In the Company of Others Page 29

  In the library, Anna introduced a merry party of Sweeneys and the woman who writes books--tall, with a cloud of graying hair, accompanied by her ten-year-old niece, who had learned Gaelic for the trip.

  'Gaelic? ' he said, astonished.

  'Only enough to get by,' said Emily.

  The sunshine had returned to Broughadoon. When Maureen came round with a tray of cheese biscuits, he kissed her on both cheeks.

  'And how did you find your aunt?'

  'Ninety-four she is, with every tooth her own an' Mass twice a day. I took me paintin' along, 'twas seen by th' half of Ballina.'

  'Cynthia will be happy you're home.'

  'I'll be takin' up her dinner. I can hardly turn my back on th' poor darlin' for th' trouble she's into.'

  William sported a tie he hadn't seen; Liam was his personable self, chatting up the newbies, delivering drinks. Feast or famine, this lodging business--a full house was a very good thing.

  He was spooning up the last of his sugar-free afters when Seamus called. Into the kitchen and the gargle of Dishwasher #1.

  'Mrs. Conor is askin' you up tomorrow at eleven.'

  'What's that?'

  'Mrs. Conor. She's askin' for you.'

  He was surprised. They had spoken but once on the night ride to Sligo. He had said, 'I'm praying for you.' White with pain, she had snapped at him: 'Do as you please.'

  'I'll be there.'

  'Dr. Feeney's on his way down, said he'd meet you at th' front hall, if you'd be so kind.'

  'How is she?'

  'Th' tremors an' all th' rest. 't is killin' me to see it.'

  'Let the nurses do the seeing,' he said. 'Your being there is enough, I'm sure it's a comfort to her.'

  'So.' Seamus sounded desolate in that desolate house.

  'Anything I can do tonight?' he asked.

  'Ye could say a bit of a prayer for us.'

  He went to the library, realizing that in a way he couldn't understand, it was killing him, too. He felt the force of something coming down, falling to pieces.

  When the Rover wheeled in, he was waiting at the door.

  'She's still determined to go off th' drink,' said Feeney. 'This is serious business for someone her age; she could die, I told her that. She said she was dying anyway--she wants to go through with it.'

  Feeney removed his jacket, hung it on an antler.

  'But Paddy must be out of the house. They drink together, he'll figure a way to get it to her. So I've asked him to leave.'

  'What did he say to that?'

  'He's scared out of his wits by the screaming, the look of her in such a fix. He's willing to bail out and wants to make it quick. God knows I dreaded routing the man from his own house, but it's done.'

  They walked into the library, still empty of guests. The sound of laughter from the dining room.

  'I managed to get two of the best nurses in Sligo. Cassie Fletcher is very competent, she cared for her old father for some years. He did the same thing--dried out at home at a late age--so she's familiar with the backside of Gehenna. She'll live in, with Eileen as relief. As to Eileen, she's quick to carry through, and good-hearted. '

  Feeney went to the fire, though the night was warm. 'I'll do all in my power to keep her comfortable, Tim. The odds look impossible, but I'm going to believe it can work.'

  'I'll believe it with you.'

  'She's tough. Very tough. Maybe she can do it. God knows, I hope so. 'Tis dangerous business--the seizures, for one thing, if it comes to that. The tremoring has already begun, the rapid heart rate, the nausea. Then there's the hematoma--I don't think you knew. The swelling is massive, half the size of her leg.'

  He'd made hospital rounds in Mitford for roughly twenty years; he was familiar with the hell of hematoma.

  'What was her general condition before this happened?'

  'Nutritionally deprived--the usual in this case. Dehydration. A compromised immune system which begs respiratory infection. So, she started low and this will drive her lower.'

  'The detox--how does it usually progress?'

  'Depending on the length and severity of the addiction, tremoring and nausea, then blinding headaches, heavy sweats, tactile hallucinations--usually itching, as if bugs were crawling on the skin. In the end stages, it all escalates to delirium tremens. Mother of God, we must pray against that.'

  Ash lifted from the turf, vanished up the chimney like moths.

  'Let's say it goes better than expected. How long to get clean?'

  'Three, maybe four weeks. After that, she'll be completely wiped for a few months until we get her weight up.'

  Liam was right about the Sisyphus business.

  'All that said'--Feeney drew in his breath--'there's a bright side. It wasn't a broken hip, which requires surgery and begs the blood clot. And with two disabled arms and a leg, she has no recourse to the gin.

  'I'm only twenty minutes away in an emergency, and of course I'll stop by Catharmore every evening. There's no one waiting for me at home but the old housekeeper, who slips in to watch my telly if I'm running late.'

  'Flat-screen, I'm guessing.'

  'Forty-two inches.' The doctor laughed, ironic, walked away from the fire. 'I must speak with Liam tonight about the seriousness of this. Not looking forward to it.'

  Blow upon blow for Liam. For everyone, really.

  'Seamus says she wants you up there in the morning?'

  'Aye,' he said.

  Feeney shook his hand. 'Bail o Dhia ort,' said Feeney. 'The blessing of God on you.'

  He had no capacity for laughter and small talk. When the new crowd flooded into the library, he went back to the room.

  'Evelyn Conor asked me up tomorrow at eleven.'

  'That's good. Thank heaven.'

  He emptied his pocket onto the dresser top, in view of Ben Bulben. 'How about a little after-dinner entertainment?'

  'You've learned a poem.'

  'I have not. I've merely planned to learn a poem. Let's see what Fintan is up to, poor devil.'

  'I thought his vow to Caitlin very moving.'

  'I agree. A few entries back, he referred to what he called these mute pages. Not so mute, I'd say.'

  'Do you ever?'

  'Ever what?'

  'Long for someone else?'

  'Good grief, woman, who would I long for?'

  'Really?'

  'Really.'

  'Good,' she said. 'I would kill you.'

  He switched on the avid bulb, found the bookmarks, opened the skim of a man's life.

  9 November 1863

  I have never felt such despair--The knife I thrust to the hilt in my own heart is no recompense for the two hearts I have torn asunder.

  Tis little more than first light as I walk out this morning into a sullen rain & cross the yard to the carriage house. Keegan gives me a look as he hitches Adam to the traces. He does not speak--I know at once the nature of his surly mood. So closely have we worked together that I often ken his thoughts before he realizes them himself. Tis a blow to find he thinks so little of whatever character I may possess.

  I do not want him helping her into the carriage--he does not deserve the privilege. I will drive to the rear door & help her up myself, for all that.

  Lay a fire in the Surgery & bedchambers, I say to him.

  He stands gawping at me.

  Now, I say.

  He gives me a fierce look--I could crack him with the whip for his bloody insolence.

  I draw the carriage as close to the door as I am able & see Caitlin & Aoife waiting inside the hall. C's face is drawn with suffering. Aoife is wearing the thin dress she wore when she came to us. The Bride of the World stands further back, looking as contemptuous as her husband. I am judged & will be judged, by a household gone from sweet temper to sour suspicion.

  There is nothing in her young face to betray her feelings, she who so naturally displays feeling of every agreeable kind. I harden my heart against the torment which we all feel so keenly, enough to break u
s if we but let it.

  I stand down & offer my hand as any civilized being would do & she takes it & climbs barefoot into the carriage & I hoist up her stool & the one bag with her two frocks & the shoes from her father's last--she will not take more, not even the coat I had made for her in Dublin.

  There are no useless parting words cried from the hall, no masking chatter.

  We drive for some time without speaking--she clutches the stool in her lap, as for comfort.

  I never touched you, I say.

  You never did, no.

  She is different today, even her dark hair is done up in a way I have not seen. I had all along thought her to be a lass, but she is a woman today with a woman's face set toward the eye of the storm.

  I am wicked, I say.

  You are not wicked, she says. You are good.

  I feel the tears on my face.

  My father will be angry with me for failing.

  Twas I who failed. You must never think you failed.

  Something I done . . . did, she says, I don't know what.

  You did nothing wrong. You were of the greatest help to us. We could hardly have made it without you.

  I thought of her lighting the lamps in the evening, the clear, clean bell of the globe shining, the flame finding its being in the trimmed wick.

  I should like to go to school & become a Physician, she says.

  I am astonished & pleased, but the Truth must be told.

  A woman can't become a Physician, I say.

  She turns her head & looks at me for the first time. Her green eyes blaze. That is wicked, she says.

  Yes.

  She is right, of course. There is so much I would tell her, but none of it will do.

  I believe in you, I say at last. There is a terrible longing to speak her name &I know at that moment I will never speak it again.

  Aoife, I say.

  My God, my God, I cry, silent as a stone.

  What's she done to put ye off, that back she comes as spoiled goods?

  Aoife has gone inside & I am standing in a misting rain with O'Leary the Shoemaker, chickens pecking about our feet.

  She has done nothing wrong, I say. She is a fine worker & considerate of all.

  Was she a liar, then, or a thief? I'll give her a flaying she'll not forget.

  Please understand--she has done nothing wrong. I nearly shout these words. She has been the best of helpers, even assisting us in the Surgery. This is a grave loss to our household.

  O'Leary's wife stands in the doorway, a beaten look about her. The sisters gather in the yard, one holding a baby & shielding it with her apron from the rain.

  Then why in God's name are ye bringin' her back to make a laughin' stock of the O'Learys? His voice is rising, his face red as a poker. Has your man Keegan been at her?

  My God, no! For God's sake, we cared for her like our own daughter, she comes back to you better than she went for all she's learned of housekeeping & proper English.

  I despise this pompous remark, as if I were trying to sell him an improved hair comb.

  Twas a gentleman's agreement we had, says he. Twas a livin' for our family that ye had her sarvice in your fine house. These days there's naught but a tap here an' a heel there. You claim she works hard & don't lie nor steal, yet back she comes like a lame horse. Tis only right ye declare th' reason for bringin' her back--Name her offense, or God strike ye blind!

  There is no reason I can cite aloud to any man, & especially an hysterical Irish farmer. I hand him the envelope, heavy with coins. He hesitates before he takes it, as if by restraint he might gain pride in negotiating this monstrous affair. He weighs the payload in his hand, looking me in the eye.

  There will be more where that came from, I say, sick to death. I will look for her a place hereabout.

  There is no place hereabout but Balfour's & I would not fob her off to a stump of maggots such as that.

  Indeed, I say. I shall look further abroad.

  I turn to go, for the rain is getting up & scattering chickens & sisters inside.

  Could ye have a look at th' Missus before ye take leave, then, doctor? He pronounces the word doctor with violent distaste.

  What's the trouble I say.

  From th' last babby, he says, as angry as if I had caused the wound to his wife.

  I take my bag from the carriage & drenched as any cur pass into the cabin where those crowding the doorway move apart, taciturn & dubious. Aoife is sitting by the cold hearth on the little stool, sobbing, her head in her hands.

  Tis a strange thing I do. I stop on the way home at Rose McFee.

  Still damp as plaster, I remove my hat & duck under her sill to the one room.

  She is seated at the fire in one of her two chairs & is smoking a pipe. I seen ye go by with th' lass, she says.

  Rose, I say. As God is my witness, I never touched her.

  Aye, she says. I believe ye.

  I am judged, I say, for what I did not do nor ever would do.

  She gestures to the other chair at the hearth & I sit.

  Ye couldn't have kept her, then?

  No.

  The missus.

  Yes. And myself frightened by something wicked in me that I never knew before, I say. I am enfeebled, as if my very blood were being let into a bucket.

  Rose, I say, what shall I do?

  I am asking a toothless crone who cannot read nor write to tell me how to go forward, I am that weak & stupefied.

  Keep doin' what ye've been doin'--healin' th' sick & payin' y'r dues to God above an' nobody else.

  A small thing, her fire with its little heart & heat, but nonetheless I am grateful.

  30 November 1863

  A stinging cold

  C is at her dressing table in nightclothes & a shawl--I sit on the bench at the foot of her bed, wondering why I have come. Her hairbrush cleaves streaks of gray mingled with the old familiar chestnut. I have a moment's quick desire to go to her & perform the nightly liturgy of brushing, but I do nothing.

  If you should die & I am left behind . . . she says, speaking to me in the mirror.

  My heart has the dull feeling at this.

  Cathair Mohr would be left to Padraigin, she says.

  Yes, I say, again feeling regret at this reckless decision & further regret for having not rectified it in some way.

  And I would be put out, she says.

  Even two years ago, we had thought to live forever. Not so, now. How much I have learned.

  Perhaps not, I think not--if you wished to stay on.

  If Padraigin were the master of Cathair Mohr, she says, I would not wish to stay on.

  You know you will have funds to keep you, I say. You might take a flat in Dublin or go to your sister in Roscommon.

  The few times I have considered such a future, I think of her in Roscommon, in her older sister's cottage with its large garden & many geese & a window seat where she might read & be happy.

  She lays the brush on the table & is quiet for a time. I wish to put my arms about her & protect her from such thoughts as these, but I hold myself away.

  She bows her head into her hands & covers her face as if shutting out the world.

  The boy, the lad, I say. He wants to become a Surgeon.

  She doesn't speak.

  His father, I say, will drink himself to death before it's over, according to Padraigin's wife.

  I am trying to work something out in my mind, though I am not certain what. I get up & walk about the room, uneasy, feeling the weight of it all, all at once--the diminishment of our American investments due to the War in the States--the extremes of our practice in a region so remote--the enormous effort of everything, even to buying breeding stock this morning. I have not been in some time to the Mass Rock, I have let the world come in upon me & now it is coming in upon Caitlin.