Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

He reflected on what happened when Anna walked into Evelyn’s room, holding the packet of hairpins as if a sacrament. She stood by the bed, looking down at Evelyn. Evelyn looked up. No one spoke. A certain ease came into the room then-as if something once taken up was laid down.

Seamus wiped his eyes, blew his nose. ‘’t is a bloody roller coaster around here,’ he said, laughing a bit.

‘She’s asking for you, Reverend.’ Anna at the kitchen door, her face revealing the answer to his question, but he asked anyway.

‘How did it go?’

Anna smiling. It was manna.

He went to her, embraced her, and stood away, grateful.

‘She says she’s too weary to be painted today. She wants Seamus to show Cynthia the music box Mr. Riley gave her. Could you step to the hall a moment?’

They stood by the window with the etched inscription.

‘I thought, what if she should die, Reverend, and we never know the truth? And so I asked her who Liam’s father was, I asked very kindly, I was putting her hair up, and she said, Why do you ask such a wicked thing? And I said, Because you once told me it was Mr. Riley’s business partner. She seemed stricken and said, I told you that? And I said yes, and she said she’d been black-hearted to speak such a hurtful lie and that, no, ’t was Mr. Riley who was Liam’s father. She swore it to me, and I believe her-she seemed very shamed. She asked me if I had suffered over it and I said yes, and she took my hand and held it a moment. It was… affecting, Reverend.’

‘You told her that Liam never knew?’

‘Yes. She was grateful.’ Anna drew herself up. ‘I don’t wish to weep,’ she said, smiling a little, ‘for I may not be able to stop.’

He went in and took his chair by the bed.

‘Bail ó Dhia ort,’ he said. He had copied it out of the journal this morning, asked Anna how to pronounce it, for the Irish is not phonetic.

She turned her head and peered at him. ‘Bail ó Dhia is Muire dhuit.’

‘You’re looking very beautiful,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so.’ The pearl ring lay on the table.

‘Where did such a sentiment come from?’

‘From my heart,’ he said. ‘The truth without varnish.’

A tinge of color in her cheeks. ‘I’m too weary to be painted today. I regret having troubled you.’

‘No trouble at all.’

‘I hear you’re staying on for a time. Perhaps it can be done another day.’

‘Of course. We were afraid for you, Evelyn. You stood on the brink.’

‘I’ve stood on the brink all my life. I should like to be standing elsewhere for the days left to me-in a green pairc, perhaps, with a view of Ben Bulben.’

She lay quiet, looking at the ceiling.

‘I wish the peace to come back,’ she said.

‘He himself is peace. He comes if we invite him, and stays, if we ask. It’s ourselves who wander away.’

‘Why do we wander away?’

‘It’s the old free-will business-we’re charmed by the self, by our own pointless self-seeking.’

‘What does he want from us?’

‘He wants us to ask him into our lives, to give everything over to him, once for all.’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘I couldn’t, either. I heard it preached and talked about all my life. I exegeted Romans and memorized vast amounts of scripture before I was twelve years old, but somehow it went in one ear and out the other-I got the bone, but not the marrow. Long after becoming a priest, I remained terrified of surrendering anything, much less everything. And then one day, I did.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I could no longer bear the separation from him.’

She licked her dry lips. ‘You said there would be nothing to lose.’

‘And everything to gain.’

‘I don’t wish to be humiliated.’

‘By God?’ He took the lid from the balm and moistened the swab.

‘By anyone, and especially God.’

‘God does not humiliate the righteous. He may fire us in the kiln to make us vessels, crush us like grapes so we become wine-but he never humiliates. That is the game of little people.’

‘I have always depended on my own resources. ’

‘God gives us everything, including resources. But without him in our lives, even our resources fail.’ He applied the balm.

‘Tell me again why the peace comes-and then goes away.’

‘His job is to stick with us, no matter what, and it’s our job to stay close to him. Draw nigh to me, he says, and I will draw nigh to you. When we wander away, all we need to do is cry out to him, and he draws us back-into his peace, his love, his grace. He doesn’t wander, we do.’

‘Why must it come to this? Why must our lives be shackled to some so-called being who can’t even be seen?’

‘But he can be seen. We see him in each other every day. I see him in you.’

She closed her eyes. A long breath from her, as if she’d been holding it back.

‘I’ve hurt many people,’ she said.

‘Despair can be passed like a wafer to everyone around us, especially to those close to us. Into the bloodstream it goes, and down along the family line. Then comes the clot that stops someone’s heart, that puts a welcome end to it for them, but not for the others. You were not the direct cause of that terrible death, Evelyn.’

‘Such an emptiness,’ she said.

‘You may have come across Blaise Pascal in your husband’s library. He said, There’s a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of every person, and it can’t be filled by any created thing. It can only be filled by God, made known through Jesus Christ.’

‘I don’t wish to go on… without the peace.’

‘Would you like Tad to come?’

‘Tad is with his brother, leave him be. You are all we have.’

It was his own surrender he saw in her.

They were on the porch with Seamus and the dogs when a vehicle of uncertain vintage roared up the drive.

‘Paddy!’ said Seamus, reaching for his comb.

The driver braked, left the motor running, stepped out, and removed a large suitcase, then another, from the trunk. Paddy stood down from the car, glanced up at the assembly.

‘Seamus! Give a hand here.’

Paddy was blowing as he reached the porch. He removed dark glasses, eyed the Broughadoon trio. ‘Are you celebrating her recovery or is she still screaming bloody murder?’

His jaw felt slightly locked. ‘Some better, we think.’

Paddy glanced at Anna without greeting. ‘I’m intent on wrapping up my novel, I suppose you’ve heard I’m writing one. ’Tis impossible to find proper solitude in Dublin with its blather and nonsense.’

He would have introduced his wife, but Paddy passed quickly into the entrance hall, a sharp smell of aftershave in his wake.

Seamus made it to the porch, thumped down the heavy bags. ‘Joseph and Mary,’ he said, aghast.

Dear Henry,

You must not think I forgot my promise to write regularly-the guilt of not doing so is felt each day. Further, I left my cell phone with its internat’l calling plan in Mitford and am dependent upon the business phone here, which is why I didn’t call back after speaking with Sister’s eldest. He says your last doctor’s visit was good. Thankful to hear you are growing stronger, though yet fatigued. I have a foolish worry that you will forget and eat a ‘thin-skinned’ fruit, as you were cautioned not to do!

In any case, we remain in the fishing lodge at Lough Arrow, and circumstances have been in flux, to say the least.

Cynthia had an ankle incident yet again, but is on way to recovery.

We have made the acquaintance of an Irish woman who, until this afternoon’s unleashing of her heart to God, reminded me of our father. (An amazing story which I will tell you later.) Dad is unforgettable for many reasons; I am today moved by a great tenderness for him. As I once said, you got his good looks-something to be pretty happy about.