Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

There’s a man, I say, Arthur MacMurrough Kavanagh, whose Seat is Borris House in Carlow. He was born with stumps for legs, an’ only a bit of arms. Tuck your thumbs deep into your armpits.

The boy looks at me, wondering.

Yes, do as I say I’m going to show you something.

I drop the reins & tuck my thumbs into my armpits.

Follow suit I say, & he does.

Are your thumbs deep in your armpits, so?

Yis.

Do your fingers meet over your chest?

No.

I pick up the reins.

Exactly! I say. Tis the kind of arms MacMurrough was born with. Very short & no fingers to speak of, yet he’s fearless for all that.

The lad looks desolately at his hands upon a thin chest.

He’s traveled to India & hunted tigers & according to the talk that goes round, he’s a very fine shot.

This sets the lad to thinking long thoughts.

Fishes, too, & quite fierce on horseback, I say, aspiring to suggest some hope for those without proper limbs.

The boy’s face is frozen with astonishment.

Well, now, there’s more to the story of Arthur MacMurrough Kavanagh, would ye believe it? Into the bargain, he’s said to be a poet & an artist.

He gawps at me. How does he hold ’is brush, so?

In his mouth, I’m told.

What about his gun, does he do it th’ same?

I’m dashed if I know, I say.

How does he ride if he has no legs to grip ’is mount?

In a little chair strapped upon the horse’s back, they say.

The rain pelting us now, drumming the top of the open carriage.

Giddyap, ye brute, I say to Adam, which is what Uncle’s driver Mercy always said to his horse, & always in a kind manner.

At the house, Keegan is there to greet us with a gnarly apple for Adam. I hand over the reins.

Drive to Rose McFee with all speed, I say. Take a large jug & tell her to make a fresh portion of her cough Nostrum. First thing the morrow, fetch it back to me-tis going with the lad- & easy on the carriage, I say, for Keegan has little patience.

We were greeted in the rear Hall by A & a blast of cooking odours to make the mouth water-twas roasted pork shoulder & the sweet scent of baking bread. I lately learned that Fiona has taken a shine to the lad & is trying to put meat on his bones.

Come & wash, A says to Eunan, & tell us about your doctorin’.

She takes the lad’s hand in hers & they walk away, chattering.

I burned th’ rag, I heard him say as they went along the stair hall. Twas a desperate fester on her oul’ knee.

She turns then & looks back & smiles at me.

I watch them pass out of view & find my heart thundering strangely. I do not know the cause & then-I am suddenly enfeebled by the power of a yearning long hidden.

A pesky turn for O’Donnell, he thought. And amazing, this reference to a man believed to be of his own Kavanagh line. A small-world sort of thing, which he would tell Henry in a forthcoming letter. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes-the faded ink demanded a price.

He thought of his own lad who, like Fintan’s, hadn’t wanted to go home again. Dooley had instead come to live at the rectory, and both their lives were changed forever.

He closed the journal and gazed at the innocence of Cynthia’s utter absorption in the book. She moved her lips, silent as any school-girl at memory work. Her ankle had given severe pain in the night, shortening their sleep. She confessed she had slipped in the shower the day before, felt a twinge, but thought little of it. It was only a small slip, she said, and nothing to worry about.

He stood and stretched his limbs, yawned. ‘I’m going down and call Dooley.’

‘Dooley?’ she said, not looking up.

‘You remember him. Tall, skinny as a rail, red hair.’

‘Um,’ she said from the distant continent she occupied.

‘Freckles.’

Rain drummed the panes.

‘Anything I can bring you from below?’

‘Did you say something?’ Still reading, brow puckered.

‘Anything I can bring you from below?’

She looked up, blinked, smiled. ‘A pot of tea.’

‘Any swelling?’

‘A little. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Have you come to the piece in the journal about the Kav’na with no arms or legs?’

‘I’m a few entries short of your bookmark-they’re just getting ready for the Feast. The one who was a member of Parliament and the father of seven?’

‘The same.’ He slipped his feet into the brown loafers; Pud appeared from beneath the bed.

‘Feeney will be along this evening.’ He went to her side of the bed and kissed her forehead. ‘Back in a flash.’

‘If you see Bella, tell her I send my love.’

He was mildly startled-it seemed a trivializing gesture.

‘What will she think of such a thing?’

‘I don’t know. But she needs to hear that word today, I just feel it.’

‘Well, then,’ he said.

He had been given more unlikely missions, though not many.

He stepped into the dining room as she came in from the kitchen.

‘Bella! Good afternoon.’

He felt the perfect fool; regretted the unwitting use of his pulpit voice. ‘I bear a message from my wife. She sends her love.’

She glared at him, scornful. ‘You’ll get nothing from me,’ she said, wheeling back into the kitchen. The door swung behind her.

An encounter with Bella was right up there with having your face slapped ’til your jaws rattled. Perhaps Anna had told Bella of their talk in the fishing hut. Maybe she knew Liam had confided his own concerns. It hardly mattered. Bella Flaherty was fenced by a thicket of nettles; he wouldn’t invite her sting again. And no way would he stick his head in the kitchen and order a pot of tea, much less try to ring Dooley.

He walked up to the library, scanned the bookshelves; Fintan O’Donnell’s long dissertation had put him off the notion of reading.

Rain oiled the windows, obscuring every view. He examined the sepia photographs, searched a group shot. Did Liam resemble any of these men? He squinted at a tall fellow in the back row, eyed the angular face. But why waste time on nonsense? Did he, Timothy, look like his tall, exceedingly handsome father? Of course not-he was the near-image of his portly, balding Grandpa Kavanagh.

He paced the room. He wasn’t good at having nothing to do, and having nothing to do for days on end was losing its luster. Whatever zeal he’d entertained for memorizing verse had definitely waned.

‘Reverend?’

‘Anna!’ He was glad for the sight of her attentive face; even her clogs were consoling.

‘Was she rude to you?’

He smiled.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘She’s in very bad sorts, something gnaws at her dreadfully. I always believe it’s my fault, that if I only knew how, I could make things better.’

‘I understand the feeling.’

‘She says she’s suffocating from the remoteness of the place, and no one about under forty-an ancient age to her. She told me this morning there was someone who would have taken her away, but it’s impossible now.’

‘Jack Slade?’ He hadn’t meant to say that, not at all.

She blanched, offended. ‘I have no such evidence.’

No mother would want such evidence-he had overstepped.

She saw that she had put him off. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Broughadoon’s endless refrain.’

‘I’m sorry I asked.’ In truth, he could dig a hole and crawl in it. But three apologies in the span of a few seconds? What was there to do but laugh a little?-and so they did.

‘The rain puts an end to the roses for a time,’ she said. ‘And the lavender hates it, of course.’

‘There’s a price to be paid for being green,’ he said, making small talk.