Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘St. Patrick’s Church, circa 1886,’ he said as they pulled into the car park at Ballyrush. ‘Aughanagh Parish, Diocese of Elphin.’

‘Tad’s church?’

‘Yes.’

An arched eyebrow, a knowing look.

‘You think you’ve guessed?’

‘I think so.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ he said.

He took the trug; helped her navigate the grassy maze among Rooneys and Rileys, Mitchells and Moores, McKinneys and McConnells.

They took their time gazing at inscriptions, she ever on the hunt for one to top his all-time favorite from St. John’s in the Grove: Demure at last.

‘Should be along here, I think.” He had a bit of chill up his spine. ‘Yes. Right here.’

She adjusted her glasses, leaned close to the old stone. ‘Cormac Padraigin Fintan O’Donnell, MD.’ She looked at him, beaming, then read on. ‘Born County Sligo October 28, 1810, departed this life December 12, 1887. Passed into the Care of the Great Physician.’

He held the trug. She took cosmos and rosemary and verbena and wrapped the stems with a vine and laid the offering on the green mound.

He made the sign of the cross. ‘For the many good works of Dr. Fintan O’Donnell, for his people and for Ireland-Lord, we give you thanks and praise.’

‘Amen,’ she said.

She moved to the mound beside Fintan’s. ‘Caitlin Alanna McKenna O’Donnell, Departed this life May 15, 1888. Healer, Protector, Devoted Wife and Mother, Generous Friend.’

She looked at him. ‘Mother?’

He extended the trug. ‘Save a few back.’

She took rosemary and verbena and wrapped the stems and laid the offering on the green mound and made the sign of the cross and prayed. ‘For the tireless and loving generosity of Caitlin O’Donnell in a time of trial for her people-Lord, we give you thanks and praise.’

‘Amen,’ he said.

He walked a few steps. She joined him, silent.

‘This one,’ he said.

She leaned to the stone and its crust of lichen. ‘Eunan… Eunan! The lad!’ And there came what really watered Ireland.

‘Keep reading.’

‘Eunan Michael O’Donnell! MD.’

‘There are Dooleys everywhere,’ he said. ‘Even in Ireland, in the old fled days.’

‘Did you bring a handkerchief?’

He dug it out and there it went, not to be recovered.

She was taking the remaining stems…

‘Save some back,’ he said.

She placed the flowers on the grave; he made the sign of the cross and prayed. ‘For the joy that Eunan O’Donnell brought Fintan and Caitlin, and for the opportunity you afforded Eunan to be of service to others-Lord, we give you thanks and praise.’

‘Amen.’ She shook her head, marveling. ‘Eunan! Doctor Eunan O’Donnell. This is the best.’

‘Let’s sit here a minute,’ he said. They took the trug and walked to the nearby bench, and sat in the deep shade of an old chestnut. The heat of the day was quickly coming on.

‘Thank you for doing this, sweetheart. How did you know?’

‘I have my sources,’ he said. ‘The stones are pretty revealing in themselves, but here goes. When Fintan died in 1887, the estate passed to their heir and adopted son, Eunan, who trained at Trinity College and became a surgeon in Sligo. Eunan and his family lived at Catharmore until his death in 1921, when it passed to Eunan’s eldest son, Fintan. This Fintan and his family owned it ’til Riley Conor bought it in the 1940s. Pretty derelict by that time. Anyway, turns out Eunan was quite the family man-fathered nine children.’

‘Nine! How scary and good. And how wonderful it must have been to hear children laughing in that house. Who did he marry?’

At Eunan’s grave, he read aloud the inscription on the adjoining stone. ‘Aoife Caireann O’Leary O’Donnell.’

‘Aoife!’

‘A,’ he said, feeling pretty happy about it himself.

‘He married A! Hooray for them! An older woman!’

‘By eight years.’

‘And nine children!’

‘Read on,’ he said, wiping his eyes on his bare arm.

‘Healer, Protector, Devoted Wife of Eunan, Loving Mother of Fintan Michael, Caitlin Cathleen, Kevin Barry, Ciara Aileen…’ She read to the end. ‘This is the best,’ she said again. ‘This is the best.’

He held the trug. She collected the remaining flowers, wrapped the stems with vine, placed them on the grave.

‘You pray,’ he said.

She made the sign of the cross. ‘For Aoife’s earnest spirit of truth, Lord, her kind heart, and her desire for the good of others, we give you thanks and praise.’

‘Amen,’ he said.

They stood on the grassy path for a time, holding hands, silent.

‘One more,’ he said.

Count fourteen stones, turn right, look left, according to Riley Conor’s notes.

‘You read,’ he said.

‘Michael Andrew Keegan of Cathair Mohr, County Sligo, died 1891. Faithful to the end.’

The Bride of the World was nowhere to be found.

At Broughadoon, they carried up the bit of lunch left for them on the worktable, and made a feeble effort to begin packing.

Cynthia gazed out the window, which was her way to jump-start the odious chore. He sighed and walked around in a state of confusion, which was his way to begin.

It was Bella at the door; Dooley was on the phone.

He felt embarrassed to have someone ever on the trot with his phone affairs. No doubt Broughadoon would be glad to see them go.

‘Has he always talked that way?’ Bella asked as they went along the stairs.

‘Which way?’

‘That sort of different, really funny way,’ she said in her own different, really funny way.

He laughed. ‘Always.’

‘Hey, Dad.’

‘Hey, yourself! What are you doing up at this hour?’

‘Callin’ from th’ hall, couldn’t sleep.’

‘Anything wrong?’

‘Hey, look, Dad, Lace and I are meeting you and Cynthia at the airport on Saturday.’

‘I was going to give you a call. How did you know we’re coming?’

‘Emma called, said you’d want me to know.’

‘You’re driving all the way from Georgia to meet us at the airport?’

‘Lace will be home for the weekend.’

‘Ah. Well. Can’t wait to see you. Thanks.’

‘I’m, like… thinking of giving her a ring.’

This train was moving. ‘You’re sure about that?’

‘I’m sure. But not… you know, an engagement ring.

‘Right. A little early for that.’

‘And not exactly a friendship ring, either. Any ideas?’

‘I gave Cynthia your Grandmother Madelaine’s rings, so can’t say I know much about buying jewelry. However, I do know this: If you’re going to give a ring, give a ring. Call Tiffany.’

‘When we talked before you left, you said a little money can be a dangerous thing, I should be careful at all times.’

‘In a case like this, picking the right jeweler is being careful.’

He savored the good news, but savored this nearly as much: Dooley Barlowe actually remembered something his old dad had said.

‘What about them apples?’ he asked Pud.

This small gazette popped out the blue in her eyes.

‘A ring!’

‘He’s just thinking about it, he said. And not, you know, an engagement ring or anything.’

‘Right. A little early for that.’

‘But not exactly a friendship ring, either.’

She laughed.

Déjà vu all over again.

There was the Darling Robe slung across her open suitcase. He reckoned he would never see the end of it; she would be buried with it, as Tut with his ostrich fan.

Best to make a feeble start at his own packing.

He pulled his three-suiter from beneath the bed, stood looking at it, mindless; moved to the chest of drawers and stared at whatever lay on the surface: three American dimes, six euros, two gold cuff links, a receipt from Jack Kennedy’s, her earrings, the strand of pearls, one brown sock, seven views of Ben Bulben.