'It's all right, it's okay. It won't happen again. Would you like to get out of here? Just say the word. We can take a hotel in Sligo.'
'It was only a dream, I'll be fine.' She shivered a little.
'You always say that when something goes wrong.'
'And, of course, I'm always fine.' She sat up and rubbed her eyes and squinted at his watch. 'I'm hungry as a bear, and it's time for you to eat something, too. Did you take the raisins with you?'
'I did not.'
'Did you smash into anything?'
'I did. Tore off the driver's-side mirror. But I think I got the hang of it.' He told her about the bike rider he'd seen on the highway, which made her mildly anxious, then reported his phone call to Walter. Her relief was as palpable as his own.
'I asked the operator for charges,' he said. 'Sixty bucks.'
She wasn't currently into finances. 'I missed you,' she said.
'You did?' He was a sucker for being missed.
'I was stuck with Bella as my caregiver.'
'Tell me everything and I'll bring our lunch up.'
'The little wretch. Needs a swift kick in the pants.'
'On the order of what you used to give Dooley.'
'Yes, and of course it worked; they beg for it, I think. Needless to say, she's starving for love--and since I've nothing better to do, I've decided to give it to her, though she'll put up a terrific fight.'
'You're amazing.'
'She's very bright. I asked why she chose the butterfly tattoo, what it means to her. She opened up a little, then, but only a little. The butterfly, she said, has a very short life span. I took that to signify her teenage angst, which can definitely have a suicidal edge.
'She's partial to the monarch, which flies from Canada to Mexico, covering two thousand miles in two months--isn't that amazing?--but only when conditions are perfect and against the most terrible odds. So maybe she's thinking to fly the coop when the timing is right, and the further away, the better.'
'How do you know these things?'
'Very simple. I was a teenager. She did something I wouldn't have expected. She recited two verses from Frost, from his poem My Butterfly. She seemed to . . . grow softer, somehow, when she spoke the lines.
'There's a collection of Frost poems in the library, so I wrote down the verses.'
She took her sketchbook from the bedside table, and read aloud.
'It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp / Then fearful he had let thee win / Too far beyond him to be gathered in / Snatched thee, o'er eager, with un-gentle grasp.
'And so in the poem, the season ends and the flowers die, and the butterfly, too, and she quoted this:
'Then when I was distraught / And could not speak / Sidelong, full on my cheek / What should that reckless zephyr fling / But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing.'
The sound of a power saw keening beyond the window.
'Such a sorrowing in her,' she said.
He saw the sorrowing reflected in Cynthia's face. If there was ever one to say, I feel your pain, and mean it, it was his wife. 'Lunch!' he said in what she called his pulpit voice.
'Yes. Well. Any sort of sandwich on soda bread with a bit of fruit and tea, and I'll be your slave.'
'You'll forget that heedless remark, but I'll remember it.'
He pulled on a pair of jeans, a shirt, tennis shoes. 'Back in a flash,' he said. 'And by the way ...' He flipped the light switch at the door--on, off, on, off.
'Hooray!' she said.
'The hot bath you've been dreaming of.'
He knocked on the kitchen door. Bella opened it, but said nothing. Lunch wasn't usually served at Broughadoon, but Anna had made special arrangements for the Kavanaghs.
'If we could get a couple of sandwiches? Anything on soda bread, with fruit and tea.'
She stared, cool.
'Thank you,' he said.
She closed the door. Robert Frost or no, it would take more than a swift kick to get that job done.
He sat at the table and looked out to the view, noted the faint scent of insect repellent, and remembered hearing that all fishing lodges smell that way, especially in August when the midges are out.
Tonight he would finish the letter--find an envelope large enough for the drawing to be mailed flat, take a wild guess at the weight, put stamps on the whole business, and sayonara. No wonder the postcard was such a popular item when traveling.
Bella entered the dining room with the tray. 'Shall I take it up, then?'
'Many thanks, but no, I'll take it.' He was pleased to return her attempt at being civil. 'Mrs. Kav'na loves your soda bread.'
'Is there anything Mrs. Kav'na doesn't love?'
Her tone was chilling, he felt the venom in it. 'Men jumping out of cupboards would be one,' he said, seizing the tray.
In their room, he set the tray on the foot of the bed.
'Love her if you like, but leave me out of it.'
She was clearly amused. 'She's a terrible pain.'
'Man,' he said, quoting Dooley. He needed to get out of here--be a tourist, see a castle, anything. 'Are you sure you don't want to get a room in Sligo? We can call Aengus Malone to drive us.' He'd be happy to dodge running up the hill tomorrow to the den of a fire-breathing dragon who devours Protestants and sucks the marrow bones.
'Calm down, sweetheart. She's testing us. She'd be thrilled to know she's upsetting you like this.'
'What happened to her, anyway?'
'There was a divorce years ago. She lived with her mother until she was twelve, then went off to Dublin to her dad, a very famous Irish musician. Apparently, his influence hasn't been the best; she was quite free to do as she pleased, and now his new girlfriend has moved in. It's someone Bella despises, and so she's back to her mother after six years.'
'Eighteen, then.' His heart was oddly moved, if only a little. He'd been through this himself, through years of Dooley's arrogance and rage--and then the miracle issuing forth, albeit slow as blood from stone. 'How do you know this?'
'Maureen.'
'She volunteered it?'
'I asked her.'
'When it comes to meddling, my dear, you make clergy look like amateurs.'
'Maureen believes in her. I think Maureen is the unofficial grandmother--Anna's mum, she says, died in childbirth. Oh, and Bella's Irish name is K-o-i-f-e, pronounced Kweefa . . .'
Two castles. A ruin, even.
'Eat something,' she said, laying into her sandwich.
Yes. He didn't want to rile his diabetes, anything but.
He was washing up when the knock came.
Liam's piercing blue eyes were gray. 'Corrigan would like us to come to the station at Riverstown. They want to hear what I know about Jack Slade, and what you saw on the highway.'
Come here, go there, do this, do that. 'What I saw could be told on the phone.'
'Aye. Of course. I'm sorry.'
He couldn't tolerate another apology, from himself or anyone else.
'If they want to talk to me in person, I'd be glad to do it here.' He would mention the business of his cell phone then.
'I'll see to it,' said Liam.
'Before dinner, please.'
How simple it was to say no. And it had only taken seventy years.
'I have an idea,' he told Cynthia.
'I love ideas.'
'After dinner this evening, I'm taking you out.'
'Where are we going?'
'It's a surprise.' They would have daylight until nearly ten o'clock.
He shifted what had become 'his' wing chair to face the view, and sat with his notebook and pen.
... are staying here at Broughadoon.
He completed the sentence that had dangled for--how long? It seemed weeks.
Much has transpired since this letter was begun.
In brief, Cynthia was surprised by an intruder in our room, which caused her to wrench her bad ankle--all this followed by police, fingerprinting, and the visit of a local doct
or who ordered her to stay off her foot for up to ten days. This, of course, cancels a good bit of our tour with Walter and Katherine.
Happily, W and K don't mind the upset of plans. They arrive day after tomorrow to spend one night, then on to Borris House and beyond, after which we join up for the last leg (north to Belfast, down to Dublin).
A bit of an expense to cancel rooms on short notice, but worth it, and fortunately our room here remains available. W and K insist they're grateful for time to themselves, W having been consumed for months by a disagreeable legal case.
C in good spirits and learning to navigate on crutches and true grit. She sends her love along with this watercolor view from our bedroom window. As ever, the very soul of her subject is called forth by her brush.
Goethe said, 'One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.'
I have heard a little song, as my good wife rattled off a verse or two of Danny Boy this morning. I have read what I believe to be a good poem by Patrick Kavanagh, and looked out to a fine picture on every side. Further, I have spoken, and am trying to write to you, a few reasonable words. In this way, Goethe might agree that I have enjoyed a full day's pleasure though it is but four in the afternoon.
Just learned that I'm to be questioned by a detective, yet another component of our vacation saga, so will sign off for now with an Irish proverb useful to all:
'A light heart lives
Something nudging his leg.
'Pud?'
The little guy was looking up at him, the shoe fastened in his jaws.
'I forgot to tell you,' said Cynthia. 'He slipped in when Liam came to the door and hid under the bed.'
In terms of never giving up, this was a very Churchillian dog. No, go, get away, heel--what difference would it make? No dog had ever obeyed his commands; his Bouvier-wolf hound mix, in the long years of puppydom, was disciplined only by an emphatic vocalizing of scripture, preferably from the KJV.
Lie . . . down, he might have commanded early in the game.
Result: Walking about, licking the empty food bowl, possibly scratching.
For God so loved the world, he learned later to proclaim, that he gave his only begotten son . . .
Result: Instant lying down or, if required, bounding forth into a despised torrent of rain to take care of business. Dog Disciplined by Scripture--it was a show people lined up to see, worth taking on the road. His gut feeling was, it wouldn't work in this application.
'Drop the shoe,' he said.
Pud did not drop the shoe.
'Roll over.'
Pud blinked.
'Sit,' he said.
'He is sitting.' Obviously starved for entertainment, his wife was watching this hapless demo.
'Try fetch,' she said.
'Fetch.'
'You have to throw the shoe first, Timothy.'
'If I throw the shoe, there'll be no end to it, I won't have a minute's peace.'
'You don't have a minute's peace anyway, since what transpired the other evening. I would throw the shoe.'
'So you throw the shoe,' he said.
'He doesn't want me to throw the shoe.'
He threw the shoe.
Glee and jubilation, full Jack Russell style. Pud returned the shoe, placed it at his feet, looked up. Two shining brown orbs of hope and expectation . . .
He sighed; thought of his own good dog; calculated how long he could hold out against a terrier.
'We'll be back,' he told his wife.
On his passage through the entrance hall, he gave a salute to Aengus Malone's hat. Then he and Pud crunched over the gravel and around the lodge to the head of the lake path. The water's surface was golden now, hammered by afternoon sun. Bees droned in the flower beds; the trunks of the beeches convened like patient elephants.
It was a wonderland out here, in summer air moved by a breeze off the water. In Blake's words, his soul felt suddenly threshed from its husk. With no effort, he drew a deep breath; the straitjacket fell away like William's overcoat.
When he stepped to the mound, the crowd rose to their feet, cheering. He was pitching for the Mitford Reds, and they were winning.
Before he delivered the pitch, Pud was racing ahead of it on the path.
He burned the shoe straight down the middle. Pud leaped like a salmon, spun in the air, caught it.
'Man,' he said.
Pud dashed back, dropped the shoe at his feet, looked up.
A curve shoe up and away.
A fast shoe high and in.
A sinker low and away.
The aerodynamic of a shoe was unpredictable, to say the least. A rivulet of sweat ran along his backbone.
He smoked a high, looping pitch down the path, sank to his haunches, watched Pud bring it back.
'Way to go, buddy!'
After the game, the Pitch would have a hot dog with everything but onions, thanks. Ditto for the Catch.
He turned his Reds cap around with the bill shading his neck from the beating Irish sun, and gave Pud a good scratch behind the ears.
Vacation. He was finally on it.
Ten
They lingered at their table and watched a boat on the evening lake. On his first visit, he'd never sat still long enough to watch a boat on a lake. Such lulling meditation as this gave room to an interesting possibility--all Feeney wanted, after all, was a warm body.
'Anybody play bridge?' he asked the anglers.
'I'm a poker man,' said Pete O'Malley, pining toward the empty travel club table. 'But I play a little gin with these turkeys.'
'My mother-in-law's a bridge nut, my wife's a bridge nut,' said Hugh. 'Me, I'm gin and poker all th' way.'
'No bridge for me,' said Tom. 'I'm a bloody eejit at that game. Say, how about th' guy stealin' O'Malley's pullover?'
'That pullover caught many a big one,' said Pete. 'I'd rather he stole my Rolodex.'
'Your Rolodex?'
'Rolex,' said Pete, who had, in his own words, been at the jug. 'We saw the detective come in, heard you may have spotted th' guy who did it.'
'Maybe. They can't pull somebody in without hard evidence. The good news is, the so-called suspect has a record of aggravated assault and unlawful possession of a firearm--they'll be looking to see if his fingerprints match any they found here.'
'They dusted my room,' said Pete. 'Asked for a complete description of the pullover. Lands' End, maybe 1998. Tear on right sleeve from a fishhook. Stain on front, fish blood.'
'Overall smell,' said Tom, '--fishy.'
'So, how did it go today?'
'No fishin' today,' said Tom. 'Saw a castle, drove over to Rosses Point, fooled around. Spent the afternoon with Jack Kennedy up th' road. You ever sample poteen?'
'No way.'
'It'll turn you forty shades of green,' said Hugh.
'So I've heard. My barber says whatever I do, stay away from poteen.'
'With advice like that, I'd be lookin' for another barber,' said Pete.
Laughter at the fishermen's table.
'We're sorry about th' crutches,' Pete told Cynthia. 'Sorry about th' whole thing.'
'Yes, ma'am,' said Hugh.
'Terrible,' said Tom. 'Really sorry.'
'Thanks. I'm glad to hear nothing else was missing from your rooms.'
'Zero,' said Hugh.
'Nothin' in Finnegan's room to go missin',' said Pete. 'A sweater with a moth hole you could stick your leg through, a pair of britches he wore in high school, a pack of Camel Lights.'
'Always keep your valuables on your person,' said Hugh. 'That's my motto.'
From the dining room they made their way to the bench he had spotted in the afternoon. From somewhere along the lake came the faintest keening of a violin. Or perhaps it was the sough of wind in the trees.
'So lovely,' she said, gazing around. 'It stuns me, I have no words for it. And look!--the dear old beeches.'
There was
an affecting lull in the light, as if the day resisted the settling dusk. A butterfly was at the buddleia.
He took her crutches and propped them against the back of the bench, and they sat for a time, musing, looking toward the silvered lough.
'Pete O'Malley has a crush on Moira,' she said.
'What?'
'Pete. Moira--the book/poker/travel club organizer.'
'How do you know?'
'I just know.'
'Is he married?'
'Separated. Maureen said he wanted to take Moira buzzer fishing.'
'What's that?'
'It's a kind of fishing you do at night.'
'I think he'd be rushing things.'
They laughed. 'You're a regular evening gazette, Kav'na.'
'You love me,' she said, amazed and certain.
It was like her to say such things, completely out of the blue. 'I've always loved you,' he said. 'From the time I was born.'
'How did you manage that?'
'I think I came into the world seeking something not absolutely tied to this earthly realm. Your open mind, your curiosity, your reverence promised that and drew me in.' He put his arm around her, felt the cool of her flesh against his.
'My mother had it, you have it,' he said. 'She took red dirt and made gardens that people came from miles around to see. No earth-moving equipment, just a wheelbarrow and shovel. No money, just hard work, ingenuity, and passion. All the time, everywhere you go, you know how to make something out of what most people see as nothing. You've made something out of me.'
'No, sweetheart, you were quite the finished product.'
'Never. I was an overworked, underfeeling man growing old alone. I thank you for teaching me not to fear intimacy; for making me do this thing we call marriage.'
'I made you do it?'
'I quit, but you didn't. Of course, I was praying you wouldn't, but I fully expected you to.'
He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his and kissed her. 'Happy birthday, glimmering girl. Sorry it's been such a hassle.'
'It isn't such a hassle, really. It's just life--quirky and scary and lovely and immense. The beauty to be seen from our window can't be diminished by the dark soul that crawled out of it last night. I wouldn't have it any other way; I wouldn't have you any other way. You let me be the woman I am. No one has ever let me be that before. And another thing . . .'