Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘That it will be safe?’ The nail that sticks up gets hammered down, his father liked to say.

‘Yes. Our money goes back into th’ business for now, there’s none to be raked off to extra insurance. Will you have your fry?’

‘Think I’ll wait. I’ll finish my coffee, then maybe a run. How far around the lake, by the way?’

‘You’d not be back ’til th’ moth hour.’

‘Settles that. Any word?’ He hadn’t asked last night.

‘None. Corrigan’s working with Tubbercurry to see if there’s a connection to what happened here.’

‘Do you believe there’s a connection?’

‘I have a hunch, yes, about Slade, just some gut feelin’ I can’t explain. Whatever th’ truth, I feel better he’s under lock an’ key.’

‘Did the Gards do any looking around up the hill? Since the property adjoins…’

‘They did. Thought the lane could have been a flight path, but found nothin’ a’tall. Queried Mother an’ Seamus yesterday-an’ Paddy, of course, when they caught up with him, he’d been in Dublin. Nothin’ to be learned there, as I could have told them.’

‘I suppose Corrigan thought of contacting art dealers.’

‘He says they’ve sent a teletype to th’ Garda in Belfast, Dublin-places with th’ big dealers, he says. His personal guess is that it might have gone over to England; they’re seein’ what can be done with that.’

‘I was wondering about Slade’s bank account, if there might have been some large deposit.’

‘All looked into. All a dead end. ’t is a right cod.’ Liam rubbed his eyes.

‘Sorry about Anna and Bella having to suffer the fair incident.’

‘Ah, Bella. Eighteen goin’ on forty.’ Liam heaved a sigh. ‘Seems a hundred years since I was eighteen.’

‘What were you up to at eighteen?’

‘Runnin’ wild as bindweed.’

He had been eighteen during what Walter once called ‘Tim’s sport with Peggy Cramer.’ He had been wild enough himself.

They looked out now to the massive beeches. A bird dived by the open doors.

‘The poker club says they’re leaving us tomorrow for Italy.’

‘Righto.’

Anna came up the path, not glancing their way, and entered the lodge by the door to the kitchen. He would stir himself, get a move on, but for the languor in his bones.

‘Rev’rend.’

In Liam’s voice, an anguish barely expressible.

‘Sometime, if you could… if you might possibly be willin’…’

A silence gathered between them; Liam’s breath was ragged.

‘Willing?’ he said at last.

‘There’s a thing pressin’ me like th’ Black Death.’

‘Would you like to talk?’

‘I would. Yes.’

Since a boy, he’d been called out of himself by the needs of others. He’d never known what to do with that until long after he became a priest.

‘We could do it now,’ he said.

‘Th’ travel club is off to Sligo today for shoppin’-no breakfast, they said, they’re after savin’ their calories for Italy…’ Liam ran his fingers through his hair, anxious-‘so there are no frys to be made but your own…’

‘Cynthia’s good for a while, and so am I.’

‘Still and all, there’s th’ shutter by the front door that wants th’ hinge since spring, an’ turves to be hauled up…’

He set his mug on the sideboard, saying nothing. He was willing to let the matter drop.

Liam appeared edgy. ‘Feels strange to think about just walkin’ away when th’ notion strikes.’

He nodded.

‘But…’ Liam’s smile was sudden, unexpected. ‘I guess I remember how.’

‘The trick is to put one foot in front of the other,’ he said. He hadn’t realized until this moment that Liam Conor’s smile had a way of improving the air at Broughadoon.

‘I’ll tell Anna,’ said Liam.

A bright and pleasant morning with a grand, soft day predicted. That’s what he would write if he were keeping a journal.

‘We hauled these stones one at a time, on a sled behind Billy th’ horse.’

They sat on a gob of limestone, one of three deposited along the shore.

Liam slapped his arm. ‘Bloody August and th’ midges are out in hordes. My father used to blow pipe smoke into my hair to give me a bit of relief. He always liked a smoke by the lough; we had some of our best talks right here.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘When I was a wee lad, about fish. After bein’ confirmed, about girls. Before he died, we talked about fish again-not fishing, but fish; their feeding habits, and how it seems they have th’ human understanding at times, that sort of thing. I liked that.’

He had no access to this sentiment. As a boy, he wasn’t allowed to fish, and when he was old enough to do as he pleased, he lacked the yen. The only lasting image of the sport had come from his Grandfather Kavanagh’s counsel on what to do when you catch an eel. One of several tactics cited was to grab hold of it, cut its head off, and skin it. Another was stuff it under a bucket and lift up one side-when it sticks its head out, sit on the bucket. This kind of talk had put him off the notion of catching anything wet and slippery.

A breeze lapped the reeds. He looked for the swan, but didn’t see it.

‘Before he got too sick to walk about, we came down to this stone for th’ last time. He was quiet that mornin’, just lookin’ at th’ lake, th’ mist was risin’ off it. Then he said…’ Liam looked away. ‘He said, Beauty is enough.

‘He said it as if talkin’ to himself. The idea seemed to please him. But I’m no philosopher-to tell th’ truth, I don’t know what he meant.’

‘Fathers are good at saying things we can’t understand. My dad’s last words were, He was right. I’d spent a long time by his bedside, talking of a God he never professed to know or care about, then drove back to school, believing he’d pull through. A man named Martin Houck came in after I left, an old enemy who caused our family much suffering. He spent a few minutes with my father and begged his forgiveness. When a nurse went in later, Dad was dying; he spoke his last words to her. Did he mean Martin Houck was right? Did he mean I was right? Did he mean God was right? One hopes for the latter.’

They watched two ducks dive onto the water. ‘Scaup,’ said Liam. Small waves purled against the shore.

He was quiet, at peace, waiting for Liam. ‘We must give th’ travel club a right send-off this evenin’,’ said Liam. ‘They’ve been dotes.’

‘That they have. Anyone else coming in?’

‘Not for a few days. We’re five percent over last year, but probably losin’ ground now, given th’ look of things in th’ news.’ There was the gray in Liam’s eyes.

‘Who’s coming?’

‘A woman from the States, and a niece or nephew, don’t remember which. Writes books, she says. I don’t trust people who write books.’

He didn’t remind him of Cynthia’s calling.

‘When th’ book comes out to th’ stores, there’s yourself in it lookin’ like an eejit, but with a fictitious name to keep th’ solicitors off.’

‘You’ve found yourself in a book, then?’

‘Not m’self, but it happened to Toby Gibson who lets cottages in Wicklow. They made him into an English lord durin’ the evictions-had ’im done in by an Irish gardener who sticks a hayfork in ’is ribs. Modeled th’ lord after Toby, clear to his waxed mustache an’ th’ receipt for his mum’s soda bread.’

They made small talk as Liam gathered courage.

‘Given what’s on your plate, I wouldn’t worry about showing up in a book.’

‘Aye, but I worry about everything, Reverend, ’t is a curse. On the other hand, Paddy worries about nothin’ a’tall. You said you have a brother. Are you anything alike?’