Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

I am astonished & pleased, but the Truth must be told.

A woman can’t become a Physician, I say.

She turns her head & looks at me for the first time. Her green eyes blaze. That is wicked, she says.

Yes.

She is right, of course. There is so much I would tell her, but none of it will do.

I believe in you, I say at last. There is a terrible longing to speak her name &I know at that moment I will never speak it again.

Aoife, I say.

My God, my God, I cry, silent as a stone.

What’s she done to put ye off, that back she comes as spoiled goods?

Aoife has gone inside & I am standing in a misting rain with O’Leary the Shoemaker, chickens pecking about our feet.

She has done nothing wrong, I say. She is a fine worker & considerate of all.

Was she a liar, then, or a thief? I’ll give her a flaying she’ll not forget.

Please understand-she has done nothing wrong. I nearly shout these words. She has been the best of helpers, even assisting us in the Surgery. This is a grave loss to our household.

O’Leary’s wife stands in the doorway, a beaten look about her. The sisters gather in the yard, one holding a baby & shielding it with her apron from the rain.

Then why in God’s name are ye bringin’ her back to make a laughin’ stock of the O’Learys? His voice is rising, his face red as a poker. Has your man Keegan been at her?

My God, no! For God’s sake, we cared for her like our own daughter, she comes back to you better than she went for all she’s learned of housekeeping & proper English.

I despise this pompous remark, as if I were trying to sell him an improved hair comb.

Twas a gentleman’s agreement we had, says he. Twas a livin’ for our family that ye had her sarvice in your fine house. These days there’s naught but a tap here an’ a heel there. You claim she works hard & don’t lie nor steal, yet back she comes like a lame horse. Tis only right ye declare th’ reason for bringin’ her back-Name her offense, or God strike ye blind!

There is no reason I can cite aloud to any man, & especially an hysterical Irish farmer. I hand him the envelope, heavy with coins. He hesitates before he takes it, as if by restraint he might gain pride in negotiating this monstrous affair. He weighs the payload in his hand, looking me in the eye.

There will be more where that came from, I say, sick to death. I will look for her a place hereabout.

There is no place hereabout but Balfour’s & I would not fob her off to a stump of maggots such as that.

Indeed, I say. I shall look further abroad.

I turn to go, for the rain is getting up & scattering chickens & sisters inside.

Could ye have a look at th’ Missus before ye take leave, then, doctor? He pronounces the word doctor with violent distaste.

What’s the trouble I say.

From th’ last babby, he says, as angry as if I had caused the wound to his wife.

I take my bag from the carriage & drenched as any cur pass into the cabin where those crowding the doorway move apart, taciturn & dubious. Aoife is sitting by the cold hearth on the little stool, sobbing, her head in her hands.

Tis a strange thing I do. I stop on the way home at Rose McFee.

Still damp as plaster, I remove my hat & duck under her sill to the one room.

She is seated at the fire in one of her two chairs & is smoking a pipe. I seen ye go by with th’ lass, she says.

Rose, I say. As God is my witness, I never touched her.

Aye, she says. I believe ye.

I am judged, I say, for what I did not do nor ever would do.

She gestures to the other chair at the hearth & I sit.

Ye couldn’t have kept her, then?

No.

The missus.

Yes. And myself frightened by something wicked in me that I never knew before, I say. I am enfeebled, as if my very blood were being let into a bucket.

Rose, I say, what shall I do?

I am asking a toothless crone who cannot read nor write to tell me how to go forward, I am that weak & stupefied.

Keep doin’ what ye’ve been doin’-healin’ th’ sick & payin’ y’r dues to God above an’ nobody else.

A small thing, her fire with its little heart & heat, but nonetheless I am grateful.

30 November 1863

A stinging cold

C is at her dressing table in nightclothes & a shawl-I sit on the bench at the foot of her bed, wondering why I have come. Her hairbrush cleaves streaks of gray mingled with the old familiar chestnut. I have a moment’s quick desire to go to her & perform the nightly liturgy of brushing, but I do nothing.

If you should die & I am left behind… she says, speaking to me in the mirror.

My heart has the dull feeling at this.

Cathair Mohr would be left to Padraigin, she says.

Yes, I say, again feeling regret at this reckless decision & further regret for having not rectified it in some way.

And I would be put out, she says.

Even two years ago, we had thought to live forever. Not so, now. How much I have learned.

Perhaps not, I think not-if you wished to stay on.

If Padraigin were the master of Cathair Mohr, she says, I would not wish to stay on.

You know you will have funds to keep you, I say. You might take a flat in Dublin or go to your sister in Roscommon.

The few times I have considered such a future, I think of her in Roscommon, in her older sister’s cottage with its large garden & many geese & a window seat where she might read & be happy.

She lays the brush on the table & is quiet for a time. I wish to put my arms about her & protect her from such thoughts as these, but I hold myself away.

She bows her head into her hands & covers her face as if shutting out the world.

The boy, the lad, I say. He wants to become a Surgeon.

She doesn’t speak.

His father, I say, will drink himself to death before it’s over, according to Padraigin’s wife.

I am trying to work something out in my mind, though I am not certain what. I get up & walk about the room, uneasy, feeling the weight of it all, all at once-the diminishment of our American investments due to the War in the States-the extremes of our practice in a region so remote-the enormous effort of everything, even to buying breeding stock this morning. I have not been in some time to the Mass Rock, I have let the world come in upon me & now it is coming in upon Caitlin.

Christmas is nigh, I say. Shall we send Keegan for the lad?

She takes the brush in hand once more & looks at me in the mirror.

Send word to Padraigin, she says, that the rooms they used are under repair-we can take only Eunan. Tis true, for I am having the wallpaper put up in those rooms.

I say nothing of the probable expense, as she never spends a bob on anything, including herself.

We’ll have a fine Christmas, I say, feigning enthusiasm. Roast geese & bacon & sausages of our own & the Port that came over from Uncle.

And garlands of holly, she says, for the stair rails. And a fire in the front hall & a Yule log.

She turns on the bench & fixes me in her gaze & then she smiles. I cannot reckon the last time I saw her smile. The air is suddenly quickened & my heart roused from its long stupor-the thought of Christmas becomes real & beautiful to me.

Your sister, I say, would she come?

Fintan! Oh, yes, I think she would. What a wonderful idea. And your brother Michael-would he come?

He doesn’t get about, I say, without Kathleen.

But we shall have your niece, too, of course. How gay it will be!

The wallpaper, I say.

We shall delay it til spring.

And beds! I say, as we have none but makeshift for those quarters.

She thinks & soon says, O’Hara the casket maker!

Of course! O’Hara makes beds for the dead & the living. I determine to see O’Hara tomorrow & post a letter to Michael & one to Padraigin to tell him Keegan is coming.