He was knocked out by a close-up of Bella’s face, it filled the page. Another pair of eyes that expressed a deeper context than he could read. I have something that must be said…
He stared at the curious way she had set her mouth, as if holding hostage a secret power and defying any search for it.
‘Out of the park,’ he said.
‘We had a long talk; she softened toward me. I told her how I tried to take my own life. I don’t know why I told her that, except I felt she needed to hear it, that it would mean something. I painted while we were talking. She took her mask off once or twice; I watched the way her feelings shifted. She’s a very deep and profound young woman. And she knows something, Timothy, something she’s desperate to talk about. It’s like a worm gnawing at her.’
‘And isn’t that the way with all of us? Remember me telling you about old Vance Havner?-he said everybody’s tryin’ to swallow somethin’ that won’t go down.’ He’d seen it in his years of counseling parishioners; he’d seen it in himself, again and again, and this morning in Anna. The gnawing worm was ever-present in a broken world.
‘I’m probably imagining things,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ve been too shut-in, too close to everyone here.’
Their habit of telling each other everything did not include all he was told in confidence as a priest; they were in agreement early on about that sticky business-so far, he’d said little about the meeting with Anna.
‘How’s the ankle?’
‘Swollen. Aggravating. Aren’t you going to take a nap?’
‘Can’t,’ he said, getting out of bed. ‘Maybe I’ll read awhile in the journal, there’s plenty of time before dinner. What about you?’
She held up a paperback. ‘Patrick Kav’na, the old dear.’
‘Tad is a great fan of Kav’na, likes him for his harrows and ricks, the provincialism Yeats chastised. And by the way, St. Patrick didn’t drive out the snakes, there were never any here to begin with.’ Tad had been a fount of information.
He sat in his chair by the window and turned to the page he’d marked with a sheet from his notebook. Rain sang in the gutters; the scent of something baking drifted up from the kitchen ovens.
21 January 1862
My heart is greatly rejoiced-I have gone on my knees before God at the Mass Rock & thanked Him with everything in me-Caitlin sitting up & looking alive as if woken from the dead.
I had been condemning myself most painfully for the failure of the many methods used to revive her, including a variety of nauseous Tonics recommended by Jones Quinn. I am thankful that the Great Physician dissuaded me from the practice of leeching-a practice I abhor, but was ready to use if her languor persisted.
I walked into the Cabin this morning with an imaginary mount on an imaginary rope & handed the rope to Caitlin-She knew at once what I was promising for she had heard the hammering & commotion as Keegan framed the addition to Adam’s stall.
Capall she said to A who shrieked with joy-I wept as C gave a fond kiss to the old scar on my cheek, always a sign of her fondest favor. It was the first word she had spoken since Sunday a week & into the bargain she was pleased to choose the Irish word for horse.
Tis a fine bay mare on which C can go abroad on her own Rounds-alone or with Aoife as need be. She says she will call her Little Dorrit after the Dickens novel she so enjoys.
She has tonight supped a little poached trout, a little tea-it is A’s every desire that tomorrow her mistress will relish an egg from one of the hens & sop the yolk with a mite of A’s fine soda bread.
I have rolled up my pallet from the floor & will sleep again beside my wife. When she saw me doing this she smiled. Baile, I said, pointing in the direction of the house.
Baile, she said, her eyes very bright with happiness.
Soon, I said in English for I do not know the Irish for what is imminent.
A nudge against his leg. He looked down.
‘Out on bail,’ said his wife. ‘I let him come up and sleep under the bed. By the way, he doesn’t hear well-it’s his age, says Maureen.’
‘Where’s the shoe?’
‘I have it. He gets it back when he leaves the room. This way, you can sit and read in peace.’
‘A great idea.’
‘We’ll see,’ she said.
24 February 1862
Balfour has a most Poisonous tongue-he is often drunken & moves among the workmen as someone carrying the fever & infecting all who abide his foul ravings. He has twice refused payment for the Land deeded me-I am sick with anger for my witless impulse to take what cost nothing in order to more greatly supply the Needy. I may as well be a tenant in his view-he has long forgot his child who suffered near death until God wrought a miracle & enabled me to spare her life-nor does he seem to recall the many years of his dysentery which C fervently hopes-though she declines to pray-returns with a vengeance! But then I must strive to cure it again.
I have gone to the Mass Rock this day & prayed to God who didst teach the hearts of His faithful people by the sending to them the Light of the Holy Spirit & asked that He might grant me by the same Spirit to have right judgment in all things.
I trust it is not too late to have beseeched God for right judgment-C says that with God tis never too late.
Many delays in construction due to long sieges of punishing wether.
Keegan hung a young doe in the half-built stall & dressed it-A has never cooked deer loin thus Keegan will himself do the honors and has rigged a spit in the firebox. A Feast will bring much needed merriment to our hearth.
President Lincoln last month issued a war order authorizing aggression against the Confederacy. I had near forgot that country which educated and prospered me. I am saddened by the horrific tyranny of slavery, recognizing in it much that our own Irish have endured. Uncle freed his twelve slaves well before his passing, though our good Cook, Sukey, stayed on & was much accomplished in reading & writing. Her Cookery book writ in her own hand will come with our furnishings when we complete the many labours demanded by Catharmore.
‘What is this Mass rock business?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been meaning to find out,’ she said. ‘Help me remember to ask.’
‘And who will help me remember to help you?’
‘Please try.’
‘Righto. What happened to Balfour’s place, do you know? Might be something to see before we leave.’
‘Keep reading,’ she said.
12 May 1862
While one may despise the Oppressor, one clings to his language-it is spoken everywhere the print of his Boot is made-Keegan says the English is for ‘mekkin war & the Irish for mekkin love.’ Keegan has been twelve years widowed & I see him cast his eye about at the Women-he tells a rough joke on occasion which makes the old women laugh & the young hide their faces behind their hands.
He is correct in asserting that I should be handier at the doctoring if I chose to speak Irish with the people-though twas Mother’s milk to me until seventeen or more, I carry no blood memory of it-to have spoken it in America would have marked me as a simpleton. Keegan’s own English is good & he speaks enough Irish to have assisted in finding a Name for the place & to interpret when we stir about the Region-he is indispensable among the workmen.
A is a bright thing who wishes to teach us in the Evening-we point like dunces to this & that-the packed earth floor, the hearth, the chickens, the cooking pots- & she gives us the Irish in return. At the same time she is learning a bit of English from us, all of which turns the speech of this narrow household into a stew of befuddlement, causing Laughter to break out like measles & excite the Chickens.