia said under her breath. ‘Trust me.’

He did trust her-as well he might. While playing the fiddle at the Tubbercurry Fair, Liam said, Bella had been approached by a drunk who became obscene and aggressive. Jack Slade had appeared out of nowhere and brutally stabbed the man. Slade was being held without bond, Anna was with Bella at the Garda station in Tubbercurry-could Liam come at once.

He had gone upstairs for a map to give Walter, pondering the issues of last night.