He went to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. No bottled water. In the corner, an open case of it. He put a bottle in each jacket pocket, one for the injured, one for the resident diabetic, then crossed the hall to her bedroom, to the open leather bag with its antiseptic breath of injury and healing, snapped it shut, and collected it with the duffel.
Paddy waited in the hall, affronted. ‘There’s Seamus and Feeney and yourself. You’ve no need for me.’
‘Come,’ he said, meaning it.
He crawled into the backseat. Seamus stowed the bags, closed the door, signed the cross. The dogs sat watching. On the other side of the Rover, Paddy peered through the closed window. ‘Mother,’ he said. She didn’t hear or see him.
Feeney took it easy along the rain-pocked lane, but held nothing back on the highway to Sligo.
In his years as a priest, he’d driven or accompanied more than a few sick and suffering to the hospital. Each ride had been desperate in its own way, but this seemed something more-or perhaps something other.
‘Reverend,’ she whispered.
He knew this was not an appeal, not a conversation opener, but some way of connecting with the man who rode beside her, their bodies nearly touching, the heat of their flesh intermingled.
Twenty-seven
He rang his cousin on Tuesday morning. He had dreaded this.
‘You’ll never guess,’ he said.
Walter guessed. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Slipped in the shower, disrupted the healing. So now we wait for the swelling to go down, then on with the moon boot. I think the best thing to do is meet you at the airport, as planned.’
‘How long for the swelling to go down?’
‘Maybe three days. She must keep the ankle elevated. Then he wants to make sure the moon boot is doing its job, that’s a couple of days, and who knows what from there out.’
‘A bloody marathon for her,’ said Walter. ‘Doomed from the beginning, this trip.’
‘We hate it for you and Katherine. I know it’s been a bust.’
Somewhere near the kitchen, fiddle music; at the other end of the lodge, the faint tap of Liam’s hammer.
‘No bust for us. We haven’t had this much fun since we were young and rich in Venice. All that to say-old and poor in Ireland isn’t so bad, either. How is she?’
‘Angry with herself. Depressed.’ His wife was hard to put down, this had done it.
Trying to buck up to the thing, she had turned to him in the night and said, ‘I must keep my wits.’
And how would he keep his? Their room had seemed strange, as if they had departed it physically and were mere vapors left behind. More than anything, he wanted her to have a good cry. Not once had she broken-not from the cupboard business, not from the pain, not from the endless aggravation. She was a dam holding back a great force. He would do the weeping for her, if he could.
With Pud, he ran along the path beside the lake, his thoughts scattered like wash blown from a line. Rooms had been canceled and penalties paid; he’d emailed Lord’s Chapel, asking the prayer group to fall to. He remembered Rutherford’s take on adversity: When I find myself in the cellar of affliction, I always look about for the wine.
He made a mental list of wines to see them through:
He would bite the bullet and memorize a poem to amuse her.
He would read O’Donnell’s journal aloud-they wanted to finish it before going home.
He would somehow get her up to Catharmore. Given Monday’s trek to Sligo and the general rigor of the medical exam and X-rays, she had missed her visit up the hill.
Last but not least, he would remind her that Feeney called the whole thing fortunate. ‘Worse could have happened,’ Feeney said, alluding to surgery. ‘Count it a blessing.’
He prayed for Evelyn Conor’s return home this afternoon, and smooth going for the full-time home care required by her helplessness-one wrist fractured and in a cast, one wrist sprained and in a splint-both arms immobilized, one leg severely bruised but no bones broken. ‘’t is a time of bones,’ Feeney said of his two patients at one location. ‘A regular field day.’
Bella’s confession to Cynthia had been no surprise-during Slade’s three weeks at Broughadoon, she had twice gone to meet him secretly, one of those times being the morning he’d seen her on the bicycle-the morning of the uproar in the kitchen. Slade had promised to take her to Dublin to see her father, then to New York. Bella had agreed to meet Slade in the outer lane, carrying her few things in the bicycle basket. He had not come at midnight, as promised-she had waited ’til dawn. Cynthia asked if it had been Slade in the cupboard, and she said it had been-he was looking for cash, credit cards, jewelry to finance their way to New York. Bella had resisted this plan, but gave in, letting Slade know when guests would be out of their rooms. Cynthia asked about the painting, but Bella had already said too much, and begged Cynthia not to betray her to Anna and Liam.
‘She’s sick about the way things have gone, and terrified of the consequences if she’s found out. She apologized for what happened to my ankle that night. There’s more, of course, and she’s dying to tell it, but I haven’t gained her trust for more-not yet.’
He ran ’til sweat poured like vinegar into his eyes-he’d forgotten the bandanna.
No swans. All at Coole, he supposed.
Back at the lodge, the fiddle music again, definitely near the kitchen.
He realized he’d forgotten to see the Mass rock. His own wits had departed, and nothing left but fog in a jar.
He shucked out of his running clothes, got into a hot shower, and let it go ’til he was boiled as a squab. He decided to begin their wine flight with something definitely new vintage, which was the best he could do at the moment.
He toweled off, took it from the hook on the bathroom door, and put it on. If this wasn’t worth a laugh, nothing would ever be. He rolled the sleeves down, belted the thing, made his entrance. Blast. She was sleeping.
He took Fintan’s journal off the bed and sat with it in his accustomed chair, and checked her bookmark. She had left him in the dust.
He adjusted his glasses. If he couldn’t entertain her, he would entertain himself.
1 October
All have said their goodbyes-A has kissed the lad & wept & Fiona has set up a squawk as if at a wake. As the rest go out to the coach I am standing with him on the front portico.
Would ye want to come again? I say.
He cannot look at me, but gazes away. He is dressed in the black suit of his mother’s making, the sleeves & trouser legs far short of their original mark.
So ye would come again, Lad?
Yis, sir. I like it here very fine, I would come & stay.
But who would nick the stitches out?
Me Da could do it, he says, sober as a cleric.
I am pleased to see how he thinks ahead.
Might you come at Christmas if we fetched you?
He looks up, his face alight as I haven’t seen before.
Yis, he says.
What has been your favorite amusement at Cathair Mohr? I say.
Aoife. An’ then goin’ on th’ call an’ takin’ off th’ bandage an’ seein’ th’ scab come away.
You like the sight of such a nasty thing?
I like seein’ a nasty thing can be fixed back to a good thing, he says.
The bedraggled coach is waiting. I take my watch from its pocket & look at the time & feel my heart sorely weighted. I might have bidden him come on other calls, or asked Keegan to show him our rosy pig at McFee’s.
Well, then, I say, & he reaches up & shakes my hand very gravely.
I watch them pass down the lane, the coach creaking beneath the additional weight of food & plunder given them by C.
I lift my hand, should the lad be looking back.
Before leaving for the airport on his previous trip to Ireland, he and Dooley had said their goodbyes at Meadowgate Creek. Dooley had avoided eye contact, was busy dropping a line with an earthworm attached. The boy didn’t want to be left and he, Timothy, didn’t want to leave, not at all. But the trip was doctor’s orders, and the parish had raised money for the airfare. On his way along the path to the house, he had turned and lifted his hand, hoping Dooley would look up. But no, Dooley was fishing as if his life depended on it.