'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.
Deja 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.
He walked into the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror, fumbled through his shaving kit, went back to the room, gazed out the window. Sunlight striking the water. Sighed, went to the cupboard to pull out his extra pair of shoes, except there was only one shoe, not a pair. He flipped up the skirts of their wing chairs and looked beneath; hunkered down and peered under the bed.
'Have you seen my other shoe?' he asked when Cynthia came back to the room with a mug of tea.
'Would this be it?'
She stood aside, and Pud trotted in, shoe in mouth.
'He was in the hall with it, chewing like a puppy.' She seemed pleased. 'Well, I mean, think of his age, Timothy, and still chewing.'
'Good grief.' He made a lunge for the shoe; Pud escaped under the bed, shoe in tow.
'Don't take it from him, darling.'
'But it's my shoe.'
'Yes, but it's more than a shoe to him.'
'I found his old shoe,' he said. 'I gave it to him, he doesn't need this shoe.'
The raised eyebrow.
'They're my good loafers,' he said, standing firm.
'How long have you had them?'
He threw up his hands. 'Twenty years. Twenty-five, I don't know.'
'Have you gotten your money's worth?'
He remembered his good hat blowing off in a field as he drove with the top down from Holly Springs to Memphis--he had decided not to stop and retrieve it, it was only a hat, after all.
And of course this was only a shoe, and come to think of it, he might feel a bit of pride that his old-boy loafer from Mitford had replaced the prim pump from Cavan.
He yanked up the bed skirt. 'Okay,' he said to Pud. 'Okay,' he said to his wife.
'Chewing a shoe,' she mused. 'Very relaxing, I should think.' She opened her side of the cupboard, stared at the contents.
'The robe,' he said, not looking in that direction. 'You're taking it home?'
'I was actually thinking of burning it.'
'Great!'
She turned her gaze on him. 'And scattering the ashes over the lough.'
'You're a drama queen, Kav'na.'
'I was just kidding about burning it.'
'I'm sure.'
'So nice and soft, the Darling Robe--soft as the wings of a moth.'
He rolled his eyes, opened what he had used as a sock drawer.
'Twenty-three years of blissful consolation, that robe . . . far too lovely to throw away, and such a deep, handy pocket--room enough for an entire sandwich--wrapped, of course. When we were living at the rectory and I worked at the yellow house, I often popped through the hedge in it, with a turkey and cheese on rye.'
The everlasting Ode
to the Robe. He had lost the battle, and nothing was worth war.
'In any case, Timothy, I'm leaving it as cleaning rags for Maureen.'
She let this gazette sink in.
'And regardless of what you may think, she's thrilled and so am I. And here's the best part--a bit of something I love will be left at Broughadoon, which Maureen says will bring us back.'
'God's blessin' on ye!' he hollered. High-five and hallelujah.
'Would it not be a beautiful thing now if we were just coming instead of going?'
'Surely you jest.'
'I rather like being in this family.'
He stuffed his socks in a side compartment of the suitcase.
'After all,' she said, 'I never really had a family. All I saw was pushing and pulling between two people. In this case, it's pushing and pulling among lots of people.'
'I'll say.'
'Seamus is certainly glad to have this family, warts and all.'
'Righto.' Taking his shirts off the hangers.
'Look at Miss Sadie--unmarried, and all those years thinking she had no family, and right down the street, Olivia Davenport, her very own grand-niece, who thought she had no family. And you wanting a brother and waiting seventy years to get one. And thinking you'd never have children but then a boy shows up on your doorstep . . .'
He folded a knit shirt; she thumped into the green chair.
'It just seems that families can be very hard to come by.'
'Granted,' he said.
'And now that I've come by this one, I'll miss them.'
'There's the telephone and email and pen and paper.'
'Not the same.'
He folded another shirt. 'We can't be moving here, you know.'
'I know,' she said. 'Because then I would miss Mitford, and want to move there.'
She had gone into the bathroom when the knock came.
Liam with his hands behind his back, serious as an altar boy.
He couldn't take another catastrophe.
'For Cynthia,' Liam said, presenting a fistful of flowers. 'For puttin' up with th' Conors. There's a vase under th' sink.'
'We thank you, Liam. Very much. Any plan yet for Ibiza?'
The blue eyes, the big grin. 'Day after tomorrow. '
It was a high-five kind of day.
'Dinner will be early an' quick this evening, six-thirty. After, we'd like you and Cynthia to come with us to Cathair Mohr--if you don't mind.'
'We don't mind a bit, glad to be asked.'
'Lorna an' th' niece are off seein' castles, so no guests at th' table this evenin'. 't is a wee holiday for us, then ten cyclists comin' to take up th' slack th' day we leave.'
'Great news.'
'Tad's back a bit early; he'll join us on th' hill. Feeney's with us for dinner, says bring your prayer book, we're ecumenical this evenin'.'
He knocked on the bathroom door. 'Did you hear that? We have an invitation to Catharmore this evening. Dinner here at six-thirty. Be there or be square.'
She came into the room and held out her hands for the flowers, happy.
'I don't know what's going on,' he said, 'but I think it's going to be good.' He had to do something with the energy that surged in from out of the blue. He picked her up, flowers and all, and swung her around a time or two like in the movies. It just felt right.
Forty-three
'Paddy's home,' Feeney said over dinner. 'Looks like he's cleared of any suspicion.'
Liam pushing his plate away. 'Who does she want to come up?'
'She says matters are settled with Willie Donavan, she'd like to see only family and the Kav'nas and myself. And Seamus, she says, Seamus is family.'
'Am I family?' Bella asked Anna.
Liam put his arm around Bella. 'For better or for worse, kiddo.'
Tad was vested in the violet chasuble over white alb. They met in Catharmore's front hall, greeting one another after the manner of warm acquaintances.
'She says she's turned her life over to God; that you came often and prayed with her.'
'I think she was eager for you to be home.'
'I hadn't planned to come back so soon. The Holy Spirit literally yanked me home by the collar.'
'What may I do?'
'Whatever you like--pray, read a Psalm, just be here. I'd like to keep it simple, let the Spirit move. She's set on making her confession to the whole family--can't say I ever witnessed such an event.'
'She seems entirely ready to be sober, to let God have control.'
'The family are grateful, Tim, as am I. Thanks for everything.'
He grinned. 'I was all they had.'
The others lining up in the rear hall.
'I never got to the hard part with her,' he said. 'Forgiving herself.'
'Twill take time.'
They all nodded to Fletcher as she left the bedroom. Carrying a stethoscope, Feeney entered first, then Anna, Bella, Liam, Cynthia, himself, Seamus, Paddy, and Tad. Feeney stood at Evelyn's left, Tad at her right. The others formed a half circle around the bed, save for Paddy, who stood by the door, his back stiff to the wall.
Evelyn's breathing was even, her eyes closed--she might have been sleeping. The early evening light came in to them; he saw a rose in a vase on her table.
Tad made the sign of the cross. 'In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.' Without opening her eyes, Evelyn signed the cross with the forefinger of her right hand.
'May God, who has enlightened every heart, help us to know our sins and trust in his mercy. Amen.'
'Amen.'
Evelyn opened her eyes, looked around the room.
'I made my last confession to a Roman priest and Almighty God before I was married sixty-five years ago. I confess that immediately afterward, I waged a cruel self-determination against my husband's love of God and Church. Riley Conor was a good man, but I had taught myself to despise what was good.'
Her forefinger tapping the coverlet.
'I confess to you, Liam, my son, that you came into this world a motherless child. I have missed the many years of knowing the kind and curious lad you were and the kind and earnest man you've become.'
Liam broken by this, his hand over his face, Anna's arm around him.
'I confess to you, Anna, that I was jealous of your beauty, your thoughtful ways, and your steadfast love of my son.'
Liam to his knees at the foot of the bed, Anna to hers.
The room and all in it, frozen but for tears--the loosing of regret.
'I confess to you, Bella, that I have neglected you and bitterly judged you and your father. I know nothing of your musical gift, which is said to be from God. I know nothing of how you think or what you might wish to become in this sundered world. I pray God will allow me time to remedy this grave oversight.'
Bella's head bowed, kneeling by her mother.
'Paddy, I confess to you that I have treated you harshly by coddling you softly. I have warred against your brilliant mind, and consigned to you the bitter role of ne'er-do-well who cannot please me except by providing the drink.'
Paddy's head against the wall, eyes closed, his face wet with tears.
'I have lived a lie with all of you, even you, Seamus, whom I have treated always as a servant and not as a kind and generous man who cares for our family more dearly than we have been able to do.'
The panting. 'Water, please,' she said. Feeney took up the pitcher and poured and gave her the bent straw.
'Father O'Reilly, I confess to charging you never to speak of God to me, and though you never spoke of him, you revealed him in faithful concern for my well-being, and in honoring your promise to my departed husband. James Feeney, I confess the sin of looking without feeling upon the death of your wife, and for selfishly keeping you at a trot due to my unholy love of the drink.
'If God gives me breath, I will do all in my power to right these wrongs, and many which we've no time nor strength to name. And more than anything I would ask this of God--so newly known to me
, and yet so long familiar--that I will be forgiven by him and by each of you, for these and other sins of which I truly repent.'
He and Cynthia went to their knees, as did Seamus and Feeney. Paddy stood by the door.
'God, the Father of mercies,' said Tad, 'through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace.
'Evelyn Aednat McGuiness Conor . . .' Tad made the sign of the cross over the penitent. 'I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.'
Evelyn panting with exhaustion; Feeney stooping to her with the stethoscope. Paddy weeping yet, crucified.
The wafer, then, and the cup.
There was a bit of a fire in the front hall, where he sat with James Feeney.
'I'll be here every evening 'til things turn around,' said Feeney. 'On evenings when I'm late coming, I'll be in a meeting in a church basement near the clinic. At those times when I've something to share with the assembled, I open by saying, My name is James, and I'm an alcoholic.'
'How long sober?'
'Eleven years.'
'The other evening, you said I should keep my promise to take Cynthia to dinner. It seemed important to you.'
'It's the little things we fall behind in, we think they can wait. I thought I'd get around to spending more time with my wife, but my work and th' drink took all my time. Then she died. And then I got sober. I cheated her, Tim.'
'Do you forgive yourself?'
'Still working on it, really, but getting there. The meetings are a lifeline for me, plain and simple.'
'Many a church basement has such a high calling,' he said.
'I hope I'm not wrong in encouraging Liam and Anna to get away. I've been on the edge about Evelyn--God knows I don't know whether she can make it. I think she can, but there are no guarantees. At the same time, if anybody ever needed a break, it's those two. And along comes th' woman with that great thatch of hair and it does look a Godsend.'
'What happened tonight seems the important thing in the end.'
'I agree. Yet it scared me to death for her. The rigor of it.'
'Vital signs?'
'Good, thank God. Thanks for all you've done, Tim.'
'And you, James. Thank you. Is she good to go, the Missus Kav'na?'