Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

I have sent for Fr Dominic. Mother of God, have Mercy upon this innocent lad.

As I write, the snow begins.

‘Poor dear Eunan,’ said his wife. ‘Have you ever found yourself praying for these people?’

‘Can’t say that I have.’

‘Twice I’ve prayed for them before realizing the truth.’

It was Maureen stopping by their half-open door.

‘Come in, come in!’ he said.

‘Lord love ye!’ She limped to Cynthia and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. ‘I’d stick me own foot in the air if ’t would help ye get through this. But ye’re lovely in that green chair with your blue eyes shinin’ an’ so talented with your gift for makin’ people feel special. I hear Herself has asked ye to do up her portrait, an’ if that isn’t th’ cat’s pajamas I don’t know what is, an’ her lookin’ like a witch on a broom, poor soul…’

Maureen McKenna. Good medicine. His own spirits lifted.

22 Dec

Consummatum est.

Danny Moore & Sullivan the Mason have done a fine, quick job of it & gone home with jingling pockets after the snow began. Keegan has hung the door.

I had thought of having a quarantine room, but would not have acted so quickly without the three words on the white sheet which I took to be urgent. Conceal a room, it said in India ink.

Tis a tidy small room with but two cots & a table. To have a morsel of light from the outside is an advantage to both doctor & patient, but a disadvantage to Privacy. We think no one will easily spy the window for its small size well-hidden by trelliswork propped against the exterior wall. Nor will anyone suspect that along the hall from the Surgery & behind the tall bookcase well-fitted with volumes & concealed casters is a door. What is done in that room shall be coram Deo-in the presence of God alone.

The lad in for a long siege, God help us. Snow & Christmas together will reduce the patient load thereby freeing time to attend him. He must be sponged each day with soda water & given milk every three hours. C making a sherry whey-one forth cup sherry to three forth cup hot milk & stir to curds. She strains & adds a little sugar & he seems avid for it. I read that broths at this stage aggravate the diarrhea.

He must be kept to bed & turned regularly to prevent Sores. His fever high, the pulse small & frequent, a sign that heart action is weak & must beat faster to make up the difference. It is to our advantage that Fiona possesses an unbridled liking for him-she is sleeping with Keegan on a pallet in the kitchen, and makes herself available when called. Jessie weeping a good deal but carrying forth her duties.

It snowed throughout the night & has come down heavily all day. We do not expect brother & niece, nor C’s sister on tomorrow’s train which we would be unable to meet in any case. I think of my brother, badly stooped with arthritis, unwrapping the twenty-year-old ham he has put by for so long, & hanging it up again in his storeroom. He had been excited that we would all enjoy such a treasure together. Tis tender as goats butter, he had written to say.

By the time Fr Dominic reached us, the snow had become too heavy for return travel & thus he is unable to celebrate the Holy Mass of Christmas in the parish church. Not even the faithful remnant would be getting about, he says. Fretful over missing the first Christmas Day Mass of his priesthood, he nonetheless remains cheerful.

I shall be your Christmas Goose, he says.

Keegan has shoveled a path to the carriage house where we now keep our fire in a pit beneath the wash pot. He measures six feet & ten inches fallen upon what will be our kitchen garden.

Christmas Eve

Snow abated. A final measurement of seven feet four inches altogether.

The lad very ill.

We do not succeed in lowering his temperature, but seek to fortify the heart so that it may stand against the strain. On my knees, I recall what I can of Mother’s native wisdom. I am at once given the memory of Lobelia, much recommended for the oppressed pulse & labored breathing.

Fr Dominic prays over the lad untiringly-this evening he said Mass & we received Holy Eucharist by the kitchen hearth. All seemed to find the greater heat & Christian fellowship consoling. I believe we felt a moment of happiness in wishing one another Nollaig shona dhuit!

A child is born for us, a son given to us… The darkness that covered the earth has given way to the bright dawn of your Word made flesh.

On his evening call, Feeney brought a moon boot. A once-despised thing of no beauty whatever, such a boot now seemed to possess a good-humored cachet.

‘I had a suspicion,’ said the doctor, ‘that the time had come, and indeed it has. Well done!’

He turned away from the sight of his overjoyed wife, wiped his eyes.

Evelyn Conor appraised his wife, eyes narrowed. ‘Crutches.’

‘Yes. But we don’t talk about it.’

‘You’re an attractive woman.’

‘You’re the one for that,’ said Cynthia. ‘The lovely portrait after Sargent…’

‘The artist painted the truth. You must paint the truth.’

‘I’d find no satisfaction in doing otherwise.’

‘The ring is on the table. The white gold setting was designed by a jeweler in Belfast. The pearl is from the Pacific and good enough for evening. ’Tis all I have to offer.’

‘I’d like to paint you for pleasure only, Mrs. Conor. I hardly wear jewelry.’

‘Call me Evelyn. When profit is in it, one does one’s best. You must take the ring.’ The tremoring of the fingers, the sweat.

‘Profit isn’t interesting to me,’ said Cynthia. ‘You are.’ Emptying the hamper, setting out the jar of water, the paints, the brushes. He sat quiet in the corner, the dunce.

I washed her poor face, Fletcher had said, and did up her hair but I’m no beauty parlor, for all that. She had a desperate tongue this morning and no wonder, with her diet nothin’ but air.

‘What do you want me to do, Missus Kav’na?’ Impatient.

‘Please call me Cynthia. You needn’t do anything at all. I’m sketching a quick impression as an exercise, we’ll see where it leads.’ The ferrule making its music against the water jar. ‘You have a splendid nose, Mrs. Conor. Where does such a nose come from?’

‘Do you mean from which marauding horde? Africans, Vikings, Mongols-Huns, perhaps?’

‘Exactly.’

‘It comes from the fairies.’ Her jaw set, eyes distant.

‘The fairies! Have you seen one, then?’

‘Of course I’ve seen one. I’ve seen many.’

‘What do they look like?’

‘No one who sees fairies tells what they look like. When someone tells what they look like, you may rest assured they have not seen fairies.’

His wife was smiling. Her cup of tea.

‘May I ask where you were educated, Mrs. Conor? You have a grand way of expressing yourself.’

‘I read my husband’s library. It’s unfortunate that the son who inherited his father’s books does not read.’

‘I imagine he has no strength left to read, Mrs. Conor, what with keeping his guests happy.’

A very civil remark, he thought.

‘Are you a woman of faith, Missus Kav’na?’

‘I am.’

‘Your husband presses it upon people.’

‘Does he? I’ve never noticed him pressing it-not very much, anyway.’

‘Do you believe as he does?’

‘I do.’

‘Have you no mind of your own, then?’

Cynthia laughed. ‘Too much a mind of my own, some say.’

He reached down to Cuch and gave a scratch behind the ears.

‘How is your impression coming?’ asked Evelyn.

‘Very well but for the mouth.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘A certain… something there, I can’t say what. Hard to grasp with the brush. Subtle.’