She grabbed her goods and ran then, the hat flying off her head. He’d taken it home and when she came looking for it at the rectory, Dooley hid it, taunting her. That was the first punch. She had come again after that, beaten brutally by her father. It had taken hours for Cynthia to dress the bleeding lacerations riven upon old wounds.
‘All that pain for all those years,’ Cynthia said.
‘They can’t trust each other.’
‘Time can be healing. Will you buy that?’
‘Not at the moment,’ he said. He told her about the ice sculpture.
Why did he care so much about Dooley and Lace as a couple? In recent weeks, he’d finally swallowed the lie that two damaged lives couldn’t possibly be fashioned into a whole. Faithless as a heathen, he’d given up hope.
‘They have the same enemy,’ he said. ‘Fear.’
‘But they have the same God-love. They’ll manage. We were a couple of ice sculptures ourselves.’
‘Remember your cold feet a couple days before the wedding?’ he asked.
‘Remember your cold feet for a whole two years?’
‘You win,’ he said. He realized that he wanted again to hope.
In the library, Liam prodded a burst of flame from the turves, then stood away from them by the photo gallery. At the lake, Liam had asked him to speak his piece and he’d done that as simply as he knew how. Liam had listened, saying little-from there, the results were beyond anything priest or friend might do. They’d walked back to the lodge together, sober, not talking. ‘Partridge,’ said Liam at a sound in the hedge.
The club was busy ordering espressos, no decaf-‘Gambling again!’ said Tammy. Anna removed her apron and found a seat with the club; after serving coffee, Seamus chose the remaining wing chair; Maureen entered, peered around, and sat by Anna. Bella slipped into the room, a shadow gliding past the bookshelves to a chair at the open window.
Cynthia looked stricken.
‘What?’
‘I think William and I are the evening’s entertainment. ’
He pondered the expectant faces, the hush over the room. Definitely.
‘I thought everyone would go about their usual after-dinner business while William and I worked by the fire.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
She gave him a look, mildly ticked at this remark. ‘Easy for you to say.’
He had to laugh. ‘I worked for forty years with people watching.’
William entered with the aid of a silver-handled cane, wearing a starched shirt, pressed trousers, a jacket, a vest, a blue necktie.
Spontaneous applause. The poker club gave an all-thumbs-up; the scent of Seamus’s pipe smoke sweetened the air.
‘Anna says you’re after capturin’ me on paper. So, aye, I’m ready to be captured.’ William’s face was pink from the scrubbing, from the newness and pleasure of it all.
‘Can we watch?’ asked Debbie.
‘Well,’ said Cynthia.
‘Where d’you want me?’ asked William.
‘Right there in your chair, comfortable as anything.’
‘I see m’ fire’s been poked up. ’t would be Liam thinkin’ of that.’ William saluted Liam, settled himself by the checkerboard. ‘Can a man have his pint while gettin’ his likeness struck? I’ve a ragin’ thirst.’
‘There by your elbow, Da, ready and waiting.’
‘’t would be Seamus thinkin’ of that.’ William lifted his glass to Seamus, took a long draught, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘If you wouldn’t object, Missus Kav’na, would ye leave off th’ scar an’ touch up the oul’ nose? An’ if you’d be so kind, take a year or two off th’ eighty-some that’s accumulated while I wasn’t lookin’.’
‘Ah, no,’ said Maureen. ‘’t is her style to render th’ truth.’
‘Th’ truth,’ he said, glowering.
Cynthia was already sketching, her hand darting for this brush or that, the ferrule chiming against the water jar. He sank into prayer like a swimmer into familiar water.
‘If you’d like,’ Cynthia told William, ‘you may take off your coat and tie.’
‘You don’t care for me coat an’ tie?’
‘I like them very much, but wouldn’t you be more comfortable?’
‘A man wants a dacent coat an’ tie to get ’is face done up in a picture.’
‘You’re being painted by someone very famous at her drawing, Da. ’t is a privilege she’s givin’ you. Be a dote, now.’
William gripped the arms of the chair as if it might lift off and fly. ‘’t would be good to have a fag to settle me nerves. But I’m off tobacco since Jack Kennedy closed down indoor smokin’ an’ ran us to th’ tarmac in a drivin’ rain. Beggin’ your pardon, Missus, do I need to keep m’ trap shut?’ William drew forth the handkerchief, gave a honking blow.
‘You may talk up a storm, William, it’s the shadows I’m wrestling with.’
‘Talk about th’ good oul’ bad days,’ Maureen said to William.
‘I’ve but one thing to say about th’ oul’ bad days-if th’ current crop of young was to be up against it as we were, they’d perish with none left standin’.’
Seamus gave his white mustache a quick comb. ‘May I tell a joke, then, if it wouldn’t interfere with the proceedings?’
‘Please,’ said Cynthia. ‘We love jokes.’
‘I generally try to bring one down at th’ weekend.’ Seamus rose and buttoned the jacket of his butler’s garb, clasped his hands behind his back.
‘So. There was this gent from Ballyshannon who all his life was after ownin’ a BMW sport coupe. So when he retired, first thing he did was fulfill his dream. A few days after this mighty purchase, he was out for a spin an’ decided to see what it would do if he opened it up.
‘Ah, but you can guess what he saw in th’ rearview mirror.’
‘A Defender of th’ Peace of Ireland!’ said William.
‘Gent pulled over, knowin’ this was not goin’ to be a good thing. Th’ Gard gets off his motorcycle, comes up to th’ gent’s window, says, You know how fast you were goin’?
‘Gent says, Triple digits?
‘Gard gives him a tough look, says, Here’s what I’ll do. Tell me one I haven’t heard before an’ I’ll let you go.
‘Gent thinks a minute, says, My wife ran off with a Gard five years ago an’ I thought you were bringin’ her back.
‘Gard gets on his motorcycle, cranks th’ engine, says, Have a nice day.’
The poker club hooted, Maureen slapped her knee, the old man threw back his head and guffawed.
‘That’s it, William!’ said Cynthia. ‘Keep laughing!’
Absorbed by what she was doing, he watched her at her work and found himself suddenly happy. Dooley and Lace would manage, she had said. For now, that would have to be enough. His prayer for Cynthia floated beneath the surface of his thoughts-she could do this.
‘Don’t stop,’ she whispered, not looking his way. ‘We must keep William laughing,’ she said to the room. ‘Why don’t you tell an Uncle Billy joke, darling?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Anna.
‘Hear, hear,’ said Seamus.
‘The one you told at the funeral,’ urged his wife. ‘You remember.’
There he’d stood under the funeral tent in front of God and everybody, forgetting the punch line of Uncle Billy’s favorite joke. Miss Rose had called it to his memory in a squawk heard all the way to Main Street. He remembered, all right.
He followed Seamus’s lead and stood, buttoning his jacket.
‘Uncle Billy Watson was one of my best friends, and a type of uncle to everybody. He was born and reared in the mountains of North Carolina, where many Irish found a home after immigrating to America. I believe he told me his mother was a Flannagan. I know for a fact we’ve got Hogans and Rileys and O’Connors and Wilsons in our coves and hollers-some very gifted at playing the traditional tunes of their ancestors, by the way. Wish you could hear their fiddle music, Bella, and I wish they could hear yours.’
Bella moved from the window, silent, and sat next to Maureen.